Calamities and Quarrels of Authors, by Isaac Disraeli

The Calamities of Authors have often excited the attention of the lovers of literature; and, from the revival of letters to this day, this class of the community, the most ingenious and the most enlightened, have, in all the nations of Europe, been the most honoured, and the least remunerated. Pierius Valerianus, an attendant in the literary court of Leo X., who twice refused a bishopric that he might pursue his studies uninterrupted, was a friend of Authors, and composed a small work, “De Infelicitate Literatorum,” which has been frequently reprinted.[1] It forms a catalogue of several Italian literati, his contemporaries; a meagre performance, in which the author shows sometimes a predilection for the marvellous, which happens so rarely in human affairs; and he is so unphilosophical, that he places among the misfortunes of literary men those fatal casualties to which all men are alike liable. Yet even this small volume has its value: for although the historian confines his narrative to his own times, he includes a sufficient number of names to convince us that to devote our life to authorship is not the true means of improving our happiness or our fortune.

At a later period, a congenial work was composed by Theophilus Spizelius, a German divine; his four volumes are after the fashion of his country and his times, which could make even small things ponderous. In 1680 he first published two 4 volumes, entitled “Infelix Literatus,” and five years afterwards his “Felicissimus Literatus;” he writes without size, and sermonises without end, and seems to have been so grave a lover of symmetry, that he shapes his Felicities just with the same measure as his Infelicities. These two equalised bundles of hay might have held in suspense the casuistical ass of Sterne, till he had died from want of a motive to choose either. Yet Spizelius is not to be contemned because he is verbose and heavy; he has reflected more deeply than Valerianus, by opening the moral causes of those calamities which he describes.[2]

The chief object of the present work is to ascertain some doubtful yet important points concerning Authors. The title of Author still retains its seduction among our youth, and is consecrated by ages. Yet what affectionate parent would consent to see his son devote himself to his pen as a profession? The studies of a true Author insulate him in society, exacting daily labours; yet he will receive but little encouragement, and less remuneration. It will be found that the most successful Author can obtain no equivalent for the labours of his life. I have endeavoured to ascertain this fact, to develope the causes and to paint the variety of evils that naturally result from the disappointments of genius. Authors themselves never discover this melancholy truth till they have yielded to an impulse, and adopted a profession, too late in life to resist the one, or abandon the other. Whoever labours without hope, a painful state to which Authors are at length reduced, may surely be placed among the most injured class in the community. Most Authors close their lives in apathy or despair, and too many live by means which few of them would not blush to describe.

Besides this perpetual struggle with penury, there are also 5 moral causes which influence the literary character. I have drawn the individual characters and feelings of Authors from their own confessions, or deduced them from the prevalent events of their lives; and often discovered them in their secret history, as it floats on tradition, or lies concealed in authentic and original documents. I would paint what has not been unhappily called the psychological character.[3]

I have limited my inquiries to our own country, and generally to recent times; for researches more curious, and eras more distant, would less forcibly act on our sympathy. If, in attempting to avoid the naked brevity of Valerianus, I have taken a more comprehensive view of several of our Authors, it has been with the hope that I was throwing a new light on their characters, or contributing some fresh materials to our literary history. I feel anxious for the fate of the opinions and the feelings which have arisen in the progress and diversity of this work; but whatever their errors may be, it is to them that my readers at least owe the materials of which it is formed; these materials will be received with consideration, as the confessions and statements of genius itself. In mixing them with my own feelings, let me apply a beautiful apologue of the Hebrews—“The clusters of grapes sent out of Babylon implore favour for the exuberant leaves of the vine; for had there been no leaves, you had lost the grapes.”

A great author once surprised me by inquiring what I meant by “an Author by Profession.” He seemed offended at the supposition that I was creating an odious distinction between authors. I was only placing it among their calamities.

The title of Author is venerable; and in the ranks of national glory, authors mingle with its heroes and its patriots. It is indeed by our authors that foreigners have been taught most to esteem us; and this remarkably appears in the expression of Gemelli, the Italian traveller round the world, who wrote about the year 1700; for he told all Europe that “he could find nothing amongst us but our writings to distinguish us from the worst of barbarians.” But to become an “Author by Profession,” is to have no other means of subsistence than such as are extracted from the quill; and no one believes these to be so precarious as they really are, until disappointed, distressed, and thrown out of every pursuit which can maintain independence, the noblest mind is cast into the lot of a doomed labourer.

Literature abounds with instances of “Authors by Profession” accommodating themselves to this condition. By vile artifices of faction and popularity their moral sense is injured, and the literary character sits in that study which he ought to dignify, merely, as one of them sings,

Another has said, “He is a fool who is a grain honester than the times he lives in.”

Let it not, therefore, be conceived that I mean to degrade or vilify the literary character, when I would only separate 8 the Author from those polluters of the press who have turned a vestal into a prostitute; a grotesque race of famished buffoons or laughing assassins; or that populace of unhappy beings, who are driven to perish in their garrets, unknown and unregarded by all, for illusions which even their calamities cannot disperse. Poverty, said an ancient, is a sacred thing—it is, indeed, so sacred, that it creates a sympathy even for those who have incurred it by their folly, or plead by it for their crimes.

The history of our Literature is instructive—let us trace the origin of characters of this sort among us: some of them have happily disappeared, and, whenever great authors obtain their due rights, the calamities of literature will be greatly diminished.

As for the phrase of “Authors by Profession,” it is said to be of modern origin; and Guthrie, a great dealer in literature, and a political scribe, is thought to have introduced it, as descriptive of a class of writers which he wished to distinguish from the general term. I present the reader with an unpublished letter of Guthrie, in which the phrase will not only be found, but, what is more important, which exhibits the character in its degraded form. It was addressed to a minister.

Unblushing venality! In one part he shouts like a plundering hussar who has carried off his prey; and in the other he bows with the tame suppleness of the “quarterly” Swiss chaffering his halbert for his price;—“to serve his Majesty” for—“his Lordship’s future patronage.”

Guthrie’s notion of “An Author by Profession,” entirely derived from his own character, was twofold; literary taskwork, and political degradation. He was to be a gentleman convertible into an historian, at —— per sheet; and, when he had not time to write histories, he chose to sell his name to those he never wrote. These are mysteries of the craft of authorship; in this sense it is only a trade, and a very bad one! But when in his other capacity, this gentleman comes to hire himself to one lord as he had to another, no one can doubt that the stipendiary would change his principles with his livery.[4]

Such have been some of the “Authors by Profession” who have worn the literary mask; for literature was not the first object of their designs. They form a race peculiar to our country. They opened their career in our first great revolution, and flourished during the eventful period of the civil wars. In the form of newspapers, their “Mercuries” and “Diurnals” were political pamphlets.[5] Of these, the Royalists, being the better educated, carried off to their side all the spirit, and only left the foam and dregs for the Parliamentarians; otherwise, in lying, they were just like one another; for “the father of lies” seems to be of no party! Were it desirable to instruct men by a system of political and moral calumny, the complete art might be drawn from these archives of political lying, during their flourishing era. We might discover principles among them which would have humbled the genius of Machiavel himself, and even have taught Mr. Sheridan’s more popular scribe, Mr. Puff, a sense of his own inferiority.

It is known that, during the administration of Harley and Walpole, this class of authors swarmed and started up like mustard-seed in a hot-bed. More than fifty thousand pounds 10 were expended among them! Faction, with mad and blind passions, can affix a value on the basest things that serve its purpose.[6] These “Authors by Profession” wrote more assiduously the better they were paid; but as attacks only produced replies and rejoinders, to remunerate them was heightening the fever and feeding the disease. They were all fighting for present pay, with a view of the promised land before them; but they at length became so numerous, and so crowded on one another, that the minister could neither satisfy promised claims nor actual dues. He had not at last the humblest office to bestow, not a commissionership of wine licences, as Tacitus Gordon had: not even a collectorship of the customs in some obscure town, as was the wretched worn-out Oldmixon’s pittance;[7] not a crumb for a mouse!

The captain of this banditti in the administration of Walpole was Arnall, a young attorney, whose mature genius for scurrilous party-papers broke forth in his tender nonage. This hireling was “The Free Briton,” and in “The Gazetteer” Francis Walsingham, Esq., abusing the name of a profound statesman. It is said that he received above ten thousand pounds for his obscure labours; and this patriot was suffered to retire with all the dignity which a pension could confer. He not only wrote for hire, but valued himself on it; proud of the pliancy of his pen and of his principles, he wrote without remorse what his patron was forced to pay for, but to disavow. It was from a knowledge of these “Authors by Profession,” writers of a faction in the name of the community, as they have been well described, that our great statesman Pitt fell into an error which he lived to regret. He did not 11 distinguish between authors; he confounded the mercenary with the men of talent and character; and with this contracted view of the political influence of genius, he must have viewed with awe, perhaps with surprise, its mighty labour in the volumes of Burke.

But these “Authors by Profession” sometimes found a retribution of their crimes even from their masters. When the ardent patron was changed into a cold minister, their pen seemed wonderfully to have lost its point, and the feather could not any more tickle. They were flung off, as Shakspeare’s striking imagery expresses it, like

Look on the fate and fortune of Amhurst. The life of this “Author by Profession” points a moral. He flourished about the year 1730. He passed through a youth of iniquity, and was expelled from his college for his irregularities: he had exhibited no marks of regeneration when he assailed the university with the periodical paper of the Terræ Filius; a witty Saturnalian effusion on the manners and Toryism of Oxford, where the portraits have an extravagant kind of likeness, and are so false and so true that they were universally relished and individually understood. Amhurst, having lost his character, hastened to reform the morals and politics of the nation. For near twenty years he toiled at “The Craftsman,” of which ten thousand are said to have been sold in one day. Admire this patriot! an expelled collegian becomes an outrageous zealot for popular reform, and an intrepid Whig can bend to be yoked to all the drudgery of a faction! Amhurst succeeded in writing out the minister, and writing in Bolingbroke and Pulteney. Now came the hour of gratitude and generosity. His patrons mounted into power—but—they silently dropped the instrument of their ascension. The political prostitute stood shivering at the gate of preferment, which his masters had for ever flung against him. He died broken-hearted, and owed the charity of a grave to his bookseller.

I must add one more striking example of a political author in the case of Dr. James Drake, a man of genius, and an excellent writer. He resigned an honourable profession, that of medicine, to adopt a very contrary one, that of becoming an author by profession for a party. As a Tory writer, he 12 dared every extremity of the law, while he evaded it by every subtlety of artifice; he sent a masked lady with his MS. to the printer, who was never discovered, and was once saved by a flaw in the indictment from the simple change of an r for a t, or nor for not;—one of those shameful evasions by which the law, to its perpetual disgrace, so often protects the criminal from punishment. Dr. Drake had the honour of hearing himself censured from the throne; of being imprisoned; of seeing his “Memorials of the Church of England” burned at London, and his “Historia Anglo-Scotica” at Edinburgh. Having enlisted himself in the pay of the booksellers, among other works, I suspect, he condescended to practise some literary impositions. For he has reprinted Father Parson’s famous libel against the Earl of Leicester in Elizabeth’s reign, under the title of “Secret Memoirs of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, 1706,” 8vo, with a preface pretending it was printed from an old MS.

Drake was a lover of literature; he left behind him a version of Herodotus, and a “System of Anatomy,” once the most popular and curious of its kind. After all this turmoil of his literary life, neither his masked lady nor the flaws in his indictments availed him. Government brought a writ of error, severely prosecuted him; and, abandoned, as usual, by those for whom he had annihilated a genius which deserved a better fate, his perturbed spirit broke out into a fever, and he died raving against cruel persecutors, and patrons not much more humane.

So much for some of those who have been “Authors by Profession” in one of the twofold capacities which Guthrie designed, that of writing for a minister; the other, that of writing for the bookseller, though far more honourable, is sufficiently calamitous.

In commercial times, the hope of profit is always a stimulating, but a degrading motive; it dims the clearest intellect, it stills the proudest feelings. Habit and prejudice will soon reconcile even genius to the work of money, and to avow the motive without a blush. “An author by profession,” at once ingenious and ingenuous, declared that, “till fame appears to be worth more than money, he would always prefer money to fame.” Johnson had a notion that there existed no motive for writing but money! Yet, crowned heads have sighed with the ambition of authorship, though this great master of the 13 human mind could suppose that on this subject men were not actuated either by the love of glory or of pleasure! Fielding, an author of great genius and of “the profession,” in one of his “Covent-garden Journals” asserts, that “An author, in a country where there is no public provision for men of genius, is not obliged to be a more disinterested patriot than any other. Why is he whose livelihood is in his pen a greater monster in using it to serve himself, than he who uses his tongue for the same purpose?”

But it is a very important question to ask, is this “livelihood in the pen” really such? Authors drudging on in obscurity, and enduring miseries which can never close but with their life—shall this be worth even the humble designation of a “livelihood?” I am not now combating with them whether their taskwork degrades them, but whether they are receiving an equivalent for the violation of their genius, for the weight of the fetters they are wearing, and for the entailed miseries which form an author’s sole legacies to his widow and his children. Far from me is the wish to degrade literature by the inquiry; but it will be useful to many a youth of promising talent, who is impatient to abandon all professions for this one, to consider well the calamities in which he will most probably participate.

Among “Authors by Profession” who has displayed a more fruitful genius, and exercised more intense industry, with a loftier sense of his independence, than Smollett? But look into his life and enter into his feelings, and you will be shocked at the disparity of his situation with the genius of the man. His life was a succession of struggles, vexations, and disappointments, yet of success in his writings. Smollett, who is a great poet, though he has written little in verse, and whose rich genius composed the most original pictures of human life, was compelled by his wants to debase his name by selling it to voyages and translations, which he never could have read. When he had worn himself down in the service of the public or the booksellers, there remained not, of all his slender remunerations, in the last stage of life, sufficient to convey him to a cheap country and a restorative air on the Continent. The father may have thought himself fortunate, that the daughter whom he loved with more than common affection was no more to share in his wants; but the husband had by his side the faithful companion of his life, left without 14 a wreck of fortune. Smollett, gradually perishing in a foreign land,[8] neglected by an admiring public, and without fresh resources from the booksellers, who were receiving the income of his works, threw out his injured feelings in the character of Bramble; the warm generosity of his temper, but not his genius, seemed fleeting with his breath. In a foreign land his widow marked by a plain monument the spot of his burial, and she perished in solitude! Yet Smollett dead—soon an ornamented column is raised at the place of his birth,[9] while the grave of the author seemed to multiply the editions of his works. There are indeed grateful feelings in the public at large for a favourite author; but the awful testimony of those feelings, by its gradual progress, must appear beyond the grave! They visit the column consecrated by his name, and his features are most loved, most venerated, in the bust.

Smollett himself shall be the historian of his own heart; this most successful “Author by Profession,” who, for his subsistence, composed masterworks of genius, and drudged in the toils of slavery, shall himself tell us what happened, and describe that state between life and death, partaking of both, which obscured his faculties and sickened his lofty spirit.

“Had some of those who were pleased to call themselves my friends been at any pains to deserve the character, and told me ingenuously what I had to expect in the capacity of an author, when I first professed myself of that venerable fraternity, I should in all probability have spared myself the incredible labour and chagrin I have since undergone.”

As a relief from literary labour, Smollett once went to revisit his family, and to embrace the mother he loved; but such was the irritation of his mind and the infirmity of his health, exhausted by the hard labours of authorship, that he never passed a more weary summer, nor ever found himself so incapable of indulging the warmest emotions of his heart. 15 On his return, in a letter, he gave this melancholy narrative of himself:—“Between friends, I am now convinced that my brain was in some measure affected; for I had a kind of Coma Vigil upon me from April to November, without intermission. In consideration of this circumstance, I know you will forgive all my peevishness and discontent; tell Mrs. Moore that with regard to me, she has as yet seen nothing but the wrong side of the tapestry.” Thus it happens in the life of authors, that they whose comic genius diffuses cheerfulness, create a pleasure which they cannot themselves participate.

Of praise and censure, says Smollett, in a letter to Dr. Moore, “Indeed I am sick of both, and wish to God my circumstances would allow me to consign my pen to oblivion.” A wish, as fervently repeated by many “Authors by Profession,” who are not so fully entitled as was Smollett to write when he chose, or to have lived in quiet for what he had written. An author’s life is therefore too often deprived of all social comfort whether he be the writer for a minister, or a bookseller—but their case requires to be stated.

Johnson has dignified the booksellers as “the patrons of literature,” which was generous in that great author, who had written well and lived but ill all his life on that patronage. Eminent booksellers, in their constant intercourse with the most enlightened class of the community, that is, with the best authors and the best readers, partake of the intelligence around them; their great capitals, too, are productive of good and evil in literature; useful when they carry on great works, and pernicious when they sanction indifferent ones. Yet are they but commercial men. A trader can never be deemed a patron, for it would be romantic to purchase what is not saleable; and where no favour is conferred, there is no patronage.

Authors continue poor, and booksellers become opulent; an extraordinary result! Booksellers are not agents for authors, 16 but proprietors of their works; so that the perpetual revenues of literature are solely in the possession of the trade.

Is it then wonderful that even successful authors are indigent? They are heirs to fortunes, but by a strange singularity they are disinherited at their birth; for, on the publication of their works, these cease to be their own property. Let that natural property be secured, and a good book would be an inheritance, a leasehold or a freehold, as you choose it; it might at least last out a generation, and descend to the author’s blood, were they permitted to live on their father’s glory, as in all other property they do on his industry.[10] Something of this nature has been instituted in France, where the descendants of Corneille and Molière retain a claim on the theatres whenever the dramas of their great ancestors are performed. In that country, literature has ever received peculiar honours—it was there decreed, in the affair of Crebillon, that literary productions are not seizable by creditors.[11]

The history of literary property in this country might form as ludicrous a narrative as Lucian’s “true history.” It was a long while doubtful whether any such thing existed, at the very time when booksellers were assigning over the perpetual copyrights of books, and making them the subject of family settlements for the provision of their wives and children! When Tonson, in 1739, obtained an injunction to restrain 17 another bookseller from printing Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” he brought into court as a proof of his title an assignment of the original copyright, made over by the sublime poet in 1667, which was read. Milton received for this assignment the sum which we all know—Tonson and all his family and assignees rode in their carriages with the profits of the five-pound epic.[12]

The verbal and tasteless lawyers, not many years past, with legal metaphysics, wrangled like the schoolmen, inquiring of each other, “whether the style and ideas of an author were tangible things; or if these were a property, how is possession to be taken, or any act of occupancy made on mere intellectual ideas.” Nothing, said they, can be an object of property but which has a corporeal substance; the air and the light, to which they compared an author’s ideas, are common to all; ideas in the MS. state were compared to birds in a cage; while the author confines them in his own dominion, none but he has a right to let them fly; but the moment he allows the bird to escape from his hand, it is no violation of property in any one to make it his own. And to prove that there existed no property after publication, they found an analogy in the gathering of acorns, or in seizing on a vacant piece of ground; and thus degrading that most refined piece of art formed in the highest state of society, a literary production, they brought us back to a state of nature; and seem to have concluded that literary property was purely ideal; a phantom which, as its author could neither grasp nor confine 18 to himself, he must entirely depend on the public benevolence for his reward.[13]

The Ideas, that is, the work of an author, are “tangible things.” “There are works,” to quote the words of a near and dear relative, “which require great learning, great industry, great labour, and great capital, in their preparation. They assume a palpable form. You may fill warehouses with them, and freight ships; and the tenure by which they are held is superior to that of all other property, for it is original. It is tenure which does not exist in a doubtful title; which does not spring from any adventitious circumstances; it is not found—it is not purchased—it is not prescriptive—it is original; so it is the most natural of all titles, because it is the most simple and least artificial. It is paramount and sovereign, because it is a tenure by creation.”[14]

There were indeed some more generous spirits and better philosophers fortunately found on the same bench; and the identity of a literary composition was resolved into its sentiments and language, besides what was more obviously valuable to some persons, the print and paper. On this slight principle was issued the profound award which accorded a certain term of years to any work, however immortal. They could not diminish the immortality of a book, but only its reward. In all the litigations respecting literary property, authors were little considered—except some honourable testimonies due to genius, from the sense of Willes, and the eloquence of Mansfield. Literary property was still disputed, like the rights of a parish common. An honest printer, who could not always write grammar, had the shrewdness to make a bold effort in this scramble, and perceiving that even by this last favourable award all literary property would necessarily centre with the booksellers, now stood forward for his own body—the printers. This rough advocate observed that “a few persons who call themselves booksellers, about the number of twenty-five, have kept the monopoly of books and copies in their hands, to the entire exclusion of all others, but more especially the printers, whom they have always held it a rule never to let become purchasers in copy.” Not a word for the authors! As for them, they were doomed by both parties as the fat oblation: they indeed sent forth some meek bleatings; 19 but what were AUTHORS, between judges, booksellers, and printers? the sacrificed among the sacrificers!

All this was reasoning in a circle. Literary property in our nation arose from a new state of society. These lawyers could never develope its nature by wild analogies, nor discover it in any common-law right; for our common law, composed of immemorial customs, could never have had in its contemplation an object which could not have existed in barbarous periods. Literature, in its enlarged spirit, certainly never entered into the thoughts or attention of our rude ancestors. All their views were bounded by the necessaries of life; and as yet they had no conception of the impalpable, invisible, yet sovereign dominion of the human mind—enough for our rough heroes was that of the seas! Before the reign of Henry VIII. great authors composed occasionally a book in Latin, which none but other great authors cared for, and which the people could not read. In the reign of Elizabeth, Roger Ascham appeared—one of those men of genius born to create a new era in the history of their nation. The first English author who may be regarded as the founder of our prose style was Roger Ascham, the venerable parent of our native literature. At a time when our scholars affected to contemn the vernacular idiom, and in their Latin works were losing their better fame, that of being understood by all their countrymen, Ascham boldly avowed the design of setting an example, in his own words, TO SPEAK AS THE COMMON PEOPLE, TO THINK AS WISE MEN. His pristine English is still forcible without pedantry, and still beautiful without ornament.[15] The illustrious Bacon condescended to follow this new example in the most popular of his works. This change in our literature was like a revelation; these men taught us our language in books. We became a reading people; and then the demand for books naturally produced a new order of authors, who traded in literature. It was then, so early as in the Elizabethan age, that literary property may be said to derive its obscure origin in this nation. It was protected in an indirect manner by the licensers of the press; for although that was a mere political institution, only designed to prevent seditious and irreligious publications, yet, as no book could be printed without a licence, there was honour enough in the licensers not to allow other publishers 20 to infringe on the privilege granted to the first claimant. In Queen Anne’s time, when the office of licensers was extinguished, a more liberal genius was rising in the nation, and literary property received a more definite and a more powerful protection. A limited term was granted to every author to reap the fruits of his labours; and Lord Hardwicke pronounced this statute “a universal patent for authors.” Yet, subsequently, the subject of literary property involved discussion; even at so late a period as in 1769 it was still to be litigated. It was then granted that originally an author had at common law a property in his work, but that the act of Anne took away all copyright after the expiration of the terms it permitted.

As the matter now stands, let us address an arithmetical age—but my pen hesitates to bring down my subject to an argument fitted to “these coster-monger times.”[16] On the present principle of literary property, it results that an author disposes of a leasehold property of twenty-eight years, often for less than the price of one year’s purchase! How many living authors are the sad witnesses of this fact, who, like so many Esaus, have sold their inheritance for a meal! I leave the whole school of Adam Smith to calm their calculating emotions concerning “that unprosperous race of men” (sometimes this master-seer calls them “unproductive”) “commonly called men of letters,” who are pretty much in the situation which lawyers and physicians would be in, were these, as he tells us, in that state when “a scholar and a beggar seem to have been very nearly synonymous terms”—and this melancholy fact that man of genius discovered, without the feather of his pen brushing away a tear from his lid—without one spontaneous and indignant groan!

Authors may exclaim, “we ask for justice, not charity.” They would not need to require any favour, nor claim any other than that protection which an enlightened government, in its wisdom and its justice, must bestow. They would leave to the public disposition the sole appreciation of their works; their book must make its own fortune; a bad work may be cried up, and a good work may be cried down; 21 but Faction will soon lose its voice, and Truth acquire one. The cause we are pleading is not the calamities of indifferent writers, but of those whose utility or whose genius long survives that limited term which has been so hardly wrenched from the penurious hand of verbal lawyers. Every lover of literature, and every votary of humanity has long felt indignant at that sordid state and all those secret sorrows to which men of the finest genius, or of sublime industry, are reduced and degraded in society. Johnson himself, who rejected that perpetuity of literary property which some enthusiasts seemed to claim at the time the subject was undergoing the discussion of the judges, is, however, for extending the copyright to a century. Could authors secure this, their natural right, literature would acquire a permanent and a nobler reward; for great authors would then be distinguished by the very profits they would receive from that obscure multitude whose common disgraces they frequently participate, notwithstanding the superiority of their own genius. Johnson himself will serve as a proof of the incompetent remuneration of literary property. He undertook and he performed an Herculean labour, which employed him so many years that the price he obtained was exhausted before the work was concluded—the wages did not even last as long as the labour! Where, then, is the author to look forward, when such works are undertaken, for a provision for his family, or for his future existence? It would naturally arise from the work itself, were authors not the most ill-treated and oppressed class of the community. The daughter of Milton need not have craved the alms of the admirers of her father, if the right of authors had been better protected; his own “Paradise Lost” had then been her better portion and her most honourable inheritance. The children of Burns would have required no subscriptions; that annual tribute which the public pay to the genius of their parent was their due, and would have been their fortune.

Authors now submit to have a shorter life than their own celebrity. While the book markets of Europe are supplied with the writings of English authors, and they have a wider diffusion in America than at home, it seems a national ingratitude to limit the existence of works for their authors to a short number of years, and then to seize on their possession for ever.

The natural rights and properties of AUTHORS not having been sufficiently protected, they are defrauded, not indeed of their fame, though they may not always live to witness it, but of their uninterrupted profits, which might save them from their frequent degradation in society. That act of Anne which confers on them some right of property, acknowledges that works of learned men have been carried on “too often to the ruin of them and their families.”

Hence we trace a literary calamity which the public endure in those “Authors by Profession,” who, finding often too late in life that it is the worst profession, are not scrupulous to live by some means or other. “I must live,” cried one of the brotherhood, shrugging his shoulders in his misery, and almost blushing for a libel he had just printed—“I do not see the necessity,” was the dignified reply. Trade was certainly not the origin of authorship. Most of our great authors have written from a more impetuous impulse than that of a mechanic; urged by a loftier motive than that of humouring the popular taste, they have not lowered themselves by writing down to the public, but have raised the public to them. Untasked, they composed at propitious intervals; and feeling, not labour, was in their last, as in their first page.

When we became a reading people, books were to be suited to popular tastes, and then that trade was opened that leads to the workhouse. A new race sprang up, that, like Ascham, “spoke as the common people;” but would not, like Ascham, “think as wise men.” The founders of “Authors by Profession” appear as far back as in the Elizabethan age. Then there were some roguish wits, who, taking advantage of the public humour, and yielding their principle to their pen, lived to write, and wrote to live; loose livers and loose writers!—like Autolycus, they ran to the fair, with baskets of hasty manufactures, fit for clowns and maidens.[17]

Even then flourished the craft of authorship, and the mysteries of bookselling. Robert Greene, the master-wit, wrote “The Art of Coney-catching,” or Cheatery, in which he was an adept; he died of a surfeit of Rhenish and pickled herrings, at a fatal banquet of authors;—and left as his legacy among the “Authors by Profession” “A Groatsworth of Wit, bought with a Million of Repentance.” One died of another kind of surfeit. Another was assassinated in a brothel. But the list of the calamities of all these worthies have as great variety as those of the Seven Champions.[18] Nor were the stationers, or book-venders, as the publishers of books were first designated, at a fault in the mysteries of “coney-catching.” Deceptive and vaunting title-pages were practised to such excess, that Tom Nash, an “Author by Profession,” never fastidiously modest, blushed at the title of his “Pierce Pennilesse,” which the publisher had flourished in the first edition, like “a tedious mountebank.” The booksellers forged great names to recommend their works, and passed off in currency their base metal stamped with a royal head. “It was an usual thing in those days,” says honest Anthony Wood, “to set a great name to a book or books, by the sharking booksellers or snivelling writers, to get bread.”

Such authors as these are unfortunate, before they are criminal; they often tire out their youth before they discover that “Author by Profession” is a denomination ridiculously assumed, for it is none! The first efforts of men of genius are usually honourable ones; but too often they suffer that genius to be debased. Many who would have composed history have turned voluminous party-writers; many a noble satirist has become a hungry libeller. Men who are starved 24 in society, hold to it but loosely. They are the children of Nemesis! they avenge themselves—and with the Satan of Milton they exclaim,

Never were their feelings more vehemently echoed than by this Nash—the creature of genius, of famine, and despair. He lived indeed in the age of Elizabeth, but writes as if he had lived in our own. He proclaimed himself to the world as Pierce Pennilesse, and on a retrospect of his literary life, observes that he had “sat up late and rose early, contended with the cold, and conversed with scarcitie;” he says, “all my labours turned to losse,—I was despised and neglected, my paines not regarded, or slightly rewarded, and I myself, in prime of my best wit, laid open to povertie. Whereupon I accused my fortune, railed on my patrons, bit my pen, rent my papers, and raged.”—And then comes the after-reflection, which so frequently provokes the anger of genius: “How many base men that wanted those parts I had, enjoyed content at will, and had wealth at command! I called to mind a cobbler that was worth five hundred pounds; an hostler that had built a goodly inn; a carman in a leather pilche that had whipt a thousand pound out of his horse’s tail—and have I more than these? thought I to myself; am I better born? am I better brought up? yea, and better favoured! and yet am I a beggar? How am I crost, or whence is this curse? Even from hence, the men that should employ such as I am, are enamoured of their own wits, though they be never so scurvie; that a scrivener is better paid than a scholar; and men of art must seek to live among cormorants, or be kept under by dunces, who count it policy to keep them bare to follow their books the better.” And then, Nash thus utters the cries of—

Such was the miserable cry of an “Author by Profession” in the reign of Elizabeth. Nash not only renounces his country in his despair—and hesitates on “the faulty means” which have appeased the pangs of many of his unhappy brothers, but he proves also the weakness of the moral principle among these men of genius; for he promises, if any Mæcenas will bind him by his bounty, he will do him “as much honour as any poet of my beardless years in England—but,” he adds, “if he be sent away with a flea in his ear, let him look that I will rail on him soundly; not for an hour or a day, while the injury is fresh in my memory, but in some elaborate polished poem, which I will leave to the world when I am dead, to be a living image to times to come of his beggarly parsimony.” Poets might imagine that Chatterton had written all this, about the time he struck a balance of his profit and loss by the death of Beckford the Lord Mayor, in which he concludes with “I am glad he is dead by 3l. 13s. 6d.”[19]

It must be confessed, that before “Authors by Profession” had fallen into the hands of the booksellers, they endured peculiar grievances. They were pitiable retainers of some 26 great family. The miseries of such an author, and the insolence and penuriousness of his patrons, who would not return the poetry they liked and would not pay for, may be traced in the eventful life of Thomas Churchyard, a poet of the age of Elizabeth, one of those unfortunate men who have written poetry all their days, and lived a long life to complete the misfortune. His muse was so fertile, that his works pass all enumeration. He courted numerous patrons, who valued the poetry, while they left the poet to his own miserable contemplations. In a long catalogue of his works, which this poet has himself given, he adds a few memoranda, as he proceeds, a little ludicrous, but very melancholy. He wrote a book which he could never afterwards recover from one of his patrons, and adds, “all which book was in as good verse as ever I made; an honourable knight dwelling in the Black Friers can witness the same, because I read it unto him.” Another accorded him the same remuneration—on which he adds, “An infinite number of other songs and sonnets given where they cannot be recovered, nor purchase any favour when they are craved.” Still, however, he announces “Twelve long Tales for Christmas, dedicated to twelve honourable lords.” Well might Churchyard write his own sad life, under the title of “The Tragicall Discourse of the Haplesse Man’s Life.”[20]

It will not be easy to parallel this pathetic description of the wretched age of a poor neglected poet mourning over a youth vainly spent.

Yet Churchyard was no contemptible bard; he composed a national poem, “The Worthiness of Wales,” which has been reprinted, and will be still dear to his “Fatherland,” as the Hollanders expressively denote their natal spot. He wrote in the “Mirrour of Magistrates,” the Life of Wolsey, which has parts of great dignity; and the Life of Jane Shore, which was much noticed in his day, for a severe critic of the times writes:

Churchyard, and the miseries of his poetical life, are alluded to by Spenser. He is old Palemon in “Colin Clout’s come Home again.” Spenser is supposed to describe this laborious writer for half a century, whose melancholy pipe, in his old age, may make the reader “rew:”

His epitaph, preserved by Camden, is extremely instructive to all poets, could epitaphs instruct them:—

It appears also by a confession of Tom Nash, that an author would then, pressed by the res angusta domi, when “the bottom of his purse was turned upward,” submit to compose pieces for gentlemen who aspired to authorship. He tells us on some occasion, that he was then in the country composing poetry for some country squire;—and says, “I am faine to let my plow stand still in the midst of a furrow, to follow these Senior Fantasticos, to whose amorous villanellas[21] I prostitute my pen,” and this, too, “twice or thrice in a month;” and he complains that it is “poverty which alone maketh me so unconstant to my determined studies, trudging from place to place to and fro, and prosecuting the means to keep me from idlenesse.” An author was then much like a vagrant.

Even at a later period, in the reign of the literary James, great authors were reduced to a state of mendicity, and lived on alms, although their lives and their fortunes had been consumed in forming national labours. The antiquary Stowe exhibits a striking example of the rewards conferred on such valued authors. Stowe had devoted his life, and exhausted his patrimony, in the study of English antiquities; he had travelled on foot throughout the kingdom, inspecting all monuments of antiquity, and rescuing what he could from the dispersed libraries of the monasteries. His stupendous collections, in his own handwriting, still exist, to provoke the feeble industry of literary loiterers. He felt through life the enthusiasm of study; and seated in his monkish library, living with the dead more than with the living, he was still a student of taste: for Spenser the poet visited the library of Stowe; and the first good edition of Chaucer was made so chiefly by the labours of our author. Late in life, worn-out with study and the cares of poverty, neglected by that proud metropolis of which he had been the historian, his good-humour did not desert him; for being afflicted with sharp pains in his aged feet, he observed that “his affliction lay in that part which formerly he had made so much use of.” 29 Many a mile had he wandered and much had he expended, for those treasures of antiquities which had exhausted his fortune, and with which he had formed works of great public utility. It was in his eightieth year that Stowe at length received a public acknowledgment of his services, which will appear to us of a very extraordinary nature. He was so reduced in his circumstances that he petitioned James I. for a licence to collect alms for himself! “as a recompense for his labours and travel of forty-five years, in setting forth the Chronicles of England, and eight years taken up in the Survey of the Cities of London and Westminster, towards his relief now in his old age; having left his former means of living, and only employing himself for the service and good of his country.” Letters-patent under the great seal were granted. After no penurious commendations of Stowe’s labours, he is permitted “to gather the benevolence of well-disposed people within this realm of England; to ask, gather, and take the alms of all our loving subjects.” These letters-patent were to be published by the clergy from their pulpits; they produced so little, that they were renewed for another twelvemonth: one entire parish in the city contributed seven shillings and sixpence! Such, then, was the patronage received by Stowe, to be a licensed beggar throughout the kingdom for one twelvemonth! Such was the public remuneration of a man who had been useful to his nation, but not to himself!

Such was the first age of Patronage, which branched out in the last century into an age of Subscriptions, when an author levied contributions before his work appeared; a mode which inundated our literature with a great portion of its worthless volumes: of these the most remarkable are the splendid publications of Richard Blome; they may be called fictitious works; for they are only mutilated transcripts from Camden and Speed, but richly ornamented, and pompously printed, which this literary adventurer, said to have been a gentleman, loaded the world with, by the aid of his subscribers. Another age was that of Dedications,[22] when the 30 author was to lift his tiny patron to the skies, in an inverse ratio as he lowered himself, in this public exhibition. Sometimes the party haggled about the price;[23] or the statue, while stepping into his niche, would turn round on the author to assist his invention. A patron of Peter Motteux, dissatisfied with Peter’s colder temperament, composed the superlative dedication to himself, and completed the misery of the author by subscribing it with Motteux’s name![24] Worse fared it when authors were the unlucky hawkers of their own works; of which I shall give a remarkable instance in Myles Davies, a learned man maddened by want and indignation.

The subject before us exhibits one of the most singular spectacles in these volumes; that of a scholar of extensive erudition, whose life seems to have passed in the study of languages and the sciences, while his faculties appear to have been disordered from the simplicity of his nature, and driven to madness by indigence and insult. He formed the wild resolution of becoming a mendicant author, the hawker of his own works; and by this mode endured all the aggravated sufferings, the great and the petty insults of all ranks of society, 31 and even sometimes from men of learning themselves, who denied a mendicant author the sympathy of a brother.

Myles Davies and his works are imperfectly known to the most curious of our literary collectors. His name has scarcely reached a few; the author and his works are equally extraordinary, and claim a right to be preserved in this treatise on the “Calamities of Authors.”

Our author commenced printing a work, difficult, from its miscellaneous character, to describe; of which the volumes appeared at different periods. The early and the most valuable volumes were the first and second; they are a kind of bibliographical, biographical, and critical work, on English Authors. They all bear a general title of “Athenæ Britannicæ.”[25]

Collectors have sometimes met with a very curious volume, entitled “Icon Libellorum,” and sometimes the same book, under another title—“A Critical History of Pamphlets.” This rare book forms the first volume of the “Athenæ Britannicæ.” The author was Myles Davies, whose biography is quite unknown: he may now be his own biographer. He was a Welsh clergyman, a vehement foe to Popery, Arianism, and Socinianism, of the most fervent loyalty to George I. and the Hanoverian succession; a scholar, skilled in Greek and Latin, and in all the modern languages. Quitting his native spot with political disgust, he changed his character in the metropolis, for he subscribes himself “Counsellor-at-Law.” In an evil hour he commenced author, not only surrounded by his books, but with the more urgent companions of a wife 32 and family; and with that childlike simplicity which sometimes marks the mind of a retired scholar, we perceive him imagining that his immense reading would prove a source, not easily exhausted, for their subsistence.

From the first volumes of his series much curious literary history may be extracted, amidst the loose and wandering elements of this literary chaos. In his dedication to the Prince he professes “to represent writers and writings in a catoptrick view.”

The preface to the second volume opens his plan; and nothing as yet indicates those rambling humours which his subsequent labours exhibit.

As he proceeded in forming these volumes, I suspect, either that his mind became a little disordered, or that he discovered that mere literature found but penurious patrons in “the Few;” for, attempting to gain over all classes of society, he varied his investigations, and courted attention, by writing on law, physic, divinity, as well as literary topics. By his account—

“The avarice of booksellers, and the stinginess of hard-hearted patrons, had driven him into a cursed company of door-keeping herds, to meet the irrational brutality of those uneducated mischievous animals called footmen, house-porters, poetasters, mumpers, apothecaries, attorneys, and such like beasts of prey,” who were, like himself, sometimes barred up for hours in the menagerie of a great man’s antechamber. In his addresses to Drs. Mead and Freind, he declares—“My misfortunes drive me to publish my writings for a poor livelihood; and nothing but the utmost necessity could make any man in his senses to endeavour at it, in a method so burthensome to the modesty and education of a scholar.”

In French he dedicates to George I.; and in the Harleian MSS. I discovered a long letter to the Earl of Oxford, by our author, in French, with a Latin ode. Never was more innocent bribery proffered to a minister! He composed what he calls Stricturæ Pindaricæ on the “Mughouses,” then political clubs;[26] celebrates English authors in the same odes, 33 and inserts a political Latin drama, called “Pallas Anglicana.” Mævius and Bavius were never more indefatigable! The author’s intellect gradually discovers its confusion amidst the loud cries of penury and despair.

To paint the distresses of an author soliciting alms for a book which he presents—and which, whatever may be its value, comes at least as an evidence that the suppliant is a learned man—is a case so uncommon, that the invention of the novelist seems necessary to fill up the picture. But Myles Davies is an artist in his own simple narrative.

“Those squeeze-farthing and hoard-penny ignoramus doctors, with several great personages who formed excuses for not accepting my books; or they would receive them, but give nothing for them; or else deny they had them, or remembered anything of them; and so gave me nothing for my last present of books, though they kept them gratis et ingratiis.

“But his Grace of the Dutch extraction in Holland (said to be akin to Mynheer Vander B—nck) had a peculiar grace in receiving my present of books and odes, which, being bundled up together with a letter and ode upon his Graceship, and carried in by his porter, I was bid to call for an answer five years hence. I asked the porter what he meant by that? I suppose, said he, four or five days hence; but it proved five or six months after, before I could get any answer, though I had writ five or six letters in French with fresh odes upon his Graceship, and an account where I lived, and what noblemen had accepted of my present. I attended about the door three or four times a week all that time constantly from twelve to four or five o’clock in the evening; and walking under the fore windows of the parlours, once that time his and her Grace came after dinner to stare at me, with open 34 windows and shut mouths, but filled with fair water, which they spouted with so much dexterity that they twisted the water through their teeth and mouth-skrew, to flash near my face, and yet just to miss me, though my nose could not well miss the natural flavour of the orange-water showering so very near me. Her Grace began the water-work, but not very gracefully, especially for an English lady of her description, airs, and qualities, to make a stranger her spitting-post, who had been guilty of no other offence than to offer her husband some writings.—His Grace followed, yet first stood looking so wistfully towards me, that I verily thought he had a mind to throw me a guinea or two for all these indignities, and two or three months’ then sleeveless waiting upon him—and accordingly I advanced to address his Grace to remember the poor author; but, instead of an answer, he immediately undams his mouth, out fly whole showers of lymphatic rockets, which had like to have put out my mortal eyes.”

Still he was not disheartened, and still applied for his bundle of books, which were returned to him at length unopened, with “half a guinea upon top of the cargo,” and “with a desire to receive no more. I plucked up courage, murmuring within myself—

“As I was still jogging on homewards, I thought that a great many were called their Graces, not for any grace or favour they had truly deserved with God or man, but for the same reason of contraries, that the Parcæ or Destinies, were so called, because they spared none, or were not truly the Parcæ, quia non parcebant.”

Our indigent and indignant author, by the faithfulness of his representations, mingles with his anger some ludicrous scenes of literary mendicity.

“I can’t choose (now I am upon the fatal subject) but make one observation or two more upon the various rencontres and adventures I met withall, in presenting my books to those who were likely to accept of them for their own information, or for that of helping a poor scholar, or for their own vanity or ostentation.

“Some parsons would hollow to raise the whole house and posse of the domestics to raise a poor crown; at last all that flutter ends in sending Jack or Tom out to change a guinea, 35 and then ’tis reckoned over half-a-dozen times before the fatal crown can be picked out, which must be taken as it is given, with all the parade of almsgiving, and so to be received with all the active and passive ceremonial of mendication and alms-receiving—as if the books, printing and paper, were worth nothing at all, and as if it were the greatest charity for them to touch them or let them be in the house; ‘For I shall never read them,’ says one of the five-shilling-piece chaps; ‘I have no time to look in them,’ says another; ‘’Tis so much money lost,’ says a grave dean; ‘My eyes being so bad,’ said a bishop, ‘that I can scarce read at all.’ ‘What do you want with me?’ said another; ‘Sir, I presented you the other day with my Athenæ Britannicæ, being the last part published.’ ‘I don’t want books, take them again; I don’t understand what they mean.’ ‘The title is very plain,’ said I, ‘and they are writ mostly in English.’ ‘I’ll give you a crown for both the volumes.’ ‘They stand me, sir, in more than that, and ’tis for a bare subsistence I present or sell them; how shall I live?’ ‘I care not a farthing for that; live or die, ’tis all one to me.’ ‘Damn my master!’ said Jack, ‘’twas but last night he was commending your books and your learning to the skies; and now he would not care if you were starving before his eyes; nay, he often makes game at your clothes, though he thinks you the greatest scholar in England.’”

Such was the life of a learned mendicant author! The scenes which are here exhibited appear to have disordered an intellect which had never been firm; in vain our author attempted to adapt his talents to all orders of men, still “To the crazy ship all winds are contrary.”

The mind of Cowley was beautiful, but a querulous tenderness in his nature breathes not only through his works, but influenced his habits and his views of human affairs. His temper and his genius would have opened to us, had not the strange decision of Sprat and Clifford withdrawn that full correspondence of his heart which he had carried on many years. These letters were suppressed because, as Bishop Sprat acknowledges, “in this kind of prose Mr. 36 Cowley was excellent! They had a domestical plainness, and a peculiar kind of familiarity.” And then the florid writer runs off, that, “in letters, where the souls of men should appear undressed, in that negligent habit they may be fit to be seen by one or two in a chamber, but not to go abroad into the streets.” A false criticism: which not only has proved to be so since their time by Mason’s “Memoirs of Gray,” but which these friends of Cowley might have themselves perceived, if they had recollected that the Letters of Cicero to Atticus form the most delightful chronicles of the heart—and the most authentic memorials of the man. Peck obtained one letter of Cowley’s, preserved by Johnson, and it exhibits a remarkable picture of the miseries of his poetical solitude. It is, perhaps, not too late to inquire whether this correspondence was destroyed as well as suppressed? Would Sprat and Clifford have burned what they have told us they so much admired?[27]

Fortunately for our literary sympathy, the fatal error of these fastidious critics has been in some degree repaired by the admirable genius himself whom they have injured. When Cowley retreated from society, he determined to draw up an apology for his conduct, and to have dedicated it to his patron, Lord St. Albans. His death interrupted the entire design; but his Essays, which Pope so finely calls “the language of his heart,” are evidently parts of these precious Confessions. All of Cowley’s tenderest and undisguised feelings have therefore not perished. These Essays now form a species of composition in our language, a mixture of prose and verse—the man with the poet—the self-painter has sat to himself, and, with the utmost simplicity, has copied out the image of his soul.

Why has this poet twice called himself the melancholy Cowley? He employed no poetical cheville[28] for the metre of a verse which his own feelings inspired.

Cowley, at the beginning of the Civil War, joined the Royalists at Oxford; followed the queen to Paris; yielded his days and his nights to an employment of the highest confidence, that of deciphering the royal correspondence; he transacted their business, and, almost divorcing himself from his neglected muse, he yielded up for them the tranquillity so necessary to the existence of a poet. From his earliest days he tells us how the poetic affections had stamped themselves on his heart, “like letters cut into the bark of a young tree, which, with the tree, will grow proportionably.”

“I saw plainly all the paint of that kind of life the nearer I came to it—that beauty which I did not fall in love with when, for aught I knew, it was real, was not like to bewitch or 38 entice me when I saw it was adulterate. I met with several great persons whom I liked very well, but could not perceive that any part of their greatness was to be liked or desired. I was in a crowd of good company, in business of great and honourable trust; I eat at the best table, and enjoyed the best conveniences that ought to be desired by a man of my condition; yet I could not abstain from renewing my old schoolboy’s wish, in a copy of verses to the same effect:—

After several years’ absence from his native country, at a most critical period, he was sent over to mix with that trusty band of loyalists, who, in secrecy and in silence, were devoting themselves to the royal cause. Cowley was seized on by the ruling powers. At this moment he published a preface to his works, which some of his party interpreted as a relaxation of his loyalty. He has been fully defended. Cowley, with all his delicacy of temper, wished sincerely to retire from all parties; and saw enough among the fiery zealots of his own, to grow disgusted even with Royalists.

His wish for retirement has been half censured as cowardice by Johnson; but there was a tenderness of feeling which had ill-formed Cowley for the cunning of party intriguers, and the company of little villains. About this time he might have truly distinguished himself as “The melancholy Cowley.”

I am only tracing his literary history for the purpose of this work: but I cannot pass without noticing the fact, that this abused man, whom his enemies were calumniating, was at this moment, under the disguise of a doctor of physic, occupied by the novel studies of botany and medicine; and as all science in the mind of the poet naturally becomes poetry, he composed his books on plants in Latin verse.

At length came the Restoration, which the poet zealously celebrated in his “Ode” on that occasion. Both Charles the First and Second had promised to reward his fidelity with the mastership of the Savoy; but, Wood says, “he lost it by certain persons enemies of the muses.” Wood has said no more; and none of Cowley’s biographers have thrown any light on the circumstance: perhaps we may discover this literary calamity.

That Cowley caught no warmth from that promised sunshine 39 which the new monarch was to scatter in prodigal gaiety, has been distinctly told by the poet himself; his muse, in “The Complaint,” having reproached him thus:—

But neglect was not all Cowley had to endure; the royal party seemed disposed to calumniate him. When Cowley was young he had hastily composed the comedy of “The Guardian;” a piece which served the cause of loyalty. After the Restoration, he rewrote it under the title of “Cutter of Coleman Street;” a comedy which may still be read with equal curiosity and interest: a spirited picture of the peculiar characters which appeared at the Revolution. It was not only ill received by a faction, but by those vermin of a new court, who, without merit themselves, put in their claims, by crying down those who, with great merit, are not in favour. All these to a man accused the author of having written a satire against the king’s party. And this wretched party prevailed, too long for the author’s repose, but not for his fame.[29] Many years afterwards this comedy became popular. Dryden, who was present at the representation, tells us that Cowley “received the news of his ill success not with so much firmness as might have been expected from so great a man.” Cowley was in truth a great man, and a greatly injured man. 40 His sensibility and delicacy of temper were of another texture than Dryden’s. What at that moment did Cowley experience, when he beheld himself neglected, calumniated, and, in his last appeal to public favour, found himself still a victim to a vile faction, who, to court their common master, were trampling on their honest brother?

We shall find an unbroken chain of evidence, clearly demonstrating the agony of his literary feelings. The cynical Wood tells us that, “not finding that preferment he expected, while others for their money carried away most places, he retired discontented into Surrey.” And his panegyrist, Sprat, describes him as “weary of the vexations and formalities of an active condition—he had been perplexed with a long compliance with foreign manners. He was satiated with the arts of a court, which sort of life, though his virtue made it innocent to him, yet nothing could make it quiet. These were the reasons that moved him to follow the violent inclination of his own mind,” &c. I doubt if either the sarcastic antiquary or the rhetorical panegyrist have developed the simple truth of Cowley’s “violent inclination of his own mind.” He does it himself more openly in that beautiful picture of an injured poet, in “The Complaint,” an ode warm with individual feeling, but which Johnson coldly passes over, by telling us that “it met the usual fortune of complaints, and seems to have excited more contempt than pity.”

Thus the biographers of Cowley have told us nothing, and the poet himself has probably not told us all. To these calumnies respecting Cowley’s comedy, raised up by those whom Wood designates as “enemies of the muses,” it would appear that others were added of a deeper dye, and in malignant whispers distilled into the ear of royalty. Cowley, in an ode, had commemorated the genius of Brutus, with all the enthusiasm of a votary of liberty. After the king’s return, when Cowley solicited some reward for his sufferings and services in the royal cause, the chancellor is said to have turned on him with a severe countenance, saying, “Mr. Cowley, your pardon is your reward!” It seems that ode was then considered to be of a dangerous tendency among half the nation; Brutus would be the model of enthusiasts, who were sullenly bending their neck under the yoke of royalty. Charles II. feared the attempt of desperate men; and he might have forgiven Rochester a loose pasquinade, but not Cowley a solemn invocation. This fact, then, is said to have been the true cause 41 of the despondency so prevalent in the latter poetry of “the melancholy Cowley.” And hence the indiscretion of the muse, in a single flight, condemned her to a painful, rather than a voluntary solitude; and made the poet complain of “barren praise” and “neglected verse.”[30]

While this anecdote harmonises with better known facts, it throws some light on the outcry raised against the comedy, which seems to have been but an echo of some preceding one. Cowley retreated into solitude, where he found none of the agrestic charms of the landscapes of his muse. When in the world, Sprat says, “he had never wanted for constant health and strength of body;” but, thrown into solitude, he carried with him a wounded spirit—the Ode of Brutus and the condemnation of his comedy were the dark spirits that haunted his cottage. Ill health soon succeeded low spirits—he pined in dejection, and perished a victim of the finest and most injured feelings.

But before we leave the melancholy Cowley, he shall speak the feelings, which here are not exaggerated. In this Chronicle of Literary Calamity no passage ought to be more memorable than the solemn confession of one of the most amiable of men and poets.

“We are therefore wonderful wise men, and have a fine business of it; we, who spend our time in poetry. I do sometimes laugh, and am often angry with myself, when I think on it; and if I had a son inclined by nature to the same folly, I believe I should bind him from it by the strictest conjurations of a paternal blessing. For what can be more ridiculous than to labour to give men delight, whilst they labour, on their part, most earnestly to take offence?”

And thus he closes the preface, in all the solemn expression of injured feelings:—“This I do affirm, that from all which I have written, I never received the least benefit or the least advantage; but, on the contrary, have felt sometimes the effects of malice and misfortune!”

Cowley’s ashes were deposited between those of Chaucer and Spenser; a marble monument was erected by a duke; and his eulogy was pronounced, on the day of his death, from 42 the lips of royalty. The learned wrote, and the tuneful wept: well might the neglected bard, in his retirement, compose an epitaph on himself, living there “entombed, though not dead.”

To this ambiguous state of existence he applies a conceit, not inelegant, from the tenderness of its imagery:

I must place the author of “The Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors,” who himself now ornaments that roll, among those who have participated in the misfortunes of literature.

Horace Walpole was the inheritor of a name the most popular in Europe;[31] he moved in the higher circles of society; and fortune had never denied him the ample gratification of his lively tastes in the elegant arts, and in curious knowledge. These were particular advantages. But Horace Walpole panted with a secret desire for literary celebrity; a full sense of his distinguished rank long suppressed the desire of venturing the name he bore to the uncertain fame of an author, and the caprice of vulgar critics. At length he pretended to shun authors, and to slight the honours of authorship. The cause of this contempt has been attributed to the perpetual consideration of his rank. But was this bitter contempt of so early a date? Was Horace Walpole a Socrates before his time? was he born that prodigy of indifference, to despise the secret object he languished to possess? His early associates were not only noblemen, but literary noblemen; and need he have been so petulantly fastidious at bearing the venerable title of author, when he saw Lyttleton, Chesterfield, 43 and other peers, proud of wearing the blue riband of literature? No! it was after he had become an author that he contemned authorship: and it was not the precocity of his sagacity, but the maturity of his experience, that made him willing enough to undervalue literary honours, which were not sufficient to satisfy his desires.

Let us estimate the genius of Horace Walpole by analysing his talents, and inquiring into the nature of his works.

His taste was highly polished; his vivacity attained to brilliancy;[32] and his picturesque fancy, easily excited, was soon extinguished; his playful wit and keen irony were perpetually exercised in his observations on life, and his memory was stored with the most amusing knowledge, but much too lively to be accurate; for his studies were but his sports. But other qualities of genius must distinguish the great author, and even him who would occupy that leading rank in the literary republic our author aspired to fill. He lived too much in that class of society which is little favourable to genius; he exerted neither profound thinking, nor profound feeling; and too volatile to attain to the pathetic, that higher quality of genius, he was so imbued with the petty elegancies of society that every impression of grandeur in the human character was deadened in the breast of the polished cynic.

Horace Walpole was not a man of genius,—his most pleasing, if not his great talent, lay in letter-writing; here he was 44 without a rival;[33] but he probably divined, when he condescended to become an author, that something more was required than the talents he exactly possessed. In his latter days he felt this more sensibly, which will appear in those confessions which I have extracted from an unpublished correspondence.

Conscious of possessing the talent which amuses, yet feeling his deficient energies, he resolved to provide various substitutes for genius itself; and to acquire reputation, if he could not grasp at celebrity. He raised a printing-press at his Gothic castle, by which means he rendered small editions of his works valuable from their rarity, and much talked of, because seldom seen. That this is true, appears from the following extract from his unpublished correspondence with a literary friend. It alludes to his “Anecdotes of Painting in England,” of which the first edition only consisted of 300 copies.

“Of my new fourth volume I printed 600; but, as they can be had, I believe not a third part is sold. This is a very plain lesson to me, that my editions sell for their curiosity, and not for any merit in them—and so they would if I printed Mother Goose’s Tales, and but a few. If I am humbled as an author, I may be vain as a printer; and when one has nothing else to be vain of, it is certainly very little worth while to be proud of that.”

There is a distinction between the author of great connexions and the mere author. In the one case, the man may give a temporary existence to his books; but in the other, it is the book which gives existence to the man.

Walpole’s writings seem to be constructed on a certain principle, by which he gave them a sudden, rather than a lasting existence. In historical research our adventurer startled the world by maintaining paradoxes which attacked the 45 opinions, or changed the characters, established for centuries. Singularity of opinion, vivacity of ridicule, and polished epigrams in prose, were the means by which Horace Walpole sought distinction.

In his works of imagination, he felt he could not trust to himself—the natural pathetic was utterly denied him. But he had fancy and ingenuity; he had recourse to the marvellous in imagination on the principle he had adopted the paradoxical in history. Thus, “The Castle of Otranto,” and “The Mysterious Mother,” are the productions of ingenuity rather than genius; and display the miracles of art, rather than the spontaneous creations of nature.

All his literary works, like the ornamented edifice he inhabited, were constructed on the same artificial principle; an old paper lodging-house, converted by the magician of taste into a Gothic castle, full of scenic effects.[34]

“A Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors” was itself a classification which only an idle amateur could have projected, and only the most agreeable narrator of anecdotes could have seasoned. These splendid scribblers are for the greater part no authors at all.[35]

His attack on our peerless Sidney, whose fame was more 46 mature than his life, was formed on the same principle as his “Historic Doubts” on Richard III. Horace Walpole was as willing to vilify the truly great, as to beautify deformity; when he imagined that the fame he was destroying or conferring, reflected back on himself. All these works were plants of sickly delicacy, which could never endure the open air, and only lived in the artificial atmosphere of a private collection. Yet at times the flowers, and the planter of the flowers, were roughly shaken by an uncivil breeze.

His “Anecdotes of Painting in England” is a most entertaining catalogue. He gives the feelings of the distinct eras with regard to the arts; yet his pride was never gratified when he reflected that he had been writing the work of Vertue, who had collected the materials, but could not have given the philosophy. His great age and his good sense opened his eyes on himself; and Horace Walpole seems to have judged too contemptuously of Horace Walpole. The truth is, he was mortified he had not and never could obtain a literary peerage; and he never respected the commoner’s seat. At these moments, too frequent in his life, he contemns authors, and returns to sink back into all the self-complacency of aristocratic indifference.

This cold unfeeling disposition for literary men, this disguised malice of envy, and this eternal vexation at his own disappointments,—break forth in his correspondence with one of those literary characters with whom he kept on terms while they were kneeling to him in the humility of worship, or moved about to fetch or to carry his little quests of curiosity in town or country.[36]

There were times when Horace Walpole’s natural taste for his studies returned with all the vigour of passion—but his volatility and his desultory life perpetually scattered his firmest resolutions into air. This conflict appears beautifully described when the view of King’s College, Cambridge, throws his mind into meditation; and the passion for study and seclusion instantly kindled his emotions, lasting, perhaps, as long as the letter which describes them occupied in writing.

There had been moments when Horace Walpole even expressed the tenderest feelings for fame; and the following passage, written prior to the preceding ones, gives no indication of that contempt for literary fame, of which the close of this character will exhibit an extraordinary instance.

This letter relates an affecting event—he had just returned from seeing General Conway attacked by a paralytic stroke. Shocked by his appearance, he writes—

In a letter of a later date there is a remarkable confession, which harmonises with those already given.

Thus humbled was Horace Walpole to himself!—there is an intellectual dignity, which this man of wit and sense was incapable of reaching—and it seems a retribution that the scorner of true greatness should at length feel the poisoned chalice return to his own lips. He who had contemned the eminent men of former times, and quarrelled with and ridiculed every contemporary genius; who had affected to laugh at the literary fame he could not obtain,—at length came to scorn himself! and endured “the penal fires” of an author’s hell, in undervaluing his own works, the productions of a long life!

The chagrin and disappointment of such an author were never less carelessly concealed than in the following extraordinary letter:—

Such a letter seems not to have been written by a literary man—it is the babble of a thoughtless wit and a man of the world. But it is worthy of him whose contracted heart could never open to patronage or friendship. From such we might expect the unfeeling observation in the “Anecdotes of Painting,” that “want of patronage is the apology for want of genius. Milton and La Fontaine did not write in the bask of court favour. A poet or a painter may want an equipage or a villa, by wanting protection; they can always afford to buy ink and paper, colours and pencil. Mr. Hogarth has received no honours, but universal admiration.” Patronage, indeed, cannot convert dull men into men of genius, but it may preserve men of genius from becoming dull men. It might have afforded Dryden that studious leisure which he ever wanted, and which would have given us not imperfect tragedies, and uncorrected poems, but the regulated flights of a noble genius. It might have animated Gainsborough to have created an English school in landscape, which I have heard from those who knew him was his favourite yet neglected pursuit. But Walpole could insult that genius, which he wanted the generosity to protect!

The whole spirit of this man was penury. Enjoying an 51 affluent income he only appeared to patronise the arts which amused his tastes,—employing the meanest artists, at reduced prices, to ornament his own works, an economy which he bitterly reprehends in others who were compelled to practise it. He gratified his avarice at the expense of his vanity; the strongest passion must prevail. It was the simplicity of childhood in Chatterton to imagine Horace Walpole could be a patron—but it is melancholy to record that a slight protection might have saved such a youth. Gray abandoned this man of birth and rank in the midst of their journey through Europe; Mason broke with him; even his humble correspondent Cole, this “friend of forty years,” was often sent away in dudgeon; and he quarrelled with all the authors and artists he had ever been acquainted with. The Gothic castle at Strawberry-hill was rarely graced with living genius—there the greatest was Horace Walpole himself; but he had been too long waiting to see realised a magical vision of his hopes, which resembled the prophetic fiction of his own romance, that “the owner should grow too large for his house.” After many years, having discovered that he still retained his mediocrity, he could never pardon the presence of that preternatural being whom the world considered a GREAT MAN.—Such was the feeling which dictated the close of the above letter; Johnson and Goldsmith were to be “scorned,” since Pope and Gray were no more within the reach of his envy and his fear.

Unfriendly to the literary character, some have imputed the brutality of certain authors to their literary habits, when it may be more truly said that they derived their literature from their brutality. The spirit was envenomed before it entered into the fierceness of literary controversy, and the insanity was in the evil temper of the man before he roused our notice by his ravings. Ritson, the late antiquary of poetry (not to call him poetical), amazed the world by his vituperative railing at two authors of the finest taste in poetry, Warton and Percy; he carried criticism, as the discerning few had first surmised, to insanity itself; the character before us only approached it.

Dennis attained to the ambiguous honour of being distinguished 52 as “The Critic,” and he may yet instruct us how the moral influences the literary character, and how a certain talent that can never mature itself into genius, like the pale fruit that hangs in the shade, ripens only into sourness.

As a critic in his own day, party for some time kept him alive; the art of criticism was a novelty at that period of our literature. He flattered some great men, and he abused three of the greatest; this was one mode of securing popularity; because, by this contrivance, he divided the town into two parties; and the irascibility and satire of Pope and Swift were not less serviceable to him than the partial panegyrics of Dryden and Congreve. Johnson revived him, for his minute attack on Addison; and Kippis, feebly voluminous, and with the cold affectation of candour, allows him to occupy a place in our literary history too large in the eye of Truth and Taste.

Let us say all the good we can of him, that we may not be interrupted in a more important inquiry. Dennis once urged fair pretensions to the office of critic. Some of his “Original Letters,” and particularly the “Remarks on Prince Arthur,” written in his vigour, attain even to classical criticism.[37] Aristotle and Bossu lay open before him, and he developes and sometimes illustrates their principles with close reasoning. Passion had not yet blinded the young critic with rage; and in that happy moment, Virgil occupied his attention even more than Blackmore.

The prominent feature in his literary character was good sense; but in literature, though not in life, good sense is a penurious virtue. Dennis could not be carried beyond the cold line of a precedent, and before he ventured to be pleased, he was compelled to look into Aristotle. His learning was the bigotry of literature. It was ever Aristotle explained by Dennis. But in the explanation of the obscure text of his master, he was led into such frivolous distinctions, and tasteless propositions, that his works deserve inspection, as examples of the manner of a true mechanical critic.

This blunted feeling of the mechanical critic was at first 53 concealed from the world in the pomp of critical erudition; but when he trusted to himself, and, destitute of taste and imagination, became a poet and a dramatist, the secret of the Royal Midas was revealed. As his evil temper prevailed, he forgot his learning, and lost the moderate sense which he seemed once to have possessed. Rage, malice, and dulness, were the heavy residuum; and now he much resembled that congenial soul whom the ever-witty South compared to the tailor’s goose, which is at once hot and heavy.

Dennis was sent to Cambridge by his father, a saddler, who imagined a genius had been born in the family. He travelled in France and Italy, and on his return held in contempt every pursuit but poetry and criticism. He haunted the literary coteries, and dropped into a galaxy of wits and noblemen. At a time when our literature, like our politics, was divided into two factions, Dennis enlisted himself under Dryden and Congreve;[38] and, as legitimate criticism was then an awful novelty in the nation, the young critic, recent from the Stagirite, soon became an important, and even a tremendous spirit. Pope is said to have regarded his judgment; and Mallet, when young, tremblingly submitted a poem, to live or die by his breath. One would have imagined that the elegant studies he was cultivating, the views of life which had opened on him, and the polished circle around, would have influenced the grossness which was the natural growth of the soil. But ungracious Nature kept fast hold of the mind of Dennis!

His personal manners were characterised by their abrupt violence. Once dining with Lord Halifax he became so impatient of contradiction, that he rushed out of the room, overthrowing the sideboard. Inquiring on the next day how he had behaved, Moyle observed, “You went away like the devil, taking one corner of the house with you.” The wits, perhaps, then began to suspect their young Zoilus’s dogmatism.

The actors refused to perform one of his tragedies to empty houses, but they retained some excellent thunder which 54 Dennis had invented; it rolled one night when Dennis was in the pit, and it was applauded! Suddenly starting up, he cried to the audience, “By G—, they wont act my tragedy, but they steal my thunder!” Thus, when reading Pope’s “Essay on Criticism,” he came to the character of Appius, he suddenly flung down the new poem, exclaiming, “By G—, he means me!” He is painted to the life.

I complete this picture of Dennis with a very extraordinary caricature, which Steele, in one of his papers of “The Theatre,” has given of Dennis. I shall, however, disentangle the threads, and pick out what I consider not to be caricature, but resemblance.

“His motion is quick and sudden, turning on all sides, with a suspicion of every object, as if he had done or feared some extraordinary mischief. You see wickedness in his meaning, but folly of countenance, that betrays him to be unfit for the execution of it. He starts, stares, and looks round him. This constant shuffle of haste without speed, makes the man thought a little touched; but the vacant look of his two eyes gives you to understand that he could never run out of his wits, which seemed not so much to be lost, as to want employment; they are not so much astray, as they are a wool-gathering. He has the face and surliness of a mastiff, which has often saved him from being treated like a cur, till some more sagacious than ordinary found his nature, and used him accordingly. Unhappy being! terrible without, fearful within! Not a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but a sheep in a wolf’s.”[39]

However anger may have a little coloured this portrait, its truth may be confirmed from a variety of sources. If Sallust, with his accustomed penetration in characterising the violent emotions of Catiline’s restless mind, did not forget its indication 55 in “his walk now quick and now slow,” it maybe allowed to think that the character of Dennis was alike to be detected in his habitual surliness.

Even in his old age—for our chain must not drop a link—his native brutality never forsook him. Thomson and Pope charitably supported the veteran Zoilus at a benefit play; and Savage, who had nothing but a verse to give, returned them very poetical thanks in the name of Dennis. He was then blind and old, but his critical ferocity had no old age; his surliness overcame every grateful sense, and he swore as usual, “They could be no one’s but that fool Savage’s”—an evidence of his sagacity and brutality![40] This was, perhaps, the last peevish snuff shaken from the dismal link of criticism; for, a few days after, was the redoubted Dennis numbered with the mighty dead.

He carried the same fierceness into his style, and commits the same ludicrous extravagances in literary composition as in his manners. Was Pope really sore at the Zoilian style? He has himself spared me the trouble of exhibiting Dennis’s gross personalities, by having collected them at the close of the Dunciad—specimens which show how low false wit and malignity can get to by hard pains. I will throw into the note a curious illustration of the anti-poetical notions of a mechanical critic, who has no wing to dip into the hues of the imagination.[41]

In life and in literature we meet with men who seem endowed with an obliquity of understanding, yet active and busy spirits; but, as activity is only valuable in proportion to the capacity that puts all in motion, so, when ill directed, the intellect, warped by nature, only becomes more crooked and fantastical. A kind of frantic enthusiasm breaks forth in their actions and their language, and often they seem ferocious when they are only foolish. We may thus account for the manners and style of Dennis, pushed almost to the verge of insanity, and acting on him very much like insanity itself—a circumstance which the quick vengeance of wit seized on, in the humorous “Narrative of Dr. Robert Norris, concerning the Frenzy of Mr. John Dennis, an officer of the Custom-house.”[42]

It is curious to observe that Dennis, in the definition of genius, describes himself; he says—“Genius is caused by a furious joy and pride of soul on the conception of an extraordinary hint. Many men have their hints without their motions of fury and pride of soul, because they want fire enough to agitate their spirits; and these we call cold writers. Others, who have a great deal of fire, but have not excellent organs, feel the fore-mentioned motions, without the extraordinary hints; and these we call fustian writers.” His motions and his hints, as he describes them, in regard to cold or fustian writers, seem to include the extreme points of his own genius.

Another feature strongly marks the race of the Dennises. With a half-consciousness of deficient genius, they usually idolize some chimera, by adopting some extravagant principle; and they consider themselves as original when they are only absurd.

Dennis had ever some misshapen idol of the mind, which he was perpetually caressing with the zeal of perverted judgment or monstrous taste. Once his frenzy ran against the Italian Opera; and in his “Essay on Public Spirit,” he ascribes its decline to its unmanly warblings. I have seen a long letter by Dennis to the Earl of Oxford, written to congratulate his lordship on his accession to power, and the high hopes of the nation; but the greater part of the letter runs on the Italian Opera, while Dennis instructs the Minister that the national prosperity can never be effected while this general corruption of the three kingdoms lies open!

Dennis has more than once recorded two material circumstances in the life of a true critic; these are his ill-nature and the public neglect.

“I make no doubt,” says he, “that upon the perusal of the critical part of these letters, the old accusation will be brought against me, and there will be a fresh outcry among thoughtless people that I am an ill-natured man.”

He entertained exalted opinions of his own powers, and he deeply felt their public neglect.

“While others,” he says in his tracts, “have been too much 58 encouraged, I have been too much neglected”—his favourite system, that religion gives principally to great poetry its spirit and enthusiasm, was an important point, which, he says, “has been left to be treated by a person who has the honour of being your lordship’s countryman—your lordship knows that persons so much and so long oppressed as I have been have been always allowed to say things concerning themselves which in others might be offensive.”

His vanity, we see, was equal to his vexation, and as he grew old he became more enraged; and, writing too often without Aristotle or Locke by his side, he gave the town pure Dennis, and almost ceased to be read. “The oppression” of which he complains might not be less imaginary than his alarm, while a treaty was pending with France, that he should be delivered up to the Grand Monarque for having written a tragedy, which no one could read, against his majesty.

It is melancholy, but it is useful, to record the mortifications of such authors. Dennis had, no doubt, laboured with zeal which could never meet a reward; and, perhaps, amid his critical labours, he turned often with an aching heart from their barren contemplation to that of the tranquillity he might have derived from an humbler avocation.

It was not literature, then, that made the mind coarse, brutalising the habits and inflaming the style of Dennis. He had thrown himself among the walks of genius, and aspired to fix himself on a throne to which Nature had refused him a legitimate claim. What a lasting source of vexation and rage, even for a long-lived patriarch of criticism!

Accustomed to suspend the scourge over the heads of the first authors of the age, he could not sit at a table or enter a coffee-house without exerting the despotism of a literary dictator. How could the mind that had devoted itself to the contemplation of masterpieces, only to reward its industry by detailing to the public their human frailties, experience one hour of amenity, one idea of grace, one generous impulse of sensibility?

But the poor critic himself at length fell, really more the victim of his criticisms than the genius he had insulted. Having incurred the public neglect, the blind and helpless Cacus in his den sunk fast into contempt, dragged on a life of misery, and in his last days, scarcely vomiting his fire and smoke, became the most pitiable creature, receiving the alms he craved from triumphant genius.

How the moral and literary character are reciprocally influenced, may be traced in the character of a personage peculiarly apposite to these inquiries. This worthy of literature is Orator Henley, who is rather known traditionally than historically.[43] He is so overwhelmed with the echoed satire of Pope, and his own extravagant conduct for many years, that I should not care to extricate him, had I not discovered a feature in the character of Henley not yet drawn, and constituting no inferior calamity among authors.

Henley stands in his “gilt tub” in the Dunciad; and a portrait of him hangs in the picture-gallery of the Commentary. Pope’s verse and Warburton’s notes are the pickle and the bandages for any Egyptian mummy of dulness, who will last as long as the pyramid that encloses him. I shall transcribe, for the reader’s convenience, the lines of Pope:—

It will surprise when I declare that this buffoon was an indefatigable student, a proficient in all the learned languages, an elegant poet, and, withal, a wit of no inferior class. It remains to discover why “the Preacher” became “the Zany.”

Henley was of St. John’s College, Cambridge, and was distinguished for the ardour and pertinacity of his studies; he gave evident marks of genius. There is a letter of his to the 60 “Spectator,” signed Peter de Quir, which abounds with local wit and quaint humour.[45] He had not attained his twenty-second year when he published a poem, entitled “Esther, Queen of Persia,”[46] written amid graver studies; for three years after, Henley, being M.A., published his “Complete Linguist,” consisting of grammars of ten languages.

The poem itself must not be passed by in silent notice. It is preceded by a learned preface, in which the poet discovers his intimate knowledge of oriental studies, with some etymologies from the Persic, the Hebrew, and the Greek, concerning the name and person of Ahasuerus, whom he makes to be Xerxes. The close of this preface gives another unexpected feature in the character of him who, the poet tells us, was “embrowned with native bronze”—an unaffected modesty! Henley, alluding to a Greek paraphrase of Barnes, censures his faults with acrimony, and even apologises for them, by thus gracefully closing the preface: “These can only be alleviated by one plea, the youth of the author, which is a circumstance I hope the candid will consider in favour of the present writer!”

The pomp of the feast of Ahasuerus has all the luxuriance of Asiatic splendour; and the circumstances are selected with some fancy.

Nor is Henley less skilful in the elegance of his sentiments, 61 and in his development of the human character. When Esther is raised to the throne, the poet says—

But wit which the “Spectator” has sent down to posterity, and poetry which gave the promise of excellence, did not bound the noble ambition of Henley; ardent in more important labours, he was perfecting himself in the learned languages, and carrying on a correspondence with eminent scholars.

He officiated as the master of the free-school at his native town in Leicestershire, then in a declining state; but he introduced many original improvements. He established a class for public elocution, recitations of the classics, orations, &c.; and arranged a method of enabling every scholar to give an account of his studies without the necessity of consulting others, or of being examined by particular questions. These miracles are indeed a little apocryphal; for they are drawn from that pseudo-gospel of his life, of which I am inclined to think he himself was the evangelist. His grammar of ten languages was now finished; and his genius felt that obscure spot too circumscribed for his ambition. He parted from the inhabitants with their regrets, and came to the metropolis with thirty recommendatory letters.

Henley probably had formed those warm conceptions of patronage in which youthful genius cradles its hopes. Till 1724 he appears, however, to have obtained only a small living, and to have existed by translating and writing. Thus, after persevering studies, many successful literary efforts, and much heavy taskwork, Henley found he was but a hireling author for the booksellers, and a salaried “Hyp-doctor” for the minister; for he received a stipend for this periodical paper, which was to cheer the spirits of the people by ridiculing the gloomy forebodings of Amhurst’s “Craftsman.” About this time the complete metamorphosis of the studious and ingenious John Henley began to branch out into its grotesque figure; and a curiosity in human nature was now 62 about to be opened to public inspection. “The Preacher” was to personate “The Zany.” His temper had become brutal, and he had gradually contracted a ferocity and grossness in his manners, which seem by no means to have been indicated in his purer days. His youth was disgraced by no irregularities—it was studious and honourable. But he was now quick at vilifying the greatest characters; and having a perfect contempt for all mankind, was resolved to live by making one half of the world laugh at the other. Such is the direction which disappointed genius has too often given to its talents.

He first affected oratory, and something of a theatrical attitude in his sermons, which greatly attracted the populace; and he startled those preachers who had so long dozed over their own sermons, and who now finding themselves with but few slumberers about them, envied their Ciceronian brothers.

It was alleged against Henley, that “he drew the people too much from their parish churches, and was not so proper for a London divine as a rural pastor.” He was offered a rustication, on a better living; but Henley did not come from the country to return to it.

There is a narrative of the life of Henley, which, subscribed by another person’s name, he himself inserted in his “Oratory Transactions.”[47] As he had to publish himself this highly seasoned biographical morsel, and as his face was then beginning to be “embrowned with bronze,” he thus very impudently and very ingeniously apologises for the panegyric:—

“If any remark of the writer appears favourable to myself, and be judged apocryphal, it may, however, weigh in the opposite scale to some things less obligingly said of me; false praise being as pardonable as false reproach.”[48]

“He began to be uneasy that he had not the liberty of thinking, without incurring the scandal of heterodoxy; he was impatient that systems of all sorts were put into his hands ready carved out for him; it shocked him to find that he was commanded to believe against his judgment, and resolved some time or other to enter his protest against any person being bred like a slave, who is born an Englishman.”

This is all very decorous, and nothing can be objected to the first cry of this reforming patriot but a reasonable suspicion of its truth. If these sentiments were really in his mind at college, he deserves at least the praise of retention: for fifteen years were suffered to pass quietly without the patriotic volcano giving even a distant rumbling of the sulphurous matter concealed beneath. All that time had passed in the contemplation of church preferment, with the aerial perspective lighted by a visionary mitre. But Henley grew indignant at his disappointments, and suddenly resolved to reform “the gross impostures and faults that have long prevailed in the received institutions and establishments of knowledge and religion”—simply meaning that he wished to pull down the Church and the University!

But he was prudent before he was patriotic; he at first grafted himself on Whiston, adopting his opinions, and sent some queries by which it appears that Henley, previous to breaking with the church, was anxious to learn the power it had to punish him. The Arian Whiston was himself, from pure motives, suffering expulsion from Cambridge, for refusing his subscription to the Athanasian Creed; he was a pious man, and no buffoon, but a little crazed. Whiston afterwards discovered the character of his correspondent, he then requested the Bishop of London.

“To summon Mr. Henley, the orator, whose vile history I knew so well, to come and tell it to the church. But the bishop said he could do nothing; since which time Mr. Henley has gone on for about twenty years without control every week, as an ecclesiastical mountebank, to abuse religion.”

The most extraordinary project was now formed by Henley; he was to teach mankind universal knowledge from his lectures, and primitive Christianity from his sermons. He took apartments in Newport market, and opened his “Oratory.” He declared,

“He would teach more in one year than schools and universities 64 did in five, and write and study twelve hours a-day, and yet appear as untouched by the yoke, as if he never bore it.”

In his “Idea of what is intended to be taught in the Week-days’ Universal Academy,” we may admire the fertility, and sometimes the grandeur of his views. His lectures and orations [49] are of a very different nature from what they are imagined to be; literary topics are treated with perspicuity and with erudition, and there is something original in the manner. They were, no doubt, larded and stuffed with many high-seasoned jokes, which Henley did not send to the printer.

Henley was a charlatan and a knave; but in all his charlatanerie and his knavery he indulged the reveries of genius; 65 many of which have been realised since; and, if we continue to laugh at Henley, it will indeed be cruel, for we shall be laughing at ourselves! Among the objects which Henley discriminates in his general design, were, to supply the want of a university, or universal school, in this capital, for persons of all ranks, professions, and capacities;—to encourage a literary correspondence with great men and learned bodies; the communication of all discoveries and experiments in science and the arts; to form an amicable society for the encouragement of learning, “in order to cultivate, adorn, and exalt the genius of Britain;” to lay a foundation for an English Academy; to give a standard to our language, and a digest to our history; to revise the ancient schools of philosophy and elocution, which last has been reckoned by Pancirollus among the artes perditæ. All these were “to bring all the parts of knowledge into the narrowest compass, placing them in the clearest light, and fixing them to the utmost certainty.” The religion of the Oratory was to be that of the primitive church in the first ages of the four first general councils, approved by parliament in the first year of the reign of Elizabeth. “The Church of England is really with us; we appeal to her own principles, and we shall not deviate from her, unless she deviates from herself.” Yet his “Primitive Christianity” had all the sumptuous pomp of popery; his creeds and doxologies are printed in the red letter, and his liturgies in the black; his pulpit blazed in gold and velvet (Pope’s “gilt tub”); while his “Primitive Eucharist” was to be distributed with all the ancient forms of celebrating the sacrifice of the altar, which he says, “are so noble, so just, sublime, and perfectly harmonious, that the change has been made to an unspeakable disadvantage.” It was restoring the decorations and the mummery of the mass! He assumed even a higher tone, and dispersed medals, like those of Louis XIV., with the device of a sun near the meridian, and a motto, Ad summa, with an inscription expressive of the genius of this new adventurer, Inveniam viam aut faciam! There was a snake in the grass; it is obvious that Henley, in improving literature and philosophy, had a deeper design—to set up a new sect! He called himself “a Rationalist,” and on his death-bed repeatedly cried out, “Let my notorious enemies know I die a Rational.”[50]

His address to the town [51] excited public curiosity to the utmost; and the floating crowds were repulsed by their own violence from this new paradise, where “The Tree of Knowledge” was said to be planted. At the succeeding meeting “the Restorer of Ancient Eloquence” informed “persons in chairs that they must come sooner.” He first commenced by subscriptions to be raised from “persons eminent in Arts and Literature,” who, it seems, were lured by the seductive promise, that, “if they had been virtuous or penitents, they should be commemorated;” an oblique hint at a panegyrical puff. In the decline of his popularity he permitted his door-keeper, whom he dignifies with the title of Ostiary, to take a shilling! But he seems to have been popular for many years; even when his auditors were but few, they were of the better order;[52] and in notes respecting him which I have seen, by a contemporary, he is called “the reverend and learned.” His favourite character was that of a Restorer of Eloquence; and he was not destitute of the qualifications of a fine orator, a good voice, graceful gesture, and forcible elocution. Warburton justly remarked, “Sometimes he broke jests, and sometimes that bread which he called the Primitive Eucharist.” He would degenerate into buffoonery on solemn occasions. His address to the Deity was at first awful, and seemingly devout; but, once expatiating on the several sects who would certainly be damned, he prayed that the Dutch might be undamm’d! He undertook to show the ancient use of the petticoat, by quoting the Scriptures where the mother of Samuel is said to have made him “a little coat,” ergo, a PETTI-coat![53] His advertisements 67 were mysterious ribaldry to attract curiosity, while his own good sense would frequently chastise those who could not resist it; his auditors came in folly, but they departed in good-humour.[54] These advertisements were usually preceded by a sort of motto, generally a sarcastic allusion to some public transaction of the preceding week.[55] Henley pretended to great impartiality; and when two preachers had animadverted on him, he issued an advertisement, announcing “A Lecture that will be a challenge to the Rev. Mr. Batty and the Rev. Mr. Albert. Letters are sent to them on this head, and a free standing-place is there to be had gratis.” Once Henley offered to admit of a disputation, and that he would impartially determine the merits of the contest. It happened that Henley this time was overmatched; 68 for two Oxonians, supported by a strong party to awe his “marrow-boners,” as the butchers were called, said to be in the Orator’s pay, entered the list; the one to defend the ignorance, the other the impudence, of the Restorer of Eloquence himself. As there was a door behind the rostrum, which led to his house, the Orator silently dropped out, postponing the award to some happier day.[56]

This age of lecturers may find their model in Henley’s “Universal Academy,” and if any should aspire to bring themselves down to his genius, I furnish them with hints of anomalous topics. In the second number of “The Oratory Transactions,” is a diary from July 1726, to August 1728. It forms, perhaps, an unparalleled chronicle of the vagaries of the human mind. These archives of cunning, of folly, and of literature, are divided into two diaries; the one “The Theological or Lord’s days’ subjects of the Oratory;” the other, “The Academical or Week-days’ subjects.” I can only note a few. It is easy to pick out ludicrous specimens; for he had a quaint humour peculiar to himself; but among these numerous topics are many curious for their knowledge and ingenuity.

“An Argument to the Jews, with a proof that they ought to be Christians, for the same reason which they ought to be Jews.”

“New Converts in Religion.” After pointing out the names of “Courayer and others, the D—— of W——n, the Protestantism 69 of the P——, the conversion of the Rev. Mr. B——e, and Mr. Har——y,” he closes with “Origen’s opinion of Satan’s conversion; with the choice and balance of Religion in all countries.”

“Feb. 11. This week all Mr. Henley’s writings were seized, to be examined by the State. Vide Magnam Chartam, and Eng Lib.”

It is evident by what follows that the personalities he made use of were one means of attracting auditors.

“On the action of Cicero, and the beauty of Eloquence, and on living characters; of action in the Senate, at the Bar, and in the Pulpit—of the Theatrical in all men. The manner of my Lord ——, Sir ——, Dr. ——, the B. of ——, being a proof how all life is playing something, but with different action.”

“Of the plenty of books, and dearth of sense; the advantages of the Oratory to the booksellers, in advertising for them; and to their customers, in making books useless; with all the learning, reason, and wit more than are proper for one advertisement.”

Amid these eccentricities it is remarkable that “the Zany” never forsook his studies; and the amazing multiplicity of the MSS. he left behind him confirm this extraordinary fact. “These,” he says, “are six thousand more or less, that I value at one guinea apiece; with 150 volumes of commonplaces of wit, memoranda,” &c. They were sold for much less than one hundred pounds; I have looked over many; they are written with great care. Every leaf has an opposite blank page, probably left for additions or corrections, so that if his nonsense were spontaneous, his sense was the fruit of study and correction.

Such was “Orator Henley!” A scholar of great acquirements, and of no mean genius; hardy and inventive, eloquent and witty; he might have been an ornament to literature, which he made ridiculous; and the pride of the pulpit, which he so egregiously disgraced; but, having blunted and worn out that interior feeling, which is the instinct of the good man, and the wisdom of the wise, there was no balance in his passions, and the decorum of life was sacrificed to its 70 selfishness. He condescended to live on the follies of the people, and his sordid nature had changed him till he crept, “licking the dust with the serpent.”[57]

The practice of every art subjects the artist to some particular inconvenience, usually inflicting some malady on that member which has been over-wrought by excess: nature abused, pursues man into his most secret corners, and avenges herself. In the athletic exercises of the ancient Gymnasium, the pugilists were observed to become lean from their hips downwards, while the superior parts of their bodies, which they over-exercised, were prodigiously swollen; on the contrary, the racers were meagre upwards, while their feet acquired an unnatural dimension. The secret source of life seems to be carried forwards to those parts which are making the most continued efforts.

In all sedentary labours, some particular malady is contracted by every worker, derived from particular postures of the body and peculiar habits. Thus the weaver, the tailor, the painter, and the glass-blower, have all their respective maladies. The diamond-cutter, with a furnace before him, may be said almost to live in one; the slightest air must be shut out of the apartment, lest it scatter away the precious dust—a breath would ruin him!

The analogy is obvious;[58] and the author must participate in the common fate of all sedentary occupations. But his maladies, from the very nature of the delicate organ of thinking, intensely exercised, are more terrible than those of any other profession; they are more complicated, more hidden 71 in their causes, and the mysterious union and secret influence of the faculties of the soul over those of the body, are visible, yet still incomprehensible; they frequently produce a perturbation in the faculties, a state of acute irritability, and many sorrows and infirmities, which are not likely to create much sympathy from those around the author, who, at a glance, could have discovered where the pugilist or the racer became meagre or monstrous: the intellectual malady eludes even the tenderness of friendship.

The more obvious maladies engendered by the life of a student arise from over-study. These have furnished a curious volume to Tissot, in his treatise “On the Health of Men of Letters;” a book, however, which chills and terrifies more than it does good.

The unnatural fixed postures, the perpetual activity of the mind, and the inaction of the body; the brain exhausted with assiduous toil deranging the nerves, vitiating the digestive powers, disordering its own machinery, and breaking the calm of sleep by that previous state of excitement which study throws us into, are some of the calamities of a studious life: for like the ocean when its swell is subsiding, the waves of the mind too still heave and beat; hence all the small feverish symptoms, and the whole train of hypochondriac affections, as well as some acute ones.[59]

Among the correspondents of the poets Hughes and Thomson, there is a pathetic letter from a student. Alexander Bayne, to prepare his lectures, studied fourteen hours a-day for eight months successively, and wrote 1,600 sheets. Such intense application, which, however, not greatly exceeds that of many authors, brought on the bodily complaints he has minutely described, with “all the dispiriting symptoms of a nervous illness, commonly called vapours, or lowness of spirits.” Bayne, who was of an athletic temperament, imagined he had not paid attention to his diet, to the lowness of his desk, and his habit of sitting with a particular compression of the body; in future all these were to be avoided. He prolonged his life for five years, and, perhaps, was still flattering his hopes of sharing one day in the literary celebrity of his friends, when, to use his words, “the same illness made a fierce attack upon me again, and has kept me in a very bad state of inactivity and disrelish of all my ordinary amusements:” those amusements were his serious studies. There is a fascination in literary labour: the student feeds on magical drugs; to withdraw him from them requires nothing less than that greater magic which could break his own spells. A few months after this letter was written Bayne died on the way to Bath, a martyr to his studies.

The excessive labour on a voluminous work, which occupies a long life, leaves the student with a broken constitution, and his sight decayed or lost. The most admirable observer of mankind, and the truest painter of the human heart, declares, “The corruptible body presseth down the soul, and the earthy tabernacle weigheth down the mind that museth on many things.” Of this class was old Randle Cotgrave, the curious collector of the most copious dictionary of old French and old English words and phrases. The work is the only treasury of our genuine idiom. Even this labour of the lexicographer, 73 so copious and so elaborate, must have been projected with rapture, and pursued with pleasure, till, in the progress, “the mind was musing on many things.” Then came the melancholy doubt, that drops mildew from its enveloping wings over the voluminous labour of a laborious author, whether he be wisely consuming his days, and not perpetually neglecting some higher duties or some happier amusements. Still the enchanted delver sighs, and strikes on in the glimmering mine of hope. If he live to complete the great labour, it is, perhaps, reserved for the applause of the next age; for, as our great lexicographer exclaimed, “In this gloom of solitude I have protracted my work, till those whom I wished to please have sunk into the grave, and success and miscarriage are empty sounds;” but, if it be applauded in his own, that praise has come too late for him whose literary labour has stolen away his sight. Cotgrave had grown blind over his dictionary, and was doubtful whether this work of his laborious days and nightly vigils was not a superfluous labour, and nothing, after all, but a “poor bundle of words.” The reader may listen to the gray-headed martyr addressing his patron, Lord Burghley:

“I present to your lordship an account of the expense of many hours, which, in your service, and to mine own benefit, might have been otherwise employed. My desires have aimed at more substantial marks; but mine eyes failed them, and forced me to spend out their vigour in this bundle of words, which may be unworthy of your lordship’s great patience, and, perhaps, ill-suited to the expectation of others.”

A great number of young authors have died of over-study. An intellectual enthusiasm, accompanied by constitutional delicacy, has swept away half the rising genius of the age. Curious calculators have affected to discover the average number of infants who die under the age of five years: had they investigated those of the children of genius who perish before their thirtieth year, we should not be less amazed at this waste of man. There are few scenes more afflicting, nor which more deeply engage our sympathy, than that of a youth, glowing with the devotion of study, and resolute to distinguish his name among his countrymen, while death is stealing on him, touching with premature age, before he strikes the last blow. The author perishes on the very pages which give a charm to his existence. The fine taste and tender melancholy of Headley, the fervid genius of Henry Kirke White, 74 will not easily pass away; but how many youths as noble-minded have not had the fortune of Kirke White to be commemorated by genius, and have perished without their fame! Henry Wharton is a name well known to the student of English literature; he published historical criticisms of high value; and he left, as some of the fruits of his studies, sixteen volumes of MS., preserved in the Archiepiscopal Library at Lambeth. These great labours were pursued with the ardour that only could have produced them; the author had not exceeded his thirtieth year when he sank under his continued studies, and perished a martyr to literature. Our literary history abounds with instances of the sad effects of an over indulgence in study: that agreeable writer, Howel, had nearly lost his life by an excess of this nature, studying through long nights in the depth of winter. This severe study occasioned an imposthume in his head; he was eighteen days without sleep; and the illness was attended with many other afflicting symptoms. The eager diligence of Blackmore, protracting his studies through the night, broke his health, and obliged him to fly to a country retreat. Harris, the historian, died of a consumption by midnight studies, as his friend Hollis mentions. I shall add a recent instance, which I myself witnessed: it is that of John Macdiarmid. He was one of those Scotch students whom the golden fame of Hume and Robertson attracted to the metropolis. He mounted the first steps of literary adventure with credit; and passed through the probation of editor and reviewer, till he strove for more heroic adventures. He published some volumes, whose subjects display the aspirings of his genius: “An Inquiry into the Nature of Civil and Military Subordination;” another into “the System of Military Defence.” It was during these labours I beheld this inquirer, of a tender frame, emaciated, and study-worn, with hollow eyes, where the mind dimly shone like a lamp in a tomb. With keen ardour he opened a new plan of biographical politics. When, by one who wished the author was in better condition, the dangers of excess in study were brought to his recollection, he smiled, and, with something of a mysterious air, talked of unalterable confidence in the powers of his mind; of the indefinite improvement in our faculties: and, with this enfeebled frame, considered himself capable of continuous labour. His whole life, indeed, was one melancholy trial. Often the day cheerfully passed without its meal, but never without its page. 75 The new system of political biography was advancing, when our young author felt a paralytic stroke. He afterwards resumed his pen; and a second one proved fatal. He lived just to pass through the press his “Lives of British Statesmen,” a splendid quarto, whose publication he owed to the generous temper of a friend, who, when the author could not readily procure a publisher, would not see the dying author’s last hope disappointed. Some research and reflection are combined in this literary and civil history of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; but it was written with the blood of the author, for Macdiarmid died of over-study and exhaustion.

Among the maladies of poor authors, who procure a precarious existence by their pen, one, not the least considerable, is their old age; their flower and maturity of life were shed for no human comforts; and old age is the withered root. The late Thomas Mortimer, the compiler, among other things, of that useful work, “The Student’s Pocket Dictionary,” felt this severely—he himself experienced no abatement of his ardour, nor deficiency in his intellectual powers, at near the age of eighty;—but he then would complain “of the paucity of literary employment, and the preference given to young adventurers.” Such is the youth, and such the old age of ordinary authors!

What literary emigrations from the North of young men of genius, seduced by a romantic passion for literary fame, and lured by the golden prospects which the happier genius of some of their own countrymen opened on them. A volume might be written on literary Scotchmen, who have perished immaturely in this metropolis; little known, and slightly connected, they have dropped away among us, and scarcely left a vestige in the wrecks of their genius. Among them some authors may be discovered who might have ranked, perhaps, in the first classes of our literature. I shall select four out of as many hundred, who were not entirely unknown to me; a romantic youth—a man of genius—a brilliant prose writer—and a labourer in literature.

Issac Ritson (not the poetical antiquary) was a young man of genius, who perished immaturely in this metropolis by attempting to exist by the efforts of his pen.

In early youth he roved among his native mountains, with the battles of Homer in his head, and his bow and arrow in his hand; in calmer hours, he nearly completed a spirited version of Hesiod, which constantly occupied his after-studies; yet our minstrel-archer did not less love the severer sciences.

Selected at length to rise to the eminent station of the Village Schoolmaster,—from the thankless office of pouring cold rudiments into heedless ears, Ritson took a poetical flight. It was among the mountains and wild scenery of Scotland that our young Homer, picking up fragments of heroic songs, and composing some fine ballad poetry, would, in his wanderings, recite them with such passionate expression, that he never failed of auditors; and found even the poor generous, when their better passions were moved. Thus he lived, like some old troubadour, by his rhymes, and his chants, and his virelays; and, after a year’s absence, our bard returned in the triumph of verse. This was the most seducing moment of life; Ritson felt himself a laureated Petrarch; but he had now quitted his untutored but feeling admirers, and the child of fancy was to mix with the everyday business of life.

At Edinburgh he studied medicine, lived by writing theses for the idle and the incompetent, and composed a poem on Medicine, till at length his hopes and his ambition conducted him to London. But the golden age of the imagination soon deserted him in his obscure apartment in the glittering metropolis. He attended the hospitals, but these were crowded by students who, if they relished the science less, loved the trade more: he published a hasty version of Homer’s Hymn to Venus, which was good enough to be praised, but not to sell; at length his fertile imagination, withering over the taskwork of literature, he resigned fame for bread; wrote the preface to Clarke’s Survey of the Lakes, compiled medical articles for the Monthly Review; and, wasting fast his ebbing spirits, he retreated to an obscure lodging at Islington, where death relieved a hopeless author, in the twenty-seventh year of his life.

The following unpolished lines were struck off at a heat in trying his pen on the back of a letter; he wrote the names of the Sister Fates, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos—the sudden recollection of his own fate rushed on him—and thus the rhapsodist broke out:—

Thus deeply he enters into his own feelings, and abjures his errors, as he paints the utter desolation of the soul while falling into the grave opening at his feet.

The town was once amused almost every morning by a series of humorous or burlesque poems by a writer under the assumed name of Matthew Bramble—he was at that very moment one of the most moving spectacles of human melancholy I have ever witnessed.

It was one evening I saw a tall, famished, melancholy man enter a bookseller’s shop, his hat flapped over his eyes, and his whole frame evidently feeble from exhaustion and utter misery. The bookseller inquired how he proceeded in his new tragedy. “Do not talk to me about my tragedy! Do not talk to me about my tragedy! I have indeed more tragedy than I can bear at home!” was the reply, and the voice faltered as he spoke. This man was Matthew Bramble, or rather—M’Donald, the author of the tragedy of Vimonda, at that moment the writer of comic poetry—his tragedy was indeed a domestic one, in which he himself was the greatest actor amid his disconsolate family; he shortly afterwards perished. M’Donald had walked from Scotland with no other fortune than the novel of “The Independent” in one pocket, and the tragedy of “Vimonda” in the other. Yet he lived some time in all the bloom and flush of poetical confidence. Vimonda was even 78 performed several nights, but not with the success the romantic poet, among his native rocks, had conceived was to crown his anxious labours—the theatre disappointed him—and afterwards, to his feelings, all the world!

Logan had the dispositions of a poetic spirit, not cast in a common mould; with fancy he combined learning, and with eloquence philosophy.

His claims on our sympathy arise from those circumstances in his life which open the secret sources of the calamities of authors; of those minds of finer temper, who, having tamed the heat of their youth by the patient severity of study, from causes not always difficult to discover, find their favourite objects and their fondest hopes barren and neglected. It is then that the thoughtful melancholy, which constitutes so large a portion of their genius, absorbs and consumes the very faculties to which it gave birth.

Logan studied at the University of Edinburgh, was ordained in the Church of Scotland—and early distinguished as a poet by the simplicity and the tenderness of his verses, yet the philosophy of history had as deeply interested his studies. He gave two courses of lectures. I have heard from his pupils their admiration, after the lapse of many years; so striking were those lectures for having successfully applied the science of moral philosophy to the history of nations. All wished that Logan should obtain the chair of the Professorship of Universal History—but from some point of etiquette he failed in obtaining that distinguished office.

This was his first disappointment in life, yet then perhaps but lightly felt; for the public had approved of his poems, and a successful poet is easily consoled. Poetry to such a gentle being seems a universal specific for all the evils of life; it acts at the moment, exhausting and destroying too often the constitution it seems to restore.

He had finished the tragedy of “Runnymede;” it was accepted at Covent-garden, but interdicted by the Lord Chamberlain, from some suspicion that its lofty sentiments contained allusions to the politics of the day. The Barons-in-arms who met John were conceived to be deeper politicians than the poet himself was aware of. This was the second disappointment in the life of this man of genius.

The third calamity was the natural consequence of a tragic poet being also a Scotch clergyman. Logan had inflicted a wound on the Presbytery, heirs of the genius of old Prynne, 79 whose puritanic fanaticism had never forgiven Home for his “Douglas,” and now groaned to detect genius still lurking among them.[60] Logan, it is certain, expressed his contempt for them; they their hatred of him: folly and pride in a poet, to beard Presbyters in a land of Presbyterians![61]

He gladly abandoned them, retiring on a small annuity. They had, however, hurt his temper—they had irritated the nervous system of a man too susceptible of all impressions, gentle or unkind—his character had all those unequal habitudes which genius contracts in its boldness and its tremors; he was now vivacious and indignant, and now fretted and melancholy. He flew to the metropolis, occupied himself in literature, and was a frequent contributor to the “English Review.” He published “A Review of the Principal Charges against Mr. Hastings.” Logan wrestled with the genius of Burke and Sheridan; the House of Commons ordered the publisher Stockdale to be prosecuted, but the author did not live to rejoice in the victory obtained by his genius.

This elegant philosopher has impressed on all his works the seal of genius; and his posthumous compositions became even popular; he who had with difficulty escaped excommunication by Presbyters, left the world after his death two volumes of sermons, which breathe all that piety, morality, and eloquence admire. His unrevised lectures, published under the name of a person, one Rutherford, who had purchased the MS., were given to the world in “A View of Ancient History.” But one highly-finished composition he had himself published; it is a philosophical review of Despotism: had the name of Gibbon been affixed to the title-page, its authenticity had not been suspected.[62]

From one of his executors, Mr. Donald Grant, who wrote the life prefixed to his poems, I heard of the state of his numerous MSS.; the scattered, yet warm embers of the unhappy bard. Several tragedies, and one on Mary Queen of Scots, abounding with all that domestic tenderness and poetic sensibility which formed the soft and natural feature of his muse; these, with minor poems, thirty lectures on the Roman History, and portions of a periodical paper, were the wrecks of genius! He resided here, little known out of a very private circle, and perished in his fortieth year, not of penury, but of a broken heart. Such noble and well-founded expectations of fortune and fame, all the plans of literary ambition overturned: his genius, with all its delicacy, its spirit, and its elegance, became a prey to that melancholy which constituted so large a portion of it.

Logan, in his “Ode to a Man of Letters,” had formed this lofty conception of a great author:—

Our children will long repeat his “Ode to the Cuckoo,” one of the most lovely poems in our language; magical stanzas of picture, melody, and sentiment.[64]

These authors were undoubtedly men of finer feelings, who all perished immaturely, victims in the higher department of literature! But this article would not be complete without furnishing the reader with a picture of the fate of one who, with a pertinacity of industry not common, having undergone 81 regular studies, not very injudiciously deemed that the life of a man of letters could provide for the simple wants of a philosopher.

This man was the late Robert Heron, who, in the following letter, transcribed from the original, stated his history to the Literary Fund. It was written in a moment of extreme bodily suffering and mental agony in the house to which he had been hurried for debt. At such a moment he found eloquence in a narrative, pathetic from its simplicity, and valuable for its genuineness, as giving the results of a life of literary industry, productive of great infelicity and disgrace; one would imagine that the author had been a criminal rather than a man of letters.

The physicians reported that Robert Heron’s health was such “as rendered him totally incapable of extricating himself from the difficulties in which he was involved, by the indiscreet exertion of his mind, in protracted and incessant literary labours.”

About three months after, Heron sunk under a fever, and perished amid the walls of Newgate. We are disgusted with this horrid state of pauperism; we are indignant at beholding an author, not a contemptible one, in this last stage of human wretchedness! after early and late studies—after having read and written from twelve to sixteen hours a day! O, ye populace of scribblers! before ye are driven to a garret, and your eyes are filled with constant tears, pause—recollect that few of you possess the learning or the abilities of Heron.

The fate of Heron is the fate of hundreds of authors by profession in the present day—of men of some literary talent, who can never extricate themselves from a degrading state of poverty.

This is one of the groans of old Burton over his laborious work, when he is anticipating the reception it is like to meet with, and personates his objectors. He says:—

“This is a thinge of meere industrie—a collection without wit or invention—a very toy! So men are valued!—their labours vilified by fellowes of no worth themselves, as things of nought; who could not have done as much.”

There is, indeed, a class of authors who are liable to forfeit all claims to genius, whatever their genius may be—these are the laborious writers of voluminous works; but they are 84 farther subject to heavier grievances—to be undervalued or neglected by the apathy or the ingratitude of the public.

Industry is often conceived to betray the absence of intellectual exertion, and the magnitude of a work is imagined necessarily to shut out all genius. Yet a laborious work has often had an original growth and raciness in it, requiring a genius whose peculiar feeling, like invisible vitality, is spread through the mighty body. Feeble imitations of such laborious works have proved the master’s mind that is in the original. There is a talent in industry which every industrious man does not possess; and even taste and imagination may lead to the deepest studies of antiquities, as well as mere undiscerning curiosity and plodding dulness.

But there are other more striking characteristics of intellectual feeling in authors of this class. The fortitude of mind which enables them to complete labours of which, in many instances, they are conscious that the real value will only be appreciated by dispassionate posterity, themselves rarely living to witness the fame of their own work established, while they endure the captiousness of malicious cavillers. It is said that the Optics of Newton had no character or credit here till noticed in France. It would not be the only instance of an author writing above his own age, and anticipating its more advanced genius. How many works of erudition might be adduced to show their author’s disappointments! Prideaux’s learned work of the “Connexion of the Old and New Testament,” and Shuckford’s similar one, were both a long while before they could obtain a publisher, and much longer before they found readers. It is said Sir Walter Raleigh burned the second volume of his History, from the ill success the first had met with. Prince’s “Worthies of Devon” was so unfavourably received by the public, that the laborious and patriotic author was so discouraged as not to print the second volume, which is said to have been prepared for the press. Farneworth’s elaborate Translation, with notes and dissertations, of Machiavel’s works, was hawked about the town; and the poor author discovered that he understood Machiavel better than the public. After other labours of this kind, he left his family in distressed circumstances. Observe, this excellent book now bears a high price! The fate of the “Biographia Britannica,” in its first edition, must be noticed: the spirit and acuteness of Campbell, the curious industry of Oldys, and the united labours of very able writers, could not 85 secure public favour; this treasure of our literary history was on the point of being suspended, when a poem by Gilbert West drew the public attention to that elaborate work, which, however, still languished, and was hastily concluded. Granger says of his admirable work, in one of his letters—“On a fair state of my account, it would appear that my labours in the improvement of my work do not amount to half the pay of a scavenger!” He received only one hundred pounds to the times of Charles I., and the rest to depend on public favour for the continuation. The sale was sluggish; even Walpole seemed doubtful of its success, though he probably secretly envied the skill of our portrait-painter. It was too philosophical for the mere collector, and it took near ten years before it reached the hands of philosophers; the author derived little profit, and never lived to see its popularity established! We have had many highly valuable works suspended for their want of public patronage, to the utter disappointment, and sometimes the ruin of their authors; such are Oldys’s “British Librarian,” Morgan’s “Phœnix Britannicus,” Dr. Berkenhout’s “Biographia Literaria,” Professor Martyn’s and Dr. Lettice’s “Antiquities of Herculaneum:” all these are first volumes, there are no seconds! They are now rare, curious, and high priced! Ungrateful public! Unhappy authors!

That noble enthusiasm which so strongly characterises genius, in productions whose originality is of a less ambiguous nature, has been experienced by some of these laborious authors, who have sacrificed their lives and fortunes to their beloved studies. The enthusiasm of literature has often been that of heroism, and many have not shrunk from the forlorn hope.

Rushworth and Rymer, to whose collections our history stands so deeply indebted, must have strongly felt this literary ardour, for they passed their lives in forming them; till Rymer, in the utmost distress, was obliged to sell his books and his fifty volumes of MS. which he could not get printed; and Rushworth died in the King’s Bench of a broken heart. Many of his papers still remain unpublished. His ruling passion was amassing state matters, and he voluntarily neglected great opportunities of acquiring a large fortune for this entire devotion of his life. The same fate has awaited the similar labours of many authors to whom the history of our country lies under deep obligations. Arthur Collins, the historiographer of our Peerage, and the curious collector of 86 the valuable “Sydney Papers,” and other collections, passed his life in reselling these works of antiquity, in giving authenticity to our history, or contributing fresh materials to it; but his midnight vigils were cheered by no patronage, nor his labours valued, till the eye that pored on the mutilated MS. was for ever closed. Of all those curious works of the late Mr. Strutt, which are now bearing such high prices, all were produced by extensive reading, and illustrated by his own drawings, from the manuscripts of different epochs in our history. What was the result to that ingenious artist and author, who, under the plain simplicity of an antiquary, concealed a fine poetical mind, and an enthusiasm for his beloved pursuits to which only we are indebted for them? Strutt, living in the greatest obscurity, and voluntarily sacrificing all the ordinary views of life, and the trade of his burin, solely attached to national antiquities, and charmed by calling them into a fresh existence under his pencil, I have witnessed at the British Museum, forgetting for whole days his miseries, in sedulous research and delightful labour; at times even doubtful whether he could get his works printed; for some of which he was not regaled even with the Roman supper of “a radish and an egg.” How he left his domestic affairs, his son can tell; how his works have tripled their value, the booksellers. In writing on the calamities attending the love of literary labour, Mr. John Nichols, the modest annalist of the literary history of the last century, and the friend of half the departed genius of our country, cannot but occur to me. He zealously published more than fifty works, illustrating the literature and the antiquities of the country; labours not given to the world without great sacrifices. Bishop Hurd, with friendly solicitude, writes to Mr. Nichols on some of his own publications, “While you are enriching the Antiquarian world” (and, by the Life of Bowyer, may be added the Literary), “I hope you do not forget yourself. The profession of an author, I know from experience, is not a lucrative one.—I only mention this because I see a large catalogue of your publications.” At another time the Bishop writes, “You are very good to excuse my freedom with you; but, as times go, almost any trade is better than that of an author,” &c. On these notes Mr. Nichols confesses, “I have had some occasion to regret that I did not attend to the judicious suggestions.” We owe to the late Thomas Davies, the author of “Garrick’s Life,” and other literary works, beautiful editions of 87 some of our elder poets, which are now eagerly sought after, yet, though all his publications were of the best kinds, and are now of increasing value, the taste of Tom Davies twice ended in bankruptcy. It is to be lamented for the cause of literature, that even a bookseller may have too refined a taste for his trade; it must always be his interest to float on the current of public taste, whatever that may be; should he have an ambition to create it, he will be anticipating a more cultivated curiosity by half a century; thus the business of a bookseller rarely accords with the design of advancing our literature.

The works of literature, it is then but too evident, receive no equivalent; let this be recollected by him who would draw his existence from them. A young writer often resembles that imaginary author whom Johnson, in a humorous letter in “The Idler” (No. 55), represents as having composed a work “of universal curiosity, computed that it would call for many editions of his book, and that in five years he should gain fifteen thousand pounds by the sale of thirty thousand copies.” There are, indeed, some who have been dazzled by the good fortune of Gibbon, Robertson, and Hume; we are to consider these favourites, not merely as authors, but as possessing, by their situation in life, a certain independence which preserved them from the vexations of the authors I have noticed. Observe, however, that the uncommon sum Gibbon received for copyright, though it excited the astonishment of the philosopher himself, was for the continued labour of a whole life, and probably the library he had purchased for his work equalled at least in cost the produce of his pen; the tools cost the workman as much as he obtained for his work. Six thousand pounds gained on these terms will keep an author indigent.

Many great labours have been designed by their authors even to be posthumous, prompted only by their love of study and a patriotic zeal. Bishop Kennett’s stupendous “Register and Chronicle,” volume I., is one of those astonishing labours which could only have been produced by the pleasure of study urged by the strong love of posterity.[66] It is a diary 88 in which the bishop, one of our most studious and active authors, has recorded every matter of fact, “delivered in the words of the most authentic books, papers, and records.” The design was to preserve our literary history from the Restoration. This silent labour he had been pursuing all his life, and published the first volume in his sixty-eighth year, the very year he died. But he was so sensible of the coyness of the public taste for what he calls, in a letter to a literary friend, “a tedious heavy book,” that he gave it away to the publisher. “The volume, too large, brings me no profit. In good truth, the scheme was laid for conscience’ sake, to restore a good old principle that history should be purely matter of fact, that every reader, by examining and comparing, may make out a history by his own judgment. I have collections transcribed for another volume, if the bookseller will run the hazard of printing.” This volume has never appeared, and the bookseller probably lost a considerable sum by the one published, which valuable volume is now procured with difficulty.[67]

These laborious authors have commenced their literary life with a glowing ardour, though the feelings of genius have been obstructed by those numerous causes which occur too frequently in the life of a literary man.

Let us listen to Strutt, whom we have just noticed, and let us learn what he proposed doing in the first age of fancy.

Having obtained the first gold medal ever given at the Royal Academy, he writes to his mother, and thus thanks her and his friends for their deep interest in his success:—

“I will at least strive to the utmost to give my benefactors no reason to think their pains thrown away. If I should 89 not be able to abound in riches, yet, by God’s help, I will strive to pluck that palm which the greatest artists of foregoing ages have done before me; I will strive to leave my name behind me in the world, if not in the splendour that some have, at least with some marks of assiduity and study; which, I can assure you, shall never be wanting in me. Who can bear to hear the names of Raphael, Titian, Michael Angelo, &c., the most famous of the Italian masters, in the mouth of every one, and not wish to be like them? And to be like them, we must study as they have done, take such pains, and labour continually like them; the which shall not be wanting on my side, I dare affirm; so that, should I not succeed, I may rest contented, and say I have done my utmost. God has blessed me with a mind to undertake. You, dear madam, will excuse my vanity; you know me, from my childish days, to have been a vain boy, always desirous to execute something to gain me praises from every one; always scheming and imitating whatever I saw done by anybody.”

And when Strutt settled in the metropolis, and studied at the British Museum, amid all the stores of knowledge and art, his imagination delighted to expatiate in its future prospects. In a letter to a friend he has thus chronicled his feelings:

“I would not only be a great antiquary, but a refined thinker; I would not only discover antiquities, but would, by explaining their use, render them useful. Such vast funds of knowledge lie hid in the antiquated remains of the earlier ages; these I would bring forth, and set in their true light.”

Poor Strutt, at the close of life, was returning to his own first and natural energies, in producing a work of the imagination. He had made considerable progress in one, and the early parts which he had finished bear the stamp of genius; it is entitled “Queenhoo-hall, a Romance of ancient times,” full of the picturesque manners, and costume, and characters of the age, in which he was so conversant; with many lyrical pieces, which often are full of poetic feeling—but he was called off from the work to prepare a more laborious one. “Queenhoo-hall” remained a heap of fragments at his death; except the first volume, and was filled up by a stranger hand. The stranger was Sir Walter Scott, and “Queenhoo-hall” was the origin of that glorious series of romances where antiquarianism has taken the shape of imagination.

Writing on the calamities attached to literature, I must notice one of a more recondite nature, yet perhaps few literary agonies are more keenly felt. I would not excite an undue sympathy for a class of writers who are usually considered as drudges; but the present case claims our sympathy.

There are men of letters, who, early in life, have formed some favourite plan of literary labour, which they have unremittingly pursued, till, sometimes near the close of life, they either discover their inability to terminate it, or begin to depreciate their own constant labour. The literary architect has grown gray over his edifice; and, as if the black wand of enchantment had waved over it, the colonnades become interminable, the pillars seem to want a foundation, and all the rich materials he had collected together, lie before him in all the disorder of ruins. It may be urged that the reward of literary labour, like the consolations of virtue, must be drawn with all their sweetness from itself; or, that if the author be incompetent, he must pay the price of his incapacity. This may be Stoicism, but it is not humanity. The truth is, there is always a latent love of fame, that prompts to this strong devotion of labour; and he who has given a long life to that which he has so much desired, and can never enjoy, might well be excused receiving our insults, if he cannot extort our pity.

A remarkable instance occurs in the fate of the late Rev. William Cole;[68] he was the college friend of Walpole, 91 Mason, and Gray; a striking proof how dissimilar habits and opposite tastes and feelings can associate in literary friendship; for Cole, indeed, the public had informed him that his friends were poets and men of wit; and for them, Cole’s patient and curious turn was useful, and, by its extravagant trifling, must have been very amusing. He had a gossip’s ear, and a tatler’s pen—and, among better things, wrote down every grain of literary scandal his insatiable and minute curiosity could lick up; as patient and voracious as an ant-eater, he stretched out his tongue till it was covered by the tiny creatures, and drew them all in at one digestion. All these tales were registered with the utmost simplicity, as the reporter received them; but, being but tales, the exactness of his truth made them still more dangerous lies, by being perpetuated; in his reflections he spared neither friend nor foe; yet, still anxious after truth, and usually telling lies, it is very amusing to observe, that, as he proceeds, he very laudably contradicts, or explains away in subsequent memoranda what he had before registered. Walpole, in a correspondence of forty years, he was perpetually flattering, though he must imperfectly have relished his fine taste, while he abhorred his more liberal principles, to which sometimes he addressed a submissive remonstrance. He has at times written a letter coolly, and, at the same moment, chronicled his suppressed feelings in his diary, with all the flame and sputter of his strong prejudices. He was expressly nicknamed Cardinal Cole. These scandalous chronicles, which only show the violence of his prejudices, without the force of genius, or the acuteness of penetration, were ordered not to be opened till twenty years after his decease; he wished to do as little mischief as he could, but loved to do some. I well remember the cruel anxiety which prevailed in the nineteenth year of these inclosures; it spoiled the digestions of several of our literati who had had the misfortune of Cole’s intimate friendship, or enmity. One of these was the writer of the Life of Thomas Baker, the Cambridge Antiquary, who prognosticated all the evil he among others was to endure; and, writhing in fancy under the whip not yet untwisted, justly enough exclaims in his agony, “The attempt to keep these 92 characters from the public till the subjects of them shall be no more, seems to be peculiarly cruel and ungenerous, since it is precluding them from vindicating themselves from such injurious aspersions, as their friends, perhaps however willing, may at that distance of time be incapable of removing.” With this author, Mr. Masters, Cole had quarrelled so often, that Masters writes, “I am well acquainted with the fickleness of his disposition for more than forty years past.”

When the lid was removed from this Pandora’s box, it happened that some of his intimate friends were alive to perceive in what strange figures they were exhibited by their quondam admirer!

Cole, however, bequeathed to the nation, among his unpublished works, a vast mass of antiquities and historical collections, and one valuable legacy of literary materials. When I turned over the papers of this literary antiquary, I found the recorded cries of a literary martyr.

Cole had passed a long life in the pertinacious labour of forming an “Athenæ Cantabrigienses,” and other literary collections—designed as a companion to the work of Anthony Wood. These mighty labours exist in more than fifty folio volumes in his own writing. He began these collections about the year 1745; in a fly-leaf of 1777 I found the following melancholy state of his feelings and a literary confession, as forcibly expressed as it is painful to read, when we consider that they are the wailings of a most zealous votary:

“In good truth, whoever undertakes this drudgery of an ‘Athenæ Cantabrigienses’ must be contented with no prospect of credit and reputation to himself, and with the mortifying reflection that after all his pains and study, through life, he must be looked upon in a humble light, and only as a journeyman to Anthony Wood, whose excellent book of the same sort will ever preclude any other, who shall follow him in the same track, from all hopes of fame; and will only represent him as an imitator of so original a pattern. For, at this time of day, all great characters, both Cantabrigians and Oxonians, are already published to the world, either in his book, or various others; so that the collection, unless the same characters are reprinted here, must be made up of second-rate persons, and the refuse of authorship.—However, as I have begun, and made so large a progress in this undertaking, it is death to think of leaving it off, though, from the 93 former considerations, so little credit is to be expected from it.”

Such were the fruits, and such the agonies, of nearly half a century of assiduous and zealous literary labour! Cole urges a strong claim to be noticed among our literary calamities. Another of his miseries was his uncertainty in what manner he should dispose of his collections: and he has put down this naïve memorandum—“I have long wavered how to dispose of all my MS. volumes; to give them to King’s College, would be to throw them into a horsepond; and I had as lieve do one as the other; they are generally so conceited of their Latin and Greek, that all other studies are barbarism.”[69]

The dread of incompleteness has attended the life-labours (if the expression may be allowed) of several other authors who have never published their works. Such was the learned Bishop Lloyd, and the Rev. Thomas Baker, who was first engaged in the same pursuit as Cole, and carried it on to the extent of about forty volumes in folio. Lloyd is described by Burnet as having “many volumes of materials upon all subjects, so that he could, with very little labour, write on any of them, with more life in his imagination, and a truer judgment, than may seem consistent with such a laborious course of study; but he did not lay out his learning with the same diligence as he laid it in.” It is mortifying to learn, in the words of Johnson, that “he was always hesitating and inquiring, raising objections, and removing them, and waiting for clearer light and fuller discovery.” Many of the labours of this learned bishop were at length consumed in the kitchen of his descendant. “Baker (says Johnson), after many years passed in biography, left his manuscripts to be buried in a library, because that was imperfect which could never be perfected.” And to complete the absurdity, or to heighten the calamity which the want of these useful labours makes every literary man feel, half of the collections of Baker sleep in their dust in a turret of the University; while the other, deposited in our national library at the British Museum, and frequently used, are rendered imperfect by this unnatural divorce.

Wood’s “Athenæ Oxonienses” is a history of near a thousand of our native authors; he paints their characters, and enters into the spirit of their writings. But authors of this complexion, and works of this nature, are liable to be slighted; for the fastidious are petulant, the volatile inexperienced, and those who cultivate a single province in literature are disposed, too often, to lay all others under a state of interdiction.

Warburton, in a work thrown out in the heat of unchastised youth, and afterwards withdrawn from public inquiry, has said of the “Athenæ Oxonienses”—

“Of all those writings given us by the learned Oxford antiquary, there is not one that is not a disgrace to letters; most of them are so to common sense, and some even to human nature. Yet how set out! how tricked! how adorned! how extolled!”[70]

The whole tenor of Wood’s life testifies, as he himself tells us, that “books and MSS. formed his Elysium, and he wished to be dead to the world.” This sovereign passion marked him early in life, and the image of death could not disturb it. When young, “he walked mostly alone, was given much to thinking and melancholy.” The deliciæ of his life were the more liberal studies of painting and music, intermixed with those of antiquity; nor could his family; who checked such unproductive studies, ever check his love of them. With what a firm and noble spirit he says—

“When he came to full years, he perceived it was his natural genie, and he could not avoid them—they crowded on him—he could never give a reason why he should delight in those studies, more than in others, so prevalent was nature, mixed with a generosity of mind, and a hatred to all that was servile, sneaking, or advantageous for lucre-sake.”

These are not the roundings of a period, but the pure expressions of a man who had all the simplicity of childhood in his feelings. Could such vehement emotions have been excited in the unanimated breast of a clod of literature? Thus early Anthony Wood betrayed the characteristics of genius; nor did the literary passion desert him in his last moments. With his dying hands he still grasped his beloved papers, and his last mortal thoughts dwelt on his Athenæ Oxonienses.[71]

It is no common occurrence to view an author speechless in the hour of death, yet fervently occupied by his posthumous fame. Two friends went into his study to sort that vast multitude of papers, notes, letters—his more private ones he had ordered not to be opened for seven years; about two bushels full were ordered for the fire, which they had lighted for the occasion. “As he was expiring, he expressed both his knowledge and approbation of what was done by throwing out his hands.”

Turn over his Herculean labour; do not admire less his fearlessness of danger, than his indefatigable pursuit of truth. He wrote of his contemporaries as if he felt a right to judge of them, and as if he were living in the succeeding age; courtier, fanatic, or papist, were much alike to honest Anthony; for he professes himself “such an universal lover of all mankind, that he wished there might be no cheat put upon readers and writers in the business of commendations. And (says he) since every one will have a double balance, one for his own party, and another for his adversary, all he could do is to amass together what every side thinks will make best weight for themselves. Let posterity hold the scales.”

Anthony might have added, “I have held them.” This uninterrupted activity of his spirits was the action of a sage, not the bustle of one intent merely on heaping up a book.

“He never wrote in post, with his body and thoughts in a hurry, but in a fixed abode, and with a deliberate pen. And he never concealed an ungrateful truth, nor flourished over a weak place, but in sincerity of meaning and expression.”

Anthony Wood cloistered an athletic mind, a hermit critic abstracted from the world, existing more with posterity than amid his contemporaries. His prejudices were the keener from the very energies of the mind that produced them; but, as he practises no deception on his reader, we know the causes of his anger or his love. And, as an original thinker creates a style for himself, from the circumstance of not attending to style at all, but to feeling, so Anthony Wood’s has all the peculiarity of the writer. Critics of short views have attempted to screen it from ridicule, attributing his uncouth style to the age he lived in. But not one in his own time nor since, has composed in the same style. The austerity 96 and the quickness of his feelings vigorously stamped all their roughness and vivacity on every sentence. He describes his own style as “an honest, plain English dress, without flourishes or affectation of style, as best becomes a history of truth and matters of fact. It is the first (work) of its nature that has ever been printed in our own, or in any other mother-tongue.”

It is, indeed, an honest Montaigne-like simplicity. Acrimonious and cynical, he is always sincere, and never dull. Old Anthony to me is an admirable character-painter, for anger and love are often picturesque. And among our literary historians he might be compared, for the effect he produces, to Albert Durer, whose kind of antique rudeness has a sharp outline, neither beautiful nor flowing; and, without a genius for the magic of light and shade, he is too close a copier of Nature to affect us by ideal forms.

The independence of his mind nerved his ample volumes, his fortitude he displayed in the contest with the University itself, and his firmness in censuring Lord Clarendon, the head of his own party. Could such a work, and such an original manner, have proceeded from an ordinary intellect? Wit may sparkle, and sarcasm may bite; but the cause of literature is injured when the industry of such a mind is ranked with that of “the hewers of wood, and drawers of water:” ponderous compilers of creeping commentators. Such a work as the “Athenæ Oxonienses” involved in its pursuits some of the higher qualities of the intellect; a voluntary devotion of life, a sacrifice of personal enjoyments, a noble design combining many views, some present and some prescient, a clear vigorous spirit equally diffused over a vast surface. But it is the hard fate of authors of this class to be levelled with their inferiors!

Let us exhibit one more picture of the calamities of a laborious author, in the character of Joshua Barnes, editor of Homer, Euripides, and Anacreon, and the writer of a vast number of miscellaneous compositions in history and poetry. Besides the works he published, he left behind him nearly fifty unfinished ones; many were epic poems, all intended to be in twelve books, and some had reached their eighth! His folio volume of “The History of Edward III.” is a labour of valuable research. He wrote with equal facility in Greek, Latin, and his own language, and he wrote all his days; and, in a word, having little or nothing but his Greek professorship, 97 not exceeding forty pounds a year, Barnes, who had a great memory, a little imagination, and no judgment, saw the close of a life, devoted to the studies of humanity, settle around him in gloom and despair. The great idol of his mind was the edition of his Homer, which seems to have completed his ruin; he was haunted all his days with a notion that he was persecuted by envy, and much undervalued in the world; the sad consolation of the secondary and third-rate authors, who often die persuaded of the existence of ideal enemies. To be enabled to publish his Homer at an enormous charge, he wrote a poem, the design of which is to prove that Solomon was the author of the Iliad; and it has been said that this was done to interest his wife, who had some property, to lend her aid towards the publication of so divine a work. This happy pun was applied for his epitaph:—

The year before he died he addressed the following letter to the Earl of Oxford, which I transcribe from the original. It is curious to observe how the veteran and unhappy scribbler, after his vows of retirement from the world of letters, thoroughly disgusted with “all human learning,” gently hints to his patron, that he has ready for the press, a singular variety of contrasted works; yet even then he did not venture to disclose one-tenth part of his concealed treasures!

He died nine months afterwards. Homer did not improve in sale; and the sweets of patronage were not even tasted. This, then, is the history of a man of great learning, of the most pertinacious industry, but somewhat allied to the family of the Scribleri.

William Pattison was a young poet who perished in his twentieth year; his character and his fate resemble those of Chatterton. He was one more child of that family of genius, whose passions, like the torch, kindle but to consume themselves.

The youth of Pattison was that of a poet. Many become irrecoverably poets by local influence; and Beattie could hardly have thrown his “Minstrel” into a more poetical solitude than the singular spot which was haunted by our young bard. His first misfortune was that of having an anti-poetical parent; his next was that of having discovered a spot which confirmed his poetical habits, inspiring all the melancholy and sensibility he loved to indulge. This spot, which in his fancy resembled some favourite description in Cowley, he called “Cowley’s Walk.” Some friend, who was himself no common painter of fancy, has delineated the whole scenery with minute touches, and a freshness of colouring, warm with reality. Such a poetical habitation becomes a part of the poet himself, reflecting his character, and even descriptive of his manners.

“On one side of ‘Cowley’s Walk’ is a huge rock, grown over with moss and ivy climbing on its sides, and in some parts small trees spring out of the crevices of the rock; at the bottom are a wild plantation of irregular trees, in every part looking aged and venerable. Among these cavities, one larger than the rest was the cave he loved to sit in: arched like a canopy, its rustic borders were edged with ivy hanging down, overshadowing the place, and hence he called it (for poets must give a name to every object they love) ‘Hederinda,’ bearing ivy. At the foot of this grotto a stream of water ran along the walk, so that its level path had trees and water on one side, and a wild rough precipice on the other. In winter, this spot looked full of horror—the naked trees, the dark rock, and the desolate waste; but in the spring, the singing of the birds, the fragrancy of the flowers, and the murmuring of the stream, blended all their enchantment.”

Here, in the heat of the day, he escaped into the “Hederinda,” and shared with friends his rapture and his solitude; and here through summer nights, in the light of the moon, he meditated and melodised his verses by the gentle fall of the waters. Thus was Pattison fixed and bound up in the strongest spell the demon of poetry ever drew around a susceptible and careless youth.

He was now a decided poet. At Sidney College, in Cambridge, he was greatly loved; till, on a quarrel with a rigid tutor, he rashly cut his name out of the college book, and quitted it for ever in utter thoughtlessness and gaiety, leaving 100 his gown behind, as his locum tenens, to make his apology, by pinning on it a satirical farewell.

A translation of Ovid’s “Epistles” had engaged his attention during two years; his own genius seemed inexhaustible; and pleasure and fame were awaiting the poetical emigrant. He resisted all kind importunities to return to college; he could not endure submission, and declares “his spirit cannot bear control.” One friend “fears the innumerable temptations to which one of his complexion is liable in such a populous place.” Pattison was much loved; he had all the generous impetuosity of youthful genius; but he had resolved on running the perilous career of literary glory, and he added one more to the countless thousands who perish in obscurity.

His first letters are written with the same spirit that distinguishes Chatterton’s; all he hopes he seems to realise. He mixes among the wits, dates from Button’s, and drinks with Concanen healths to college friends, till they lose their own; more dangerous Muses condescend to exhibit themselves to the young poet in the park; and he was to be introduced to Pope. All is exultation! Miserable youth! The first thought of prudence appears in a resolution of soliciting subscriptions from all persons, for a volume of poems.

His young friends at college exerted their warm patronage; those in his native North condemn him, and save their crowns; Pope admits of no interview, but lends his name, and bestows half-a-crown for a volume of poetry, which he did not want; the poet wearies kindness, and would extort charity even from brother-poets; petitions lords and ladies; and, as his wants grow on him, his shame decreases.

How the scene has changed in a few months! He acknowledges to a friend, that “his heart was broke through the misfortunes he had fallen under;” he declares “he feels himself near the borders of death.” In moments like these he probably composed the following lines, awfully addressed,

But the torture of genius, when all its passions are strained on the rack, was never more pathetically expressed than in the following letter:—

The picture is finished—it admits not of another stroke. Such was the complete misery which Savage, Boyse, Chatterton, and more innocent spirits devoted to literature, have endured—but not long—for they must perish in their youth!

Henry Carey was one of our most popular poets; he, indeed, has unluckily met with only dictionary critics, or what is as fatal to genius, the cold and undistinguishing commendation of grave men on subjects of humour, wit, and the lighter poetry. The works of Carey do not appear in any of our great collections, where Walsh, Duke, and Yalden slumber on the shelf.

Yet Carey was a true son of the Muses, and the most successful writer in our language. He is the author of several little national poems. In early life he successfully burlesqued the affected versification of Ambrose Philips, in his baby poems, to which he gave the fortunate appellation of “Namby Pamby, a panegyric on the new versification;” a term descriptive in sound of those chiming follies, and now become a technical term in modern criticism. Carey’s “Namby Pamby” was at first considered by Swift as the satirical effusion of Pope, and by Pope as the humorous ridicule of Swift. His ballad of “Sally in our Alley” was more than once commended for its nature by Addison, and is sung to this day. Of the national song, “God save the King,” it is supposed he was the author 102 both of the words and of the music.[73] He was very successful on the stage, and wrote admirable burlesques of the Italian Opera, in “The Dragon of Wantley,” and “The Dragoness;” and the mock tragedy of “Chrononhotonthologos” is not forgotten. Among his Poems lie still concealed several original pieces; those which have a political turn are particularly good, for the politics of Carey were those of a poet and a patriot. I refer the politician who has any taste for poetry and humour to “The Grumbletonians, or the Dogs without doors, a Fable,” very instructive to those grown-up folks, “The Ins and the Outs.” “Carey’s Wish” is in this class; and, as the purity of election remains still among the desiderata of every true Briton, a poem on that subject by the patriotic author of our national hymn of “God save the King” may be acceptable.

To the ballad of “Sally in our Alley” Carey has prefixed an argument so full of nature, that the song may hereafter derive an additional interest from its simple origin. The author assures the reader that the popular notion that the subject of his ballad had been the noted Sally Salisbury, is perfectly erroneous, he being a stranger to her name at the time the song was composed.

“As innocence and virtue were ever the boundaries of his Muse, so in this little poem he had no other view than to set forth the beauty of a chaste and disinterested passion, even in the lowest class of human life. The real occasion was this: A shoemaker’s ’prentice, making holiday with his sweetheart, treated her with a sight of Bedlam, the puppet-shows, the flying-chairs, and all the elegancies of Moorfields; from whence, proceeding to the Farthing Pye-house, he gave her a collation of buns, cheesecakes, gammon of bacon, stuffed beef, and bottled ale; through all which scenes the author dodged them (charmed with the simplicity of their courtship), from whence he drew this little sketch of Nature; but, being then young and obscure, he was very much ridiculed for this performance; which, nevertheless, made its way into the polite world, and amply recompensed him by the applause of the divine Addison, who was pleased (more than once) to mention it with approbation.”

In “The Poet’s Resentment” poor Carey had once forsworn “the harlot Muse:”—

At the time that this poet could neither walk the streets nor be seated at the convivial board, without listening to his own songs and his own music—for, in truth, the whole nation was echoing his verse, and crowded theatres were applauding 104 his wit and humour—while this very man himself, urged by his strong humanity, founded a “Fund for decayed Musicians”—he was so broken-hearted, and his own common comforts so utterly neglected, that in despair, not waiting for nature to relieve him from the burden of existence, he laid violent hands on himself; and when found dead, had only a halfpenny in his pocket! Such was the fate of the author of some of the most popular pieces in our language. He left a son, who inherited his misery, and a gleam of his genius.

Dr. Zachary Grey, the editor of “Hudibras,” is the father of our modern commentators.[74] His case is rather peculiar; I know not whether the father, by an odd anticipation, was doomed to suffer for the sins of his children, or whether his own have been visited on the third generation; it is certain that never was an author more overpowered by the attacks he received from the light and indiscriminating shafts of ignorant wits. He was ridiculed and abused for having assisted us to comprehend the wit of an author, which, without that aid, at this day would have been nearly lost to us; and whose singular subject involved persons and events which required the very thing he gave,—historical and explanatory notes.

A first thought, and all the danger of an original invention, which is always imperfectly understood by the superficial, was poor Dr. Grey’s merit. He was modest and laborious, and he had the sagacity to discover what Butler wanted, and what the public required. His project was a happy thought, to commentate on a singular work which has scarcely a parallel in modern literature, if we except the “Satyre Ménippée” of the French, which is, in prose, the exact counterpart of “Hudibras” in rhyme; for our rivals have had the same state revolution, in which the same dramatic personages passed 105 over their national stage, with the same incidents, in the civil wars of the ambitious Guises, and the citizen-reformers. They, too, found a Butler, though in prose, a Grey in Duchat, and, as well as they could, a Hogarth. An edition, which appeared in 1711, might have served as the model of Grey’s Hudibras.

It was, however, a happy thought in our commentator, to turn over the contemporary writers to collect the events and discover the personages alluded to by Butler; to read what the poet read, to observe what the poet observed. This was at once throwing himself and the reader back into an age, of which even the likeness had disappeared, and familiarising us with distant objects, which had been lost to us in the haze and mists of time. For this, not only a new mode of travelling, but a new road was to be opened; the secret history, the fugitive pamphlet, the obsolete satire, the ancient comedy—such were the many curious volumes whose dust was to be cleared away, to cast a new radiance on the fading colours of a moveable picture of manners; the wittiest ever exhibited to mankind. This new mode of research, even at this moment, is imperfectly comprehended, still ridiculed even by those who could never have understood a writer who will only be immortal in the degree he is comprehended—and whose wit could not have been felt but for the laborious curiosity of him whose “reading” has been too often aspersed for “such reading”

Grey was outrageously attacked by all the wits, first by Warburton, in his preface to Shakspeare, who declares that “he hardly thinks there ever appeared so execrable a heap of nonsense under the name of commentaries, as hath been lately given us on a certain satyric poet of the last age.” It is odd enough, Warburton had himself contributed towards these very notes, but, for some cause which has not been discovered, had quarrelled with Dr. Grey. I will venture a conjecture on this great conjectural critic. Warburton was always meditating to give an edition of his own of our old writers, and the sins he committed against Shakspeare he longed to practise on Butler, whose times were, indeed, a favourite period of his researches. Grey had anticipated him, and though Warburton had half reluctantly yielded the few notes he had prepared, his proud heart sickened when he beheld the 106 amazing subscription Grey obtained for his first edition of “Hudibras;” he received for that work 1500l.[75]—a proof that this publication was felt as a want by the public.

Such, however, is one of those blunt, dogmatic censures in which Warburton abounds, to impress his readers with the weight of his opinions; this great man wrote more for effect than any other of our authors, as appears by his own or some friend’s confession, that if his edition of Shakspeare did no honour to that bard, this was not the design of the commentator—which was only to do honour to himself by a display of his own exuberant erudition.

The poignant Fielding, in his preface to his “Journey to Lisbon,” has a fling at the gravity of our doctor. “The laborious, much-read Dr. Z. Grey, of whose redundant notes on ‘Hudibras’ I shall only say that it is, I am confident, the single book extant in which above 500 authors are quoted, not one of which could be found in the collection of the late Dr. Mead.” Mrs. Montague, in her letters, severely characterises the miserable father of English commentators; she wrote in youth and spirits, with no knowledge of books, and before even the unlucky commentator had published his work, but wit is the bolder by anticipation. She observes that “his dulness may be a proper ballast for doggrel; and it is better that his stupidity should make jest dull than serious and sacred things ridiculous;” alluding to his numerous theological tracts.

Such then are the hard returns which some authors are doomed to receive as the rewards of useful labours from those who do not even comprehend their nature; a wit should not be admitted as a critic till he has first proved by his gravity, or his dulness if he chooses, that he has some knowledge; for it is the privilege and nature of wit to write fastest and best on what it least understands. Knowledge only encumbers and confines its flights.

Of all the sorrows in which the female character may participate, there are few more affecting than those of an authoress;—often insulated and unprotected in society—with all the sensibility of the sex, encountering miseries which break the 107 spirits of men; with the repugnance arising from that delicacy which trembles when it quits its retirement.

My acquaintance with an unfortunate lady of the name of Eliza Ryves, was casual and interrupted; yet I witnessed the bitterness of “hope deferred, which maketh the heart sick.” She sunk, by the slow wastings of grief, into a grave which probably does not record the name of its martyr of literature.

She was descended from a family of distinction in Ireland; but as she expressed it, “she had been deprived of her birthright by the chicanery of law.” In her former hours of tranquillity she had published some elegant odes, had written a tragedy and comedies—all which remained in MS. In her distress she looked up to her pen as a source of existence; and an elegant genius and a woman of polished manners commenced the life of a female trader in literature.

Conceive the repulses of a modest and delicate woman in her attempts to appreciate the value of a manuscript with its purchaser. She has frequently returned from the booksellers to her dreadful solitude to hasten to her bed—in all the bodily pains of misery, she has sought in uneasy slumbers a temporary forgetfulness of griefs which were to recur on the morrow. Elegant literature is always of doubtful acceptance with the public, and Eliza Ryves came at length to try the most masculine exertions of the pen. She wrote for one newspaper much political matter; but the proprietor was too great a politician for the writer of politics, for he only praised the labour he never paid; much poetry for another, in which, being one of the correspondents of Della Crusca, in payment of her verses she got nothing but verses; the most astonishing exertion for a female pen was the entire composition of the historical and political portion of some Annual Register. So little profitable were all these laborious and original efforts, that every day did not bring its “daily bread.” Yet even in her poverty her native benevolence could make her generous; for she has deprived herself of her meal to provide with one an unhappy family dwelling under the same roof.

Advised to adopt the mode of translation, and being ignorant of the French language, she retired to an obscure lodging at Islington, which she never quitted till she had produced a good version of Rousseau’s “Social Compact,” Raynal’s “Letter to the National Assembly,” and finally translated De la Croix’s “Review of the Constitutions of the principal 108 States in Europe,” in two large volumes with intelligent notes. All these works, so much at variance with her taste, left her with her health much broken, and a mind which might be said to have nearly survived the body.

Yet even at a moment so unfavourable, her ardent spirit engaged in a translation of Froissart. At the British Museum I have seen her conning over the magnificent and voluminous MS. of the old chronicler, and by its side Lord Berners’ version, printed in the reign of Henry VIII. It was evident that his lordship was employed as a spy on Froissart, to inform her of what was going forward in the French camp; and she soon perceived, for her taste was delicate, that it required an ancient lord and knight, with all his antiquity of phrase, to break a lance with the still more ancient chivalric Frenchman. The familiar elegance of modern style failed to preserve the picturesque touches and the naïve graces of the chronicler, who wrote as the mailed knight combated—roughly or gracefully, as suited the tilt or the field. She vailed to Lord Berners; while she felt it was here necessary to understand old French, and then to write it in old English.[76] During these profitless labours hope seemed to be whispering in her lonely study. Her comedies had been in possession of the managers of the theatres during several years. They had too much merit to be rejected, perhaps too little to be acted. Year passed over year, and the last still repeated the treacherous promise of its brother. The mysterious arts of procrastination are by no one so well systematised as by the theatrical manager, nor its secret sorrows so deeply felt as by the dramatist. One of her comedies, The Debt of Honour, had been warmly approved at both theatres—where probably a copy of it may still be found. To the honour of one of the managers, he presented her with a hundred pounds on his acceptance of it. Could she avoid then flattering herself with an annual harvest?

But even this generous gift, which involved in it such golden promises, could not for ten years preserve its delusion. “I feel,” said Eliza Ryves, “the necessity of some powerful patronage, to bring my comedies forward to the world with éclat, and secure them an admiration which, should it even be deserved, is seldom bestowed, unless some leading judge of literary merit gives the sanction of his applause; and then 109 the world will chime in with his opinion, without taking the trouble to inform themselves whether it be founded in justice or partiality.” She never suspected that her comedies were not comic!—but who dare hold an argument with an ingenious mind, when it reasons from a right principle, with a wrong application to itself? It is true that a writer’s connexions have often done a great deal for a small author, and enabled some favourites of literary fashion to enjoy a usurped reputation; but it is not so evident that Eliza Ryves was a comic writer, although, doubtless, she appeared another Menander to herself. And thus an author dies in a delusion of self-flattery!

The character of Eliza Ryves was rather tender and melancholy, than brilliant and gay; and like the bruised perfume—breathing sweetness when broken into pieces. She traced her sorrows in a work of fancy, where her feelings were at least as active as her imagination. It is a small volume, entitled “The Hermit of Snowden.” Albert, opulent and fashionable, feels a passion for Lavinia, and meets the kindest return; but, having imbibed an ill opinion of women from his licentious connexions, he conceived they were slaves of passion, or of avarice. He wrongs the generous nature of Lavinia, by suspecting her of mercenary views; hence arise the perplexities of the hearts of both. Albert affects to be ruined, and spreads the report of an advantageous match. Lavinia feels all the delicacy of her situation; she loves, but “she never told her love.” She seeks for her existence in her literary labours, and perishes in want.

In the character of Lavinia, our authoress, with all the melancholy sagacity of genius, foresaw and has described her own death!—the dreadful solitude to which she was latterly condemned, when in the last stage of her poverty; her frugal mode of life; her acute sensibility; her defrauded hopes; and her exalted fortitude. She has here formed a register of all that occurred in her solitary existence. I will give one scene—to me it is pathetic—for it is like a scene at which I was present:—

“Lavinia’s lodgings were about two miles from town, in an obscure situation. I was showed up to a mean apartment, where Lavinia was sitting at work, and in a dress which indicated the greatest economy. I inquired what success she had met with in her dramatic pursuits. She waved her head, and, with a melancholy smile, replied, ‘that her hopes 110 of ever bringing any piece on the stage were now entirely over; for she found that more interest was necessary for the purpose than she could command, and that she had for that reason laid aside her comedy for ever!’ While she was talking, came in a favourite dog of Lavinia’s, which I had used to caress. The creature sprang to my arms, and I received him with my usual fondness. Lavinia endeavoured to conceal a tear which trickled down her cheek. Afterwards she said, ‘Now that I live entirely alone, I show Juno more attention than I had used to do formerly. The heart wants something to be kind to; and it consoles us for the loss of society, to see even an animal derive happiness from the endearments we bestow upon it.’”

Such was Eliza Ryves! not beautiful nor interesting in her person, but with a mind of fortitude, susceptible of all the delicacy of feminine softness, and virtuous amid her despair.[77]

“Carte,” says Mr. Hallam, “is the most exact historian we have;” and Daines Barrington prefers his authority to that of any other, and many other writers confirm this opinion. Yet had this historian been an ordinary compiler, he could not have incurred a more mortifying fate; for he was compelled to retail in shilling numbers that invaluable history which we have only learned of late times to appreciate, and which was the laborious fruits of self-devotion.

Carte was the first of our historians who had the sagacity and the fortitude to ascertain where the true sources of our history lie. He discovered a new world beyond the old one of our research, and not satisfied in gleaning the res historica from its original writers—a merit which has not always been possessed by some of our popular historians—Carte opened those subterraneous veins of secret history from whence even the original writers of our history, had they possessed them, 111 might have drawn fresh knowledge and more ample views. Our domestic or civil history was scarcely attempted till Carte planned it; while all his laborious days and his literary travels on the Continent were absorbed in the creation of a History of England and of a Public Library in the metropolis, for we possessed neither. A diligent foreigner, Rapin, had compiled our history, and had opportunely found in the vast collection of Rymer’s “Fœdera” a rich accession of knowledge; but a foreigner could not sympathise with the feelings, or even understand the language, of the domestic story of our nation; our rolls and records, our state-letters, the journals of parliament, and those of the privy-council; an abundant source of private memoirs; and the hidden treasures in the state-paper office, the Cottonian and Harleian libraries; all these, and much besides, the sagacity of Carte contemplated. He had further been taught—by his own examination of the true documents of history, which he found preserved among the ancient families of France, who with a warm patriotic spirit, worthy of imitation, “often carefully preserved in their families the acts of their ancestors;” and the trésor des chartes and the dépôt pour les affaires étrangères (the state-paper office of France),—that the history of our country is interwoven with that of its neighbours, as well as with that of our own countrymen.[78]

Carte, with these enlarged views, and firm with diligence which never paused, was aware that such labours—both for the expense and assistance they demand—exceeded the powers of a private individual; but “what a single man cannot do,” he said, “may be easily done by a society, and the value of an opera subscription would be sufficient to patronise a History of England.” His valuable “History of the Duke of Ormond” had sufficiently announced the sort of man who solicited this necessary aid; nor was the moment unpropitious to his fondest hopes, for a Society for the Encouragement of Learning had been formed, and this impulse of public spirit, however weak, had, it would seem, roused into action some unexpected quarters. When Carte’s project was made known, a large subscription was raised to defray the expense of transcripts, and afford a sufficient independence to the historian; many of the nobility and the gentry subscribed ten or twenty guineas 112 annually, and several of the corporate bodies in the city honourably appeared as the public patrons of the literature of their nation. He had, perhaps, nearly a thousand a year subscribed, which he employed on the History. Thus everything promised fair both for the history and for the historian of our fatherland, and about this time he zealously published another proposal for the erection of a public library in the Mansion-house. “There is not,” observed Carte, “a great city in Europe so ill-provided with public libraries as London.” He enters into a very interesting and minute narrative of the public libraries of Paris.[79] He then also suggested the purchase of ten thousand manuscripts of the Earl of Oxford, which the nation now possess in the Harleian collection.

Though Carte failed to persuade our opulent citizens to purchase this costly honour, it is probably to his suggestion that the nation owes the British Museum. The ideas of the literary man are never thrown away, however vain at the moment, or however profitless to himself. Time preserves without injuring the image of his mind, and a following age often performs what the preceding failed to comprehend.

It was in 1743 that this work was projected, in 1747 the first volume appeared. One single act of indiscretion, an unlucky accident rather than a premeditated design, overturned in a moment this monument of history;—for it proved that our Carte, however enlarged were his views of what history ought to consist, and however experienced in collecting its most authentic materials, and accurate in their statement, was infected by a superstitious jacobitism, which seemed likely to spread itself through his extensive history. Carte indeed was no philosopher, but a very faithful historian.

Having unhappily occasion to discuss whether the King of England had, from the time of Edward the Confessor, the power of healing inherent in him before his unction, or whether the gift was conveyed by ecclesiastical hands, to show the efficacy of the royal touch, he added an idle story, which had come under his own observation, of a person who appeared to have been so healed. Carte said of this unlucky personage, so unworthily introduced five hundred years before he was born, that he had been sent to Paris to be touched by “the eldest lineal descendant of a race of kings who had indeed for a long succession of ages cured that distemper by 113 the royal touch.” The insinuation was unquestionably in favour of the Pretender, although the name of the prince was not avowed, and was a sort of promulgation of the right divine to the English throne.

The first news our author heard of his elaborate history was the discovery of this unforeseen calamity; the public indignation was roused, and subscribers, public and private, hastened to withdraw their names. The historian was left forlorn and abandoned amid his extensive collections, and Truth, which was about to be drawn out of her well by this robust labourer, was no longer imagined to lie concealed at the bottom of the waters.

Thunderstruck at this dreadful reverse to all his hopes, and witnessing the unrequited labour of more than thirty years withered in an hour, the unhappy Carte drew up a faint appeal, rendered still more weak by a long and improbable tale, that the objectionable illustration had been merely a private note which by mistake had been printed, and only designed to show that the person who had been healed improperly attributed his cure to the sanative virtue of the regal unction; since the prince in question had never been anointed. But this was plunging from Scylla into Charybdis, for it inferred that the Stuarts inherited the heavenly-gifted touch by descent. This could not avail; yet heavy was the calamity! for now an historian of the utmost probity and exactness, and whose labours were never equalled for their scope and extent, was ruined for an absurd but not peculiar opinion, and an indiscretion which was more ludicrous than dishonest.

This shock of public opinion was met with a fortitude which only strong minds experience; Carte was the true votary of study,—by habit, by devotion, and by pleasure, he persevered in producing an invaluable folio every two years; but from three thousand copies he was reduced to seven hundred and fifty, and the obscure patronage of the few who knew how to appreciate them. Death only arrested the historian’s pen—in the fourth volume. We have lost the important period of the reign of the second Charles, of which Carte declared that he had read “a series of memoirs from the beginning to the end of that reign which would have laid open all those secret intrigues which Burnet with all his genius for conjecture does not pretend to account for.”

So precious were the MS. collections Carte left behind 114 him, that the proprietor valued them at 1500l.; Philip Earl of Hardwicke paid 200l. only for the perusal, and Macpherson a larger sum for their use; and Hume, without Carte, would scarcely have any authorities. Such was the calamitous result of Carte’s historical labours, who has left others of a more philosophical cast, and of a finer taste in composition, to reap the harvest whose soil had been broken by his hand.

Ridicule may be considered as a species of eloquence; it has all its vehemence, all its exaggeration, all its power of diminution; it is irresistible! Its business is not with truth, but with its appearance; and it is this similitude, in perpetual comparison with the original, which, raising contempt, produces the ridiculous.

There is nothing real in ridicule; the more exquisite, the more it borrows from the imagination. When directed towards an individual, by preserving a unity of character in all its parts, it produces a fictitious personage, so modelled on the prototype, that we know not to distinguish the true one from the false. Even with an intimate knowledge of the real object, the ambiguous image slides into our mind, for we are at least as much influenced in our opinions by our imagination as by our judgment. Hence some great characters have come down to us spotted with the taints of indelible wit; and a satirist of this class, sporting with distant resemblances and fanciful analogies, has made the fictitious accompany for ever the real character. Piqued with Akenside for some reflections against Scotland, Smollett has exhibited a man of great genius and virtue as a most ludicrous personage; and who can discriminate, in the ridiculous physician in “Peregrine Pickle,” what is real from what is fictitious?[80]

The banterers and ridiculers possess this provoking advantage over sturdy honesty or nervous sensibility—their amusing fictions affect the world more than the plain tale that would put them down. They excite our risible emotions, while they are reducing their adversary to contempt—otherwise they would not be distinguished from gross slanderers. When the wit has gained over the laughers on his side, he has struck a blow which puts his adversary hors de combat. A grave reply can never wound ridicule, which, assuming all forms, has really none. Witty calumny and licentious raillery are airy nothings that float about us, invulnerable from their very nature, like those chimeras of hell which the sword of Æneas could not pierce—yet these shadows of truth, these false images, these fictitious realities, have made heroism tremble, turned the eloquence of wisdom into folly, and bowed down the spirit of honour itself.

Not that the legitimate use of RIDICULE is denied: the wisest men have been some of the most exquisite ridiculers; from Socrates to the Fathers, and from the Fathers to Erasmus, and from Erasmus to Butler and Swift. Ridicule is more efficacious than argument; when that keen instrument cuts what cannot be untied. “The Rehearsal” wrote down the unnatural taste for the rhyming heroic tragedies, and brought the nation back from sound to sense, from rant to passion. More important events may be traced in the history of Ridicule. When a certain set of intemperate Puritans, in the reign of Elizabeth, the ridiculous reformists of abuses in Church and State, congregated themselves under the literary 116 nom de guerre of Martin Mar-prelate, a stream of libels ran throughout the nation. The grave discourses of the archbishop and the prelates could never silence the hardy and concealed libellers. They employed a moveable printing-press, and the publishers perpetually shifting their place, long escaped detection. They declared their works were “printed in Europe, not far from some of the bouncing priests;” or they were “printed over sea, in Europe, within two furlongs of a bouncing priest, at the cost and charges of Martin Mar-prelate, gent.” It was then that Tom Nash, whom I am about to introduce to the reader’s more familiar acquaintance, the most exquisite banterer of that age of genius, turned on them their own weapons, and annihilated them into silence when they found themselves paid in their own base coin. He rebounded their popular ribaldry on themselves, with such replies as “Pap with a hatchet, or a fig for my godson; or, crack me this nut. To be sold, at the sign of the Crab-tree Cudgel, in Thwack-coat lane.”[81] Not less biting was his “Almond for a Parrot, or an Alms for Martin.” Nash first silenced Martin Mar-prelate, and the government afterwards hanged him; Nash might be vain of the greater honour. A ridiculer then is the best champion to meet another ridiculer; their scurrilities magically undo each other.

But the abuse of ridicule is not one of the least calamities of literature, when it withers genius, and gibbets whom it ought to enshrine. Never let us forget that Socrates before his judges asserted that “his persecution originated in the licensed raillery of Aristophanes, which had so unduly influenced the popular mind during several years!” And thus a fictitious Socrates, not the great moralist, was condemned. Armed with the most licentious ridicule, the Aretine of our own country and times has proved that its chief magistrate was not protected by the shield of domestic and public virtues; a false and distorted image of an intelligent monarch could cozen the gross many, and aid the purposes of the subtle few.

There is a plague-spot in ridicule, and the man who 117 is touched with it can be sent forth as the jest of his country.

The literary reign of Elizabeth, so fertile in every kind of genius, exhibits a remarkable instance, in the controversy between the witty Tom Nash and the learned Gabriel Harvey. It will illustrate the nature of the fictions of ridicule, expose the materials of which its shafts are composed, and the secret arts by which ridicule can level a character which seems to be placed above it.

Gabriel Harvey was an author of considerable rank, but with two learned brothers, as Wood tells us, “had the ill luck to fall into the hands of that noted and restless buffoon, Tom Nash.”

Harvey is not unknown to the lover of poetry, from his connexion with Spenser, who loved and revered him. He is the Hobynol whose poem is prefixed to the “Faery Queen,” who introduced Spenser to Sir Philip Sidney: and, besides his intimacy with the literary characters of his times, he was a Doctor of Laws, an erudite scholar, and distinguished as a poet. Such a man could hardly be contemptible; and yet, when some little peculiarities become aggravated, and his works are touched by the caustic of the most adroit banterer of that age of wit, no character has descended to us with such grotesque deformity, exhibited in so ludicrous an attitude.

Harvey was a pedant, but pedantry was part of the erudition of an age when our national literature was passing from its infancy; he introduced hexameter verses into our language, and pompously laid claim to an invention which, designed for the reformation of English verse, was practised till it was found sufficiently ridiculous. His style was infected with his pedantic taste; and the hard outline of his satirical humour betrays the scholastic cynic, not the airy and fluent wit. He had, perhaps, the foibles of a man who was clearing himself from obscurity; he prided himself on his family alliances, while he fastidiously looked askance on the trade of his father—a rope-manufacturer.

He was somewhat rich in his apparel, according to the rank in society he held; and, hungering after the notice of his friends, they fed him on soft sonnet and relishing dedication, till Harvey ventured to publish a collection of panegyrics on himself—and thus gravely stepped into a niche erected to Vanity. At length he and his two brothers—one a divine and the other a physician—became students of astronomy; 118 then an astronomer usually ended in an almanac-maker, and above all, in an astrologer—an avocation which tempted a man to become a prophet. Their “sharp and learned judgment on earthquakes” drove the people out of their senses (says Wood); but when nothing happened of their predictions, the brothers received a severe castigation from those great enemies of prophets, the wits. The buffoon, Tarleton, celebrated for his extempore humour, jested on them at the theatre;[82] Elderton, a drunken ballad-maker, “consumed his ale-crammed nose to nothing in bear-bating them with bundles of ballads.”[83] One on the earthquake commenced with “Quake! quake! quake!” They made the people laugh at their false terrors, or, as Nash humorously describes their fanciful panic, “when they sweated and were not a haire the worse.” Thus were the three learned brothers beset by all the town-wits; Gabriel had the hardihood, with all undue gravity, to charge pell-mell among the whole knighthood of drollery; a circumstance probably alluded to by Spenser, in a sonnet addressed to Harvey—

The “foolish reprehension of faulty men, threatening Harvey with danger,” describes that gregarious herd of town-wits in the age of Elizabeth—Kit Marlow, Robert Greene, Dekker, Nash, &c.—men of no moral principle, of high passions, and the most pregnant Lucianic wits who ever 119 flourished at one period.[84] Unfortunately for the learned Harvey, his “critique pen,” which is strange in so polished a mind and so curious a student, indulged a sharpness of invective which would have been peculiar to himself, had his adversary, Nash, not quite outdone him. Their pamphlets foamed against each other, till Nash, in his vehement invective, involved the whole generation of the Harveys, made one brother more ridiculous than the other, and even attainted the fair name of Gabriel’s respectable sister. Gabriel, indeed, after the death of Robert Greene, the crony of Nash, sitting like a vampyre on his grave, sucked blood from his corpse, in a memorable narrative of the debaucheries and miseries of this town-wit. I throw into the note the most awful satirical address I ever read.[85] It became necessary to dry up the 120 floodgates of these rival ink-horns, by an order of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The order is a remarkable fragment of our literary history, and is thus expressed:—“That all Nashe’s bookes and Dr. Harvey’s bookes be taken wheresoever they may be found, and that none of the said bookes be ever printed hereafter.”

This extraordinary circumstance accounts for the excessive rarity of Harvey’s “Foure Letters, 1592,” and that literary scourge of Nash’s, “Have with you to Saffron-Walden (Harvey’s residence), or Gabriel Harvey’s Hunt is vp, 1596;” pamphlets now as costly as if they consisted of leaves of gold.[87]

Nash, who, in his other works, writes in a style as flowing as Addison’s, with hardly an obsolete vestige, has rather injured this literary invective by the evident burlesque he affects of Harvey’s pedantic idiom; and for this Mr. Malone has hastily censured him, without recollecting the aim of this modern Lucian.[88] The delicacy of irony; the sous-entendu, that subtlety of indicating what is not told; all that poignant satire, which is the keener for its polish, were 121 not practised by our first vehement satirists; but a bantering masculine humour, a style stamped in the heat of fancy, with all the life-touches of strong individuality, characterise these licentious wits. They wrote then as the old fabliers told their tales, naming everything by its name; our refinement cannot approve, but it cannot diminish their real nature, and among our elaborate graces, their naïveté must be still wanting.

In this literary satire Nash has interwoven a kind of ludicrous biography of Harvey; and seems to have anticipated the character of Martinus Scriblerus. I leave the grosser parts of this invective untouched; for my business is not with slander, but with ridicule.

Nash opens as a skilful lampooner; he knew well that ridicule, without the appearance of truth, was letting fly an arrow upwards, touching no one. Nash accounts for his protracted silence by adroitly declaring that he had taken these two or three years to get perfect intelligence of Harvey’s “Life and conversation; one true point whereof well sat downe will more excruciate him than knocking him about the ears with his own style in a hundred sheets of paper.”

“As long as it is since he writ against me, so long have I given him a lease of his life, and he hath only held it by my mercy; and now let him thank his friends for this heavy load of disgrace I lay upon him, since I do it but to show my sufficiency; and they urging what a triumph he had over me, hath made me ransack my standish more than I would.”

In the history of such a literary hero as Gabriel, the birth has ever been attended by portents. Gabriel’s mother “dreamt a dream,” that she was delivered “of an immense elder gun that can shoot nothing but pellets of chewed paper; and thought, instead of a boy, she was brought to bed of one of those kistrell birds called a wind-sucker.” At the moment of his birth came into the world “a calf with a double tongue, and eares longer than any ass’s, with his feet turned backwards.” Facetious analogies of Gabriel’s literary genius!

He then paints to the life the grotesque portrait of Harvey; so that the man himself stands alive before us. “He was of an adust swarth choleric dye, like restie bacon, or a dried scate-fish; his skin riddled and crumpled like a piece 122 of burnt parchment, with channels and creases in his face, and wrinkles and frets of old age.” Nash dexterously attributes this premature old age to his own talents; exulting humorously—

“I have brought him low, and shrewdly broken him; look on his head, and you shall find a gray haire for euerie line I have writ against him; and you shall haue all his beard white too by the time he hath read ouer this booke.”

To give a finishing to the portrait, and to reach the climax of personal contempt, he paints the sordid misery in which he lived at Saffron-Walden:—“Enduring more hardness than a camell, who will liue four dayes without water, and feedes on nothing but thistles and wormwood, as he feeds on his estate on trotters, sheep porknells, and buttered rootes, in an hexameter meditation.”

“He looks, indeed, like a case of tooth-pickes, or a lute-pin stuck in a suit of apparell. An Vsher of a dancing-schoole, he is such a basia de vmbra de vmbra de los pedes; a kisser of the shadow of your feetes shadow he is!”

This is, doubtless, a portrait resembling the original, with its Cervantic touches; Nash would not have risked what the eyes of his readers would instantly have proved to be fictitious; and, in fact, though the Grangerites know of no portrait of Gabriel Harvey, they will find a woodcut of him by the side of this description; it is, indeed, in a most pitiable attitude, expressing that gripe of criticism which seized on Gabriel “upon the news of the going in hand of my booke.”

The ponderosity and prolixity of Gabriel’s “period of a mile,” are described with a facetious extravagance, which may be given as a specimen of the eloquence of ridicule. Harvey entitled his various pamphlets “Letters.”

“More letters yet from the doctor? Out upon it, here’s a packet of epistling, as bigge as a packe of woollen cloth, or a stack of salt fish. Carrier, didst thou bring it by wayne, or by horsebacke? By wayne, sir, and it hath crackt me three axle-trees.—Heavie newes! Take them again! I will never open them.—My cart (quoth he, deep-sighing,) hath cryde creake under them fortie times euerie furlong; wherefore if you be a good man rather make mud-walls with them, mend highways, or damme up quagmires with them.

“When I came to unrip and unbumbast [89] this Gargantuan bag pudding, and found nothing in it but dogs tripes, swines livers, oxe galls, and sheepes guts, I was in a bitterer chafe than anie cooke at a long sermon, when his meat burnes.

“O ’tis an vnsconscionable vast gor-bellied volume, bigger bulkt than a Dutch hoy, and more cumbersome than a payre of Switzer’s galeaze breeches.”[90]

“One epistle thereof to John Wolfe (Harvey’s printer) I took and weighed in an ironmonger’s scale, and it counter poyseth a cade [91] of herrings with three Holland cheeses. It was rumoured about the Court that the guard meant to trie masteries with it before the Queene, and instead of throwing the sledge, or the hammer, to hurle it foorth at the armes end for a wager.

“Sixe and thirtie sheets it comprehendeth, which with him is but sixe and thirtie full points (periods); for he makes no more difference ’twixt a sheet of paper and a full pointe, than there is ’twixt two black puddings for a pennie, and a pennie for a pair of black puddings. Yet these are but the shortest prouerbes of his wit, for he never bids a man good morrow, but he makes a speech as long as a proclamation, nor drinkes to anie, but he reads a lecture of three howers long, de Arte bibendi. O ’tis a precious apothegmatical pedant.”

It was the foible of Harvey to wish to conceal the humble avocation of his father: this forms a perpetual source of the bitterness or the pleasantry of Nash, who, indeed, calls his pamphlet “a full answer to the eldest son of the halter maker,” which, he says, “is death to Gabriel to remember; wherefore from time to time he doth nothing but turmoile his thoughts how to invent new pedigrees, and what great nobleman’s bastard he was likely to be, not whose sonne he is reputed to be. Yet he would not have a shoo to put on 124 his foote if his father had not traffiqued with the hangman.—Harvey nor his brothers cannot bear to be called the sonnes of a rope-maker, which, by his private confession to some of my friends, was the only thing that most set him afire against me. Turne over his two bookes he hath published against me, wherein he hath clapt paper God’s plentie, if that could press a man to death, and see if, in the waye of answer, or otherwise, he once mentioned the word rope-maker, or come within forty foot of it; except in one place of his first booke, where he nameth it not neither, but goes thus cleanly to worke:—‘and may not a good sonne have a reprobate for his father?’ a periphrase of a rope-maker, which, if I should shryue myself, I never heard before.” According to Nash, Gabriel took his oath before a justice, that his father was an honest man, and kept his sons at the Universities a long time. “I confirmed it, and added, Ay! which is more, three proud sonnes, that when they met the hangman, their father’s best customer, would not put off their hats to him—”

Such repeated raillery on this foible of Harvey touched him more to the quick, and more raised the public laugh, than any other point of attack; for it was merited. Another foible was, perhaps, the finical richness of Harvey’s dress, adopting the Italian fashions on his return from Italy, “when he made no bones of taking the wall of Sir Philip Sidney, in his black Venetian velvet.”[92] On this the fertile invention of Nash raises a scandalous anecdote concerning Gabriel’s wardrobe; “a tale of his hobby-horse reuelling and domineering at Audley-end, when the Queen was there; to which place Gabriel came ruffling it out, hufty tufty, in his suit of veluet—” which he had “untrussed, and pelted the outside from the lining of an old velvet saddle he had borrowed!” “The rotten mould of that worm-eaten relique, he means, 125 when he dies, to hang over his tomb for a monument.”[93] Harvey was proud of his refined skill in “Tuscan authors,” and too fond of their worse conceits. Nash alludes to his travels in Italy, “to fetch him twopenny worth of Tuscanism, quite renouncing his natural English accents and gestures, wrested himself wholly to the Italian punctilios, painting himself like a courtezan, till the Queen declared, ‘he looked something like an Italian!’ At which he roused his plumes, pricked his ears, and run away with the bridle betwixt his teeth.” These were malicious tales, to make his adversary contemptible, whenever the merry wits at court were willing to sharpen themselves on him.

One of the most difficult points of attack was to break through that bastion of sonnets and panegyrics with which Harvey had fortified himself by the aid of his friends, against the assaults of Nash. Harvey had been commended by the learned and the ingenious. Our Lucian, with his usual adroitness, since he could not deny Harvey’s intimacy with Spenser and Sidney, gets rid of their suffrages by this malicious sarcasm: “It is a miserable thing for a man to be said to have had friends, and now to have neer a one left!” As for the others, whom Harvey calls “his gentle and liberall friends,” Nash boldly caricatures the grotesque crew, as “tender itchie brained infants, that cared not what they did, so they might come in print; worthless whippets, and jack-straws, who meeter it in his commendation, whom he would compare with the highest.” The works of these young writers he describes by an image exquisitely ludicrous and satirical:—

“These mushrumpes, who pester the world with their pamphlets, are like those barbarous people in the hot countries, who, when they have bread to make, doe no more than clap the dowe upon a post on the outside of their houses, and there leave it to the sun to bake; so their indigested conceipts, far rawer than anie dowe, at all adventures upon the post they clap, pluck them off who will, and think they have made as good a batch of poetrie as may be.”

“To a bead-roll of learned men and lords, he appeals, whether he be an asse or no?”

Harvey had said, “Thomas Nash, from the top of his wit looking down upon simple creatures, calleth Gabriel Harvey a dunce, a foole, an ideot, a dolt, a goose cap, an asse, and so forth; for some of the residue is not to be spoken but with his owne mannerly mouth; but he should have shewed particularlie which wordes in my letters were the wordes of a dunce; which sentences the sentences of a foole; which arguments the arguments of an ideot; which opinions the opinions of a dolt; which judgments the judgments of a goose-cap; which conclusions the conclusions of an asse.”[94]

Thus Harvey reasons, till he becomes unreasonable; one would have imagined that the literary satires of our English Lucian had been voluminous enough, without the mathematical demonstration. The banterers seem to have put poor Harvey nearly out of his wits; he and his friends felt their blows too profoundly; they were much too thin-skinned, and the solemn air of Harvey in his graver moments at their menaces is extremely ludicrous. They frequently called him Gabrielissime Gabriel, which quintessence of himself seems to have mightily affected him. They threatened to confute his letters till eternity—which seems to have put him in despair. The following passage, descriptive of Gabriel’s distresses, may excite a smile.

“This grand confuter of my letters says, ‘Gabriel, if there be any wit or industrie in thee, now I will dare it to the vttermost; write of what thou wilt, in what language thou wilt, and I will confute it, and answere it. Take Truth’s part, and I will proouve truth to be no truth, marching ovt of thy dung-voiding mouth.’ He will never leave me as long as he is able to lift a pen, ad infinitum; if I reply, he has a rejoinder; and for my brief triplication, he is prouided with a quadruplication, and so he mangles my sentences, hacks my arguments, wrenches my words, chops and changes my phrases, even to the disjoyning and dislocation of my whole meaning.”

Poor Harvey! he knew not that there was nothing real in ridicule, no end to its merry malice!

Harvey’s taste for hexameter verses, which he so unnaturally forced into our language, is admirably ridiculed. 127 Harvey had shown his taste for these metres by a variety of poems, to whose subjects Nash thus sarcastically alludes:—

“It had grown with him into such a dictionary custom, that no may-pole in the street, no wether-cocke on anie church-steeple, no arbour, no lawrell, no yewe-tree, he would ouerskip, without hayling in this manner. After supper, if he chancst to play at cards with a queen of harts in his hands, he would run upon men’s and women’s hearts all the night.”

And he happily introduces here one of the miserable hexameter conceits of Harvey—

which Nash most happily burlesques by describing Harvey under a yew-tree at Trinity-hall, composing verses on the weathercock of Allhallows in Cambridge:—

“The hexameter verse (says Nash) I graunt to be a gentleman of an auncient house (so is many an English beggar), yet this clyme of our’s hee cannot thrive in; our speech is too craggy for him to set his plough in; hee goes twitching and hopping in our language, like a man running vpon quagmires, vp the hill in one syllable and down the dale in another, retaining no part of that stately smooth gate which he vaunts himself with amongst the Greeks and Latins.”

The most humorous part in this Scribleriad, is a ludicrous narrative of Harvey’s expedition to the metropolis, for the sole purpose of writing his “Pierce Supererogation,” pitted against Nash’s “Pierce’s Pennilesse.” The facetious Nash describes the torpor and pertinacity of his genius, by telling us he had kept Harvey at work—

“For seaven and thirtie weekes space while he lay at his printer’s, Wolfe, never stirring out of doors, or being churched all that while—and that in the deadest season that might bee, hee lying in the ragingest furie of the last plague where there dyde above 1600 a weeke in London, ink-squittring and saracenically printing against mee. Three quarters of a year 128 thus immured hee remained, with his spirits yearning empassionment, and agonised fury, thirst of revenge, neglecting soul and bodies health to compasse it—sweating and dealing upon it most intentively.”[95]

The narrative proceeds with the many perils which Harvey’s printer encountered, by expense of diet, and printing for this bright genius and his friends, whose works “would rust and iron-spot paper to have their names breathed over it;” and that Wolfe designed “to get a privilege betimes, forbidding of all others to sell waste-paper but himselfe.” The climax of the narrative, after many misfortunes, ends with Harvey being arrested by the printer, and confined to Newgate, where his sword is taken from him, to his perpetual disgrace. So much did Gabriel endure for having written a book against Tom Nash!

But Harvey might deny some of these ludicrous facts.—Will he deny? cries Nash—and here he has woven every tale the most watchful malice could collect, varnished for their full effect. Then he adds,

“You see I have brought the doctor out of request at court; and it shall cost me a fall, but I will get him howted out of the Vniuersitie too, ere I giue him ouer.” He tells us Harvey was brought on the stage at Trinity-college, in “the exquisite comedie of Pedantius,” where, under “the finical fine schoolmaster, the just manner of his phrase, they stufft his mouth with; and the whole buffianisme throughout his bookes, they bolstered out his part with—euen to the carrying of his gowne, his nice gate in his pantofles, or the affected accent of his speech—Let him deny that there was a shewe made at Clarehall of him and his brothers, called Tarrarantantara turba tumultuosa Trigonum Tri-Harveyorum Tri-harmonia; and another shewe of the little minnow his brother, at Peter-house, called Duns furens, Dick Harvey in a frensie.” The sequel is thus told:—“Whereupon Dick came and broke the college glass windows, and Dr. Perne caused him to be set in the stockes till the shewe was ended.”

This “Duns furens, Dick Harvey in a frensie,” was not 129 only the brother of one who ranked high in society and literature, but himself a learned professor. Nash brings him down to “Pigmey Dick, that lookes like a pound of goldsmith’s candles, who had like to commit folly last year with a milk-maid, as a friend of his very soberly informed me. Little and little-wittied Dick, that hath vowed to live and die in defence of Brutus and his Trojans.”[96] An Herculean feat of this “Duns furens,” Nash tells us, was his setting Aristotle with his heels upwards on the school-gates at Cambridge, and putting ass’s ears on his head, which Tom here records in perpetuam rei memoriam. But Wood, our grave and keen literary antiquary, observes—

“To let pass other matters these vain men (the wits) report of Richard Harvey, his works show him quite another person than what they make him to be.”

Nash then forms a ludicrous contrast between “witless Gabriel and ruffling Richard.” The astronomer Richard was continually baiting the great bear in the firmament, and in his lectures set up atheistical questions, which Nash maliciously adds, “as I am afraid the earth would swallow me if I should but rehearse.” And at his close, Nash bitterly regrets he has no more room; “else I should make Gabriel a fugitive out of England, being the rauenousest slouen that ever lapt porridge in noblemen’s houses, where he has had already, out of two, his mittimus of Ye may be gone! for he was a sower of seditious paradoxes amongst kitchen-boys.” Nash seems to have considered himself as terrible as an Archilochus, whose satires were so fatal as to induce the satirised, after having read them, to hang themselves.

How ill poor Harvey passed through these wit-duels, and how profoundly the wounds inflicted on him and his brothers were felt, appears by his own confessions. In his “Foure Letters,” after some curious observations on invectives and satires, from those of Archilochus, Lucian, and Aretine, to Skelton and Scoggin, and “the whole venomous and viperous brood of old and new raylers,” he proceeds to blame even his beloved friend the gentle Spenser, for the severity of his “Mother Hubbard’s Tale,” a satire on the court. “I must needes say, Mother Hubbard in heat of choller, forgetting the 130 pure sanguine of her Sweete Feary Queene, artfully ouershott her malcontent-selfe; as elsewhere I have specified at large, with the good leaue of vnspotted friendship.—Sallust and Clodius learned of Tully to frame artificiall declamations and patheticall invectives against Tully himselfe; if Mother Hubbard, in the vaine of Chawcer, happen to tel one canicular tale, father Elderton and his son Greene, in the vaine of Skelton or Scoggin, will counterfeit an hundred dogged fables, libles, slaunders, lies, for the whetstone. But many will sooner lose their liues than the least jott of their reputation. What mortal feudes, what cruel bloodshed, what terrible slaughterdome have been committed for the point of honour and some few courtly ceremonies.”

The incidents so plentifully narrated in this Lucianic biography, the very nature of this species of satire throws into doubt; yet they still seem shadowed out from some truths; but the truths who can unravel from the fictions? And thus a narrative is consigned to posterity which involves illustrious characters in an inextricable network of calumny and genius.

Writers of this class alienate themselves from human kind, they break the golden bond which holds them to society; and they live among us like a polished banditti. In these copious extracts, I have not noticed the more criminal insinuations against the Harveys; I have left the grosser slanders untouched. My object has been only to trace the effects of ridicule, and to detect its artifices, by which the most dignified characters may be deeply injured at the pleasure of a Ridiculer. The wild mirth of ridicule, aggravating and taunting real imperfections, and fastening imaginary ones on the victim in idle sport or ill-humour, strikes at the most brittle thing in the world, a man’s good reputation, for delicate matters which are not under the protection of the law, but in which so much of personal happiness is concerned.

In the peaceful walks of literature we are startled at discovering genius with the mind, and, if we conceive the instrument it guides to be a stiletto, with the hand of an assassin—irascible, vindictive, armed with indiscriminate satire, never 131 pardoning the merit of rival genius, but fastening on it throughout life, till, in the moral retribution of human nature, these very passions, by their ungratified cravings, have tended to annihilate the being who fostered them. These passions among literary men are with none more inextinguishable than among provincial writers.—Their bad feelings are concentrated by their local contraction. The proximity of men of genius seems to produce a familiarity which excites hatred or contempt; while he who is afflicted with disordered passions imagines that he is urging his own claims to genius by denying them to their possessor. A whole life passed in harassing the industry or the genius which he has not equalled; and instead of running the open career as a competitor, only skulking as an assassin by their side, is presented in the object now before us.

Dr. Gilbert Stuart seems early in life to have devoted himself to literature; but his habits were irregular, and his passions fierce. The celebrity of Robertson, Blair, and Henry, with other Scottish brothers, diseased his mind with a most envious rancour. He confined all his literary efforts to the pitiable motive of destroying theirs; he was prompted to every one of his historical works by the mere desire of discrediting some work of Robertson; and his numerous critical labours were all directed to annihilate the genius of his country. How he converted his life into its own scourge, how wasted talents he might have cultivated into perfection, lost every trace of humanity, and finally perished, devoured by his own fiend-like passions,—shall be illustrated by the following narrative, collected from a correspondence now lying before me, which the author carried on with his publisher in London. I shall copy out at some length the hopes and disappointments of the literary adventurer—the colours are not mine; I am dipping my pencil in the palette of the artist himself.

In June, 1773, was projected in the Scottish capital “The Edinburgh Magazine and Review.” Stuart’s letters breathe the spirit of rapturous confidence. He had combined the sedulous attention of the intelligent Smellie, who was to be the printer, with some very honourable critics; Professor Baron, Dr. Blacklock, and Professor Richardson; and the first numbers were executed with more talent than periodical publications had then exhibited. But the hardiness of Stuart’s opinions, his personal attacks, and the acrimony of his literary 132 libels, presented a new feature in Scottish literature, of such ugliness and horror, that every honourable man soon averted his face from this boutefeu.

“A print of my Lord Monboddo in his quadruped form. I must, therefore, most earnestly beg that you will purchase for me a copy of it in some of the Macaroni print shops. It is not to be procured at Edinburgh. They are afraid to vend it here. We are to take it on the footing of a figure of an animal, not yet described; and are to give a grave, yet satirical account of it, in the manner of Buffon. It would not be proper to allude to his lordship but in a very distant manner.”

It was not, however, ventured on; and the nondescript animal was still confined to the windows of “the Macaroni print shops.” It was, however, the bloom of the author’s fancy, and promised all the mellow fruits it afterwards produced.

“The proposals are issued; the subscriptions in the booksellers’ shops astonish; correspondents flock in; and, what will surprise you, the timid proprietors of the ‘Scots’ Magazine’ have come to the resolution of dropping their work. You stare at all this, and so do I too.”

Thus he flatters himself he is to annihilate his rival, without even striking the first blow. The appearance of his first number is to be the moment when their last is to come forth. Authors, like the discoverers of mines, are the most sanguine creatures in the world: Gilbert Stuart afterwards flattered himself Dr. Henry was lying at the point of death from the scalping of his tomahawk pen; but of this anon.

On the publication of the first number, in November, 1773, all is exultation; and an account is facetiously expected that “a thousand copies had emigrated from the Row and Fleet-street.”

There is a serious composure in the letter of December, which seems to be occasioned by the tempered answer of his London correspondent. The work was more suited to the meridian of Edinburgh; and from causes sufficiently obvious, its personality and causticity. Stuart, however, assures his friend that “the second number you will find better than the first, and the third better than the second.”

The next letter is dated March 4, 1774, in which I find our author still in good spirits:—

“The Magazine rises, and promises much, in this quarter. Our artillery has silenced all opposition. The rogues of the ‘uplifted hands’ decline the combat.” These rogues are the clergy, and some others, who had “uplifted hands” from the vituperative nature of their adversary; for he tells us that, “now the clergy are silent, the town-council have had the presumption to oppose us; and have threatened Creech (the publisher in Edinburgh) with the terror of making him a constable for his insolence. A pamphlet on the abuses of Heriot’s Hospital, including a direct proof of perjury in the provost, was the punishment inflicted in return. And new papers are forging to chastise them, in regard to the poors’ rate, which is again started; the improper choice of professors; and violent stretches of the impost. The liberty of the press, in its fullest extent, is to be employed against them.”

Such is the language of reform, and the spirit of a reformist! A little private malignity thus ferments a good deal of public spirit; but patriotism must be independent to be pure. If the “Edinburgh Review” continues to succeed in its sale, as Stuart fancies, Edinburgh itself may be in some danger. His perfect contempt of his contemporaries is amusing:—

“Monboddo’s second volume is published, and, with Kaimes, will appear in our next; the former is a childish performance; the latter rather better. We are to treat them with a good deal of freedom. I observe an amazing falling off in the English Reviews. We beat them hollow. I fancy they have no assistance but from the Dissenters,—a dull body of men. The Monthly will not easily recover the death of Hawkesworth; and I suspect that Langhorne has forsaken them; for I see no longer his pen.”

We are now hastening to the sudden and the moral catastrophe of our tale. The thousand copies which had emigrated to London remained there, little disturbed by public inquiry; and in Scotland, the personal animosity against almost every literary character there, which had inflamed the sale, became naturally the latent cause of its extinction; for its life was but a feverish existence, and its florid complexion carried with it the seeds of its dissolution. Stuart at length quarrelled with his coadjutor, Smellie, for altering his reviews. Smellie’s prudential dexterity was such, that, in an article designed to level Lord Kaimes with Lord Monboddo, the whole libel was completely metamorphosed into a panegyric. They were involved in a lawsuit about “a blasphemous 134 paper.” And now the enraged Zoilus complains of “his hours of peevishness and dissatisfaction.” He acknowledges that “a circumstance had happened which had broke his peace and ease altogether for some weeks.” And now he resolves that this great work shall quietly sink into a mere compilation from the London periodical works. Such, then, is the progress of malignant genius! The author, like him who invented the brazen bull of Phalaris, is writhing in that machine of tortures he had contrived for others.

We now come to a very remarkable passage: it is the frenzied language of disappointed wickedness.

Again.—“The publication is too good for the country. There are very few men of taste or erudition on this side of the Tweed. Yet every idiot one meets with lays claim to both. Yet the success of the Magazine is in reality greater than we could expect, considering that we have every clergyman in the kingdom to oppose it, and that the magistracy of the place are every moment threatening its destruction.”

And, therefore, this recreant Scot anathematizes the Scottish people for not applauding blasphemy, calumny, and every species of literary criminality! Such are the monstrous passions that swell out the poisonous breast of genius, deprived of every moral restraint; and such was the demoniac irritability which prompted a wish in Collot d’Herbois to set fire 135 to the four quarters of the city of Lyons; while, in his “tender mercies,” the kennels of the streets were running with the blood of its inhabitants—remembering still that the Lyonese had, when he was a miserable actor, hissed him off the stage!

Stuart curses his country, and retreats to London. Fallen, but not abject; repulsed, but not altered; degraded, but still haughty. No change of place could operate any in his heart. He was born in literary crime, and he perished in it. It was now “The English Review” was instituted, with his idol Whitaker, the historian of Manchester, and others. He says, “To Whitaker he assigns the palm of history in preference to Hume and Robertson.” I have heard that he considered himself higher than Whitaker, and ranked himself with Montesquieu. He negotiated for Whitaker and himself a Doctor of Laws’ degree; and they were now in the titular possession of all the fame which a dozen pieces could bestow! In “The English Review” broke forth all the genius of Stuart in an unnatural warfare of Scotchmen in London against Scotchmen at Edinburgh. “The bitter herbs,” which seasoned it against Blair, Robertson, Gibbon, and the ablest authors of the age, at first provoked the public appetite, which afterwards indignantly rejected the palatable garbage.

But to proceed with our Literary Conspiracy, which was conducted by Stuart with a pertinacity of invention perhaps not to be paralleled in literary history. That the peace of mind of such an industrious author as Dr. Henry was for a considerable time destroyed; that the sale of a work on which Henry had expended much of his fortune and his life was stopped; and that, when covered with obloquy and ridicule, in despair he left Edinburgh for London, still encountering the same hostility; that all this was the work of the same hand perhaps was never even known to its victim. The multiplied forms of this Proteus of the Malevoli were still but one devil; fire or water, or a bull or a lion; still it was the same Proteus, the same Stuart.

From the correspondence before me I am enabled to collect the commencement and the end of this literary conspiracy, with all its intermediate links. It thus commences:—

Stuart prepares to assail Henry, on his arrival in London, from various quarters—to lower the value of his history in the estimation of the purchasers.

But Henry and his history long survived Stuart and his critiques; and Robertson, Blair, and Kaimes, with others he assailed, have all taken their due ranks in public esteem. What niche does Stuart occupy? His historical works possess 139 the show, without the solidity, of research; hardy paradoxes, and an artificial style of momentary brilliancy, are none of the lasting materials of history. This shadow of “Montesquieu,” for he conceived him only to be his fit rival, derived the last consolations of life from an obscure corner of a Burton ale-house—there, in rival potations, with two or three other disappointed authors, they regaled themselves on ale they could not always pay for, and recorded their own literary celebrity, which had never taken place. Some time before his death, his asperity was almost softened by melancholy; with a broken spirit, he reviewed himself; a victim to that unrighteous ambition which sought to build up its greatness with the ruins of his fellow-countrymen; prematurely wasting talents which might have been directed to literary eminence. And Gilbert Stuart died as he had lived, a victim to intemperance, physical and moral!

We have witnessed the malignant influence of illiberal criticism, not only on literary men, but over literature itself, since it is the actual cause of suppressing works which lie neglected, though completed by their authors. The arts of literary condemnation, as they may be practised by men of wit and arrogance, are well known; and it is much less difficult than it is criminal, to scare the modest man of learning, and to rack the man of genius, in that bright vision of authorship sometimes indulged in the calm of their studies—a generous emotion to inspire a generous purpose! With suppressed indignation, shrinking from the press, such have condemned themselves to a Carthusian silence; but the public will gain as little by silent authors as by a community of lazy monks; or a choir of singers who insist they have lost their voice. That undue severity of criticism which diminishes the number of good authors, is a greater calamity than even that mawkish panegyric which may invite indifferent ones; for the truth is, a bad book produces no great evil in literature; it dies soon, and naturally; and the feeble birth only disappoints its unlucky parent, with a score of idlers who are the dupes of their rage after novelty. A bad book never sells unless it be 140 addressed to the passions, and, in that case, the severest criticism will never impede its circulation; malignity and curiosity being passions so much stronger and less delicate than taste or truth.

And who are the authors marked out for attack? Scarcely one of the populace of scribblers; for wit will not lose one silver shaft on game which, struck, no one would take up. It must level at the Historian, whose novel researches throw a light in the depths of antiquity; at the Poet, who, addressing himself to the imagination, perishes if that sole avenue to the heart be closed on him. Such are those who receive the criticism which has sent some nervous authors to their graves, and embittered the life of many whose talents we all regard.[99]

But this species of criticism, though ungenial and nipping at first, does not always kill the tree which it has frozen over.

In the calamity before us, Time, that great autocrat, who in its tremendous march destroys authors, also annihilates critics; and acting in this instance with a new kind of benevolence, takes up some who have been violently thrown down, and fixes them in their proper place; and daily enfeebling unjust criticism, has restored an injured author to his full honours.

It is, however, lamentable enough that authors must participate in that courage which faces the cannon’s mouth, or cease to be authors; for military enterprise is not the taste of modest, retired, and timorous characters. The late Mr. Cumberland used to say that authors must not be thin-skinned, but shelled like the rhinoceros; there are, however, more delicately tempered animals among them, new-born lambs, who shudder at a touch, and die under a pressure.

As for those great authors (though the greatest shrink from ridicule) who still retain public favour, they must be 141 patient, proud, and fearless—patient of that obloquy which still will stain their honour from literary echoers; proud, while they are sensible that their literary offspring is not

And fearless of all critics, when they recollect the reply of Bentley to one who threatened to write him down, “that no author was ever written down but by himself.”

An author must consider himself as an arrow shot into the world; his impulse must be stronger than the current of air that carries him on—else he fall!

The character I had proposed to illustrate this calamity was the caustic Dr. Kenrick, who, once during several years, was, in his “London Review,” one of the great disturbers of literary repose. The turn of his criticism; the airiness, or the asperity of his sarcasm; the arrogance with which he treated some of our great authors, would prove very amusing, and serve to display a certain talent of criticism. The life of Kenrick, too, would have afforded some wholesome instruction concerning the morality of a critic. But the rich materials are not at hand! He was a man of talents, who ran a race with the press; could criticise all the genius of the age faster than it could be produced; could make his own malignity look like wit, and turn the wit of others into absurdity, by placing it topsy-turvy. As thus, when he attacked “The Traveller” of Goldsmith, which he called “a flimsy poem,” he discussed the subject as a grave political pamphlet, condemning the whole system, as raised on false principles. “The Deserted Village” was sneeringly pronounced to be “pretty;” but then it had “neither fancy, dignity, genius, or fire.” When he reviewed Johnson’s “Tour to the Hebrides,” he decrees that the whole book was written “by one who had seen but little,” and therefore could not be very interesting. His virulent attack on Johnson’s Shakspeare may be preserved for its total want of literary decency; and his “Love in the Suds, a Town Eclogue,” where he has placed Garrick with an infamous character, may be useful to show how far witty malignity will advance in the violation of moral decency. He libelled all the genius of the age, and was proud of doing it.[100] 142 Johnson and Akenside preserved a stern silence: but poor Goldsmith, the child of Nature, could not resist attempting to execute martial law, by caning the critic; for which being blamed, he published a defence of himself in the papers. I shall transcribe his feelings on Kenrick’s excessive and illiberal criticism.

“The law gives us no protection against this injury. The insults we receive before the public, by being more open, are the more distressing; by treating them with silent contempt, we do not pay a sufficient deference to the opinion of the world. By recurring to legal redress, we too often expose the weakness of the law, which only serves to increase our mortification by failing to relieve us. In short, every man should singly consider himself as a guardian of the liberty of the press, and, as far as his influence can extend, should endeavour to prevent its licentiousness becoming at last the grave of its freedom.”[101]

Here then is another calamity arising from the calamity of undue severity of criticism, which authors bring on themselves by their excessive anxiety, which throws them into some extremely ridiculous attitudes; and surprisingly influences even authors of good sense and temper. Scott, of Amwell, the Quaker and Poet, was, doubtless, a modest and amiable man, for Johnson declared “he loved him.” When his poems were collected, they were reviewed in the “Critical Review” very offensively to the poet; for the critic, alluding to the numerous embellishments of the volume, observed that

“There is a profusion of ornaments and finery about this 143 book not quite suitable to the plainness and simplicity of the Barclean system; but Mr. Scott is fond of the Muses, and wishes, we suppose, like Captain Macheath, to see his ladies well dressed.”

Such was the cold affected witticism of the critic, whom I intimately knew—and I believe he meant little harm! His friends imagined even that this was the solitary attempt at wit he had ever made in his life; for after a lapse of years, he would still recur to it as an evidence of the felicity of his fancy, and the keenness of his satire. The truth is, he was a physician, whose name is prefixed as the editor to a great medical compilation, and who never pretended that he had any taste for poetry. His great art of poetical criticism was always, as Pope expresses a character, “to dwell in decencies;” his acumen, to detect that terrible poetic crime false rhymes, and to employ indefinite terms, which, as they had no precise meaning, were applicable to all things; to commend, occasionally, a passage not always the most exquisite; sometimes to hesitate, while, with delightful candour, he seemed to give up his opinion; to hazard sometimes a positive condemnation on parts which often unluckily proved the most favourite with the poet and the reader. Such was this poetical reviewer, whom no one disturbed in his periodical course, till the circumstance of a plain Quaker becoming a poet, and fluttering in the finical ornaments of his book, provoked him from that calm state of innocent mediocrity, into miserable humour, and illiberal criticism.

The effect, however, this pert criticism had on poor Scott was indeed a calamity. It produced an inconsiderate “Letter to the Critical Reviewers.” Scott was justly offended at the stigma of Quakerism, applied to the author of a literary composition; but too gravely accuses the critic of his scurrilous allusion to Macheath, as comparing him to a highwayman; he seems, however, more provoked at the odd account of his poems; he says, “You rank all my poems together as bad, then discriminate some as good, and, to complete all, recommend the volume as an agreeable and amusing collection.” Had the poet been personally acquainted with this tantalizing critic, he would have comprehended the nature of the criticism—and certainly would never have replied to it.

The critic, employing one of his indefinite terms, had said of “Amwell,” and some of the early “Elegies,” that “they had their share of poetical merit;” he does not venture to 144 assign the proportion of that share, but “the Amœbean and oriental eclogues, odes, epistles, &c., now added, are of a much weaker feature, and many of them incorrect.”

Here Scott loses all his dignity as a Quaker and a poet—he asks what the critic means by the affected phrase much weaker feature; the style, he says, was designed to be somewhat less elevated, and thus addresses the critic:—

“You may, however, be safely defied to pronounce them, with truth, deficient either in strength or melody of versification! They were designed to be, like Virgil’s, descriptive of Nature, simple and correct. Had you been disposed to do me justice, you might have observed that in these eclogues I had drawn from the great prototype Nature, much imagery that had escaped the notice of all my predecessors. You might also have remarked that when I introduced images that had been already introduced by others, still the arrangement or combination of those images was my own. The praise of originality you might at least have allowed me.”

As for their incorrectness!—Scott points that accusation with a note of admiration, adding, “with whatever defects my works may be chargeable, the last is that of incorrectness.”

Perhaps the most extraordinary examples of the irritation of a poet’s mind, and a man of amiable temper, are those parts of this letter in which the author quotes large portions of his poetry, to refute the degrading strictures of the reviewer.

This was a fertile principle, admitting of very copious extracts; but the ludicrous attitude is that of an Adonis inspecting himself at his mirror.

That provoking see-saw of criticism, which our learned physician usually adopted in his critiques, was particularly tantalizing to the poet of Amwell. The critic condemns, in the gross, a whole set of eclogues; but immediately asserts of one of them, that “the whole of it has great poetical merit, and paints its subject in the warmest colours.” When he came to review the odes, he discovers that “he does not meet with those polished numbers, nor that freedom and spirit, which that species of poetry requires;” and quotes half 145 a stanza, which he declares is “abrupt and insipid.” “From twenty-seven odes!” exclaims the writhing poet—“are the whole of my lyric productions to be stigmatised for four lines which are flatter than those that preceded them?” But what the critic could not be aware of, the poet tells us—he designed them to be just what they are. “I knew they were so when they were first written, but they were thought sufficiently elevated for the place.” And then he enters into an inquiry what the critic can mean by “polished numbers, freedom, and spirit.” The passage is curious:—

“By your first criticism, polished numbers, if you mean melodious versification, this perhaps the general ear will not deny me. If you mean classical, chaste diction, free from tautologous repetitions of the same thoughts in different expressions; free from bad rhymes, unnecessary epithets, and incongruous metaphors, I believe you may be safely challenged to produce many instances wherein I have failed.

“By freedom, your second criterion, if you mean daring transition, or arbitrary and desultory disposition of ideas, however this may be required in the greater ode, it is now, I believe, for the first time, expected in the lesser ode. If you mean that careless, diffuse composition, that conversation-verse, or verse loitering into prose, now so fashionable, this is an excellence which I am not very ambitious of attaining. But if you mean strong, concise, yet natural easy expression, I apprehend the general judgment will decide in my favour. To the general ear, and the general judgment, then, do I appeal as to an impartial tribunal.” Here several odes are transcribed. “By spirit, your third criticism, I know nothing you can mean but enthusiasm; that which transports us to every scene, and interests us in every sentiment. Poetry without this cannot subsist; every species demands its proportion, from the greater ode, of which it is the principal characteristic, to the lesser, in which a small portion of it only has hitherto been thought requisite. My productions, I apprehend, have never before been deemed destitute of this essential constituent. Whatever I have wrote, I have felt, and I believe others have felt it also.”

On “the Epistles,” which had been condemned in the gross, suddenly the critic turns round courteously to the bard, declaring “they are written in an easy and familiar style, and seem to flow from a good and a benevolent heart.” But then sneeringly adds, that one of them being entitled “An Essay 146 on Painting, addressed to a young Artist, had better have been omitted, because it had been so fully treated in so masterly a manner by Mr. Hayley.” This was letting fall a spark in a barrel of gunpowder. Scott immediately analyses his brother poet’s poem, to show they have nothing in common; and then compares those similar passages the subject naturally produced, to show that “his poem does not suffer greatly in the comparison.” “You may,” he adds, after giving copious extracts from both poems, “persist in saying that Mr. Hayley’s are the best. Your business then is to prove it.” This, indeed, had been a very hazardous affair for our medical critic, whose poetical feelings were so equable, that he acknowledges “Mr. Scott’s poem is just and elegant,” but “Mr. Hayley’s is likewise just and elegant;” therefore, if one man has written a piece “just and elegant,” there is no need of another on the same subject “just and elegant.”

To such an extreme point of egotism was a modest and respectable author most cruelly driven by the callous playfulness of a poetical critic, who himself had no sympathy for poetry of any quality or any species, and whose sole art consisted in turning about the canting dictionary of criticism. Had Homer been a modern candidate for poetical honours, from him Homer had not been distinguished, even from the mediocrity of Scott of Amwell, whose poetical merits are not, however, slight. In his Amœbean eclogues he may be distinguished as the poet of botanists.

Vast erudition, without the tact of good sense, in a voluminous author, what a calamity! for to such a mind no subject can present itself on which he is unprepared to write, and none at the same time on which he can ever write reasonably. The name and the works of William Prynne have often come under the eye of the reader; but it is even now difficult to discover his real character; for Prynne stood so completely insulated amid all parties, that he was ridiculed by his friends, and execrated by his enemies. The exuberance of his fertile pen, the strangeness and the manner of his subjects, and his pertinacity in voluminous publication, are known, and are nearly unparalleled in literary history.

Could the man himself be separated from the author, 147 Prynne would not appear ridiculous; but the unlucky author of nearly two hundred works,[102] and who, as Wood quaintly computes, “must have written a sheet every day of his life, reckoning from the time that he came to the use of reason and the state of man,” has involved his life in his authorship; the greatness of his character loses itself in his voluminous works; and whatever Prynne may have been in his own age, and remains to posterity, he was fated to endure all the calamities of an author who has strained learning into absurdity, and abused zealous industry by chimerical speculation.

Yet his activity, and the firmness and intrepidity of his character in public life, were as ardent as they were in his study—his soul was Roman; and Eachard says, that Charles II., who could not but admire his earnest honesty, his copious learning, and the public persecutions he suffered, and the ten imprisonments he endured, inflicted by all parties, dignified him with the title of “the Cato of the Age;” and one of his own party facetiously described him as “William the Conqueror,” a title he had most hardly earned by his inflexible and invincible nature. Twice he had been cropped of his ears; for at the first time the executioner having spared the two fragments, the inhuman judge on his second trial discovering them with astonishment, ordered them to be most unmercifully cropped—then he was burned on his cheek, and ruinously fined and imprisoned in a remote solitude,[103]—but 148 had they torn him limb by limb, Prynne had been in his mind a very polypus, which, cut into pieces, still loses none of its individuality.

His conduct on the last of these occasions, when sentenced to be stigmatised, and to have his ears cut close, must be noticed. Turning to the executioner, he calmly invited him to do his duty—“Come, friend, come, burn me! cut me! I fear not! I have learned to fear the fire of hell, and not what man can do unto me; come, scar me! scar me!” In Prynne this was not ferocity, but heroism; Bastwick was intrepid out of spite, and Burton from fanaticism. The executioner had been urged not to spare his victims, and he performed his office with extraordinary severity, cruelly heating his iron twice, and cutting one of Prynne’s ears so close, as to take away a piece of the cheek. Prynne stirred not in the torture; and when it was done, smiled, observing, “The more I am 149 beaten down, the more I am lift up.” After this punishment, in going to the Tower by water, he composed the following verses on the two letters branded on his cheek, S. L., for schismatical libeller, but which Prynne chose to translate “Stigmata Laudis,” the stigmas of his enemy, the Archbishop Laud.

The heroic man, who could endure agony and insult, and even thus commemorate his sufferings, with no unpoetical conception, almost degrades his own sublimity when the poetaster sets our teeth on edge by his verse.

The triumph of this unconquered being was, indeed, signal. History scarcely exhibits so wonderful a reverse of fortune, and so strict a retribution, as occurred at this eventful period. He who had borne from the archbishop and the lords in the Star Chamber the most virulent invectives, wishing them at that instant seriously to consider that some who sat there on the bench might yet stand prisoners at the bar, and need the favour they now denied, at length saw the prediction completely verified. What were the feelings of Laud, when Prynne, returning from his prison of Mount Orgueil in triumph, the road strewed with boughs, amid the acclamations of the people, entered the apartment in the Tower which the venerable Laud now in his turn occupied. The unsparing Puritan sternly performed the office of rifling his papers,[104] and persecuted the helpless prelate till he led him to 150 the block. Prynne, to use his own words, for he could be eloquent when moved by passion, “had struck proud Canterbury to the heart; and had undermined all his prelatical designs to advance the bishops’ pomp and power;”[105] Prynne triumphed—but, even this austere Puritan soon grieved over the calamities he had contributed to inflict on the nation; and, with a humane feeling, he once wished, that “when they had cut off his ears, they had cut off his head.” He closed his political existence by becoming an advocate for the Restoration; but, with his accustomed want of judgment and intemperate zeal, had nearly injured the cause by his premature activity. At the Restoration some difficulty occurred to dispose of “busie Mr. Pryn,” as Whitelocke calls him. It is said he wished to be one of the Barons of the 151 Exchequer, but he was made the Keeper of the Records in the Tower, “purposely to employ his head from scribbling against the state and bishops;” where they put him to clear the Augean stable of our national antiquities, and see whether they could weary out his restless vigour. Prynne had, indeed, written till he found no antagonist would reply; and now he rioted in leafy folios, and proved himself to be one of the greatest paper-worms which ever crept into old books and mouldy records.[106]

The literary character of Prynne is described by the happy epithet which Anthony Wood applies to him, “Voluminous Prynne.” His great characteristic is opposed to that axiom of Hesiod so often quoted, that “half is better than the whole;” a secret which the matter-of-fact men rarely discover. Wanting judgment, and the tact of good sense, these detailers have no power of selection from their stores, to make one prominent fact represent the hundred minuter ones that may follow it. Voluminously feeble, they imagine expansion is stronger than compression; and know not to generalise, while they only can deal in particulars. Prynne’s speeches were just as voluminous as his writings; always deficient in judgment, and abounding in knowledge—he was always wearying others, but never could himself. He once made a speech to the House, to persuade them the king’s concessions were sufficient ground for a treaty; it contains a complete narrative of all the transactions between the king, the Houses, and the army, from the beginning of the parliament; it takes up 140 octavo pages, and kept the house so long together, that the debates lasted from Monday morning till Tuesday morning!

Prynne’s literary character may be illustrated by his singular book, “Histriomastix,”—where we observe how an author’s exuberant learning, like corn heaped in a granary, grows rank and musty, by a want of power to ventilate and stir about the heavy mass.

This paper-worm may first be viewed in his study, as 152 painted by the picturesque Anthony Wood; an artist in the Flemish school:—

“His custom, when he studied, was to put on a long quilted cap, which came an inch over his eyes, serving as an umbrella to defend them from too much light, and seldom eating any dinner, would be every three hours maunching a roll of bread, and now and then refresh his exhausted spirits with ale brought to him by his servant;” a custom to which Butler alludes,

The “Histriomastix, the Player’s Scourge, or Actor’s Tragedie,” is a ponderous quarto, ascending to about 1100 pages; a Puritan’s invective against plays and players, accusing them of every kind of crime, including libels against Church and State;[107] but it is more remarkable for the incalculable quotations and references foaming over the margins. Prynne scarcely ventures on the most trivial opinion, without calling to his aid whatever had been said in all nations and in all ages; and Cicero, and Master Stubbs, Petrarch and Minutius Felix, Isaiah and Froissart’s Chronicle, oddly associate in the ravings of erudition. Who, indeed, but the author “who seldom dined,” could have quoted perhaps a thousand writers in one volume?[108] A wit of the times remarked of this Helluo librorum, that “Nature makes ever the dullest beasts most laborious, and the greatest feeders;” and Prynne has been reproached with a weak digestion, for “returning things unaltered, which is a symptom of a feeble stomach.”

When we examine this volume, often alluded to, the birth of the monster seems prodigious and mysterious; it combines two opposite qualities; it is so elaborate in its researches among the thousand authors quoted, that these required years to accumulate, and yet the matter is often temporary, 153 and levelled at fugitive events and particular persons; thus the very formation of this mighty volume seems paradoxical. The secret history of this book is as extraordinary as the book itself, and is a remarkable evidence how, in a work of immense erudition, the arts of a wily sage involved himself, and whoever was concerned in his book, in total ruin. The author was pilloried, fined, and imprisoned; his publisher condemned in the penalty of five hundred pounds, and barred for ever from printing and selling books, and the licenser removed and punished. Such was the fatality attending the book of a man whose literary voracity produced one of the most tremendous indigestions, in a malady of writing.

It was on examining Prynne’s trial I discovered the secret history of the “Histriomastix.” Prynne was seven years in writing this work, and, what is almost incredible, it was near four years passing through the press. During that interval the eternal scribbler was daily gorging himself with voluminous food, and daily fattening his cooped-up capon. The temporary sedition and libels were the gradual Mosaic inlayings through this shapeless mass.

It appears that the volume of 1100 quarto pages originally consisted of little more than a quire of paper; but Prynne found insuperable difficulties in procuring a licenser, even for this infant Hercules. Dr. Goode deposed that—

“About eight years ago Mr. Prynne brought to him a quire of paper to license, which he refused; and he recollected the circumstance by having held an argument with Prynne on his severe reprehension on the unlawfulness of a man to put on women’s apparel, which, the good-humoured doctor asserted was not always unlawful; for suppose Mr. Prynne yourself, as a Christian, was persecuted by pagans, think you not if you disguised yourself in your maid’s apparel, you did well? Prynne sternly answered that he thought himself bound rather to yield to death than to do so.”

“Mr. Prynne came to him to license a treatise concerning stage-plays; but he would not allow of the same;”—and adds, “So this man did deliver this book when it was young and tender, and would have had it then printed; but it is since grown seven times bigger, and seven times worse.”

Prynne not being able to procure these licensers, had 154 recourse to another, Buckner, chaplain to the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was usual for the licenser to examine the MS. before it went to the press; but Prynne either tampered with Buckner, or so confused his intellects by keeping his multifarious volume in the press for four years; and sometimes, I suspect, by numbering folios for pages, as appears in the work, that the examination of the licenser gradually relaxed; and he declares in his defence that he had only licensed part of it. The bookseller, Sparks, was indeed a noted publisher of what was then called “Unlawful and unlicensed books;” and he had declared that it was “an excellent book, which would be called in, and then sell well.” He confesses the book had been more than three years in the press, and had cost him three hundred pounds.

The speech of Noy, the Attorney-General, conveys some notion of the work itself; sufficiently curious as giving the feelings of those times against the Puritans.

“Who he means by his modern innovators in the church, and by cringing and ducking to altars, a fit term to bestow on the church; he learned it of the canters, being used among them. The musick in the church, the charitable term he giveth it, is not to be a noise of men, but rather a bleating of brute beasts; choristers bellow the tenor, as it were oxen; bark a counterpoint as a kennel of dogs; roar out a treble like a sort of bulls; grunt out a bass, as it were a number of hogs. Bishops he calls the silk and satin divines; says Christ was a Puritan, in his Index. He falleth on those things that have not relation to stage-plays, musick in the church, dancing, new-years’ gifts, &c.,—then upon altars, images, hair of men and women, bishops and bonfires. Cards and tables do offend him, and perukes do fall within the compass of his theme. His end is to persuade the people that we are returning back again to paganism, and to persuade them to go and serve God in another country, as many are gone already, and set up new laws and fancies among themselves. Consider what may come of it!”

The decision of the Lords of the Star Chamber was dictated by passion as much as justice. Its severity exceeded the crime of having produced an unreadable volume of indigested erudition; and the learned scribbler was too hardly used, scarcely escaping with life. Lord Cottington, amazed at the mighty volume, too bluntly affirmed that Prynne did not write this book alone; “he either assisted the devil, or was 155 assisted by the devil.” But secretary Cooke delivered a sensible and temperate speech; remarking on all its false erudition that,

“By this vast book of Mr. Prynne’s, it appeareth that he hath read more than he hath studied, and studied more than he hath considered. He calleth his book ‘Histriomastix;’ but therein he showeth himself like unto Ajax Anthropomastix, as the Grecians called him, the scourge of all mankind, that is, the whipper and the whip.”

Such is the history of a man whose greatness of character was clouded over and lost in a fatal passion for scribbling; such is the history of a voluminous author whose genius was such that he could write a folio much easier than a page; and “seldom dined” that he might quote “squadrons of authorities.”[109]

The name of Toland is more familiar than his character, yet his literary portrait has great singularity; he must be classed among the “Authors by Profession,” an honour secured by near fifty publications; and we shall discover that he aimed to combine with the literary character one peculiarly his own.[110] 156 With higher talents and more learning than have been conceded to him, there ran in his mind an original vein of thinking. Yet his whole life exhibits in how small a degree great intellectual powers, when scattered through all the forms which Vanity suggests, will contribute to an author’s social comforts, or raise him in public esteem. Toland was fruitful in his productions, and still more so in his projects; yet it is mortifying to estimate the result of all the intense activity of the life of an author of genius, which terminates in being placed among these Calamities.

Toland’s birth was probably illegitimate; a circumstance which influenced the formation of his character. Baptised in ridicule, he had nearly fallen a victim to Mr. Shandy’s system of Christian names, for he bore the strange ones of Janus Junius, which, when the school-roll was called over every morning, afforded perpetual merriment, till the master blessed him with plain John, which the boy adopted, and lived in quiet. I must say something on the names themselves, perhaps as ridiculous! May they not have influenced the character of Toland, since they certainly describe it? He had all the shiftings of the double-faced Janus, and the revolutionary politics of the ancient Junius. His godfathers sent him into the world in cruel mockery, thus to remind their Irish boy of the fortunes that await the desperately bold: nor did Toland forget the strong-marked designations; for to his most objectionable work, the Latin tract entitled Pantheisticon, descriptive of what some have considered as an atheistical society, he subscribes these appropriate names, which at the time were imagined to be fictitious.

Toland ran away from school and Popery. When in after-life he was reproached with native obscurity, he ostentatiously produced a testimonial of his birth and family, hatched up at a convent of Irish Franciscans in Germany, where the good Fathers subscribed, with their ink tinged with their Rhenish, to his most ancient descent, referring to the Irish history! which they considered as a parish register, fit for the suspected son of an Irish Priest!

Toland, from early life, was therefore dependent on patrons; but illegitimate birth creates strong and determined characters, and Toland had all the force and originality of self-independence. He was a seed thrown by chance, to grow of itself wherever it falls.

This child of fortune studied at four Universities; at Glasgow, 157 Edinburgh, and Leyden; from the latter he passed to Oxford, and, in the Bodleian Library, collected the materials for his after-studies.

He loved study, and even at a later period declares that “no employment or condition of life shall make me disrelish the lasting entertainment of books.” In his “Description of Epsom,” he observes that the taste for retirement, reading, and contemplation, promotes the true relish for select company, and says,

“Thus I remove at pleasure, as I grow weary of the country or the town, as I avoid a crowd or seek company.—Here, then, let me have books and bread enough without dependence; a bottle of hermitage and a plate of olives for a select friend; with an early rose to present a young lady as an emblem of discretion no less than of beauty.”

At Oxford appeared that predilection for paradoxes and over-curious speculations, which formed afterwards the marking feature of his literary character. He has been unjustly contemned as a sciolist; he was the correspondent of Leibnitz, Le Clerc, and Bayle, and was a learned author when scarcely a man. He first published a Dissertation on the strange tragical death of Regulus, and proved it a Roman legend. A greater paradox might have been his projected speculation on Job, to demonstrate that only the dialogue was genuine; the rest being the work of some idle Rabbin, who had invented a monstrous story to account for the extraordinary afflictions of that model of a divine mind. Speculations of so much learning and ingenuity are uncommon in a young man; but Toland was so unfortunate as to value his own merits before those who did not care to hear of them.

Hardy vanity was to recompense him, perhaps he thought, for that want of fortune and connexions, which raised duller spirits above him. Vain, loquacious, inconsiderate, and daring, he assumed the dictatorship of a coffee-house, and obtained easy conquests, which he mistook for glorious ones, over the graver fellows, who had for many a year awfully petrified their own colleges. He gave more violent offence by his new opinions on religion. An anonymous person addressed two letters to this new Heresiarch, solemn and monitory.[111] Toland’s answer is as honourable as that of his monitor’s. This passage is forcibly conceived:—

“To what purpose should I study here or elsewhere, were I an atheist or deist, for one of the two you take me to be? What a condition to mention virtue, if I believed there was no God, or one so impotent that could not, or so malicious that would not, reveal himself! Nay, though I granted a Deity, yet, if nothing of me subsisted after death, what laws could bind, what incentives could move me to common honesty? Annihilation would be a sanctuary for all my sins, and put an end to my crimes with myself. Believe me I am not so indifferent to the evils of the present life, but, without the expectation of a better, I should soon suspend the mechanism of my body, and resolve into inconscious atoms.”

This early moment of his life proved to be its crisis, and the first step he took decided his after-progress. His first great work of “Christianity not Mysterious,” produced immense consequences. Toland persevered in denying that it was designed as any attack on Christianity, but only on those subtractions, additions, and other alterations, which have corrupted that pure institution. The work, at least, like its title, is “Mysterious.”[112] Toland passed over to Ireland, but his book having got there before him, the author beheld himself anathematized; the pulpits thundered, and it was dangerous to be seen conversing with him. A jury who confessed they could not comprehend a page of his book, condemned it to be burned. Toland now felt a tenderness for his person; and the humane Molyneux, the friend of Locke, while he censures the imprudent vanity of our author, gladly witnessed the flight of “the poor gentleman.” But South, indignant at our English moderation in his own controversy with Sherlock on some doctrinal points of the Trinity, congratulates the Archbishop of Dublin on the Irish persecution; and equally witty and intolerant, he writes on Toland, “Your Parliament presently sent him packing, and without the help of a fagot, soon made the kingdom too hot for him.”

Toland was accused of an intention to found a sect, as South calls them, of “Mahometan-Christians.” Many were stigmatised as Tolandists; but the disciples of a man who never procured for their prophet a bit of dinner or a new wig, for he was frequently wanting both, were not to be feared as enthusiasts. The persecution from the church only rankled in the breast of Toland, and excited unextinguishable revenge.

He now breathed awhile from the bonfire of theology; and our Janus turned his political face. He edited Milton’s voluminous politics, and Harrington’s fantastical “Oceana,” and, as his “Christianity not Mysterious” had stamped his religion with something worse than heresy, so in politics he was branded as a Commonwealth’s-man. Toland had evidently strong nerves; for him opposition produced controversy, which he loved, and controversy produced books, by which he lived.

But let it not be imagined that Toland affected to be considered as no Christian, or avowed himself as a Republican. “Civil and religious toleration” (he says) “have been the two main objects of all my writings.” He declares himself to be only a primitive Christian, and a pure Whig. But an author must not be permitted to understand himself so much more clearly than he has enabled his readers to do. His mysterious conduct may be detected in his want of moral integrity.

He had the art of explaining away his own words, as in his first controversy about the word mystery in religion, and he exults in his artifice; for, in a letter, where he is soliciting the minister for employment, he says:—“The church is much exasperated against me; yet as that is the heaviest article, so it is undoubtedly the easiest conquered, and I know the infallible method of doing it.” And, in a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury, he promises to reform his religion to that prelate’s liking! He took the sacrament as an opening for the negotiation.

What can be more explicit than his recantation at the close of his Vindicius Liberius? After telling us that he had withdrawn from sale, after the second edition, his “‘Christianity not Mysterious,’ when I perceived what real or pretended offence it had given,” he concludes thus:—“Being now arrived to years that will not wholly excuse inconsiderateness in resolving, or precipitance in acting, I firmly hope that my persuasion and practice will show me to be a true Christian; that my due conformity to the public worship may 160 prove me to be a good Churchman; and that my untainted loyalty to King William will argue me to be a staunch Commonwealth’s-man. That I shall continue all my life a friend to religion, an enemy to superstition, a supporter of good kings, and a deposer of tyrants.”

Observe, this Vindicius Liberius was published on his return from one of his political tours in Germany. His views were then of a very different nature from those of controversial divinity; but it was absolutely necessary to allay the storm the church had raised against him. We begin now to understand a little better the character of Toland. These literary adventurers, with heroic pretensions, can practise the meanest artifices, and shrink themselves into nothing to creep out of a hole. How does this recantation agree with the “Nazarenus,” and the other theological works which Toland was publishing all his life? Posterity only can judge of men’s characters; it takes in at a glance the whole of a life; but contemporaries only view a part, often apparently unconnected and at variance, when in fact it is neither. This recantation is full of the spirit of Janus Junius Toland.

But we are concerned chiefly with Toland’s literary character. He was so confirmed an author, that he never published one book without promising another. He refers to others in MS.; and some of his most curious works are posthumous. He was a great artificer of title-pages, covering them with a promising luxuriance; and in this way recommended his works to the booksellers. He had an odd taste for running inscriptions of whimsical crabbed terms; the gold-dust of erudition to gild over a title; such as “Tetradymus, Hodegus, Clidopharus;” “Adeisidaemon, or the Unsuperstitious.” He pretends these affected titles indicated their several subjects; but the genius of Toland could descend to literary quackery.

He had the art of propagating books; his small Life of Milton produced several; besides the complacency he felt in extracting long passages from Milton against the bishops. In this Life, his attack on the authenticity of the Eikon Basilike of Charles I. branched into another on supposititious writings; and this included the spurious gospels. Association of ideas is a nursing mother to the fertility of authorship. The spurious gospels opened a fresh theological campaign, and produced his “Amyntor.” There was no end in provoking an author, who, in writing the life of a poet, could 161 contrive to put the authenticity of the Testament to the proof.

Amid his philosophical labours, his vanity induced him to seize on all temporary topics to which his facility and ingenuity gave currency. The choice of his subjects forms an amusing catalogue; for he had “Remarks” and “Projects” as fast as events were passing. He wrote on the “Art of Governing by Parties,” on “Anglia Liberia,” “Reasons for Naturalising the Jews,” on “The Art of Canvassing at Elections,” “On raising a National Bank without Capital,” “The State Anatomy,” “Dunkirk or Dover,” &c. &c. These, and many like these, set off with catching titles, proved to the author that a man of genius may be capable of writing on all topics at all times, and make the country his debtor without benefiting his own creditors.[113]

There was a moment in Toland’s life when he felt, or thought he felt, fortune in his grasp. He was then floating on the ideal waves of the South Sea bubble. The poor author, elated with a notion that he was rich enough to print at his own cost, dispersed copies of his absurd “Pantheisticon.” He describes a society of Pantheists, who worship the universe as God; a mystery much greater than those he attacked in Christianity. Their prayers are passages from Cicero and Seneca, and they chant long poems instead of psalms; so that in their zeal they endured a little tediousness. The next objectionable circumstance in this wild ebullition of philosophical wantonness is the apparent burlesque of some liturgies; and a wag having inserted in some copies an impious prayer to Bacchus, Toland suffered for the folly of others as well as his own.[114] With the South Sea bubble vanished Toland’s desire 162 of printing books at his own risk; and thus relieved the world from the weight of more Pantheisticons!

With all this bustle of authorship, amidst temporary publications which required such prompt ingenuity, and elaborate works which matured the fruits of early studies, Toland was still not a sedentary writer. I find that he often travelled on the continent; but how could a guinealess author so easily transport himself from Flanders to Germany, and appear at home in the courts of Berlin, Dresden, and Hanover? Perhaps we may discover a concealed feature in the character of our ambiguous philosopher.

In the only Life we have of Toland, by Des Maiseaux, prefixed to his posthumous works, he tells us, that Toland was at the court of Berlin, but “an incident, too ludicrous to be mentioned, obliged him to leave that place sooner than he expected.” Here is an incident in a narrative clearly marked out, but never to be supplied! Whatever this incident was, it had this important result, that it sent Toland away in haste; but why was he there? Our chronological biographer,[115] “good easy man,” suspects nothing more extraordinary when he tells us Toland was at Berlin or Hanover, than when he finds him at Epsom; imagines Toland only went to the Electoral Princess Sophia, and the Queen of Prussia, who were “ladies of sublime genius,” to entertain them by vexing some grave German divines, with philosophical conferences, and paradoxical conundrums; all the ravings of Toland’s idleness.[116]

This secret history of Toland can only be picked out by fine threads. He professed to be a literary character—he had opened a periodical “literary correspondence,” as he terms it, with Prince Eugene; such as we have witnessed in our days by Grimm and La Harpe, addressed to some northern princes. He was a favourite with the Electoral 163 Princess Sophia and the Queen of Prussia, to whom he addressed his “Letters to Serena.” Was he a political agent? Yet how was it that Toland was often driven home by distressed circumstances? He seems not to have been a practical politician, for he managed his own affairs very ill. Was the political intriguer rather a suspected than a confidential servant of all his masters and mistresses? for it is evident no one cared for him! The absence of moral integrity was probably never disguised by the loquacious vanity of this literary adventurer.

In his posthumous works are several “Memorials” for the Earl of Oxford, which throw a new light over a union of political espionage with the literary character, which finally concluded in producing that extraordinary one which the political imagination of Toland created in all the obscurity and heat of his reveries.

In one of these “Memorials,” forcibly written and full of curiosity, Toland remonstrates with the minister for his marked neglect of him; opens the scheme of a political tour, where, like Guthrie, he would be content with his quarterage. He defines his character; for the independent Whig affects to spurn at the office, though he might not shrink at the duties of a spy.

“Whether such a person, sir, who is neither minister nor spy, and as a lover of learning will be welcome everywhere, may not prove of extraordinary use to my Lord Treasurer, as well as to his predecessor Burleigh, who employed such, I leave his lordship and you to consider.”

Still this character, whatever title may designate it, is inferior in dignity and importance to that which Toland afterwards projected, and which portrays him where his life-writer has not given a touch from his brush; it is a political curiosity.

“I laid an honester scheme of serving my country, your lordship, and myself; for, seeing it was neither convenient for you, nor a thing at all desired by me, that I should appear in any public post, I sincerely proposed, as occasions should offer, to communicate to your lordship my observations on the temper of the ministry, the dispositions of the people, the condition of our enemies or allies abroad, and what I might think most expedient in every conjuncture; which advice you were to follow in whole, or in part, or not at all, as your own superior wisdom should direct. My general acquaintance, 164 the several languages I speak, the experience I have acquired in foreign affairs, and being engaged in no interest at home, besides that of the public, should qualify me in some measure for this province. All wise ministers have ever had such private monitors. As much as I thought myself fit, or was thought so by others, for such general observations, so much have I ever abhorred, my lord, those particular observers we call Spies; but I despise the calumny no less than I detest the thing. Of such general observations, you should have perused a far greater number than I thought fit to present hitherto, had I discovered, by due effects, that they were acceptable from me; for they must unavoidably be received from somebody, unless a minister were omniscient—yet I soon had good reason to believe I was not designed for the man, whatever the original sin could be that made me incapable of such a trust, and which I now begin to suspect. Without direct answers to my proposals, how could I know whether I helped my friends elsewhere, or betrayed them contrary to my intentions! and accordingly I have for some time been very cautious and reserved. But if your lordship will enter into any measures with me to procure the good of my country, I shall be more ready to serve your lordship in this, or in some becoming capacity, than any other minister. They who confided to my management affairs of a higher nature have found me exact as well as secret. My impenetrable negociation at Vienna (hid under the pretence of curiosity) was not only applauded by the prince that employed me, but also proportionably rewarded. And here, my lord, give me leave to say that I have found England miserably served abroad since this change; and our ministers at home are sometimes as great strangers to the genius as to the persons of those with whom they have to do. At —— you have placed the most unacceptable man in the world—one that lived in a scandalous misunderstanding with the minister of the States at another court—one that has been the laughing-stock of all courts, for his senseless haughtiness and most ridiculous airs—and one that can never judge aright, unless by accident, in anything.”

The discarded, or the suspected private monitor of the Minister warms into the tenderest language of political amour, and mourns their rupture but as the quarrels of lovers.

“I cannot, from all these considerations, but in the nature of a lover, complain of your present neglect, and be solicitous for your future care.” And again, “I have made use of the simile of a lover, and as such, indeed, I thought fit, once for all, to come to a thorough explanation, resolved, if my affection be not killed by your unkindness, to become indissolubly yours.”

Such is the nice artifice which colours, with a pretended love of his country, the sordidness of the political intriguer, giving clean names to filthy things. But this view of the political face of our Janus is not complete till we discover the levity he could carry into politics when not disguised by more pompous pretensions. I shall give two extracts from letters composed in a different spirit.

“I am bound for Germany, though first for Flanders, and next for Holland. I believe I shall be pretty well accommodated for this voyage, which I expect will be very short. Lord! how near was my old woman being a queen! and your humble servant being at his ease.”

His old woman was the Electoral Princess Sophia; and his ease is what patriots distinguish as the love of their country! Again—

“The October Club,[117] if rightly managed, will be rare stuff to work the ends of any party. I sent such an account of these wights to an old gentlewoman of my acquaintance, as in the midst of fears (the change of ministry) will make her laugh.”

After all his voluminous literature, and his refined politics, Toland lived and died the life of an Author by Profession, in an obscure lodging at a country carpenter’s, in great distress. He had still one patron left, who was himself poor, Lord Molesworth, who promised him, if he lived,

“Bare necessaries. These are but cold comfort to a man of your spirit and desert; but ’tis all I dare promise! ’Tis an ungrateful age, and we must bear with it the best we may till we can mend it.”

And his lordship tells of his unsuccessful application to some Whig lord for Toland; and concludes,

I have observed that Toland had strong nerves; he neither feared controversies, nor that which closes all. Having examined his manuscripts, I can sketch a minute picture of the last days of our “author by profession.” At the carpenter’s lodgings he drew up a list of all his books—they were piled on four chairs, to the amount of 155—most of them works which evince the most erudite studies; and as Toland’s learning has been very lightly esteemed, it may be worth notice that some of his MSS. were transcribed in Greek.[118] To this list he adds—“I need not recite those in the closet with the unbound books and pamphlets; nor my trunk, wherein are all my papers and MSS.” I perceive he circulated his MSS. among his friends, for there is a list by him as he lent them, among which are ladies as well as gentlemen, esprits forts!

Never has author died more in character than Toland; he may be said to have died with a busy pen in his hand. Having suffered from an unskilful physician, he avenged himself in his own way; for there was found on his table an “Essay on Physic without Physicians.” The dying patriot-trader was also writing a preface for a political pamphlet on the danger of mercenary Parliaments; and the philosopher 167 was composing his own epitaph—one more proof of the ruling passion predominating in death; but why should a Pantheist be solicitous to perpetuate his genius and his fame! I shall transcribe a few lines; surely they are no evidence of Atheism!

One would have imagined that the writer of his own panegyrical epitaph would have been careful to have transmitted to posterity a copy of his features; but I know of no portrait of Toland. His patrons seem never to have been generous, nor his disciples grateful; they mortified rather than indulged the egotism of his genius. There appeared, indeed, an elegy, shortly after the death of Toland, so ingeniously contrived, that it is not clear whether he is eulogised or ridiculed. Amid its solemnity these lines betray the sneer. “Has,” exclaimed the eulogist of the ambiguous philosopher,

Locke, with all the prescient sagacity of that clear understanding 168 which penetrated under the secret folds of the human heart, anticipated the life of Toland at its commencement. He admired the genius of the man; but, while he valued his parts and learning, he dreaded their result. In a letter I find these passages, which were then so prophetic, and are now so instructive:—

“If his exceeding great value of himself do not deprive the world of that usefulness that his parts, if rightly conducted, might be of, I shall be very glad.—The hopes young men give of what use they will make of their parts is, to me, the encouragement of being concerned for them; but, if vanity increases with age, I always fear whither it will lead a man.”

Pope said that Steele, though he led a careless and vicious life, had nevertheless a love and reverence for virtue. The life of Steele was not that of a retired scholar; hence his moral character becomes more instructive. He was one of those whose hearts are the dupes of their imaginations, and who are hurried through life by the most despotic volition. He always preferred his caprices to his interests; or, according to his own notion, very ingenious, but not a little absurd, “he was always of the humour of preferring the state of his mind to that of his fortune.” The result of this principle of moral conduct was, that a man of the most admirable abilities was perpetually acting like a fool, and, with a warm attachment to virtue, was the frailest of human beings.

In the first act of his life we find the seed that developed itself in the succeeding ones. His uncle could not endure a hero for his heir: but Steele had seen a marching regiment; a sufficient reason with him to enlist as a private in the horse-guards: cocking his hat, and putting on a broad-sword, jack-boots, and shoulder-belt, with the most generous feelings he forfeited a very good estate.—At length Ensign Steele’s frank temper and wit conciliated esteem, and extorted admiration, and the ensign became a favourite leader in all the dissipations of the town. All these were the ebullitions of genius, which had not yet received a legitimate direction. Amid these orgies, however, it was often pensive, and forming 169 itself; for it was in the height of these irregularities that Steele composed his “Christian Hero,” a moral and religious treatise, which the contritions of every morning dictated, and to which the disorders of every evening added another penitential page. Perhaps the genius of Steele was never so ardent and so pure as at this period; and in his elegant letter to his commander, the celebrated Lord Cutts, he gives an interesting account of the origin of this production, which none but one deeply imbued with its feelings could have so forcibly described.

To this solemn and monitory work he prefixed his name, from this honourable motive, that it might serve as “a standing testimony against himself, and make him ashamed of understanding, and seeming to feel what was virtuous, and living so quite contrary a life.” Do we not think that no one less than a saint is speaking to us? And yet he is still nothing more than Ensign Steele! He tells us that this grave work made him considered, who had been no undelightful companion, as a disagreeable fellow—and “The Christian Hero,” by his own words, appears to have fought off several fool-hardy geniuses who were for “trying their valour on him,” supposing a saint was necessarily a poltroon. Thus “The Christian Hero,” finding himself slighted by his loose companions, sat down and composed a most laughable comedy, “The Funeral;” and with all the frankness of a man who cares not to hide his motives, he tells us, that after his religious work he wrote the comedy because “nothing can make the town so fond of a man as a successful play.”[121] 170 The historian who had to record such strange events, following close on each other, as an author publishing a book of piety, and then a farce, could never have discovered the secret motive of the versatile writer, had not that writer possessed the most honest frankness.

Steele was now at once a man of the town and its censor, and wrote lively essays on the follies of the day in an enormous black peruke which cost him fifty guineas! He built an elegant villa, but, as he was always inculcating economy, he dates from “The Hovel.” He detected the fallacy of the South Sea scheme, while he himself invented projects, neither inferior in magnificence nor in misery. He even turned alchemist, and wanted to coin gold, merely to distribute it. The most striking incident in the life of this man of volition, was his sudden marriage with a young lady who attended his first wife’s funeral—struck by her angelical beauty, if we trust to his raptures. Yet this sage, who would have written so well on the choice of a wife, united himself to a character the most uncongenial to his own; cold, reserved, and most anxiously prudent in her attention to money, she was of a temper which every day grew worse by the perpetual imprudence and thoughtlessness of his own. He calls her “Prue” in fondness and reproach; she was Prudery itself! His adoration was permanent, and so were his complaints; and they never parted but with bickerings—yet he could not suffer her absence, for he was writing to her three or four passionate notes in a day, which are dated from his office, or his bookseller’s, or from some friend’s house—he has risen in the midst of dinner to despatch a line to “Prue,” to assure her of his affection since noon.[122]—Her presence or her absence was equally painful to him.

Yet Steele, gifted at all times with the susceptibility of genius, was exercising the finest feelings of the heart; the same generosity of temper which deluded his judgment, and invigorated his passions, rendered him a tender and pathetic dramatist; a most fertile essayist; a patriot without private views; an enemy whose resentment died away in raillery; and a friend, who could warmly press the hand that chastised him. Whether in administration, or expelled the House; whether affluent, or flying from his creditors; in the fulness of his heart he, perhaps, secured his own happiness, and lived on, like some wits, extempore. But such men, with all their virtues and all their genius, live only for themselves.

Steele, in the waste of his splendid talents, had raised sudden enmities and transient friendships. The world uses such men as Eastern travellers do fountains; they drink their waters, and when their thirst is appeased, turn their hacks on them. Steele lived to be forgotten. He opened his career with folly; he hurried through it in a tumult of existence; and he closed it by an involuntary exile, amid the wrecks of his fortune and his mind.

Steele, in one of his numerous periodical works, the twelfth number of the “Theatre,” has drawn an exquisite contrast 172 between himself and his friend Addison: it is a cabinet picture. Steele’s careful pieces, when warm with his subject, had a higher spirit, a richer flavour, than the equable softness of Addison, who is only beautiful.

“There never was a more strict friendship than between these gentlemen; nor had they ever any difference but what proceeded from their different way of pursuing the same thing: the one, with patience, foresight, and temperate address, always waited and stemmed the torrent; while the other often plunged himself into it, and was as often taken out by the temper of him who stood weeping on the bank for his safety, whom he could not dissuade from leaping into it. Thus these two men lived for some years last past, shunning each other, but still preserving the most passionate concern for their mutual welfare. But when they met, they were as unreserved as boys; and talked of the greatest affairs, upon which they saw where they differed, without pressing (what they knew impossible) to convert each other.”

If Steele had the honour of the invention of those periodical papers which first enlightened the national genius by their popular instruction, he is himself a remarkable example of the moral and the literary character perpetually contending in the man of volition.

This awful calamity may be traced in the fate of Leland and Collins: the one exhausted the finer faculties of his mind in the grandest views, and sunk under gigantic tasks; the other enthusiast sacrificed his reason and his happiness to his imagination.

Leland, the father of our antiquaries, was an accomplished scholar, and his ample mind had embraced the languages of antiquity, those of his own age, and the ancient ones of his own country: thus he held all human learning by its three vast chains. He travelled abroad; and he cultivated poetry with the ardour he could even feel for the acquisition of words. On his return home, among other royal favours, he was appointed by Henry VIII. the king’s antiquary, a title honourably created for Leland; for with him it became extinct. By this office he was empowered to search after 173 English antiquities; to review the libraries of all the religious institutions, and to bring the records of antiquity “out of deadly darkness into lively light.” This extensive power fed a passion already formed by the study of our old rude historians; his elegant taste perceived that they wanted those graces which he could lend them.

Six years were occupied, by uninterrupted travel and study, to survey our national antiquities; to note down everything observable for the history of the country and the honour of the nation. What a magnificent view has he sketched of this learned journey! In search of knowledge, Leland wandered on the sea-coasts and in the midland; surveyed towns and cities, and rivers, castles, cathedrals, and monasteries; tumuli, coins, and inscriptions; collected authors; transcribed MSS. If antiquarianism pored, genius too meditated in this sublime industry.

Another six years were devoted to shape and to polish the immense collections he had amassed. All this untired labour and continued study were rewarded by Henry VIII. It is delightful, from its rarity, to record the gratitude of a patron: Henry was worthy of Leland; and the genius of the author was magnificent as that of the monarch who had created it.

Nor was the gratitude of Leland silent: he seems to have been in the habit of perpetuating his spontaneous emotions in elegant Latin verse. Our author has fancifully expressed his gratitude to the king:—

“Sooner,” he says, “shall the seas float without their silent inhabitants; the thorny hedges cease to hide the birds; the oak to spread its boughs; and Flora to paint the meadows with flowers;”

Leland was, indeed, alive to the kindness of his royal patron; and among his numerous literary projects, was one of writing a history of all the palaces of Henry, in imitation of Procopius, who described those of the Emperor Justinian. He had already delighted the royal ear in a beautiful effusion of fancy and antiquarianism, in his Cygnea Cantio, the Song of the Swans. The swan of Leland, melodiously floating 174 down the Thames, from Oxford to Greenwich, chants, as she passes along, the ancient names and honours of the towns, the castles, and the villages.

Leland presented his “Strena, or a New Year’s Gift,” to the king.—It consists of an account of his studies; and sketches, with a fervid and vast imagination, his magnificent labour, which he had already inscribed with the title De Antiquitate Britannica, and which was to be divided into as many books as there were shires. All parts of this address of the King’s Antiquary to the king bear the stamp of his imagination and his taste. He opens his intention of improving, by the classical graces of composition, the rude labours of our ancestors; for,

“Except Truth be delicately clothed in purpure, her written verytees can scant find a reader.”

“From time to time preserved the acts of your predecessors, and the fortunes of your realm, with great diligence, and no less faith; would to God with like eloquence!”

An exclamation of fine taste, when taste was yet a stranger in the country. And when he alludes to the knowledge of British affairs scattered among the Roman, as well as our own writers, his fervid fancy breaks forth with an image at once simple and sublime:—

“I trust,” says Leland, “so to open the window, that the light shall be seen so long, that is to say, by the space of a whole thousand years stopped up, and the old glory of your Britain to re-flourish through the world.”[123]

“Should I live to perform those things that are already begun, I trust that your realm shall so well be known, once painted with its native colours, that it shall give place to the glory of no other region.”

The grandeur of this design was a constituent part of the genius of Leland, but not less, too, was that presaging melancholy which even here betrays itself, and even more frequently in his verses. Everything about Leland was marked by his 175 own greatness; his country and his countrymen were ever present; and, by the excitement of his feelings, even his humbler pursuits were elevated into patriotism. Henry died the year after he received the “New Year’s Gift.” From that moment, in losing the greatest patron for the greatest work, Leland appears to have felt the staff which he had used to turn at pleasure for his stay, break in his hands.

He had new patrons to court, while engaged in labours for which a single life had been too short. The melancholy that cherishes genius may also destroy it. Leland, brooding over his voluminous labours, seemed to love and to dread them; sometimes to pursue them with rapture, and sometimes to shrink from them with despair. His generous temper had once shot forwards to posterity; but he now calms his struggling hopes and doubts, and confines his literary ambition to his own country and his own age.

By other verses, addressed to Cranmer, it would appear that Leland was experiencing anxieties to which he had not been accustomed,—and one may suspect, by the opening image of his “Supellex,” that his pension was irregular, and that he began, as authors do in these hard cases, to value “the furniture” of his mind above that of his house.

But, conscious of the greatness of his labours, he would obtain the favour of the Archbishop, by promising a share of his own fame—

Thus was Leland, like the melancholic, withdrawn entirely into the world of his own ideas; his imagination delighting in reveries, while his industry was exhausting itself in labour. His manners were not free from haughtiness,—his meagre 177 and expressive physiognomy indicates the melancholy and the majesty of his mind; it was not old age, but the premature wrinkles of those nightly labours he has himself recorded. All these characteristics are so strongly marked in the bust of Leland, that Lavater had triumphed had he studied it.[124]

Labour had been long felt as voluptuousness by Leland; and this is among the Calamities of Literature, and it is so with all those studies which deeply busy the intellect and the fancy. There is a poignant delight in study, often subversive of human happiness. Men of genius, from their ideal state, drop into the cold formalities of society, to encounter its evils, its disappointments, its neglect, and perhaps its persecutions. When such minds discover the world will only become a friend on its own terms, then the cup of their wrath overflows; the learned grow morose, and the witty sarcastic; but more indelible emotions in a highly-excited imagination often produce those delusions, which Darwin calls hallucinations, and which sometimes terminate in mania. The haughtiness, the melancholy, and the aspiring genius of Leland, were tending to a disordered intellect. Incipient insanity is a mote floating in the understanding, escaping all observation, when the mind is capable of observing itself, but seems a constituent part of the mind itself when that is completely covered with its cloud.

Leland did not reach even the maturity of life, the period at which his stupendous works were to be executed. He was seized by frenzy. The causes of his insanity were never known. The Papists declared he went mad because he had embraced the new religion; his malicious rival Polydore Vergil, because he had promised what he could not perform; duller prosaists because his poetical turn had made him conceited. The grief and melancholy of a fine genius, and perhaps an irregular pension, his enemies have not noticed.

The ruins of Leland’s mind were viewed in his library; volumes on volumes stupendously heaped together, and masses of notes scattered here and there; all the vestiges of his genius, and its distraction. His collections were seized on by honest and dishonest hands; many were treasured, but some were stolen. Hearne zealously arranged a series of volumes 178 from the fragments; but the “Britannia” of Camden, the “London” of Stowe, and the “Chronicles” of Holinshed, are only a few of those public works whose waters silently welled from the spring of Leland’s genius; and that nothing might be wanting to preserve some relic of that fine imagination which was always working in his poetic soul, his own description of his learned journey over the kingdom was a spark, which, falling into the inflammable mind of a poet, produced the singular and patriotic poem of the “Polyolbion” of Drayton. Thus the genius of Leland has come to us diffused through a variety of other men’s; and what he intended to produce it has required many to perform.

A singular inscription, in which Leland speaks of himself, in the style he was accustomed to use, and which Weever tells us was affixed to his monument, as he had heard by tradition, was probably a relic snatched from his general wreck—for it could not with propriety have been composed after his death.[125]

Another example of literary disappointment disordering the intellect may be contemplated in the fate of the poet Collins.

Several interesting incidents may be supplied to Johnson’s narrative of the short and obscure life of this poet, who, more than any other of our martyrs to the lyre, has thrown over all his images and his thoughts a tenderness of mind, and breathed a freshness over the pictures of poetry, which the mighty 179 Milton has not exceeded, and the laborious Gray has not attained. But he immolated happiness, and at length reason, to his imagination! The incidents most interesting in the life of Collins would be those events which elude the ordinary biographer; that invisible train of emotions which were gradually passing in his mind; those passions which first moulded his genius, and which afterwards broke it! But who could record the vacillations of a poetic temper, its early hope and its late despair, its wild gaiety and its settled frenzy, but the poet himself? Yet Collins has left behind no memorial of the wanderings of his alienated mind but the errors of his life!

At college he published his “Persian Eclogues,” as they were first called, to which, when he thought they were not distinctly Persian, he gave the more general title of “Oriental.” The publication was attended with no success; but the first misfortune a poet meets will rarely deter him from incurring more. He suddenly quitted the university, and has been censured for not having consulted his friends when he rashly resolved to live by the pen. But he had no friends! His father had died in embarrassed circumstances; and Collins was residing at the university on the stipend allowed him by his uncle, Colonel Martin, who was abroad. He was indignant at a repulse he met with at college; and alive to the name of author and poet, the ardent and simple youth imagined that a nobler field of action opened on him in the metropolis than was presented by the flat uniformity of a collegiate life. To whatever spot the youthful poet flies, that spot seems Parnassus, as applause seems patronage. He hurried to town, and presented himself before the cousin who paid his small allowance from his uncle in a fashionable dress with a feather in his hat. The graver gentleman did not succeed in his attempt at sending him back, with all the terror of his information, that Collins had not a single guinea of his own, and was dressed in a coat he could never pay for. The young bard turned from his obdurate cousin as “a dull fellow;” a usual phrase with him to describe those who did not think as he would have them.

That moment was now come, so much desired, and scarcely yet dreaded, which was to produce those effusions of fancy and learning, for which Collins had prepared himself by previous studies. About this time Johnson [126] has given a finer 180 picture of the intellectual powers and the literary attainments of Collins than in the life he afterwards composed. “Collins was acquainted not only with the learned tongues, but with the Italian, French, and Spanish languages; full of hopes and full of projects, versed in many languages, high in fancy, and strong in retention.” Such was the language of Johnson, when, warmed by his own imagination, he could write like Longinus; at that after-period, when assuming the austerity of critical discussion for the lives of poets, even in the coldness of his recollections, he describes Collins as “a man of extensive literature, and of vigorous faculties.”

A chasm of several years remains to be filled. He was projecting works of labour, and creating productions of taste; and he has been reproached for irresolution, and even for indolence. Let us catch his feelings from the facts as they rise together, and learn whether Collins must endure censure or excite sympathy.

When he was living loosely about town, he occasionally wrote many short poems in the house of a friend, who witnesses that he burned as rapidly as he composed. His odes were purchased by Millar, yet though but a slight pamphlet, all the interest of that great bookseller could never introduce them into notice. Not an idle compliment is recorded to have been sent to the poet. When we now consider that among these odes was one the most popular in the language, with some of the most exquisitely poetical, it reminds us of the difficulty a young writer without connexions experiences in obtaining the public ear; and of the languor of poetical connoisseurs who sometimes suffer poems, that have not yet grown up to authority, to be buried on the shelf. What the outraged feelings of the poet were, appeared when some time afterwards he became rich enough to express them. Having obtained some fortune by the death of his uncle, he made good to the publisher the deficiency of the unsold odes, and, in his haughty resentment at the public taste, consigned the impression to the flames!

Who shall now paint the feverish and delicate feelings of a young poet such as Collins, who had twice addressed the public, and twice had been repulsed? He whose poetic temper Johnson has finely painted, at the happy moment when he felt its influence, as “delighting to rove through the meadows of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces, and repose by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens!”

It cannot be doubted, and the recorded facts will demonstrate it, that the poetical disappointments of Collins were secretly preying on his spirit, and repressing his firmest exertions. With a mind richly stored with literature, and a soul alive to the impulses of nature and study, he projected a “History of the Revival of Learning,” and a translation of “Aristotle’s Poetics,” to be illustrated by a large commentary.

But “his great fault,” says Johnson, “was his irresolution; or the frequent calls of immediate necessity broke his schemes, and suffered him to pursue no settled purpose.” Collins was, however, not idle, though without application; for, when reproached with idleness by a friend, he showed instantly several sheets of his version of Aristotle, and many embryos of some lives he had engaged to compose for the “Biographia Britannica;” he never brought either to perfection! What then was this irresolution but the vacillations of a mind broken and confounded? He had exercised too constantly the highest faculties of fiction, and he had precipitated himself into the dreariness of real life. None but a poet can conceive, for none but a poet can experience, the secret wounds inflicted on a mind of romantic fancy and tenderness of emotion, which has staked its happiness on its imagination; for such neglect is felt as ordinary men would feel the sensation of being let down into a sepulchre, and buried alive. The mind of Tasso, a brother in fancy to Collins, became disordered by the opposition of the critics, but perpetual neglect injures it not less. The Hope of the ancients was represented holding some flowers, the promise of the spring, or some spikes of corn, indicative of approaching harvest—but the Hope of Collins had scattered its seed, and they remained buried in the earth.

The oblivion which covered our poet’s works appeared to him eternal, as those works now seem to us immortal. He had created Hope with deep and enthusiastic feeling!—

The few years Collins passed in the metropolis he was subsisting with or upon his friends; and, being a pleasing companion, he obtained many literary acquaintances. It was at this period that Johnson knew him, and thus describes 182 him:—“His appearance was decent, and his knowledge considerable; his views extensive, and his conversation elegant.” He was a constant frequenter at the literary resorts of the Bedford and Slaughter’s; and Armstrong, Hill, Garrick, and Foote, frequently consulted him on their pieces before they appeared in public. From his intimacy with Garrick he obtained a free admission into the green-room; and probably it was at this period, among his other projects, that he planned several tragedies, which, however, as Johnson observes, “he only planned.” There is a feature in Collins’s character which requires attention. He is represented as a man of cheerful dispositions; and it has been my study to detect only a melancholy, which was preying on the very source of life itself. Collins was, indeed, born to charm his friends; for fancy and elegance were never absent from his susceptible mind, rich in its stores, and versatile in its emotions. He himself indicates his own character, in his address to “Home:”—

Johnson has told us of his cheerful dispositions; and one who knew him well observes, that “in the green-room he made diverting observations on the vanity and false consequence of that class of people, and his manner of relating them to his particular friends was extremely entertaining:” but the same friend acknowledges that “some letters which he received from Collins, though chiefly on business, have in them some flights which strongly mark his character, and for which reason I have preserved them.” We cannot decide of the temper of a man viewed only in a circle of friends, who listen to the ebullitions of wit or fancy; the social warmth for a moment throws into forgetfulness his secret sorrow. The most melancholy man is frequently the most delightful companion, and peculiarly endowed with the talent of satirical playfulness and vivacity of humour.[127] But what was 183 the true life of Collins, separated from its adventitious circumstances? It was a life of want, never chequered by hope, that was striving to elude its own observation by hurrying into some temporary dissipation. But the hours of melancholy and solitude were sure to return; these were marked on the dial of his life, and, when they struck, the gay and lively Collins, like one of his own enchanted beings, as surely relapsed into his natural shape. To the perpetual recollection of his poetical disappointments are we to attribute this unsettled state of his mind, and the perplexity of his studies. To these he was perpetually reverting, which he showed when after a lapse of several years, he could not rest till he had burned his ill-fated odes. And what was the result of his literary life? He returned to his native city of Chichester in a state almost of nakedness, destitute, diseased, and wild in despair, to hide himself in the arms of a sister.

The cloud had long been gathering over his convulsed intellect; and the fortune he acquired on the death of his uncle served only for personal indulgences, which rather accelerated his disorder. There were, at times, some awful pauses in the alienation of his mind—but he had withdrawn it from study. It was in one of these intervals that Thomas Warton told Johnson that when he met Collins travelling, he took up a book the poet carried with him, from curiosity, to see what companion a man of letters had chosen—it was an English Testament. “I have but one book,” said Collins, “but that is the best.” This circumstance is recorded on his tomb.

At Chichester, tradition has preserved some striking and affecting occurrences of his last days; he would haunt the aisles and cloisters of the cathedral, roving days and nights together, loving their

And, when the choristers chanted their anthem, the listening and bewildered poet, carried out of himself by the solemn strains, and his own too susceptible imagination, moaned and shrieked, and awoke a sadness and a terror most affecting amid religious emotions; their friend, their kinsman, and their poet, was before them, an awful image of human misery and ruined genius!

A voluntary subscription raised the monument to Collins. The genius of Flaxman has thrown out on the eloquent marble all that fancy would consecrate; the tomb is itself a poem.

There Collins is represented as sitting in a reclining posture, during a lucid interval of his afflicting malady, with a calm and benign aspect, as if seeking refuge from his misfortunes in the consolations of the Gospel, which lie open before him, whilst his lyre, and “The Ode on the Passions,” as a scroll, are thrown together neglected on the ground. Upon the pediment on the tablet are placed in relief two female figures of Love and Pity, entwined each in the arms of the other; the proper emblems of the genius of his poetry.

Langhorne, who gave an edition of Collins’s poems with all the fervour of a votary, made an observation not perfectly correct:—“It is observable,” he says, “that none of his poems bear the marks of an amorous disposition; and that he is one of those few poets who have sailed to Delphi without touching at Cythera. In the ‘Ode to the Passions,’ Love has been omitted.” There, indeed, Love does not form an important personage; yet, at the close, Love makes his transient appearance with Joy and Mirth—“a gay fantastic round.”

It is certain, however, that Collins considered the amatory passion as unfriendly to poetic originality; for he alludes to the whole race of the Provençal poets, by accusing them of only employing

Collins affected to slight the urchin; for he himself had been once in love, and his wit has preserved the history of his passion; he was attached to a young lady who was born the day before him, and who seems not to have been very poetically tempered, for she did not return his ardour. On that occasion he said “that he came into the world a day after the fair.”

Langhorne composed two sonnets, which seem only preserved in the “Monthly Review,” in which he was a writer, and where he probably inserted them; they bear a particular reference to the misfortunes of our poet. In one he represents Wisdom, in the form of Addison, reclining in “the old and honoured shade of Magdalen,” and thus addressing

The last line is most happily applied; it is a verse by the unfortunate bard himself, which heightens the contrast with his forlorn state! Langhorne has feelingly painted the fatal indulgences of such a character as Collins.

The criticism of Johnson on the poetry of Collins, that “as men are often esteemed who cannot be loved, so the poetry of Collins may sometimes extort praise when it gives little pleasure,” might almost have been furnished by the lumbering pen of old Dennis. But Collins from the poetical never extorts praise, for it is given spontaneously; he is much more loved than esteemed, for he does not give little pleasure. Johnson, too, describes his “lines as of slow 186 motion, clogged and impeded with clusters of consonants.” Even this verbal criticism, though it appeals to the eye, and not to the ear, is false criticism, since Collins is certainly the most musical of poets. How could that lyrist be harsh in his diction, who almost draws tears from our eyes, while his melodious lines and picturing epithets are remembered by his readers? He is devoured with as much enthusiasm by one party as he is imperfectly relished by the other.

Johnson has given two characters of this poet; the one composed at a period when that great critic was still susceptible of the seduction of the imagination; but even in this portrait, though some features of the poet are impressively drawn, the likeness is incomplete, for there is not even a slight indication of the chief feature in Collins’s genius, his tenderness and delicacy of emotion, and his fresh and picturesque creative strokes. Nature had denied to Johnson’s robust intellect the perception of these poetic qualities. He was but a stately ox in the fields of Parnassus, not the animal of nature. Many years afterwards, during his poetical biography, that long Lent of criticism, in which he mortified our poetical feeling by accommodating his to the populace of critics—so faint were former recollections, and so imperfect were even those feelings which once he seemed to have possessed—that he could then do nothing but write on Collins with much less warmth than he has written on Blackmore. Johnson is, indeed, the first of critics, when his powerful logic investigates objects submitted to reason; but great sense is not always combined with delicacy of taste; and there is in poetry a province which Aristotle himself may never have entered.

At a time when oriental studies were in their infancy in this country, Simon Ockley, animated by the illustrious example of Pococke and the laborious diligence of Prideaux, devoted his life and his fortune to these novel researches, which necessarily involved both. With that enthusiasm which the ancient votary experienced, and with that patient suffering the modern martyr has endured, he pursued, till he accomplished, the useful object of his labours. He, perhaps, was the first who exhibited to us other heroes than those of Rome 187 and Greece; sages as contemplative, and a people more magnificent even than the iron masters of the world. Among other oriental productions, his most considerable is “The History of the Saracens.” The first volume appeared in 1708, and the second ten years afterwards. In the preface to the last volume, the oriental student pathetically counts over his sorrows, and triumphs over his disappointments; the most remarkable part is the date of the place from whence this preface was written—he triumphantly closes his labours in the confinement of Cambridge Castle for debt!

Ockley, lamenting his small proficiency in the Persian studies, resolves to attain to them—

“How often have I endeavoured to perfect myself in that language, but my malignant and envious stars still frustrated my attempts; but they shall sooner alter their courses than extinguish my resolution of quenching that thirst which the little I have had of it hath already excited.”

“Had I not been forced to snatch everything that I have, as it were, out of the fire, our Saracen history should have been ushered into the world after a different manner.” He is fearful that something would be ascribed to his indolence or negligence, that “ought more justly to be attributed to the influence of inexorable necessity, could I have been master of my own time and circumstances.”

Shame on those pretended patrons who, appointing “a professor of the oriental languages,” counteract the purpose of the professorship by their utter neglect of the professor, whose stipend cannot keep him on the spot where only he ought to dwell. And Ockley complains also of that hypocritical curiosity which pretends to take an interest in things it cares little about; perpetually inquiring, as soon as a work is announced, when it is to come out. But these Pharisees of literature, who can only build sepulchres to ancient prophets, never believe in a living one. Some of these Ockley met with on the publication of his first volume: they run it down as the strangest story they had ever heard; they had never met with such folks as the Arabians! “A reverend dignitary asked me if, when I wrote that book, I had not lately been reading the history of Oliver Cromwell?” Such was the plaudit the oriental student received, and returned to grow pale over his MSS. But when Petis de la Croix, observes 188 Ockley, was pursuing the same track of study, in the patronage of Louis XIV., he found books, leisure, and encouragement; and when the great Colbert desired him to compose the life of Genkis Chan, he considered a period of ten years not too much to be allowed the author. And then Ockley proceeds—

“But my unhappy condition hath always been widely different from anything that could admit of such an exactness. Fortune seems only to have given me a taste of it out of spite, on purpose that I might regret the loss of it.”

He describes his two journeys to Oxford, for his first volume; but in his second, matters fared worse with him—

“Either my domestic affairs were grown much worse, or I less able to bear them; or what is more probable, both.”

Ingenuous confession! fruits of a life devoted in its struggles to important literature! and we murmur when genius is irritable, and erudition is morose! But let us proceed with Ockley:—

“I was forced to take the advantage of the slumber of my cares, that never slept when I was awake; and if they did not incessantly interrupt my studies, were sure to succeed them with no less constancy than night doth the day.”

This is the cry of agony. He who reads this without sympathy, ought to reject these volumes as the idlest he ever read, and honour me with his contempt. The close of Ockley’s preface shows a love-like tenderness for his studies; although he must quit life without bringing them to perfection, he opens his soul to posterity and tells them, in the language of prophecy, that if they will bestow encouragement on our youth, the misfortunes he has described will be remedied. He, indeed, was aware that these students—

“Will hardly come in upon the prospect of finding leisure, in a prison, to transcribe those papers for the press which they have collected with indefatigable labour, and oftentimes at the expense of their rest, and all the other conveniences of life, for the service of the public.”

Yet the exulting martyr of literature, at the moment he is fast bound to the stake, does not consider a prison so dreadful a reward for literary labours—

“I can assure them, from my own experience, that I have enjoyed more true liberty, more happy leisure, and more solid repose in six months here, than in thrice the same number of years before. Evil is the condition of that historian who 189 undertakes to write the lives of others before he knows how to live himself. Yet I have no just reason to be angry with the world; I never stood in need of its assistance in my life, but I found it always very liberal of its advice; for which I am so much the more beholden to it, by how much the more I did always in my judgment give the possession of wisdom the preference to that of riches.”[128]

Poor Ockley, always a student, and rarely what is called a man of the world, once encountered a literary calamity which frequently occurs when an author finds himself among the vapid triflers and the polished cynics of the fashionable circle. Something like a patron he found in Harley, the Earl of Oxford, and once had the unlucky honour of dining at the table of my Lord Treasurer. It is probable that Ockley, from retired habits and severe studies, was not at all accomplished in the suaviter in modo, of which greater geniuses than Ockley have so surlily despaired. How he behaved I cannot narrate: probably he delivered himself with as great simplicity at the table of the Lord Treasurer as on the wrong 190 side of Cambridge Castle gate. The embarrassment this simplicity drew him into is very fully stated in the following copious apology he addressed to the Earl of Oxford, which I have transcribed from the original; perhaps it may be a useful memorial to some men of letters as little polished as the learned Ockley:—

To the honour of the Earl of Oxford, this unlucky piece of awkwardness at table, in giving “uncourtly answers,” did not interrupt his regard for the poor oriental student; for several years afterwards the correspondence of Ockley was still acceptable to the Earl.

If the letters of the widows and children of many of our eminent authors were collected, they would demonstrate the great fact, that the man who is a husband or a father ought not to be an author. They might weary with a monotonous cry, and usually would be dated from the gaol or the garret. I have seen an original letter from the widow of Ockley to the Earl of Oxford, in which she lays before him the deplorable situation of her affairs; the debts of the Professor being beyond what his effects amounted to, the severity of the creditors 192 would not even suffer the executor to make the best of his effects; the widow remained destitute of necessaries, incapable of assisting her children.[129]

Thus students have devoted their days to studies worthy of a student. They are public benefactors, yet find no friend in the public, who cannot yet appreciate their value—Ministers of State know it, though they have rarely protected them. Ockley, by letters I have seen, was frequently employed by Bolingbroke to translate letters from the Sovereign of Morocco to our court; yet all the debts for which he was imprisoned in Cambridge Castle did not exceed two hundred pounds. The public interest is concerned in stimulating such enthusiasts; they are men who cannot be salaried, who cannot be created by letters-patent; for they are men who infuse their soul into their studies, and breathe their fondness for them in their last agonies. Yet such are doomed to feel their life pass away like a painful dream!

Those who know the value of Lightfoot’s Hebraic studies, may be startled at the impediments which seem to have annihilated them. In the following effusion he confides his secret agitation to his friend Buxtorf: “A few years since I prepared a little commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians, in the same style and manner as I had done that on Matthew. But it laid by me two years or more, nor can I now publish it, but at my own charges, and to my great damage, which I felt enough and too much in the edition of my book upon Mark. Some progress I have made in the gospel of St. Luke, but I can print nothing but at my own cost: thereupon I wholly give myself to reading, scarce thinking of writing more; for booksellers and printers have dulled my edge, who will print no book, especially Latin, unless they have an assured and considerable gain.”

These writings and even the fragments have been justly 193 appreciated by posterity, and a recent edition of all Lightfoot’s works in many volumes have received honours which their despairing author never contemplated.

An author occupies a critical situation, for, while he is presenting the world with the result of his profound studies and his honest inquiries, it may prove pernicious to himself. By it he may incur the risk of offending the higher powers, and witnessing his own days embittered. Liable, by his moderation or his discoveries, by his scruples or his assertions, by his adherence to truth, or by the curiosity of his speculations, to be persecuted by two opposite parties, even when the accusations of the one necessarily nullify the other; such an author will be fortunate to be permitted to retire out of the circle of the bad passions; but he crushes in silence and voluntary obscurity all future efforts—and thus the nation loses a valued author.

This case is exemplified by the history of Dr. Cowel’s curious work “The Interpreter.” The book itself is a treasure of our antiquities, illustrating our national manners. The author was devoted to his studies, and the merits of his work recommended him to the Archbishop of Canterbury; in the Ecclesiastical Court he practised as a civilian, and became there eminent as a judge.[130]

Cowel gave his work with all the modesty of true learning; for who knows his deficiencies so well in the subject on which he has written as that author who knows most? It is delightful to listen to the simplicity and force with which an author in the reign of our first James opens himself without reserve.

“My true end is the advancement of knowledge; and 194 therefore have I published this poor work, not only to impart the good thereof to those young ones that want it, but also to draw from the learned the supply of my defects. Whosoever will charge these my travels [labours] with many oversights, he shall need no solemn pains to prove them. And upon the view taken of this book sithence the impression, I dare assure them that shall observe most faults therein, that I, by gleaning after him, will gather as many omitted by him, as he shall show committed by me. What a man saith well is not, however, to be rejected because he hath some errors; reprehend who will, in God’s name, that is, with sweetness and without reproach. So shall he reap hearty thanks at my hands, and thus more soundly help in a few months, than I, by tossing and tumbling my books at home, could possibly have done in many years.”

This extract discovers Cowel’s amiable character as an author. But he was not fated to receive “sweetness without reproach.”

Cowel encountered an unrelenting enemy in Sir Edward Coke, the famous Attorney-General of James I., the commentator of Littleton. As a man, his name ought to arouse our indignation, for his licentious tongue, his fierce brutality, and his cold and tasteless genius. He whose vileness could even ruffle the great spirit of Rawleigh, was the shameless persecutor of the learned Cowel.

Coke was the oracle of the common law, and Cowel of the civil; but Cowel practised at Westminster Hall as well as at Doctors’ Commons. Coke turned away with hatred from an advocate who, with the skill of a great lawyer, exerted all the courage. The Attorney-General sought every occasion to degrade him, and, with puerile derision, attempted to fasten on Dr. Cowel the nickname of Dr. Cowheel. Coke, after having written in his “Reports” whatever he could against our author, with no effect, started a new project. Coke well knew his master’s jealousy on the question of his prerogative; and he touched the King on that nerve. The Attorney-General suggested to James that Cowel had discussed “too nicely the mysteries of his monarchy, in some points derogatory to the supreme power of his crown; asserting that the royal prerogative was in some cases limited.” So subtly the serpent whispered to the feminine ear of a monarch, whom this vanity of royalty startled with all the fears of a woman. This suggestion had nearly occasioned the ruin of Cowel—it 195 verged on treason; and if the conspiracy of Coke now failed, it was through the mediation of the archbishop, who influenced the King; but it succeeded in alienating the royal favour from Cowel.

When Coke found he could not hang Cowel for treason, it was only a small disappointment, for he had hopes to secure his prey by involving him in felony. As physicians in desperate cases sometimes reverse their mode of treatment, so Coke now operated on an opposite principle. He procured a party in the Commons to declare that Cowel was a betrayer of the rights and liberties of the people; that he had asserted the King was independent of Parliament, and that it was a favour to admit the consent of his subjects in giving of subsidies, &c.; and, in a word, that he drew his arguments from the Roman Imperial Code, and would make the laws and customs of Rome and Constantinople those of London and York. Passages were wrested to Coke’s design. The prefacer of Cowel’s book very happily expresses himself when he says, “When a suspected book is brought to the torture, it often confesseth all, and more than it knows.”

The Commons proceeded criminally against Cowel; and it is said his life was required, had not the king interposed. The author was imprisoned, and the book was burnt.

On this occasion was issued “a proclamation touching Dr. Cowel’s book called ‘The Interpreter.’” It may be classed among the most curious documents of our literary history. I do not hesitate to consider this proclamation as the composition of James I.

I will preserve some passages from this proclamation, not merely for their majestic composition, which may still be admired, and the singularity of the ideas, which may still be applied—but for the literary event to which it gave birth in the appointment of a royal licenser for the press. Proclamations and burning of books are the strong efforts of a weak government, exciting rather than suppressing public attention.

“This later age and times of the world wherein we are fallen is so much given to verbal profession, as well of religion as of all commendable royal virtues, but wanting the actions and deeds agreeable to so specious a profession; as it hath bred such an unsatiable curiosity in many men’s spirits, and such an itching in the tongues and pens of most men, as nothing is left unsearched to the bottom both in talking and 196 writing. For from the very highest mysteries in the Godhead and the most inscrutable counsels in the Trinity, to the very lowest pit of hell and the confused actions of the devils there, there is nothing now unsearched into by the curiosity of men’s brains. Men, not being contented with the knowledge of so much of the will of God as it hath pleased him to reveal, but they will needs sit with him in his most private closet, and become privy of his most inscrutable counsels. And, therefore, it is no wonder that men in these our days do not spare to wade in all the deepest mysteries that belong to the persons or state of kings and princes, that are gods upon earth; since we see (as we have already said) that they spare not God himself. And this licence, which every talker or writer now assumeth to himself, is come to this abuse; that many Phormios will give counsel to Hannibal, and many men that never went of the compass of cloysters or colleges, will freely wade, by their writings, in the deepest mysteries of monarchy and politick government. Whereupon it cannot otherwise fall out but that when men go out of their element and meddle with things above their capacity, themselves shall not only go astray and stumble in darkness, but will mislead also divers others with themselves into many mistakings and errors; the proof whereof we have lately had by a book written by Dr. Cowel, called ‘The Interpreter.’”

The royal reviewer then in a summary way shows how Cowel had, “by meddling in matters beyond his reach, fallen into many things to mistake and deceive himself.” The book is therefore “prohibited; the buying, uttering, or reading it;” and those “who have any copies are to deliver the same presently upon this publication to the Mayor of London,” &c., and the proclamation concludes with instituting licensers of the press:—

“Because that there shall be better oversight of books of all sorts before they come to the press, we have resolved to make choice of commissioners, that shall look more narrowly into the nature of all those things that shall be put to the press, and from whom a more strict account shall be yielded unto us, than hath been used heretofore.”

What were the feelings of our injured author, whose integrity was so firm, and whose love of study was so warm, when he reaped for his reward the displeasure of his sovereign, and the indignation of his countrymen—accused at 197 once of contradictory crimes, he could not be a betrayer of the rights of the people, and at the same time limit the sovereign power. Cowel retreated to his college, and, like a wise man, abstained from the press; he pursued his private studies, while his inoffensive life was a comment on Coke’s inhumanity more honourable to Cowel than any of Coke’s on Littleton.

Thus Cowel saw, in his own life, its richest labour thrown aside; and when the author and his adversary were no more, it became a treasure valued by posterity! It was printed in the reign of Charles I., under the administration of Cromwell, and again after the Restoration. It received the honour of a foreign edition. Its value is still permanent. Such is the history of a book, which occasioned the disgrace of its author, and embittered his life.

A similar calamity was the fate of honest Stowe, the Chronicler. After a long life of labour, and having exhausted his patrimony in the study of English antiquities, from a reverential love to his country, poor Stowe was ridiculed, calumniated, neglected, and persecuted. One cannot read without indignation and pity what Howes, his continuator, tells us in his dedication. Howes had observed that—

“No man would lend a helping hand to the late aged painful Chronicler, nor, after his death, prosecute his work. He applied himself to several persons of dignity and learning, whose names had got forth among the public as likely to be the continuators of Stowe; but every one persisted in denying this, and some imagined that their secret enemies had mentioned their names with a view of injuring them, by incurring the displeasure of their superiors and risking their own quiet. One said, ‘I will not flatter, to scandalise my posterity;’ another, ‘I cannot see how a man should spend his labour and money worse than in that which acquires no regard nor reward except backbiting and detraction.’ One swore a great oath and said, ‘I thank God that I am not yet so mad to waste my time, spend two hundred pounds a-year, trouble myself and all my friends, only to give assurance of endless reproach, loss of liberty, and bring all my days in question.’”

Unhappy authors! are such then the terrors which silence eloquence, and such the dangers which environ truth? Posterity has many discoveries to make, or many deceptions to endure! But we are treading on hot embers.

Such too was the fate of Reginald Scot, who, in an elaborate and curious volume,[131] if he could not stop the torrent of the popular superstitions of witchcraft, was the first, at least, to break and scatter the waves. It is a work which forms an epoch in the history of the human mind in our country; but the author had anticipated a very remote period of its enlargement. Scot, the apostle of humanity, and the legislator of reason, lived in retirement, yet persecuted by religious credulity and legal cruelty.

Selden, perhaps the most learned of our antiquaries, was often led, in his curious investigations, to disturb his own peace, by giving the result of his inquiries. James I. and the Court party were willing enough to extol his profound authorities and reasonings on topics which did not interfere with their system of arbitrary power; but they harassed and persecuted the author whom they would at other times eagerly quote as their advocate. Selden, in his “History of Tithes,” had alarmed the clergy by the intricacy of his inquiries. He pretends, however, to have only collected the opposite opinions of others, without delivering his own. The book was not only suppressed, but the great author was further disgraced by subscribing a gross recantation of all his learned investigations—and was compelled to receive in silence the insults of Courtly scholars, who had the hardihood to accuse him of plagiarism, and other literary treasons, which more sensibly hurt Selden than the recantation extorted from his hand by “the Lords of the High Commission Court.” James I. would not suffer him to reply to them. When the king desired Selden to show the right of the British Crown to the dominion of the sea, this learned author having made proper collections, Selden, angried at an imprisonment he had undergone, refused to publish the work. A great author like Selden degrades himself when any personal feeling, in literary disputes, places him on an equality with any king; the duty was to his country.—But Selden, alive to the call of rival genius, when Grotius published, in Holland, his Mare 199 liberum, gave the world his Mare clausum; when Selden had to encounter Grotius, and to proclaim to the universe “the Sovereignty of the Seas,” how contemptible to him appeared the mean persecutions of a crowned head, and how little his own meaner resentment!

To this subject the fate of Dr. Hawkesworth is somewhat allied. It is well known that this author, having distinguished himself by his pleasing compositions in the “Adventurer,” was chosen to draw up the narrative of Cook’s discoveries in the South Seas. The pictures of a new world, the description of new manners in an original state of society, and the incidents arising from an adventure which could find no parallel in the annals of mankind, but under the solitary genius of Columbus—all these were conceived to offer a history, to which the moral and contemplative powers of Hawkesworth only were equal. Our author’s fate, and that of his work, are known: he incurred all the danger of giving the result of his inquiries; he indulged his imagination till it burst into pruriency, and discussed moral theorems till he ceased to be moral. The shock it gave to the feelings of our author was fatal; and the error of a mind, intent on inquiries which, perhaps, he thought innocent, and which the world condemned as criminal, terminated in death itself. Hawkesworth was a vain man, and proud of having raised himself by his literary talents from his native obscurity: of no learning, he drew all his science from the Cyclopædia; and, I have heard, could not always have construed the Latin mottos of his own paper, which were furnished by Johnson; but his sensibility was abundant—and ere his work was given to the world, he felt those tremblings and those doubts which anticipated his fate. That he was in a state of mental agony respecting the reception of his opinions, and some other parts of his work, will, I think, be discovered in the following letter, hitherto unpublished. It was addressed, with his MSS., to a peer, to be examined before they were sent to the press—an occupation probably rather too serious for the noble critic:—

This elegant epistle justly describes that delicacy in style which has been so rarely practised by an indiscriminate dedicator; and it not less feelingly touches on that “far greater misfortune than any other,” which finally overwhelmed the fortitude and intellect of this unhappy author!

I shall consider as an English author that foreigner, who flew to our country as the asylum of Europe, who composed a noble work on our Constitution, and, having imbibed its spirit, acquired even the language of a free country.

I do not know an example in our literary history that so loudly accuses our tardy and phlegmatic feeling respecting authors, as the treatment De Lolme experienced in this country. His book on our Constitution still enters into the studies of an English patriot, and is not the worse for flattering and elevating the imagination, painting everything beautiful, to encourage our love as well as our reverence for the most perfect system of governments. It was a noble as well as ingenious effort in a foreigner—it claimed national attention—but could not obtain even individual patronage. The fact is mortifying to record, that the author who wanted every aid, received less encouragement than if he had solicited subscriptions for a raving novel, or an idle poem. De Lolme was compelled to traffic with booksellers for this work; and, as he was a theoretical rather than a practical politician, he was a bad trader, and acquired the smallest remuneration. He lived, in the country to which he had rendered a national service, in extreme obscurity and decay; and the walls of the Fleet too often enclosed the English Montesquieu. He never 201 appears to have received a solitary attention,[132] and became so disgusted with authorship, that he preferred silently to endure its poverty rather than its other vexations. He ceased almost to write. Of De Lolme I have heard little recorded but his high-mindedness; a strong sense that he stood degraded beneath that rank in society which his book entitled him to enjoy. The cloud of poverty that covered him only veiled without concealing its object; with the manners and dress of a decayed gentleman, he still showed the few who met him that he cherished a spirit perpetually at variance with the adversity of his circumstances.

Our author, in a narrative prefixed to his work, is the proud historian of his own injured feelings; he smiled in bitterness on his contemporaries, confident it was a tale reserved for posterity.

After having written the work whose systematic principles refuted those political notions which prevailed at the era of the American revolution,—and whose truth has been so fatally demonstrated in our own times, in two great revolutions, which have shown all the defects and all the mischief of nations rushing into a state of freedom before they are worthy of it,—the author candidly acknowledges he counted on some sort of encouragement, and little expected to find the mere publication had drawn him into great inconvenience.

“When my enlarged English edition was ready for the press, had I acquainted ministers that I was preparing to boil my tea-kettle with it, for want of being able to afford the expenses of printing it;” ministers, it seems, would not have considered that he was lighting his fire with “myrrh, and cassia, and precious ointment.”

In the want of encouragement from great men, and even from booksellers, De Lolme had recourse to a subscription; and his account of the manner he was received, and the indignities he endured, all which are narrated with great simplicity, show that whatever his knowledge of our Constitution might be, “his knowledge of the country was, at that time, very incomplete.” At length, when he shared the profits of his work with the booksellers, they were “but scanty and slow.” After all, our author sarcastically congratulates himself, that he—

“Was allowed to carry on the above business of selling my book, without any objection being formed against me, from my not having served a regular apprenticeship, and without being molested by the Inquisition.”

“Several authors have chosen to relate, in writings published after death, the personal advantages by which their performances had been followed; as for me, I have thought otherwise—and I will see it printed while I am yet living.”

This, indeed, is the language of irritation! and De Lolme degrades himself in the loudness of his complaint. But if the philosopher lost his temper, that misfortune will not take away the dishonour of the occasion that produced it. The country’s shame is not lessened because the author who had raised its glory throughout Europe, and instructed the nation in its best lesson, grew indignant at the ingratitude of his pupil. De Lolme ought not to have congratulated himself that he had been allowed the liberty of the press unharassed by an inquisition: this sarcasm is senseless! or his book is a mere fiction!

Hume is an author so celebrated, a philosopher so serene, and a man so extremely amiable, if not fortunate, that we may be surprised to meet his name inscribed in a catalogue of literary calamities. Look into his literary life, and you will discover that the greater portion was mortified and angried; and that the stoic so lost his temper, that had not circumstances intervened which did not depend on himself, Hume had abandoned his country and changed his name!

“The first success of most of my writings was not such as to be an object of vanity.” His “Treatise of Human Nature” fell dead-born from the press. It was cast anew with another title, and was at first little more successful. The following letter to Des Maiseaux, which I believe is now first published, gives us the feelings of the youthful and modest philosopher:—

Hume’s own favourite “Inquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals” came unnoticed and unobserved in the world. When he published the first portion of his “History,” which made even Hume himself sanguine in his expectations, he tells his own tale:—

“I thought that I was the only historian that had at once neglected present power, interest, and authority, and the cry of popular prejudices; and, as the subject was suited to every capacity, I expected proportional applause. But miserable was my disappointment! All classes of men and readers united in their rage against him who had presumed to shed a generous tear for the fate of Charles I. and the Earl of 204 Strafford.” “What was still more mortifying, the book seemed to sink into oblivion, and in a twelvemonth not more than forty-five copies were sold.”

Even Hume, a stoic hitherto in his literary character, was struck down, and dismayed—he lost all courage to proceed—and, had the war not prevented him, “he had resolved to change his name, and never more to have returned to his native country.”

But an author, though born to suffer martyrdom, does not always expire; he may be flayed like St. Bartholomew, and yet he can breathe without a skin; stoned, like St. Stephen, and yet write on with a broken head; and he has been even known to survive the flames, notwithstanding the most precious part of an author, which is obviously his book, has been burnt in an auto da fe. Hume once more tried the press in “The Natural History of Religion.” It proved but another martyrdom! Still was the fall (as he terms it) of the first volume of his History haunting his nervous imagination, when he found himself yet strong enough to hold a pen in his hand, and ventured to produce a second, which “helped to buoy up its unfortunate brother.” But the third part, containing the reign of Elizabeth, was particularly obnoxious, and he was doubtful whether he was again to be led to the stake. But Hume, a little hardened by a little success, grew, to use his own words, “callous against the impressions of public folly,” and completed his History, which was now received “with tolerable, and but tolerable, success.”

At length, in the sixty-fifth year of his age, our author began, a year or two before he died, as he writes, to see “many symptoms of my literary reputation breaking out at last with additional lustre, though I know that I can have but few years to enjoy it.” What a provoking consolation for a philosopher, who, according to the result of his own system, was close upon a state of annihilation!

It was after preparing a second edition of Virgil, that the great Dryden, who had lived, and was to die in harness, found himself still obliged to seek for daily bread. Scarcely relieved from one heavy task, he was compelled to hasten to another; and his efforts were now stimulated by a domestic feeling, the expected return of his son in ill-health from Rome. In a letter to his bookseller he pathetically writes—“If it please God that I must die of over-study, I cannot 205 spend my life better than in preserving his.” It was on this occasion, on the verge of his seventieth year, as he describes himself in the dedication of his Virgil, that, “worn out with study, and oppressed with fortune,” he contracted to supply the bookseller with 10,000 verses at sixpence a line!

What was his entire dramatic life but a series of vexation and hostility, from his first play to his last? On those very boards whence Dryden was to have derived the means of his existence and his fame, he saw his foibles aggravated, and his morals aspersed. Overwhelmed by the keen ridicule of Buckingham, and maliciously mortified by the triumph which Settle, his meanest rival, was allowed to obtain over him, and doomed still to encounter the cool malignant eye of Langbaine, who read poetry only to detect plagiarism. Contemporary genius is inspected with too much familiarity to be felt with reverence; and the angry prefaces of Dryden only excited the little revenge of the wits. How could such sympathise with injured, but with lofty feelings? They spread two reports of him, which may not be true, but which hurt him with the public. It was said that, being jealous of the success of Creech, for his version of Lucretius, he advised him to attempt Horace, in which Dryden knew he would fail—and a contemporary haunter of the theatre, in a curious letter [133] on The Winter Diversions, says of Congreve’s angry preface to the Double Dealer, that—

“The critics were severe upon this play, which gave the author occasion to lash them in his epistle dedicatory—so that ’tis generally thought he has done his business and lost himself; a thing he owes to Mr. Dryden’s treacherous friendship, who being jealous of the applause he had got by his Old Bachelor deluded him into a foolish imitation of his own way of writing angry prefaces.”

This lively critic is still more vivacious on the great Dryden, who had then produced his Love Triumphant, which, the critic says,

“Was damned by the universal cry of the town, nemine contradicente but the conceited poet. He says in his prologue that ‘this is the last the town must expect from him;’ he had done himself a kindness had he taken his leave before.” He then describes the success of Southerne’s Fatal Marriage, or the Innocent Adultery, and concludes, 206 “This kind usage will encourage desponding minor poets, and vex huffing Dryden and Congreve to madness.”

I have quoted thus much of this letter, that we may have before us a true image of those feelings which contemporaries entertain of the greater geniuses of their age; how they seek to level them; and in what manner men of genius are doomed to be treated—slighted, starved, and abused. Dryden and Congreve! the one the finest genius, the other the most exquisite wit of our nation, are to be vexed to madness!—their failures are not to excite sympathy, but contempt or ridicule! How the feelings and the language of contemporaries differ from that of posterity! And yet let us not exult in our purer and more dignified feelings—we are, indeed, the posterity of Dryden and Congreve; but we are the contemporaries of others who must patiently hope for better treatment from our sons than they have received from the fathers.

Dryden was no master of the pathetic, yet never were compositions more pathetic than the Prefaces this great man has transmitted to posterity! Opening all the feelings of his heart, we live among his domestic sorrows. Johnson censures Dryden for saying he has few thanks to pay his stars that he was born among Englishmen.[134] We have just seen that Hume went farther, and sighed to fly to a retreat beyond that country which knew not to reward genius.—What, if Dryden felt the dignity of that character he supported, dare we blame his frankness? If the age be ungenerous, shall contemporaries escape the scourge of the great author, who feels he is addressing another age more favourable to him?

Johnson, too, notices his “Self-commendation; his diligence in reminding the world of his merits, and expressing, with very little scruple, his high opinion of his own powers.” Dryden shall answer in his own words; with all the simplicity of Montaigne, he expresses himself with the dignity that would have become Milton or Gray:—

“It is a vanity common to all writers to overvalue their own productions; and it is better for me to own this failing in myself, than the world to do it for me. For what other 207 reason have I spent my life in such an unprofitable study? Why am I grown old in seeking so barren a reward as fame? The same parts and application which have made me a poet, might have raised me to any honours of the gown, which are often given to men of as little learning, and less honesty, than myself.”

Mickle’s version of the Lusiad offers an affecting instance of the melancholy fears which often accompany the progress of works of magnitude, undertaken by men of genius. Five years he had buried himself in a farm-house, devoted to the solitary labour; and he closes his preface with the fragment of a poem, whose stanzas have perpetuated all the tremblings and the emotions, whose unhappy influence the author had experienced through the long work. Thus pathetically he addresses the Muse:—

And when, at length, the great and anxious labour was completed, the author was still more unhappy than under the former influence of his foreboding terrors. The work is dedicated to the Duke of Buccleugh. Whether his Grace had been prejudiced against the poetical labour by Adam Smith, who had as little comprehension of the nature of poetry as becomes a political economist, or from whatever cause, after possessing it for six weeks the Duke had never condescended to open the volume. It is to the honour of Mickle that the 208 Dedication is a simple respectful inscription, in which the poet had not compromised his dignity,—and that in the second edition he had the magnanimity not to withdraw the dedication to this statue-like patron. Neither was the critical reception of this splendid labour of five devoted years grateful to the sensibility of the author: he writes to a friend—

“Though my work is well received at Oxford, I will honestly own to you, some things have hurt me. A few grammatical slips in the introduction have been mentioned; and some things in the notes about Virgil, Milton, and Homer, have been called the arrogance of criticism. But the greatest offence of all is, what I say of blank verse.”

He was, indeed, after this great work was given to the public, as unhappy as at any preceding period of his life; and Mickle, too, like Hume and Dryden, could feel a wish to forsake his native land! He still found his “head houseless;” and “the vetchy bed” and “loathly dungeon” still haunted his dreams. “To write for the booksellers is what I never will do,” exclaimed this man of genius, though struck by poverty. He projected an edition of his own poems by subscription.

“Desirous of giving an edition of my works, in which I shall bestow the utmost attention, which, perhaps, will be my final farewell to that blighted spot (worse than the most bleak mountains of Scotland) yclept Parnassus; after this labour is finished, if Governor Johnstone cannot or does not help me to a little independence, I will certainly bid adieu to Europe, to unhappy suspense, and perhaps also to the chagrin of soul which I feel to accompany it.”

Such was the language which cannot now be read without exciting our sympathy for the author of the version of an epic, which, after a solemn devotion of no small portion of the most valuable years of life, had been presented to the world, with not sufficient remuneration or notice of the author to create even hope in the sanguine temperament of a poet. Mickle was more honoured at Lisbon than in his own country. So imperceptible are the gradations of public favour to the feelings of genius, and so vast an interval separates that author who does not immediately address the tastes or the fashions of his age, from the reward or the enjoyment of his studies.

We cannot account, among the lesser calamities of literature, that of a man of genius, who, dedicating his days to the 209 composition of a voluminous and national work, when that labour is accomplished, finds, on its publication, the hope of fame, and perhaps other hopes as necessary to reward past toil, and open to future enterprise, all annihilated. Yet this work neglected or not relished, perhaps even the sport of witlings, afterwards is placed among the treasures of our language, when the author is no more! but what is posthumous gratitude, could it reach even the ear of an angel?

The calamity is unavoidable; but this circumstance does not lessen it. New works must for a time be submitted to popular favour; but posterity is the inheritance of genius. The man of genius, however, who has composed this great work, calculates his vigils, is best acquainted with its merits, and is not without an anticipation of the future feeling of his country; he

Such is the fate which has awaited many great works; and the heart of genius has died away on its own labours. I need not go so far back as the Elizabethan age to illustrate a calamity which will excite the sympathy of every man of letters; but the great work of a man of no ordinary genius presents itself on this occasion.

This great work is “The Polyolbion” of Michael Drayton; a poem unrivalled for its magnitude and its character.[135] The genealogy of poetry is always suspicious; yet I think it owed its birth to Leland’s magnificent view of his intended work on Britain, and was probably nourished by the “Britannia” of Camden, who inherited the mighty industry, with out the poetical spirit, of Leland; Drayton embraced both. This singular combination of topographical erudition and poetical fancy constitutes a national work—a union that some may conceive not fortunate, no more than “the slow length” of its Alexandrine metre, for the purposes of mere delight. 210 Yet what theme can be more elevating than a bard chanting to his “Fatherland,” as the Hollanders called their country? Our tales of ancient glory, our worthies who must not die, our towns, our rivers, and our mountains, all glancing before the picturesque eye of the naturalist and the poet! It is, indeed, a labour of Hercules; but it was not unaccompanied by the lyre of Apollo.

This national work was ill received; and the great author dejected, never pardoned his contemporaries, and even lost his temper.[136] Drayton and his poetical friends beheld indignantly the trifles of the hour overpowering the neglected Polyolbion.

Drayton published his Polyolbion first in eighteen parts; and the second portion afterwards. In this interval we have a letter to Drummond, dated in 1619:—

“I thank you, my dear sweet Drummond, for your good opinion of Polyolbion. I have done twelve books more, that is, from the 18th book, which was Kent (if you note it), all the east parts and north to the river of Tweed; but it lieth by me, for the booksellers and I are in terms; they are a company of base knaves, whom I scorn and kick at.”

The vengeance of the poet had been more justly wreaked on the buyers of books than on the sellers, who, though knavery has a strong connexion with trade, yet, were they knaves, they would be true to their own interests. Far from impeding a successful author, booksellers are apt to hurry his labours; for they prefer the crude to the mature fruit, whenever the public taste can be appeased even by an unripened dessert.

These “knaves,” however, seem to have succeeded in forcing poor Drayton to observe an abstinence from the press, which must have convulsed all the feelings of authorship. The second part was not published till three years after this letter was written; and then without maps. Its preface is remarkable enough; it is pathetic, till Drayton loses the dignity of genius in its asperity. In is inscribed, in no good humour—

“When I first undertook this poem, or, as some have pleased to term it, this Herculean labour, I was by some virtuous friends persuaded that I should receive much comfort and encouragement; and for these reasons: First, it was a new clear way, never before gone by any; that it contained all the delicacies, delights, and rarities of this renowned isle, interwoven with the histories of the Britons, Saxons, Normans, and the later English. And further, that there is scarcely any of the nobility or gentry of this land, but that he is some way or other interested therein.

“But it hath fallen out otherwise; for instead of that comfort which my noble friends proposed as my due, I have met with barbarous ignorance and base detraction; such a cloud hath the devil drawn over the world’s judgment. Some of the stationers that had the selling of the first part of this poem, because it went not so fast away in the selling as some of their beastly and abominable trash (a shame both to our language and our nation), have despightfully left out the epistles to the readers, and so have cousened the buyers with imperfected books, which those that have undertaken the second part have been forced to amend in the first, for the small number that are yet remaining in their hands.

“And some of our outlandish, unnatural English (I know not how otherwise to express them) stick not to say that there is nothing in this island worth studying for, and take a great pride to be ignorant in anything thereof. As for these cattle, odi profanum vulgus, et arceo; of which I account them, be they never so great.”

Yet, as a true poet, whose impulse, like fate, overturns all opposition, Drayton is not to be thrown out of his avocation; but intrepidly closes by promising “they shall not deter me from going on with Scotland, if means and time do not hinder me to perform as much as I have promised in my first song.” Who could have imagined that such bitterness of style, and 212 such angry emotions, could have been raised in the breast of a poet of pastoral elegance and fancy?

It is melancholy to reflect that some of the greatest works in our language have involved their authors in distress and anxiety: and that many have gone down to their grave insensible of that glory which soon covered it.

Who would, with the awful severity of Plato, banish poets from the Republic? But it may be desirable that the Republic should not be banished from poets, which it seems to be when an inordinate passion for writing verses drives them from every active pursuit. There is no greater enemy to domestic quiet than a confirmed versifier; yet are most of them much to be pitied: it is the mediocre critics they first meet with who are the real origin of a populace of mediocre poets. A young writer of verses is sure to get flattered by those who affect to admire what they do not even understand, and by those who, because they understand, imagine they are likewise endowed with delicacy of taste and a critical judgment. What sacrifices of social enjoyments, and all the business of life, are lavished with a prodigal’s ruin in an employment which will be usually discovered to be a source of early anxiety, and of late disappointment![137] I say nothing of the ridicule in which it involves some wretched Mævius, but of the misery that falls so heavily on him, and is often 213 entailed on his generation. Whitehead has versified an admirable reflection of Pope’s, in the preface to his works:—

The great mind of Blackstone never showed him more a poet than when he took, not without affection, “a farewell of the Muse,” on his being called to the bar. Drummond, of Hawthornden, quitted the bar from his love of poetry; yet he seems to have lamented slighting the profession which his father wished him to pursue. He perceives his error, he feels even contrition, but still cherishes it: no man, not in his senses, ever had a more lucid interval:—

Thus, like all poets, who, as Goldsmith observes, “are fond of enjoying the present, careless of the future,” he talks like a man of sense, and acts like a fool.

This wonderful susceptibility of praise, to which poets seem more liable than any other class of authors, is indeed their common food; and they could not keep life in them without this nourishment. Nat. Lee, a true poet in all the excesses of poetical feelings—for he was in such raptures at times as to lose his senses—expresses himself in very energetic language on the effects of the praise necessary for poets:—

“Praise,” says Lee, “is the greatest encouragement we chamelions can pretend to, or rather the manna that keeps soul and body together; we devour it as if it were angels’ food, and vainly think we grow immortal. There is nothing transports a poet, next to love, like commending in the right place.”

This, no doubt, is a rare enjoyment, and serves to strengthen his illusions. But the same fervid genius elsewhere confesses, when reproached for his ungoverned fancy, that it brings with itself its own punishment:—

“I cannot be,” says this great and unfortunate poet, “so ridiculous a creature to any man as I am to myself; for who should know the house so well as the good man at home? who, when his neighbour comes to see him, still sets the best rooms to view; and, if he be not a wilful ass, keeps the rubbish and lumber in some dark hole, where nobody comes but himself, to mortify at melancholy hours.”

Study the admirable preface of Pope, composed at that matured period of life when the fever of fame had passed away, and experience had corrected fancy. It is a calm statement between authors and readers; there is no imagination that colours by a single metaphor, or conceals the real feeling which moved the author on that solemn occasion, of collecting his works for the last time. It is on a full review of the past that this great poet delivers this remarkable sentence:—

“I believe, if any one, early in his life, should contemplate the dangerous fate of AUTHORS, he would scarce be of their number on any consideration. The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth; and to pretend to serve the learned world in any way, one must have the constancy of a martyr, and a resolution to suffer for its sake.”

All this is so true in literary history, that he who affects to suspect the sincerity of Pope’s declaration, may flatter his sagacity, but will do no credit to his knowledge.

If thus great poets pour their lamentations for having devoted themselves to their art, some sympathy is due to the querulousness of a numerous race of provincial bards, whose situation is ever at variance with their feelings. These usually form exaggerated conceptions of their own genius, from the habit of comparing themselves with their contracted circle. Restless, with a desire of poetical celebrity, their heated imagination views in the metropolis that fame and fortune denied them in their native town; there they become half-hermits and half-philosophers, darting epigrams which provoke hatred, or pouring elegies, descriptive of their feelings, which move derision: their neighbours find it much easier to ascertain their foibles than comprehend their genius; and both parties live in a state of mutual persecution. Such, among many, was the fate of the poet Herrick; his vein was pastoral, and he lived in the elysium of the west, which, however, he describes by the sullen epithet, “Dull Devonshire,” where “he is still sad.” Strange that 215 such a poet should have resided near twenty years in one of our most beautiful counties in a very discontented humour. When he quitted his village of “Deanbourne,” the petulant poet left behind him a severe “farewell,” which was found still preserved in the parish, after a lapse of more than a century. Local satire has been often preserved by the very objects it is directed against, sometimes from the charm of the wit itself, and sometimes from the covert malice of attacking our neighbours. Thus he addresses “Deanbourne, a rude river in Devonshire, by which, sometime, he lived:”—

He rejoices he leaves them, never to return till “rocks shall turn to rivers.” When he arrives in London,

The Devonians were avenged; for the satirist of the English Arcadia was condemned again to reside by “its rockie side,” among “its rockie men.”

Such has been the usual chant of provincial poets; and, if the “silky-soft Favonian gales” of Devon, with its “Worthies,” could not escape the anger of such a poet as Herrick, what county may hope to be saved from the invective of querulous and dissatisfied poets?

In this calamity of authors I will show that a great poet felicitated himself that poetry was not the business of his life; and afterwards I will bring forward an evidence that the immoderate pursuit of poetry, with a very moderate 216 genius, creates a perpetual state of illusion; and pursues grey-headed folly even to the verge of the grave.

Pope imagined that Prior was only fit to make verses, and less qualified for business than Addison himself. Had Prior lived to finish that history of his own times he was writing, we should have seen how far the opinion of Pope was right. Prior abandoned the Whigs, who had been his first patrons, for the Tories, who were now willing to adopt the political apostate. This versatility for place and pension rather shows that Prior was a little more “qualified for business than Addison.”

Johnson tells us “Prior lived at a time when the rage of party detected all which was any man’s interest to hide; and, as little ill is heard of Prior, it is certain that not much was known:” more, however, than Johnson supposes. This great man came to the pleasing task of his poetical biography totally unprepared, except with the maturity of his genius, as a profound observer of men, and an invincible dogmatist in taste. In the history of the times, Johnson is deficient, which has deprived us of that permanent instruction and delight his intellectual powers had poured around it. The character and the secret history of Prior are laid open in the “State Poems;”[138] a bitter Whiggish narrative, too particular to be entirely fictitious, while it throws a new light on Johnson’s observation of Prior’s “propensity to sordid converse, and the low delights of mean company,” which Johnson had imperfectly learned from some attendant on Prior.

To us the poet Prior is better known than the placeman Prior; yet in his own day the reverse often occurred. Prior was a State Proteus; Sunderland, the most ambiguous of politicians, was the Erle Robert to whom he addressed his Mice; and Prior was now Secretary to the Embassy at Ryswick and Paris; independent even of the English ambassador—now a Lord of Trade, and, at length, a Minister Plenipotentiary to Louis XIV.

Prior declares he was chiefly “a poet by accident;” and hints, in collecting his works, that “some of them, as they came singly from the first impression, have lain long and quietly in Mr. Tonson’s shop.” When his party had their downfall, and he was confined two years in prison, he composed his “Alma,” to while away prison hours; and when, at length, he obtained his freedom, he had nothing remaining but that fellowship which, in his exaltation, he had been censured for retaining, but which he then said he might have to live upon at last. Prior had great sagacity, and too right a notion of human affairs in politics, to expect his party would last his time, or in poetry, that he could ever derive a revenue from rhymes!

I will now show that that rare personage, a sensible poet, in reviewing his life in that hour of solitude when no passion is retained but truth, while we are casting up the amount of our past days scrupulously to ourselves, felicitated himself that the natural bent of his mind, which inclined to poetry, had been checked, and not indulged, throughout his whole life. Prior congratulated himself that he had been only “a poet by accident,” not by occupation.

In a manuscript by Prior, consisting of “An Essay on Learning,” I find this curious and interesting passage entirely relating to the poet himself:—

“I remember nothing farther in life than that I made verses; I chose Guy Earl of Warwick for my first hero, and killed Colborne the giant before I was big enough for Westminster School. But I had two accidents in youth which hindered me from being quite possessed with the Muse. I was bred in a college where prose was more in fashion than 218 verse,—and, as soon as I had taken my first degree, I was sent the King’s Secretary to the Hague; there I had enough to do in studying French and Dutch, and altering my Terentian and Virgilian style into that of Articles and Conventions; so that poetry, which by the bent of my mind might have become the business of my life, was, by the happiness of my education, only the amusement of it; and in this, too, having the prospect of some little fortune to be made, and friendships to be cultivated with the great men, I did not launch much into satire, which, however agreeable for the present to the writers and encouragers of it, does in time do neither of them good; considering the uncertainty of fortune, and the various changes of Ministry, and that every man, as he resents, may punish in his turn of greatness and power.”

Such is the wholesome counsel of the Solomon of Bards to an aspirant, who, in his ardour for poetical honours, becomes careless of their consequences, if he can but possess them.

I have now to bring forward one of those unhappy men of rhyme, who, after many painful struggles, and a long querulous life, have died amid the ravings of their immortality—one of those miserable bards of mediocrity whom no beadle-critic could ever whip out of the poetical parish.

There is a case in Mr. Haslam’s “Observations on Insanity,” who assures us that the patient he describes was insane, which will appear strange to those who have watched more poets than lunatics!

“This patient, when admitted, was very noisy, and importunately talkative—reciting passages from the Greek and Roman poets, or talking of his own literary importance. He became so troublesome to the other madmen, who were sufficiently occupied with their own speculations, that they avoided and excluded him from the common room; so that he was at last reduced to the mortifying situation of being the sole auditor of his own compositions. He conceived himself very nearly related to Anacreon, and possessed of the peculiar vein of that poet.”

Such is the very accurate case drawn up by a medical writer. I can conceive nothing in it to warrant the charge of insanity; Mr. Haslam, not being a poet, seems to have mistaken the common orgasm of poetry for insanity itself.

Of such poets, one was the late Percival Stockdale, who, with the most entertaining simplicity, has, in “The 219 Memoirs of his Life and Writings,” presented us with a full-length figure of this class of poets; those whom the perpetual pursuits of poetry, however indifferent, involve in a perpetual illusion; they are only discovered in their profound obscurity by the piteous cries they sometimes utter; they live on querulously, which is an evil for themselves, and to no purpose of life, which is an evil to others.

I remember in my youth Percival Stockdale as a condemned poet of the times, of whom the bookseller Flexney complained that, whenever this poet came to town, it cost him twenty pounds. Flexney had been the publisher of Churchill’s works; and, never forgetting the time when he published “The Rosciad,” which at first did not sell, and afterwards became the most popular poem, he was speculating all his life for another Churchill, and another quarto poem. Stockdale usually brought him what he wanted—and Flexney found the workman, but never the work.

Many a year had passed in silence, and Stockdale could hardly be considered alive, when, to the amazement of some curious observers of our literature, a venerable man, about his eightieth year, a vivacious spectre, with a cheerful voice, seemed as if throwing aside his shroud in gaiety—to come to assure us of the immortality of one of the worst poets of the time.

To have taken this portrait from the life would have been difficult; but the artist has painted himself, and manufactured his own colours; else had our ordinary ones but faintly copied this Chinese grotesque picture—the glare and the glow must be borrowed from his own palette.

Our self-biographer announces his “Life” with prospective rapture, at the moment he is turning a sad retrospect on his “Writings;” for this was the chequered countenance of his character, a smile while he was writing, a tear when he had published! “I know,” he exclaims, “that this book will live and escape the havoc that has been made of my literary fame.” Again—“Before I die, I think my literary fame may be fixed on an adamantine foundation.” Our old acquaintance, Blas of Santillane, at setting out on his travels, conceived himself to be la huitième merveille du monde; but here is one, who, after the experience of a long life, is writing a large work to prove himself that very curious thing.

What were these mighty and unknown works? Stockdale confesses that all his verses have been received with 220 negligence or contempt; yet their mediocrity, the absolute poverty of his genius, never once occurred to the poetical patriarch.

I have said that the frequent origin of bad poets is owing to bad critics; and it was the early friends of Stockdale, who, mistaking his animal spirits for genius, by directing them into the walks of poetry, bewildered him for ever. It was their hand that heedlessly fixed the bias in the rolling bowl of his restless mind.

He tells us that while yet a boy of twelve years old, one day talking with his father at Branxton, where the battle of Flodden was fought, the old gentleman said to him with great emphasis—

“You may make that place remarkable for your birth, if you take care of yourself. My father’s understanding was clear and strong, and he could penetrate human nature. He already saw that I had natural advantages above those of common men.”

But it seems that, at some earlier period even than his twelfth year, some good-natured Pythian had predicted that Stockdale would be “a poet.” This ambiguous oracle was still listened to, after a lapse of more than half a century, and the decree is still repeated with fond credulity:—“Notwithstanding,” he exclaims, “all that is past, O thou god of my mind! (meaning the aforesaid Pythian) I still hope that my future fame will decidedly warrant the prediction!”

Stockdale had, in truth, an excessive sensibility of temper, without any control over it—he had all the nervous contortions of the Sybil, without her inspiration; and shifting, in his many-shaped life, through all characters and all pursuits, “exalting the olive of Minerva with the grape of Bacchus,” as he phrases it, he was a lover, a tutor, a recruiting officer, a reviewer, and, at length, a clergyman; but a poet eternally! His mind was so curved, that nothing could stand steadily upon it. The accidents of such a life he describes with such a face of rueful simplicity, and mixes up so much grave drollery and merry pathos with all he says or does, and his ubiquity is so wonderful, that he gives an idea of a character, of whose existence we had previously no conception, that of a sentimental harlequin.[139]

In the early part of his life, Stockdale undertook many poetical pilgrimages; he visited the house where Thomson was born; the coffee-room where Dryden presided among the wits, &c. Recollecting the influence of these local associations, he breaks forth, “Neither the unrelenting coldness, nor the repeated insolence of mankind, can prevent me from thinking that something like this enthusiastic devotion may hereafter be paid to ME.”

Perhaps till this appeared it might not be suspected that any unlucky writer of verse could ever feel such a magical conviction of his poetical stability. Stockdale, to assist this pilgrimage to his various shrines, has particularised all the spots where his works were composed! Posterity has many shrines to visit, and will be glad to know (for perhaps it may excite a smile) that “‘The Philosopher,’ a poem, was written in Warwick Court, Holborn, in 1769,”—“‘The Life of Waller,’ in Round Court, in the Strand.”—A good deal he wrote in “May’s Buildings, St. Martin’s Lane,” &c., but

“In my lodgings at Portsmouth, in St. Mary’s Street, I wrote my ‘Elegy on the Death of a Lady’s Linnet.’ It will not be uninteresting to sensibility, to thinking and elegant minds. It deeply interested me, and therefore produced not one of my weakest and worst written poems. It was directly opposite to a noted house, which was distinguished by the name of the green rails; where the riotous orgies of Naxos and Cythera contrasted with my quiet and purer occupations.”

I would not, however, take his own estimate of his own poems; because, after praising them outrageously, he seems at times to doubt if they are as exquisite as he thinks them! He has composed no one in which some poetical excellence does not appear—and yet in each nice decision he holds with difficulty the trepidations of the scales of criticism—for he tells us of “An Address to the Supreme Being,” that “it is distinguished throughout with a natural and fervid piety; it is flowing and poetical; it is not without its pathos.” And yet, notwithstanding all this condiment, the confection is evidently good for nothing; for he discovers that “this flowing, fervid, and poetical address” is “not animated with that vigour which gives dignity and impression to poetry.” 222 One feels for such unhappy and infected authors—they would think of themselves as they wish at the moment that truth and experience come in upon them and rack them with the most painful feelings.

Stockdale once wrote a declamatory life of Waller. When Johnson’s appeared, though in his biography, says Stockdale, “he paid a large tribute to the abilities of Goldsmith and Hawkesworth, yet he made no mention of my name.” It is evident that Johnson, who knew him well, did not care to remember it. When Johnson was busied on the Life of Pope, Stockdale wrote a pathetic letter to him earnestly imploring “a generous tribute from his authority.” Johnson was still obdurately silent; and Stockdale, who had received many acts of humane kindness from him, adds with fretful naïveté,

“In his sentiments towards me he was divided between a benevolence to my interests, and a coldness to my fame.”

Thus, in a moment, in the perverted heart of the scribbler, will ever be cancelled all human obligation for acts of benevolence, if we are cold to his fame!

And yet let us not too hastily condemn these unhappy men, even for the violation of the lesser moral feelings—it is often but a fatal effect from a melancholy cause; that hallucination of the intellect, in which, if their genius, as they call it, sometimes appears to sparkle like a painted bubble in the buoyancy of their vanity, they are also condemned to see it sinking in the dark horrors of a disappointed author, who has risked his life and his happiness on the miserable productions of his pen. The agonies of a disappointed author cannot, indeed, be contemplated without pain. If they can instruct, the following quotation will have its use.

Among the innumerable productions of Stockdale, was a “History of Gibraltar,” which might have been interesting, from his having resided there: in a moment of despair, like Medea, he immolated his unfortunate offspring.

“When I had arrived at within a day’s work of its conclusion, in consequence of some immediate and mortifying accidents, my literary adversity, and all my other misfortunes, took fast hold of my mind; oppressed it extremely; and reduced it to a stage of the deepest dejection and despondency. In this unhappy view of life, I made a sudden resolution—never more to prosecute the profession of an author; to retire altogether from the world, and read only for consolation and amusement. I committed to the flames my History of Gibraltar 223 and my translation of Marsollier’s Life of Cardinal Ximenes; for which the bookseller had refused to pay me the fifty guineas, according to agreement.”

This claims a tear! Never were the agonies of literary disappointment more pathetically told.

But as it is impossible to have known poor deluded Stockdale, and not to have laughed at him more than to have wept for him—so the catastrophe of this author’s literary life is as finely in character as all the acts. That catastrophe, of course, is his last poem.

After many years his poetical demon having been chained from the world, suddenly broke forth on the reports of a French invasion. The narrative shall proceed in his own inimitable manner.

“My poetical spirit excited me to write my poem of ‘The Invincible Island.’ I never found myself in a happier disposition to compose, nor ever wrote with more pleasure. I presumed warmly to hope that unless inveterate prejudice and malice were as invincible as our island itself, it would have the diffusive circulation which I earnestly desired.

“Flushed with this idea—borne impetuously along by ambition and by hope, though they had often deluded me, I set off in the mail-coach from Durham for London, on the 9th of December, 1797, at midnight, and in a severe storm. On my arrival in town my poem was advertised, printed, and published with great expedition. It was printed for Clarke in New Bond-street. For several days the sale was very promising; and my bookseller as well as myself entertained sanguine hopes; but the demand for the poem relaxed gradually! From this last of many literary misfortunes, I inferred that prejudice and malignity, in my fate as an author, seemed, indeed, to be invincible.”

The catastrophe of the poet is much better told than anything in the poem, which had not merit enough to support that interest which the temporary subject had excited.

Let the fate of Stockdale instruct some, and he will not have written in vain the “Memoirs of his Life and Writings.” I have only turned the literary feature to our eye; it was combined with others, equally striking, from the same mould in which that was cast. Stockdale imagined he possessed an intuitive knowledge of human nature. He says, “everything that constituted my nature, my acquirements, my habits, and my fortune, conspired to let in upon me a complete knowledge 224 of human nature.” A most striking proof of this knowledge is his parallel, after the manner of Plutarch, between Charles XII. and himself! He frankly confesses there were some points in which he and the Swedish monarch did not exactly resemble each other. He thinks, for instance, that the King of Sweden had a somewhat more fervid and original genius than himself, and was likewise a little more robust in his person—but, subjoins Stockdale,

“Of our reciprocal fortune, achievements, and conduct, some parts will be to his advantage, and some to mine.”

Yet in regard to Fame, the main object between him and Charles XII., Stockdale imagined that his own

“Will not probably take its fixed and immoveable station, and shine with its expanded and permanent splendour, till it consecrates his ashes, till it illumines his tomb!”

Pope hesitated at deciding on the durability of his poetry. Prior congratulates himself that he had not devoted all his days to rhymes. Stockdale imagines his fame is to commence at the very point (the tomb) where genius trembles its own may nearly terminate!

To close this article, I could wish to regale the poetical Stockdales with a delectable morsel of fraternal biography; such would be the life, and its memorable close, of Elkanah Settle, who imagined himself to be a great poet, when he was placed on a level with Dryden by the town-wits, (gentle spirits!) to vex genius.

Settle’s play of The Empress of Morocco was the very first “adorned with sculptures.”[140] However, in due time, the 225 Whigs despising his rhymes, Settle tried his prose for the Tories; but he was a magician whose enchantments never charmed. He at length obtained the office of the city poet, when lord mayors were proud enough to have laureates in their annual pageants.

When Elkanah Settle published any party poem, he sent copies round to the chiefs of the party, accompanied with addresses, to extort pecuniary presents. He had latterly one standard Elegy and Epithalamium printed off with blanks, which, by the ingenious contrivance of filling up with the names of any considerable person who died or was married, no one who was going out of life or entering it could pass scot-free from the tax levied by his hacknied muse. The following letter accompanied his presentation copy to the Duke of Somerset, of a poem, in Latin and English, on the Hanover succession, when Elkanah wrote for the Whigs, as he had for the Tories:—

In the latter part of his life Settle dropped still lower, and became the poet of a booth at Bartholomew Fair, and composed drolls, for which the rival of Dryden, it seems, had a genius!—but it was little respected—for two great personages, “Mrs. Mynns and her daughter, Mrs. Leigh,” approving of their great poet’s happy invention in one of his own drolls, “St. George for England,” of a green dragon, as large as life, insisted, as the tyrant of old did to the inventor of the brazen bull, that the first experiment should be made on the artist himself, and Settle was tried in his own dragon; he crept in with all his genius, and did “act the dragon, enclosed in a case of green leather of his own invention.” The circumstance is recorded in the lively verse of Young, in his “Epistle to Pope concerning the authors of the age.”

The Quarrels of Authors may be considered as a continuation of the Calamities of Authors; and both, as some Memoirs for Literary History.

These Quarrels of Authors are not designed to wound the Literary Character, but to expose the secret arts of calumny, the malignity of witty ridicule, and the evil prepossessions of unjust hatreds.

The present, like the preceding work, includes other subjects than the one indicated by the title, and indeed they are both subservient to a higher purpose—that of our Literary History.

There is a French work, entitled “Querelles Littéraires,” quoted in “Curiosities of Literature,” many years ago. Whether I derive the idea of the present from the French source I cannot tell. I could point out a passage in the great Lord Bacon which might have afforded the hint. But I am inclined to think that what induced me to select this topic was the interest which Johnson has given to the literary quarrels between Dryden and Settle, Dennis and Addison, &c.; and which Sir Walter Scott, who, amid the fresh creations of fancy, could delve for the buried truths of research, has thrown into his narrative of the quarrel of Dryden and Luke Milbourne.

From the French work I could derive no aid; and my plan is my own. I have fixed on each literary controversy to illustrate some principle, to portray some character, and to investigate some topic. Almost every controversy which occurred opened new views. With the subject, the character 230 of the author connected itself; and with the character were associated those events of his life which reciprocally act on each other. I have always considered an author as a human being, who possesses at once two sorts of lives, the intellectual and the vulgar: in his books we trace the history of his mind, and in his actions those of human nature. It is this combination which interests the philosopher and the man of feeling; which provides the richest materials for reflection; and all those original details which spring from the constituent principles of man. Johnson’s passion for literary history, and his great knowledge of the human heart, inspired at once the first and the finest model in this class of composition.

The Philosophy of Literary History was indeed the creation of Bayle. He was the first who, by attempting a critical dictionary, taught us to think, and to be curious and vast in our researches. He ennobled a collection of facts by his reasonings, and exhibited them with the most miscellaneous illustrations; and thus conducting an apparently humble pursuit with a higher spirit, he gave a new turn to our studies. It was felt through Europe; and many celebrated authors studied and repeated Bayle. This father of a numerous race has an English as well as a French progeny.

Johnson wrote under many disadvantages; but, with scanty means, he has taught us a great end. Dr. Birch was the contemporary of Johnson. He excelled his predecessors; and yet he forms a striking contrast as a literary historian. Birch was no philosopher, and I adduce him as an instance how a writer, possessing the most ample knowledge, and the most vigilant curiosity—one practised in all the secret arts of literary research in public repositories and in private collections, and eminently skilled in the whole science of bibliography—may yet fail with the public. The diligence of Birch has perpetuated his memory by a monument of MSS., but his, touch was mortal to genius! He palsied the character 231 which could never die; heroes sunk pusillanimously under his hand; and in his torpid silence, even Milton seemed suddenly deprived of his genius.

I have freely enlarged in the notes to this work; a practice which is objectionable to many, but indispensable perhaps in this species of literary history.

The late Mr. Cumberland, in a conversation I once held with him on this subject, triumphantly exclaimed, “You will not find a single note through the whole volume of my ‘Life.’ I never wrote a note. The ancients never wrote notes; but they introduced into their text all which was proper for the reader to know.”

I agreed with that elegant writer, that a fine piece of essay-writing, such as his own “Life,” required notes no more than his novels and his comedies, among which it may be classed. I observed that the ancients had no literary history; this was the result of the discovery of printing, the institution of national libraries, the general literary intercourse of Europe, and some other causes which are the growth almost of our own times. The ancients have written history without producing authorities.

Mr. Cumberland was then occupied on a review of Fox’s History; and of Clarendon, which lay open before him,—he had been complaining, with all the irritable feelings of a dramatist, of the frequent suspensions, and the tedious minuteness of his story.

I observed that notes had not then been discovered. Had Lord Clarendon known their use, he had preserved the unity of design in his text. His Lordship has unskilfully filled it with all that historical furniture his diligence had collected, and with those minute discussions which his anxiety for truth, and his lawyer-like mode of scrutinising into facts and substantiating evidence, amassed. Had these been cast into notes, and were it now possible to pass them over in the present text, how would the story of the noble historian clear up! 232 The greatness of his genius will appear when disencumbered of its unwieldy and misplaced accompaniments.

If this observation be just, it will apply with greater force to literary history itself, which, being often the mere history of the human mind, has to record opinions as well as events—to discuss as well as to narrate—to show how accepted truths become suspicious—or to confirm what has hitherto rested in obscure uncertainty, and to balance contending opinions and opposite facts with critical nicety. The multiplied means of our knowledge now opened to us, have only rendered our curiosity more urgent in its claims, and raised up the most diversified objects. These, though accessories to the leading one of our inquiries, can never melt together in the continuity of a text. It is to prevent all this disorder, and to enjoy all the usefulness and the pleasure of this various knowledge, which has produced the invention of notes in literary history. All this forms a sort of knowledge peculiar to the present more enlarged state of literature. Writers who delight in curious and rare extracts, and in the discovery of new facts and new views of things, warmed by a fervour of research which brings everything nearer to our eye and close to our touch, study to throw contemporary feelings in their page. Such rare extracts and such new facts Bayle eagerly sought, and they delighted Johnson; but all this luxury of literature can only be produced to the public eye in the variegated forms of notes.

The name of Warburton more familiar to us than his Works—declared to be “a Colossus” by a Warburtonian, who afterwards shrinks the image into “a human size”—Lowth’s caustic retort on his Attorneyship—motives for the change to Divinity—his first literary mischances—Warburton and his Welsh Prophet—his Dedications—his mean flatteries—his taste more struck by the monstrous than the beautiful—the effects of his opposite studies—the Secret Principle which conducted Warburton through all his Works—the curious argument of his Alliance between Church and State—the bold paradox of his Divine Legation—the demonstration ends in a conjecture—Warburton lost in the labyrinth he had ingeniously constructed—confesses the harassed state of his mind—attacked by Infidels and Christians—his Secret Principle turns the poetical narrative of Æneas into the Eleusinian Mysteries—Hurd attacks Jortin; his Attic irony translated into plain English—Warburton’s paradox on Eloquence; his levity of ideas renders his sincerity suspected—Leland refutes the whimsical paradox—Hurd attacks Leland—Leland’s noble triumph—Warburton’s Secret Principle operating in Modern Literature: on Pope’s Essay on Man—Lord Bolingbroke the author of the Essay—Pope received Warburton as his tutelary genius—Warburton’s systematic treatment of his friends and rival editors—his literary artifices and little intrigues—his Shakspeare—the whimsical labours of Warburton on Shakspeare annihilated by Edwards’s “Canons of Criticism”—Warburton and Johnson—Edwards and Warburton’s mutual attacks—the concealed motive of his edition of Shakspeare avowed in his justification—his Secret Principle further displayed in Pope’s Works—attacks Akenside; Dyson’s generous defence—correct Ridicule is a test of Truth, illustrated by a well-known case—Warburton a literary revolutionist; aimed to be a perpetual dictator—the ambiguous tendency of his speculations—the Warburtonian School supported by the most licentious principles—specimens of its peculiar style—the use to which Warburton applied the Dunciad—his party: attentive to raise recruits—the active and subtle Hurd—his extreme sycophancy—Warburton, to maintain his usurped authority, adopted his system of literary quarrels.

The name of Warburton is more familiar to us than his works: thus was it early,[141] thus it continues, and thus it will 234 be with posterity! The cause may be worth our inquiry. Nor is there, in the whole compass of our literary history, a character more instructive for its greatness and its failures; none more adapted to excite our curiosity, and which can more completely gratify it.

Of great characters, whose actions are well known, and of those who, whatever claim they may have to distinction, are not so, Aristotle has delivered a precept with his accustomed sagacity. If Achilles, says the Stagirite, be the subject of our inquiries, since all know what he has done, we are simply to indicate his actions, without stopping to detail; but this would not serve for Critias; for whatever relates to him must be fully told, since he is known to few;[142]—a critical precept, which ought to be frequently applied in the composition of this work.

The history of Warburton is now well known; the facts lie dispersed in the chronological biographer;[143] but the secret connexion which exists between them, if there shall be found to be any, has not yet been brought out; and it is my business to press these together; hence to demonstrate principles, or to deduce inferences.

The literary fame of Warburton was a portentous meteor: it seemed unconnected with the whole planetary system through which it rolled, and it was imagined to be darting amid new creations, as the tail of each hypothesis blazed with idle fancies.[144] Such extraordinary natures cannot be looked on with calm admiration, nor common hostility; all is the tumult of wonder about such a man; and his adversaries, as well as his friends, though differently affected, are often overcome by the same astonishment.

To a Warburtonian, the object of his worship looks indeed of colossal magnitude, in the glare thrown about that hallowed 235 spot; nor is the divinity of common stature; but the light which makes him appear so great, must not be suffered to conceal from us the real standard by which only his greatness can be determined:[145] even literary enthusiasm, delightful to all generous tempers, may be too prodigal of its splendours, wasting itself while it shines; but truth remains behind! Truth, which, like the asbestos, is still unconsumed and unaltered amidst these glowing fires.

The genius of Warburton has called forth two remarkable 236 anonymous criticisms—in one, all that the most splendid eloquence can bring to bear against this chief and his adherents;[146] and in the other, all that taste, warmed by a spark of Warburtonian fire, can discriminate in an impartial decision.[147] Mine is a colder and less grateful task. I am but a historian! I have to creep along in the darkness of human events, to lay my hand cautiously on truths so difficult to touch, and which either the panegyrist or the writer of an invective cover over, and throw aside into corners.

Much of the moral, and something too of the physical dispositions of the man enter into the literary character; and, moreover, there are localities—the place where he resides, the circumstances which arise, and the habits he contracts; to all these the excellences and the defects of some of our great literary characters may often be traced. With this clue we may thread our way through the labyrinth of Genius.

Warburton long resided in an obscure provincial town, the articled clerk of a country attorney,[148] and then an unsuccessful 238 practising one. He seems, too, once to have figured as “a wine-merchant in the Borough,” and rose into notice as “the orator of a disputing club;” but, in all his shapes, still keen in literary pursuits, without literary connexions; struggling with all the defects of a desultory and self-taught education, but of a bold aspiring character, he rejected, either in pride or in despair, his little trades, and took Deacon’s orders—to exchange a profession, unfavourable to continuity of study, for another more propitious to its indulgence.[149] In 239 a word, he set off as a literary adventurer, who was to win his way by earning it from patronage.

His first mischances were not of a nature to call forth that intrepidity which afterwards hardened into the leading feature of his character. Few great authors have begun their 240 race with less auspicious omens, though an extraordinary event in the life of an author happened to Warburton—he had secured a patron before he was an author.

The first publication of his which we know, was his “Translations in Prose and Verse from Roman Poets, Orators, and Historians.” 1724. He was then about twenty-five years of age. The fine forms of classic beauty could never be cast in so rough a mould as his prose; and his turgid unmusical verses betrayed qualities of mind incompatible with the delicacy of poetry. Four years afterwards he repeated another bolder attempt, in his “Critical and Philosophical Inquiry into the Causes of Prodigies and Miracles.” After this publication, I wonder Warburton was ever suspected of infidelity or even scepticism.[150] So radically deficient in Warburton 241 was that fine internal feeling which we call taste, that through his early writings he acquired not one solitary charm of diction,[151] and scarcely betrayed, amid his impurity of taste, that nerve and spirit which afterwards crushed all rival force. His translations in imitation of Milton’s style betray his utter want of ear and imagination. He attempted to suppress both these works during his lifetime.

When these unlucky productions were republished by Dr. Parr, the Dedications were not forgotten; they were both addressed to the same opulent baronet, not omitting “the virtues” of his lady the Countess of Sunderland, whose marriage he calls “so divine a union.” Warburton had shown no want of judgment in the choice of his patrons; for they had more than one living in their gift—and perhaps, knowing his patrons, none in the dedications themselves. They had, however, this absurdity, that in freely exposing the servile practices of dedicators, the writer was himself indulging in that luxurious sin, which he so forcibly terms “Public Prostitution.” This early management betrays no equivocal symptoms of that traffic in Dedications, of which he has been 242 so severely accused,[152] and of that paradoxical turn and hardy effrontery which distinguished his after-life. These dedications led to preferment, and thus hardily was laid the foundation-stone of his aspiring fortunes.

Till his thirtieth year, Warburton evinced a depraved taste, but a craving appetite for knowledge. His mind was constituted to be more struck by the Monstrous than the Beautiful, much like that Sicilian prince who furnished his villa with the most hideous figures imaginable:[153] the delight resulting from harmonious and delicate forms raised emotions of too weak a nature to move his obliquity of taste; roused, however, by the surprise excited by colossal ugliness. The discovery of his intellectual tastes, at this obscure period of his life, besides in those works we have noticed, is confirmed by one of the most untoward accidents which ever happened to a literary man; it was the chance-discovery of a letter he had written to one of the heroes of the Dunciad, forty years before. 244 At the time that letter was written, his literary connexions were formed with second-rate authors; he was in strict intimacy with Concanen and Theobald, and other “ingenious gentlemen who made up our last night’s conversation,” as he expresses himself.[154] This letter is full of the heresies of taste: one of the most anomalous is the comment on that well-known passage in Shakspeare, on “the genius and the mortal instruments;” Warburton’s is a miraculous specimen of fantastical sagacity and critical delirium, or the art of discovering meanings never meant, and of illustrations the author could never have known. Warburton declares to “the ingenious gentlemen,” (whom afterwards with a Pharaoh’s heart he hanged by dozens to posterity in the “Dunciad,”) that “Pope borrowed for want of genius;” that poet, who, when the day arrived, he was to comment on as the first of poets! His insulting criticisms on the popular writings of Addison,—his contempt for what Young calls “sweet elegant Virgilian prose,”—show how utterly insensible he was to that classical taste in which Addison had constructed his materials. But he who could not taste the delicacy of Addison, it may be imagined might be in raptures with the rant of Lee. There is an unerring principle in the false sublime: it seems to be governed by laws, though they 245 are not ours; and we know what it will like, that is, we know what it will mistake for what ought not to be liked, as surely as we can anticipate what will delight correct taste. Warburton has pronounced one of the raving passages of poor Nat “to contain not only the most sublime, but the most judicious imagery that poetry could conceive or paint.” Joseph Warton, who indignantly rejects it from his edition of Pope, asserts that “we have not in our language a more striking example of true turgid expression, and genuine fustian and bombast.”[155] Yet such was the man whom ill-fortune (for the public at least) had chosen to become the commentator of our greater poets! Again Churchill throws light on our character:—

Not encouraged by the reception his first literary efforts received, but having obtained some preferment from his patron, we now come to a critical point in his life. He retreated from the world, and, during a seclusion of near twenty years, persevered in uninterrupted studies. The force of his character placed him in the first order of thinking beings. This resolution no more to court the world for literary favours, but to command it by hardy preparation for mighty labours, displays a noble retention of the appetite for fame; Warburton scorned to be a scribbler!

Had this great man journalised his readings, as Gibbon has 246 done, we should perhaps be more astonished at his miscellaneous pursuits. He read everything, and, I suspect, with little distinction, and equal delight.[156] Curiosity, even to its delirium, was his first passion; which produced those new systems of hypothetical reasoning by which he startled the world; and his efforts to save his most ingenious theories from absurdity resembled, to use his own emphatic words applied to the philosophy of Leibnitz, “a contrivance against Fatalism,” for though his genius has given a value to the wildest paradoxes, paradoxes they remain.

But if Warburton read so much, it was not to enforce opinions already furnished to his hands, or with cold scepticism to reject them, leaving the reader in despair. He read that he might write what no one else had written, and which at least required to be refuted before it was condemned. He hit upon a SECRET PRINCIPLE, which prevails through all his works, and this was Invention; a talent, indeed, somewhat dangerous to introduce in researches where Truth, and not Fancy, was to be addressed. But even with all this originality he was not free from imitation, and has even been accused of borrowing largely without hinting at his obligations. He had certainly one favourite model before him: Warburton has delineated the portrait of a certain author with inimitable minuteness, while he caught its general effect; we feel that the artist, in tracing the resemblance of another, is inspired by all the flattery of a self-painter—he perceived the kindred features, and he loved them!

This author was Bayle! And I am unfolding the character of Warburton, in copying the very original portrait:—

“Mr. Bayle is of a quite different character from these Italian sophists: a writer, whose strength and clearness of reasoning can be equalled only by the gaiety, easiness, and delicacy of his wit; who, pervading human nature with a glance, struck into the province of Paradox, as an exercise for the restless vigour of his mind: who, with a soul superior to the sharpest attacks of fortune, and a heart practised to the best philosophy, had not yet enough of real greatness to overcome that last foible of superior geniuses, the temptation of honour, which the Academic Exercise of Wit is conceived to bring to its professors.”[157]

Here, then, we discover the SECRET PRINCIPLE which conducted Warburton through all his works, although of the most opposite natures. I do not give this as an opinion to be discussed, but as a fact to be demonstrated.

The faculties so eminent in Bayle were equally so in Warburton. In his early studies he had particularly applied himself to logic; and was not only a vigorous reasoner, but 248 one practised in all the finesse of dialectics. He had wit, fertile indeed, rather than delicate; and a vast body of erudition, collected in the uninterrupted studies of twenty years. But it was the SECRET PRINCIPLE, or, as he calls it, “the Academic exercise of Wit,” on an enlarged system, which carried him so far in the new world of Invention he was creating.

This was a new characteristic of investigation; it led him on to pursue his profounder inquiries beyond the clouds of antiquity; for what he could not discover, he CONJECTURED and ASSERTED. Objects, which in the hands of other men were merely matters resting on authentic researches, now received the stamp and lustre of original invention. Nothing was to be seen in the state in which others had viewed it; the hardiest paradoxes served his purpose best, and this licentious principle produced unlooked-for discoveries. He humoured his taste, always wild and unchastised, in search of the monstrous and the extravagant; and, being a wit, he delighted in finding resemblances in objects which to more regulated minds had no similarity whatever. Wit may exercise its ingenuity as much in combining things unconnected with each other, as in its odd assemblage of ideas; and Warburton, as a literary antiquary, proved to be as witty in his combinations as Butler and Congreve in their comic images. As this principle took full possession of the mind of this man of genius, the practice became so familiar, that it is possible he might at times have been credulous enough to have confided in his own reveries. As he forcibly expressed himself on one of his adversaries, Dr. Stebbing, “Thus it is to have to do with a head whose sense is all run to system.” “His Academic Wit” now sported amid whimsical theories, pursued bold but inconclusive arguments, marked out subtile distinctions, and discovered incongruous resemblances; but they were maintained by an imposing air of conviction, furnished with the most prodigal erudition, and they struck out many ingenious combinations. The importance or the curiosity of the topics awed or delighted his readers; the principle, however licentious, by the surprise it raised, seduced the lovers of novelties. Father Hardouin had studied as hard as Warburton, rose as early, and retired to rest as late, and the obliquity of his intellect resembled that of Warburton—but he was a far inferior genius; he only discovered that the classical works of antiquity, the finest compositions 249 of the human mind, in ages of its utmost refinement, had been composed by the droning monks of the middle ages; a discovery which only surprised by its tasteless absurdity—but the absurdities of Warburton had more dignity, were more delightful, and more dangerous: they existed, as it were, in a state of illusion, but illusion which required as much genius and learning as his own to dissipate. His spells were to be disturbed only by a magician, great as himself. Conducted by this solitary principle, Warburton undertook, as it were, a magical voyage into antiquity. He passed over the ocean of time, sailing amid rocks, and half lost on quicksands; but he never failed to raise up some terra incognita; or point at some scene of the Fata Morgana, some earthly spot, painted in the heaven one knows not how.

In this secret principle of resolving to invent what no other had before conceived, by means of conjecture and assertion, and of maintaining his theories with all the pride of a sophist, and all the fierceness of an inquisitor, we have the key to all the contests by which this great mind so long supported his literary usurpations.

The first step the giant took showed the mightiness of his stride. His first great work was the famous “Alliance between Church and State.” It surprised the world, who saw the most important subject depending on a mere curious argument, which, like all political theories, was liable to be overthrown by writers of opposite principles.[158] The term “Alliance” seemed to the dissenters to infer that the Church was an independent power, forming a contract with the State, and not acknowledging that it is only an integral part, 250 like that of the army or the navy.[159] Warburton had not probably decided, at that time, on the principle of ecclesiastical power: whether it was paramount by its divine origin, as one party asserted; or whether, as the new philosophers, Hobbes, Selden, and others, insisted, the spiritual was secondary to the civil power.[160]

The intrepidity of this vast genius appears in the plan of his greater work. The omission of a future state of reward and punishment, in the Mosaic writings, was perpetually urged as a proof that the mission was not of divine origin: the ablest defenders strained at obscure or figurative passages, to force unsatisfactory inferences; but they were looking after what could not be found. Warburton at once boldly acknowledged it was not there; at once adopted all the objections of the infidels: and roused the curiosity of both parties by the hardy assertion, that this very omission was a demonstration of its divine origin.[161]

The first idea of this new project was bold and delightful, and the plan magnificent. Paganism, Judaism, and Christianity, the three great religions of mankind, were to be marshalled in all their pomp, and their awe, and their mystery. But the procession changed to a battle! To maintain one great paradox, he was branching out into innumerable ones. This great work was never concluded: the author wearied himself, without, however, wearying his readers; and, as his volumes appeared, he was still referring to his argument, “as far as it is yet advanced.” The demonstration appeared in great danger of ending in a conjecture; and this work, always beginning and never ending, proved to be the glory and misery of his life.[162] In perpetual conflict with 252 those numerous adversaries it roused, Warburton often shifted his ground, and broke into so many divisions, that when he cried out, Victory! his scattered forces seemed rather to be in flight than in pursuit.[163]

The same SECRET PRINCIPLE led him to turn the poetical narrative of Æneas in the infernal regions, an episode evidently imitated by Virgil from his Grecian master, into a minute description of the initiation into the Eleusinian Mysteries. A notion so perfectly new was at least worth a commonplace truth. Was it not delightful to have so many particulars detailed of a secret transaction, which even its contemporaries of two thousand years ago did not presume to know anything about? Father Hardouin seems to have opened the way for Warburton, since he had discovered that the whole Æneid was an allegorical voyage of St. Peter to Rome! When Jortin, in one of his “Six Dissertations,” modestly illustrated Virgil by an interpretation inconsistent with Warburton’s strange discovery, it produced a memorable quarrel. Then Hurd, the future shield, scarcely the sword, 253 of Warburton, made his first sally; a dapper, subtle, and cold-blooded champion, who could dexterously turn about the polished weapon of irony.[164] So much our Railleur admired the volume of Jortin, that he favoured him with “A Seventh Dissertation, addressed to the Author of the Sixth, on the Delicacy of Friendship,” one of the most malicious, but the keenest pieces of irony. It served as the foundation of a new School of Criticism, in which the arrogance of the master was to be supported by the pupil’s contempt of men often his superiors. To interpret Virgil differently from the modern Stagirite, was, by the aggravating art of the ridiculer, to be considered as the violation of a moral feeling.[165] 254 Jortin bore the slow torture and the teasing of Hurd’s dissecting-knife in dignified silence.

At length a rising genius demonstrated how Virgil could not have described the Eleusinian Mysteries in the sixth book of the Æneid. One blow from the arm of Gibbon shivered the allegorical fairy palace into glittering fragments.[166]

When the sceptical Middleton, in his “Essay on the Gift of Tongues,” pretended to think that “an inspired language would be perfect in its kind, with all the purity of Plato and the eloquence of Cicero,” and then asserted that “the style of the New Testament was utterly rude and barbarous, and abounding with every fault that can possibly deform a language,” Warburton, as was his custom, instantly acquiesced; but hardily maintained that “this very barbarism was one certain mark of a divine original.”[167]—The curious may follow his subtile argument in his “Doctrine of Grace;” but, in delivering this paradox, he struck at the fundamental principles 255 of eloquence: he dilated on all the abuses of that human art. It was precisely his utter want of taste which afforded him so copious an argument; for he asserted that the principles of eloquence were arbitrary and chimerical, and its various modes “mostly fantastical;” and that, consequently, there was no such thing as a good taste,[168] except what the consent of the learned had made; an expression borrowed from Quintilian. A plausible and a consolatory argument for the greater part of mankind! It, however, roused the indignation of Leland, the eloquent translator of Demosthenes, and the rhetorical professor at Trinity College, in Dublin, who has nobly defended the cause of classical taste and feeling by profounder principles. His classic anger produced his “Dissertation on the Principles of Human Eloquence;” a volume so much esteemed that it is still reprinted. Leland refuted the whimsical paradox, yet complimented Warburton, who, “with the spirit and energy of an ancient orator, was writing against eloquence,” while he showed that the style of the New Testament was defensible on surer grounds. Hurd, who had fleshed his polished weapon on poor Jortin, and had been received into the arms of the hero under whom he now fought, adventured to cast his javelin at Leland: it was dipped in the cold poison of contempt and petulance. It struck, but did not canker, leaves that were immortal.[169] Leland, with the native warmth of his soil, could not resist the gratification of a reply; but the nobler part of the triumph was, the assistance he lent to the circulation of Hurd’s letter, by reprinting it with his own 256 reply, to accompany a new edition of his “Dissertation on Eloquence.”[170]

We now pursue the SECRET PRINCIPLE, operating on lighter topics; when, turning commentator, with the same originality as when an author, his character as a literary adventurer is still more prominent, extorting double senses, discovering the most fantastical allusions, and making men of genius but of confined reading, learned, with all the lumber of his own unwieldy erudition.

When the German professor Crousaz published a rigid examen of the doctrines in Pope’s “Essay on Man,” Warburton volunteered a defence of Pope. Some years before, it appears that Warburton himself, in a literary club at Newark, had produced a dissertation against those very doctrines! where he asserted that “the Essay was collected from the worst passages of the worst authors.” This probably occurred at the time he declared that Pope had no genius! Bolingbroke really WROTE the “Essay on Man,” which Pope versified.[171] His principles may be often objectionable; but those 257 who only read this fine philosophical poem for its condensed verse, its imagery, and its generous sentiments, will run no danger from a metaphysical system they will not care to comprehend.

But this serves not as an apology for Warburton, who now undertook an elaborate defence of what he had himself condemned, and for which purpose he has most unjustly depressed Crousaz—an able logician, and a writer ardent in the cause of religion. This commentary on the “Essay on Man,” then, looks much like the work of a sophist and an adventurer! Pope, who was now alarmed at the tendency of some of those principles he had so innocently versified, received Warburton as his tutelary genius. A mere poet was soon dazzled by the sorcery of erudition; and he himself, having nothing of that kind of learning, believed Warburton to be the Scaliger of the age, for his gratitude far exceeded his knowledge.[172] The poet died in this delusion: he consigned his immortal works to the mercy of a ridiculous commentary and a tasteless commentator, whose labours have cost so much pains to subsequent editors to remove. Yet from this moment we date the worldly fortunes of Warburton.—Pope presented him with the entire property of his works; introduced him to a blind and obedient patron, who bestowed on him a rich wife, by whom he secured 258 a fine mansion; till at length, the mitre crowned his last ambition. Such was the large chapter of accidents in Warburton’s life!

There appears in Warburton’s conduct respecting the editions of the great poets which he afterwards published, something systematic; he treated the several editors of those very poets, Theobald, Hanmer, and Grey, who were his friends, with the same odd sort of kindness: when he was unknown to the world, he cheerfully contributed to all their labours, and afterwards abused them with the liveliest severity.[173] It 259 is probable that he had himself projected these editions as a source of profit, but had contributed to the more advanced labours of his rival editors, merely as specimens of his talent, that the public might hereafter be thus prepared for his own more perfect commentaries.

Warburton employed no little art [174] to excite the public 260 curiosity respecting his future Shakspeare: he liberally presented Dr. Birch with his MS. notes for that great work the “General Dictionary,” no doubt as the prelude of his after-celebrated edition. Birch was here only a dupe: he escaped, unlike Theobald, Hanmer, and Grey, from being overwhelmed with ridicule and contempt. When these extraordinary specimens of emendatory and illustrative criticism appeared in the “General Dictionary,” with general readers they excited all the astonishment of perfect novelty. It must have occurred to them, that no one as yet had understood Shakspeare; and, indeed, that it required no less erudition than that of the new luminary now rising in the critical horizon to display the amazing erudition of this most recondite poet. Conjectural criticism not only changed the words but the thoughts of the author; perverse interpretations of plain matters. Many a striking passage was wrested into a new meaning: plain words were subtilised to remove conceits; here one line was rejected, and there an interpolation, inspired alone by critical sagacity, pretended to restore a lost one; and finally, a source of knowledge was opened in the notes, on subjects which no other critic suspected could, by any ingenuity, stand connected with Shakspeare’s text.

At length the memorable edition appeared: all the world knows its chimeras.[175] One of its most remarkable results was 261 the production of that work, which annihilated the whimsical labours of Warburton, Edwards’s “Canons of Criticism,” one of those successful facetious criticisms which enliven our literary history. Johnson, awed by the learning of Warburton, and warmed by a personal feeling for a great genius who had condescended to encourage his first critical labour, grudgingly bestows a moderated praise on this exquisite satire, which he characterises for “its airy petulance, suitable enough to the levity of the controversy.” He compared this attack “to a fly, which may sting and tease a horse, but yet the horse is the nobler animal.”[176] Among the prejudices of criticism, is one which hinders us from relishing a masterly performance, when it ridicules a favourite author; but to us, mere historians, truth will always prevail over literary favouritism. The work of Edwards effected its purpose, that of “laughing down Warburton to his proper rank and character.”[177]

Warburton designates himself as “a critic by profession;” and tells us, he gave this edition “to deter the unlearned writer from wantonly trifling with an art he is a stranger to, at the expense of the integrity of the text of established authors.” Edwards has placed a N.B. on this declaration:—“A writer may properly be called unlearned, who, notwithstanding all his other knowledge, does not understand the subject which he writes upon.” But the most dogmatical absurdity was Warburton’s declaration, that it was once his design to have given “a body of canons for criticism, drawn out in form, with a glossary;” and further he informs the reader, that though this has not been done by him, if the reader will take the trouble, he may supply himself, as these canons of criticism lie scattered in the course of the notes. This idea was seized on with infinite humour by Edwards, who, from these very notes, has framed a set of “Canons of Criticism,” as ridiculous as possible, but every one illustrated by authentic examples, drawn from the labours of our new Stagirite.[178]

At length, when the public had decided on the fact of Warburton’s edition, it was confessed that the editor’s design had never been to explain Shakspeare! and that he was even conscious he had frequently imputed to the poet meanings which he never thought! Our critic’s great object was to display his own learning! Warburton wrote for Warburton, and not for Shakspeare! and the literary imposture almost rivals the confessions of Lander or Psalmanazar!

The same SECRET PRINCIPLE was pursued in his absurd edition of Pope. He formed an unbroken Commentary on the “Essay on Criticism,” to show that that admirable collection of precepts had been constructed by a systematical method, which it is well known the poet never designed; and the same instruments of torture were here used as in the “Essay on Man,” to reconcile a system of fatalism to the doctrines of Revelation.[179] Warton had to remove the incumbrance 264 of his Commentaries on Pope, while a most laborious confederacy zealously performed the same task to relieve Shakspeare. Thus Warburton pursued ONE SECRET PRINCIPLE in all his labours; thus he raised edifices which could not be securely inhabited, and were only impediments in the roadway; and these works are now known by the labours of those who have exerted their skill in laying them in ruins.

Warburton was probably aware that the SECRET PRINCIPLE which regulated his public opinions might lay him open, at numerous points, to the strokes of ridicule. It is a weapon which every one is willing to use, but which seems to terrify every one when it is pointed against themselves. There is no party or sect which have not employed it in their most serious controversies: the grave part of mankind protest against it, often at the moment they have been directing it for their own purpose. And the inquiry, whether ridicule be a test of truth, is one of the large controversies in our own literature. It was opened by Lord Shaftesbury, and zealously maintained by his school. Akenside, in a note to his celebrated poem, asserts the efficacy of ridicule as a test of truth: Lord Kaimes had just done the same. Warburton levelled his piece at the lord in the bush-fighting of a note; but came down in the open field with a full discharge of his artillery on the luckless bard.[180]

Warburton designates Akenside under the sneering appellative of “The Poet,” and alluding to his “sublime account” of the use of ridicule, insultingly reminds him of “his Master,” Shaftesbury, and of that school which made morality an object of taste, shrewdly hinting that Akenside was “a man of taste;” a new term, as we are to infer from Warburton, for 265 “a Deist;” or, as Akenside had alluded to Spinoza, he might be something worse. The great critic loudly protested against the practice of ridicule; but, in attacking its advocate, he is himself an evidence of its efficacy, by keenly ridiculing “the Poet” and his opinions. Dyson, the patron of Akenside, nobly stepped forwards to rescue his Eagle, panting in the tremendous gripe of the critical Lion. His defence of Akenside is an argumentative piece of criticism on the nature of ridicule, curious, but wanting the graces of the genius who inspired it.[181]

I shall stop one moment, since it falls into our subject, to record this great literary battle on the use of ridicule, which has been fought till both parties, after having shed their ink, divide the field without victory or defeat, and now stand looking on each other.

The advocates for the use of Ridicule maintain that it is a natural sense or feeling, bestowed on us for wise purposes by the Supreme Being, as are the other feelings of beauty and of sublimity;—the sense of beauty to detect the deformity, as the sense of ridicule the absurdity of an object: and they further maintain, that no real virtues, such as wisdom, honesty, bravery, or generosity, can be ridiculed.

The great Adversary of Ridicule replied that they did not dare to ridicule the virtues openly; but, by overcharging and distorting them they could laugh at leisure. “Give them other names,” he says, “call them but Temerity, Prodigality, Simplicity, &c., and your business is done. Make them ridiculous, and you may go on, in the freedom of wit and humour (as Shaftesbury distinguishes ridicule), till there be never a virtue left to laugh out of countenance.”

The ridiculers acknowledge that their favourite art may do mischief, when dishonest men obtrude circumstances foreign to the object. But, they justly urge, that the use of reason itself is full as liable to the same objection: grant Spinoza his false premises, and his conclusions will be considered as true. Dyson threw out an ingenious illustration. “It is so equally 266 in the mathematics; where, in reasoning about a circle, if we join along with its real properties others that do not belong to it, our conclusions will certainly be erroneous. Yet who would infer from hence that the manner of proof is defective or fallacious?”

Warburton urged the strongest case against the use of ridicule, in that of Socrates and Aristophanes. In his strong and coarse illustration he shows, that “by clapping a fool’s coat on the most immaculate virtue, it stuck on Socrates like a San Benito, and at last brought him to his execution: it made the owner resemble his direct opposite; that character he was most unlike. The consequences are well known.”

Warburton here adopted the popular notion, that the witty buffoon Aristophanes was the occasion of the death of the philosopher Socrates. The defence is skilful on the part of Dyson; and we may easily conceive that on so important a point Akenside had been consulted. I shall give it in his own words:—

“The Socrates of Aristophanes is as truly ridiculous a character as ever was drawn; but it is not the character of Socrates himself. The object was perverted, and the mischief which ensued was owing to the dishonesty of him who persuaded the people that that was the real character of Socrates, not from any error in the faculty of ridicule itself.”—Dyson then states the fact as it concerned Socrates. “The real intention of the contrivers of this ridicule was not so much to mislead the people, by giving them a bad opinion of Socrates, as to sound what was at the time the general opinion of him, that from thence they might judge whether it would be safe to bring a direct accusation against him. The most effectual way of making this trial was by ridiculing him; for they knew, if the people saw his character in its true light, they would be displeased with the misrepresentation, and not endure the ridicule. On trial this appeared: the play met with its deserved fate; and, notwithstanding the exquisiteness of the wit, was absolutely rejected. A second attempt succeeded no better; and the abettors of the poet were so discouraged from pursuing their design against Socrates, that it was not till ABOVE TWENTY YEARS after the publication of the play that they brought their accusation against him! It was not, therefore, ridicule that did, or could destroy Socrates: he was rather sacrificed for the right use of it himself, against the Sophists, who could not bear the test.”

Thus, then, stands the argument.—Warburton, reasoning on the abuses of ridicule, has opened to us all its dangers. Its advocate concedes that Ridicule, to be a test of Truth, must not impose on us circumstances which are foreign to the object. No object can be ridiculed that is not ridiculous. Should this happen, then the ridicule is false; and, as such, can be proved as much as any piece of false reasoning. We may therefore conclude, that ridicule is a taste of congruity and propriety not possessed by every one; a test which separates truth from imposture; a talent against the exercise of which most men are interested to protest; but which, being founded on the constituent principles of the human mind, is often indulged at the very moment it is decried and complained of.

But we must not leave this great man without some notice of that peculiar style of controversy which he adopted, and which may be distinguished among our Literary Quarrels. He has left his name to a school—a school which the more liberal spirit of the day we live in would not any longer endure. Who has not heard of The Warburtonians?

That SECRET PRINCIPLE which directed Warburton in all his works, and which we have attempted to pursue, could not of itself have been sufficient to have filled the world with the name of Warburton. Other scholars have published reveries, and they have passed away, after showing themselves for a time, leaving no impression; like those coloured and shifting shadows on a wall, with which children are amused; but Warburton was a literary Revolutionist, who, to maintain a new order of things, exercised all the despotism of a perpetual dictator. The bold unblushing energy which could lay down the most extravagant positions, was maintained by a fierce dogmatic spirit, and by a peculiar style of mordacious contempt and intolerant insolence, beating down his opponents from all quarters with an animating shout of triumph, to encourage those more serious minds, who, overcome by his genius, were yet often alarmed by the ambiguous tendency of his speculations.[182]

The Warburtonian School was to be supported by the most licentious principles; by dictatorial arrogance,[183] by gross invective, and by airy sarcasm;[184] the bitter contempt which, 269 with its many little artifices, lowers an adversary in the public opinion, was more peculiarly the talent of one of the aptest scholars, the cool, the keen, the sophistical Hurd. The lowest arts of confederacy were connived at by all the disciples,[185] prodigal of praise to themselves, and retentive of it 270 to all others; the world was to be divided into two parts, the Warburtonians and the Anti.

To establish this new government in the literary world, this great Revolutionist was favoured by Fortune with two important aids; the one was a Machine, by which he could wield public opinion; and the other a Man, who seemed born to be his minister or his viceroy.

The machine was nothing less than the immortal works of Pope; as soon as Warburton had obtained a royal patent to secure to himself the sole property of Pope’s works, the public were compelled, under the disguise of a Commentary on the most classical of our Poets, to be concerned with all his literary 271 quarrels, and have his libels and lampoons perpetually before them; all the foul waters of his anger were deposited here as in a common reservoir.[186]

Fanciful as was the genius of Warburton, it delighted too much in its eccentric motions, and in its own solitary greatness, amid abstract and recondite topics, to have strongly attracted the public attention, had not a party been formed 273 around him, at the head of which stood the active and subtle Hurd; and amid the gradations of the votive brotherhood, the profound Balguy,[187] the spirited Brown,[188] till we descend—

This Warburtonian party reminds one of an old custom among our elder poets, who formed a kind of freemasonry among themselves, by adopting younger poets by the title of their sons.—But that was a domestic society of poets; this, a revival of the Jesuitic order instituted by its founder, that—

The character of a literary sycophant was never more perfectly exhibited than in Hurd. A Whig in principle, yet he had all a courtier’s arts for Warburton; to him he devoted all his genius, though that, indeed, was moderate; aided him with all his ingenuity, which was exquisite; and lent his cause a certain delicacy of taste and cultivated elegance, which, although too prim and artificial, was a vein of gold running through his mass of erudition; it was Hurd who aided the usurpation of Warburton in the province of criticism above 275 Aristotle and Longinus.[191] Hurd is justly characterised by Warton, in his Spenser, vol. ii. p. 36, as “the most sensible and ingenious of modern critics.”—He was a lover of his studies; and he probably was sincere, when he once told a friend of the literary antiquary Cole, that he would have 276 chosen not to quit the university, for he loved retirement; and on that principle Cowley was his favourite poet, which he afterwards showed by his singular edition of that poet. He was called from the cloistered shades to assume the honourable dignity of a Royal Tutor. Had he devoted his days to literature, he would have still enriched its stores. But he had other more supple and more serviceable qualifications. Most adroit was he in all the archery of controversy: he had the subtlety that can evade the aim of the assailant, and the slender dexterity, substituted for vigour, that struck when least expected. The subaltern genius of Hurd required to be animated by the heroic energy of Warburton; and the careless courage of the chief wanted one who could maintain the unguarded passages he left behind him in his progress.

Such, then, was Warburton, and such the quarrels of this great author. He was, through his literary life, an adventurer, guided by that secret principle which opened an immediate road to fame. By opposing the common sentiments of mankind, he awed and he commanded them; and by giving a new face to all things, he surprised, by the appearances of discoveries. All this, so pleasing to his egotism, was not, however, fortunate for his ambition. To sustain an authority which he had usurped; to substitute for the taste he wanted a curious and dazzling erudition; and to maintain those reckless decisions which so often plunged him into perils, Warburton adopted his system of Literary Quarrels. These were the illegitimate means which raised a sudden celebrity, and which genius kept alive, as long as that genius lasted; but Warburton suffered that literary calamity, too protracted a period of human life: he outlived himself and his fame. This great and original mind sacrificed all his genius to that secret principle we have endeavoured to develope—it was a self-immolation!

The learned Selden, in the curious little volume of his “Table-Talk,” has delivered to posterity a precept for the learned, which they ought to wear, like the Jewish phylacteries, as “a frontlet between their eyes.” No man is the wiser for his learning: it may administer matter to work in, or objects to work upon; but wit and wisdom are born with a man. Sir Thomas Hanmer, who was well acquainted with Warburton, during their correspondence about Shakspeare, often said of him:—“The only use he could find in Mr. Warburton was starting the game; he was not to be trusted in 277 running it down.” A just discrimination! His fervid curiosity was absolutely creative; but his taste and his judgment, perpetually stretched out by his system, could not save him from even inglorious absurdities!

Warburton, it is probable, was not really the character he appears. It mortifies the lovers of genius to discover how a natural character may be thrown into a convulsed unnatural state by some adopted system: it is this system, which, carrying it, as it were, beyond itself, communicates a more than natural, but a self-destroying energy. All then becomes reversed! The arrogant and vituperative Warburton was only such in his assumed character; for in still domestic life he was the creature of benevolence, touched by generous passions. But in public life the artificial or the acquired character prevails over the one which nature designed for us; and by that all public men, as well as authors, are usually judged by posterity.

Pope adopted a system of literary politics—collected with extraordinary care everything relative to his Quarrels—no politician ever studied to obtain his purposes by more oblique directions and intricate stratagems—some of his manœuvres—his systematic hostility not practised with impunity—his claim to his own works contested—Cibber’s facetious description of Pope’s feelings, and Welsted’s elegant satire on his genius—Dennis’s account of Pope’s Introduction to him—his political prudence further discovered in the Collection of all the Pieces relative to the Dunciad, in which he employed Savage—the Theobaldians and the Popeians; an attack by a Theobaldian—The Dunciad ingeniously defended, for the grossness of its imagery, and its reproach of the poverty of the authors, supposed by Pope himself, with some curious specimens of literary personalities—the Literary Quarrel between Aaron Hill and Pope distinguished for its romantic cast—a Narrative of the extraordinary transactions respecting the publication of Pope’s Letters; an example of Stratagem and Conspiracy, illustrative of his character.

Pope has proudly perpetuated the history of his Literary Quarrels; and he appears to have been among those authors, surely not forming the majority, who have delighted in, or have not been averse to provoke, hostility. He has registered the titles of every book, even to a single paper, or a copy of verses, in which their authors had committed treason against his poetical sovereignty.[192] His ambition seemed gratified 279 in heaping these trophies to his genius, while his meaner passions could compile one of the most voluminous of the scandalous chronicles of literature. We are mortified on discovering so fine a genius in the text humbling itself through all the depravity of a commentary full of spleen, and not without the fictions of satire. The unhappy influence his Literary Quarrels had on this great poet’s life remains to be traced. 280 He adopted a system of literary politics abounding with stratagems, conspiracies, manœuvres, and factions.

Pope’s literary quarrels were the wars of his poetical ambition, more perhaps than of the petulance and strong irritability of his character. They were some of the artifices he adopted from the peculiarity of his situation.

Thrown out of the active classes of society from a variety of causes sufficiently known,[193] concentrating his passions into a solitary one, his retired life was passed in the contemplation of his own literary greatness. Reviewing the past, and anticipating the future, he felt he was creating a new era in our literature, an event which does not always occur in a century: but eager to secure present celebrity, with the victory obtained in the open field, he combined the intrigues of the cabinet: thus, while he was exerting great means, he practised little artifices. No politician studied to obtain his purposes by more oblique directions, or with more intricate stratagems; and Pope was at once the lion and the fox of Machiavel. A book might be written on the Stratagems of Literature, as Frontinus has composed one on War, and among its subtilest heroes we might place this great poet.

To keep his name alive before the public was one of his early plans. When he published his “Essay on Criticism,” anonymously, the young and impatient poet was mortified with the inertion of public curiosity: he was almost in despair.[194] Twice, perhaps oftener, Pope attacked Pope;[195] and 281 he frequently concealed himself under the names of others, for some particular design. Not to point out his dark familiar “Scriblerus,” always at hand for all purposes, he made use of the names of several of his friends. When he employed Savage in “a collection of all the pieces, in verse and prose, published on occasion of the Dunciad,” he subscribed his name to an admirable dedication to Lord Middlesex, where he minutely relates the whole history of the Dunciad, “and the weekly clubs held to consult of hostilities against the author;” and, for an express introduction to that work, he used the name of Cleland, to which is added a note, expressing surprise that the world did not believe that Cleland was the writer![196] 282 Wanting a pretext for the publication of his letters, he delighted Curll by conveying to him some printed surreptitious copies, who soon discovered that it was but a fairy treasure which he could not grasp; and Pope, in his own defence, had soon ready the authentic edition.[197] Some lady observed that Pope “hardly drank tea without a stratagem!” The female genius easily detects its own peculiar faculty, when it is exercised with inferior delicacy.

But his systematic hostility did not proceed with equal impunity: in this perpetual war with dulness, he discovered that every one he called a dunce was not so; nor did he find the dunces themselves less inconvenient to him; for many successfully substituted, for their deficiencies in better qualities, the lie that lasts long enough to vex a man; and the insolence that does not fear him: they attacked him at all points, and not always in the spirit of legitimate warfare.[198] They filled up his asterisks, and accused him of treason. They asserted that the panegyrical verses prefixed to his works (an obsolete mode of recommendation, which Pope condescended to practise), were his own composition, and to which he had affixed the names of some dead or some unknown writers. They 283 published lists of all whom Pope had attacked; placing at the head, “God Almighty; the King;” descending to the “lords and gentlemen.”[199] A few suspected his skill in Greek; but every hound yelped in the halloo against his Homer.[200] Yet the more extraordinary circumstance was, their hardy disputes with Pope respecting his claim to his own works, and the difficulty he more than once found to establish his rights. Sometimes they divided public opinion by even indicating the 284 real authors; and witnesses from White’s and St. James’s were ready to be produced. Among these literary coteries, several of Pope’s productions, in their anonymous, and even in their MS. state, had been appropriated by several pseudo authors; and when Pope called for restitution, he seemed to be claiming nothing less than their lives. One of these gentlemen had enjoyed a very fair reputation for more than two years on the “Memoirs of a Parish-Clerk;” another, on “The Messiah!” and there were many other vague claims. All this was vexatious; but not so much as the ridiculous attitude in which Pope was sometimes placed by his enraged adversaries.[201] He must have found himself in a more perilous situation when he hired a brawny champion, or borrowed the generous courage of some military friend.[202] To all these 285 troubles we may add, that Pope has called down on himself more lasting vengeance; and the good sense of Theobald, the furious but often acute remarks of Dennis; the good-humoured yet keen remonstrance of Cibber; the silver shaft, tipped with venom, sent from the injured but revengeful Lady Mary; and many a random shot, that often struck him, inflicted on him many a sleepless night.[203] The younger Richardson has recorded the personal sufferings of Pope when, one day, in taking up Cibber’s letter, while his face was writhing with agony, he feebly declared that “these things were as good as hartshorn to him;” but he appeared at that 286 moment rather to want a little. And it is probably true, what Cibber facetiously says of Pope, in his second letter:—“Everybody tells me that I have made you as uneasy as a rat in a hot kettle, for a twelvemonth together.”[204]

Pope was pursued through life by the insatiable vengeance of Dennis. The young poet, who had got introduced to him, among his first literary acquaintances, could not fail, when the occasion presented itself, of ridiculing this uncouth son of Aristotle. The blow was given in the character of Appius, in the “Art of Criticism;” and it is known Appius was instantaneously recognised by the fierce shriek of the agonised critic himself. From that moment Dennis resolved to write down every work of Pope’s. How dangerous to offend certain tempers, verging on madness![205] Dennis, too, called on every one to join him in the common cause; and once he retaliated on Pope in his own way. Accused by Pope of being the writer of an account of himself, in Jacob’s “Lives of the Poets,” Dennis procured a letter from Jacob, which he published, and in which it appears that Pope’s own character in this collection, if not written by him, was by him very carefully corrected on the proof-sheet; so that he stood in the same ridiculous attitude into which he had thrown Dennis, as his own trumpeter. Dennis, whose brutal energy 287 remained unsubdued, was a rhinoceros of a critic, shelled up against the arrows of wit. This monster of criticism awed the poet; and Dennis proved to be a Python, whom the golden shaft of Apollo could not pierce.

The political prudence of Pope was further discovered in the “Collection of all the Pieces relative to the Dunciad,” on which he employed Savage: these exemplified the justness of the satire, or defended it from all attacks. The precursor of the Dunciad was a single chapter in “The Bathos; or, the Art of Sinking in Poetry;” where the humorous satirist discovers an analogy between flying-fishes, parrots, tortoises, &c., and certain writers, whose names are designated by initial letters. In this unlucky alphabet of dunces, not one of them but was applied to some writer of the day; and the loud clamours these excited could not be appeased by the simplicity of our poet’s declaration, that the letters were placed at random: and while his oil could not smooth so turbulent a sea, every one swore to the flying-fish or the tortoise, as he had described them. It was still more serious when the Dunciad appeared. Of that class of authors who depended for a wretched existence on their wages, several were completely ruined, for no purchasers were to be found for the works of some authors, after they had been inscribed in the chronicle of our provoking and inimitable satirist.[206]

It is in this collection by Savage I find the writer’s admirable satire on the class of literary prostitutes. It is entitled “An Author to be Let, by Iscariot Hackney.” It has been ably commended by Johnson in his “Life of Savage,” and on his recommendation Thomas Davies inserted it in his “Collection of Fugitive Pieces;” but such is the careless curiosity of modern re-publishers, that often, in preserving a decayed body, they are apt to drop a limb: this was the case with Davies; for he has dropped the preface, far more exquisite than the work itself. A morsel of such poignant relish betrays the hand of the master who snatched the pen for a moment.

This preface defends Pope from the two great objections justly raised at the time against the Dunciad: one is, the grossness and filthiness of its imagery; and the other, its reproachful allusions to the poverty of the authors.

“They are suitable to the subject; a subject composed, for the most part, of authors whose writings are the refuse of 289 wit, and who in life are the very excrement of Nature. Mr. Pope has, too, used dung; but he disposes that dung in such a manner that it becomes rich manure, from which he raises a variety of fine flowers. He deals in rags; but like an artist, who commits them to a paper-mill, and brings them out useful sheets. The chemist extracts a fine cordial from the most nauseous of all dung; and Mr. Pope has drawn a sweet poetical spirit from the most offensive and unpoetical objects of the creation—unpoetical, though eternal writers of poetry.”

The reflections on the poverty of its heroes are thus ingeniously defended:—“Poverty, not proceeding from folly, but which may be owing to virtue, sets a man in an amiable light; but when our wants are of our own seeking, and prove the motive of every ill action (for the poverty of bad authors has always a bad heart for its companion), is it not a vice, and properly the subject of satire?” The preface then proceeds to show how “all these said writers might have been good mechanics.” He illustrates his principles with a most ungracious account of several of his contemporaries. I shall give a specimen of what I consider as the polished sarcasm and caustic humour of Pope, on some favourite subjects.

“Mr. Thomas Cooke.—His enemies confess him not without merit. To do the man justice, he might have made a tolerable figure as a Tailor. ’Twere too presumptuous to affirm he could have been a master in any profession; but, dull as I allow him, he would not have been despicable for a third or a fourth hand journeyman. Then had his wants have been avoided; for, he would at least have learnt to cut his coat according to his cloth.

“Why would not Mr. Theobald continue an attorney? Is not Word-catching more serviceable in splitting a cause, than explaining a fine poet?

“When Mrs. Haywood ceased to be a strolling-actress, why might not the lady (though once a theatrical queen) have subsisted by turning washerwoman? Has not the fall of greatness been a frequent distress in all ages? She might have caught a beautiful bubble, as it arose from the suds of her tub, blown it in air, seen it glitter, and then break! Even in this low condition, she had played with a bubble; and what more is the vanity of human greatness?

“Had it not been an honester and more decent livelihood for Mr. Norton (Daniel De Foe’s son of love by a lady who 290 vended oysters) to have dealt in a fish-market, than to be dealing out the dialects of Billingsgate in the Flying-post?

“Had it not been more laudable for Mr. Roome, the son of an undertaker, to have borne a link and a mourning-staff, in the long procession of a funeral—or even been more decent in him to have sung psalms, according to education, in an Anabaptist meeting, than to have been altering the Jovial Crew, or Merry Beggars, into a wicked imitation of the Beggar’s Opera?”

This satire seems too exquisite for the touch of Savage, and is quite in the spirit of the author of the Dunciad. There is, in Ruffhead’s “Life of Pope,” a work to which Warburton contributed all his care, a passage which could only have been written by Warburton. The strength and coarseness of the imagery could never have been produced by the dull and feeble intellect of Ruffhead: it is the opinion, therefore, of Warburton himself, on the Dunciad. “The good purpose intended by this satire was, to the herd in general, of less efficacy than our author hoped; for scribblers have not the common sense of other vermin, who usually abstain from mischief, when they see any of their kind gibbeted or nailed up, as terrible examples.”—Warburton employed the same strong image in one of his threats.

In the Treatise on the Bathos, the initial letters of the bad writers occasioned many heartburns; and, among others, Aaron Hill suspected he was marked out by the letters A. H. This gave rise to a large correspondence between Hill and Pope. Hill, who was a very amiable man, was infinitely too susceptible of criticism; and Pope, who seems to have had a personal regard for him, injured those nice feelings as little as possible. Hill had published a panegyrical poem on Peter the Great, under the title of “The Northern Star;” and the bookseller had conveyed to him a criticism of Pope’s, of which Hill publicly acknowledged he mistook the meaning. When the Treatise of “The Bathos” appeared, Pope insisted he had again mistaken the initials A. H.—Hill gently attacked Pope in “a paper of very pretty verses,” as Pope calls them. When the Dunciad appeared, Hill is said “to have published pieces, in his youth, bordering upon the bombast.” This was as light a stroke as could be inflicted; and which Pope, with great good-humour, tells Hill, might be equally 291 applied to himself; for he always acknowledged, that when a boy, he had written an Epic poem of that description; would often quote absurd verses from it, for the diversion of his friends; and actually inserted some of the most extravagant ones in the very Treatise on “The Bathos.” Poor Hill, however, was of the most sickly delicacy, and produced “The Caveat,” another gentle rebuke, where Pope is represented as “sneakingly to approve, and want the worth to cherish or befriend men of merit.” In the course of this correspondence, Hill seems to have projected the utmost stretch of his innocent malice; for he told Pope, that he had almost finished “An Essay on Propriety and Impropriety in Design, Thought, and Expression, illustrated by examples in both kinds, from the writings of Mr. Pope;” but he offers, if this intended work should create the least pain to Mr. Pope, he was willing, with all his heart, to have it run thus:—“An Essay on Propriety and Impropriety, &c., illustrated by Examples of the first, from the writings of Mr. Pope, and of the rest, from those of the author.”—To the romantic generosity of this extraordinary proposal, Pope replied, “I acknowledge your generous offer, to give examples of imperfections rather out of your own works than mine: I consent, with all my heart, to your confining them to mine, for two reasons: the one, that I fear your sensibility that way is greater than my own: the other is a better; namely, that I intend to correct the faults you find, if they are such as I expect from Mr. Hill’s cool judgment.”[207]

Where, in literary history, can be found the parallel of such an offer of self-immolation? This was a literary quarrel like that of lovers, where to hurt each other would have given pain to both parties. Such skill and desire to strike, with so much tenderness in inflicting a wound; so much compliment, with so much complaint; have perhaps never met together, as in the romantic hostility of this literary chivalry.

Johnson observes, that “one of the passages of Pope’s life which seems to deserve some inquiry, was the publication of his letters by Curll, the rapacious bookseller.”[208] Our great literary biographer has expended more research on this occasion than his usual penury of literary history allowed; and yet has only told the close of the strange transaction—the previous parts are more curious, and the whole cannot be separated. Joseph Warton has only transcribed Johnson’s narrative. It is a piece of literary history of an uncommon complexion; and it is worth the pains of telling, if Pope, as I consider him to be, was the subtile weaver of a plot, whose texture had been close enough for any political conspiracy. It throws a strong light on the portrait I have touched of him. He conducted all his literary transactions with the arts of a Minister of State; and the genius which he wasted on this literary stratagem, in which he so completely succeeded, might have been perhaps sufficient to have organised rebellion.

It is well known that the origin of Pope’s first letters given to the public, arose from the distresses of a cast-off mistress of one of his old friends (H. Cromwell),[209] who had 293 given her the letters of Pope, which she knew how to value: these she afterwards sold to Curll, who preserved the originals in his shop, so that no suspicions could arise of their authenticity. This very collection is now deposited among Rawlinson’s MSS. at the Bodleian.[210]

This single volume was successful; and when Pope, to do justice to the memory of Wycherley, which had been injured by a posthumous volume, printed some of their letters, Curll, who seemed now to consider that all he could touch was his own property, and that his little volume might serve as a foundation-stone, immediately announced a new edition of it, with Additions, meaning to include the letters of Pope and Wycherley. Curll now became so fond of Pope’s Letters, that he advertised for any: “no questions to be asked.” Curll was willing to be credulous: having proved to the world he had some originals, he imagined these would sanction even spurious one. A man who, for a particular purpose, sought to be imposed on, easily obtained his wish: they translated letters of Voiture to Mademoiselle Rambouillet, and despatched them to the eager Bibliopolist to print, as Pope’s to Miss Blount. He went on increasing his collection; and, skilful in catering for the literary taste of the town, now inflamed their appetite by dignifying it with “Mr. Pope’s Literary Correspondence!”

But what were the feelings of Pope during these successive surreptitious editions? He had discovered that his genuine letters were liked; the grand experiment with the public had been made for him, while he was deprived of the profits; yet for he himself to publish his own letters, which I shall prove he had prepared, was a thing unheard of in the nation. All this was vexatious; and to stop the book-jobber and open the market for himself, was a point to be obtained.

While Curll was proceeding, wind and tide in his favour, a new and magnificent prospect burst upon him. A certain person, masked by the initials P. T., understanding Curll was preparing a Life of Pope, offered him “divers Memoirs gratuitously;” hinted that he was well known to Pope; but the poet had lately “treated him as a stranger.” P. T. desires an answer from E. C. by the Daily Advertiser, which was complied with. There are passages in this letter which, 294 I think, prove Pope to be the projector of it: his family is here said to be allied to Lord Downe’s; his father is called a merchant. Pope could not bear the reproach of Lady Mary’s line:—

He always hinted at noble relatives; but Tyers tells us, from the information of a relative, that “his father turns out, at last, to have been a linen-draper in the Strand:” therefore P. T. was at least telling a story which Pope had no objection should be repeated.

The second letter of P. T., for the first was designed only to break the ice, offers Curll “a large Collection of Letters from the early days of Pope to the year 1727.” He gives an excellent notion of their value: “They will open very many scenes new to the world, and make the most authentic Life and Memoirs that could be.” He desires they may be announced to the world immediately, in Curll’s precious style, that he “might not appear himself to have set the whole thing a-foot, and afterwards he might plead he had only sent some letters to complete the Collection.” He asks nothing, and the originals were offered to be deposited with Curll.

Curll, secure of this promised addition, but still craving for more and more, composed a magnificent announcement, which, with P. T.’s entire correspondence, he enclosed in a letter to Pope himself. The letters were now declared to be a “Critical, Philological, and Historical Correspondence.”—His own letter is no bad specimen of his keen sense; but after what had so often passed, his impudence was equal to the better quality.

Pope, surprised, as he pretends, at this address, consulted with his friends; everything evil was suggested against Curll. They conceived that his real design was “to get Pope to look 295 over the former edition of his ‘Letters to Cromwell,’ and then to print it, as revised by Mr. Pope; as he sent an obscene book to a Bishop, and then advertised it as corrected and revised by him;” or perhaps to extort money from Pope for suppressing the MS. of P. T., and then publish it, saying P. T. had kept another copy. Pope thought proper to answer only by this public advertisement:—

“Whereas A. P. hath received a letter from E. C., bookseller, pretending that a person, the initials of whose name are P. T., hath offered the said E. C. to print a large Collection of Mr. P.’s letters, to which E. C. required an answer: A. P. having never had, nor intending to have, any private correspondence with the said E. C., gives it him in this manner. That he knows no such person as P. T.; that he believes he hath no such collection; and that he thinks the whole a forgery, and shall not trouble himself at all about it.”

Curll replied, denying he had endeavoured to correspond with Mr. Pope, and affirms that he had written to him by direction.

It is now the plot thickens. P. T. suddenly takes umbrage, accuses Curll of having “betrayed him to ‘Squire Pope,’ but you and he both shall soon be convinced it was no forgery. Since you would not comply with my proposal to advertise, I have printed them at my own expense.” He offers the books to Curll for sale.

Curll on this has written a letter, which takes a full view of the entire transaction. He seems to have grown tired of what he calls “such jealous, groundless, and dark negotiations.” P. T. now found it necessary to produce something more than a shadow—an agent appears, whom Curll considered to be a clergyman, who assumed the name of R. Smith. The first proposal was, that P. T.’s letters should be returned, that he might feel secure from all possibility of detection; so that P. T. terminates his part in this literary freemasonry as a nonentity.

Here Johnson’s account begins.—“Curll said, that one evening a man in a clergyman’s gown, but with a lawyer’s band, brought and offered to sale a number of printed volumes, which he found to be Pope’s Epistolary Correspondence; that he asked no name, and was told none, but gave the price demanded, and thought himself authorised to use his purchase to his own advantage.” Smith, the clergyman, left him some copies, and promised more.

Curll now, in all the elation of possession, rolled his thunder in an advertisement still higher than ever.—“Mr. Pope’s Literary Correspondence regularly digested, from 1704 to 1734:” to lords, earls, baronets, doctors, ladies, &c., with their respective answers, and whose names glittered in the advertisement. The original MSS. were also announced to be seen at his house.

But at this moment Curll had not received many books, and no MSS. The advertisement produced the effect designed; it roused public notice, and it alarmed several in the House of Lords. Pope doubtless instigated his friends there. The Earl of Jersey moved, that to publish letters of Lords was a breach of privilege; and Curll was brought before the House.

This was an unexpected incident; and P. T. once more throws his dark shadow across the path of Curll to hearten him, had he wanted courage to face all the lords. P. T. writes to instruct him in his answers to their examination; but to take the utmost care to conceal P. T.; he assures him that the lords could not touch a hair of his head if he behaved firmly; that he should only answer their interrogatories by declaring he received the letters from different persons; that some were given, and some were bought. P. T. reminds one, on this occasion, of Junius’s correspondence on a like threat with his publisher.

“Curll appeared at the bar,” says Johnson, “and knowing himself in no great danger, spoke of Pope with very little reverence. ‘He has,’ said Curll, ‘a knack at versifying; but in prose I think myself a match for him.’ When the Orders of the House were examined, none of them appeared to have been infringed: Curll went away triumphant, and Pope was left to seek some other remedy.” The fact, not mentioned by Johnson, is, that though Curll’s flourishing advertisement had announced letters written by lords, when the volumes were examined not one written by a lord appeared.

The letter Curll wrote on the occasion to one of these dark familiars, the pretended clergyman, marks his spirit and sagacity. It contains a remarkable passage. Some readers will be curious to have the productions of so celebrated a personage, who appears to have exercised considerable talents.

The reader observes that Curll talks of a great number of books not received, and of the few which he has received, as imperfect. The fact is, the whole bubble is on the point of breaking. He, masked in the initial letters, and he, who wore the masquerade dress of a clergyman’s gown with a lawyer’s band, suddenly picked a quarrel with the duped bibliopolist: they now accuse him of a design he had of betraying them to the Lords!

The tantalized and provoked Curll then addressed the following letter to “The Rev. Mr. Smith,” which, both as a specimen of this celebrated personage’s “prose,” in which he thought himself “a match for Pope,” and exhibiting some traits of his character, will entertain the curious reader.

After this, Curll announced “Mr. Pope’s Literary Correspondence, with the initial correspondence of P. T., R. S. &c.” But the shadowy correspondents now publicly declared that they could give no title whatever to Mr. Pope’s letters, with which they had furnished Curll, and never pretended any; that therefore any bookseller had the same right of printing them: and, in respect to money matters between them, he had given them notes not negotiable, and had never paid them fully for the copies, perfect and imperfect, which he had sold.

Thus terminated this dark transaction between Curll and his initial correspondents. He still persisted in printing several editions of the letters of Pope, which furnished the poet with a modest pretext to publish an authentic edition—the very point to which the whole of this dark and intricate plot seems to have been really directed.[211]

Were Pope not concerned in this mysterious transaction, how happened it that the letters which P. T. actually printed were genuine? To account for this, Pope promulgated a 299 new fact. Since the first publication of his letters to his friend Cromwell, wrenched from the distressed female who possessed them, our poet had been advised to collect his letters; and these he had preserved by inserting them in two books; either the originals or the copies. For this purpose an amanuensis or two were employed by Pope when these books were in the country, and by the Earl of Oxford when they were in town. Pope pretended that Curll’s letters had been extracted from these two books, but sometimes imperfectly transcribed, and sometimes interpolated. Pope, indeed, offered a reward of twenty pounds to “P. T.” and “R. Smith, who passed for a clergyman,” if they would come forward and discover the whole of this affair; or “if they had acted, as it was reported, by the direction of any other person.” They never appeared. Lintot, the son of the great rival of Curll, told Dr. Johnson, that his father had been offered the same parcel of printed books, and that Pope knew better than anybody else how Curll obtained the copies.

Dr. Johnson, although he appears not to have been aware of the subtle intricacy of this extraordinary plot, has justly drawn this inference: “To make the copies perfect was the only purpose of Pope, because the numbers offered for sale by the private messengers, showed that hope of gain could not have been the motive of the impression. It seems that Pope, being desirous of printing his letters, and not knowing how to do, without imputation of vanity, what has in this country been done very rarely, contrived an appearance of compulsion; when he could complain that his letters were surreptitiously printed, he might decently and defensively publish them himself.”

I have observed, how the first letter of P. T. pretending to be written by one who owed no kindness to Pope, bears the evident impression of his own hand; for it contains matters not exactly true, but exactly what Pope wished should appear in his own life. That he had prepared his letters for publication, appears by the story of the two MS. books—that the printed ones came by water, would look as if they had been sent from his house at Twickenham; and, were it not absurd to pretend to decipher initials, P. T. might be imagined to indicate the name of the owner, as well as his place of abode.

Worsdale, an indifferent painter, was a man of some humour in personating a character, for he performed Old Lady Scandal in one of his own farces. He was also a 300 literary adventurer, for, according to Mrs. Pilkington’s Memoirs, wishing to be a poet as well as a mimic, he got her and her husband to write all the verses which passed with his name; such a man was well adapted to be this clergyman with the lawyer’s band, and Worsdale has asserted that he was really employed by his friend Pope on this occasion.

Such is the intricate narrative of this involved transaction. Pope completely succeeded, by the most subtile manœuvres imaginable; the incident which perhaps was not originally expected, of having his letters brought before the examination at the House of Lords, most amply gratified his pride, and awakened public curiosity. “He made the House of Lords,” says Curll, “his tools.” Greater ingenuity, perplexity, and secrecy have scarcely been thrown into the conduct of the writer, or writers, of the Letters of Junius.

Pope attacked Cibber from personal motives—by dethroning Theobald, in the Dunciad, to substitute Cibber, he made the satire not apply—Cibber’s facetious and serious remonstrance—Cibber’s inimitable good-humour—an apology for what has been called his “effrontery”—perhaps a modest man, and undoubtedly a man of genius—his humorous defence of his deficiency in Tragedy, both in acting and writing—Pope more hurt at being exposed as a ridiculous lover than as a bad man—an account of “The Egotist, or Colley upon Cibber,” a kind of supplement to the “Apology for his life,” in which he has drawn his own character with great freedom and spirit.

Pope’s quarrel with Cibber may serve to check the haughtiness of genius; it is a remarkable instance how good-humour can gently draw a boundary round the arbitrary power, whenever the wantonness of satire would conceal calumny. But this quarrel will become even more interesting, should it throw a new light on the character of one whose originality of genius seems little suspected. Cibber showed a happy address in a very critical situation, and obtained an honourable triumph over the malice of a great genius, whom, while he complained of he admired, and almost loved the cynic.

Pope, after several “flirts,” as Cibber calls them, from slight personal motives, which Cibber has fully opened,[212] at 302 length from “peevish weakness,” as Lord Orford has happily expressed it, closed his insults by dethroning Theobald, and substituting Cibber; but as he would not lose what he had already written, this change disturbed the whole decorum of the satiric fiction. Things of opposite natures, joined into one, became the poetical chimera of Horace. The hero of the Dunciad is neither Theobald nor Cibber; Pope forced a dunce to appear as Cibber; but this was not making Cibber a dunce. This error in Pope emboldened Cibber in the contest, for he still insisted that the satire did not apply to him;[213] and humorously compared the libel “to a purge with 303 a wrong label,” and Pope “to an apothecary who did not mind his business.”[214]

Cibber triumphed in the arduous conflict—though sometimes he felt that, like the Patriarch of old, he was wrestling, not with an equal, but one of celestial race, “and the hollow of his thigh was out of joint.” Still, however, he triumphed, by that singular felicity of character, that inimitable gaieté de cœur, that honest simplicity of truth, from which flowed so warm an admiration of the genius of his adversary; and that exquisite tact in the characters of men, which carried down this child of airy humour to the verge of his ninetieth year, with all the enjoyments of strong animal spirits, and all that innocent egotism which became frequently a source of his own raillery.[215] He has applied to himself the epithet “impenetrable,” which was probably in the mind of Johnson when he noticed his “impenetrable impudence.” A critic has charged him with “effrontery.”[216] Critics are apt to admit 304 too much of traditional opinion into their own; it is necessary sometimes to correct the knowledge we receive. For my part, I can almost believe that Cibber was a modest man![217] 305 as he was most certainly a man of genius. Cibber had lived a dissipated life, and his philosophical indifference, with his careless gaiety, was the breastplate which even the wit of Pope failed to pierce. During twenty years’ persecution for his unlucky Odes, he never lost his temper; he would read to his friends the best things pointed against them, with all the spirit the authors could wish; and would himself write 306 epigrams for the pleasure of hearing them repeated while sitting in coffee-houses; and whenever they were applauded as “Palpable hits!”—“Keen!”—“Things with a spirit in them!”—he enjoyed these attacks on himself by himself.[218] If this be vanity, it is at least “Cibberian.”

It was, indeed, the singularity of his personal character which so long injured his genius, and laid him open to the perpetual attacks of his contemporaries,[219] who were mean enough to ridicule undisguised foibles, but dared not be just to the redeeming virtues of his genius. Yet his genius far exceeded his literary frailties. He knew he was no poet, yet he would string wretched rhymes, even when not salaried for them; and once wrote an Essay on Cicero’s character, for which his dotage was scarcely an apology;—so much he preferred amusement to prudence.[220] Another foible was to act tragedies with a squeaking voice [221], and to write them with a 307 genius about the same size for the sublime; but the malice of his contemporaries seemed to forget that he was creating new dramatic existences in the exquisite personifications of his comic characters; and was producing some of our standard comedies, composed with such real genius, that they still support the reputation of the English stage.

In the “Apology for his Life,” Cibber had shown himself a generous and an ill-treated adversary, and at all times was prodigal of his eulogiums, even after the death of Pope; but, when remonstrance and good temper failed to sheathe with their oil the sharp sting of the wasp, as his weakest talent was not the ludicrous, he resolved to gain the laughers over, 308 and threw Pope into a very ridiculous attitude.[222] It was extorted from Cibber by this insulting line of Pope’s:—

It seems that Pope had once the same! But a ridiculous story, suited to the taste of the loungers, nettled Pope more than the keener remonstrances and the honest truths which Cibber has urged. Those who write libels, invite imitation.

Besides the two letters addressed by Cibber to Pope, this quarrel produced a moral trifle, or rather a philosophical curiosity, respecting Cibber’s own character, which is stamped with the full impression of all its originality.

The title, so expressive of its design, and the whim and good-humour of the work, which may be considered as a curious supplement to the “Apology for his Life,” could scarcely have been imagined, and most certainly could not have been executed, but by the genius who dared it. I give the title in the note.[223] It is a curious exemplification of what Shaftesbury has so fancifully described as “self-inspection.” This little work is a conversation between “Mr. Frankly and his old acquaintance, Colley Cibber.” Cibber had the spirit of making this Mr. Frankly speak the bitterest things against himself; and he must have been an attentive reader of all the keenest reproaches his enemies ever had 309 thrown out. This caustic censor is not a man of straw, set up to be easily knocked down. He has as much vivacity and wit as Cibber himself, and not seldom has the better of the argument. But the gravity and the levity blended in this little piece form admirable contrasts: and Cibber, in this varied effusion, acquires all our esteem for that open simplicity, that unalterable good-humour which flowed from nature, and that fine spirit that touches everything with life; yet, as he himself confesses, the main accusation of Mr. Frankly, that “his philosophical air will come out at last mere vanity in masquerade,” may be true.

I will attempt to collect some specimens of this extraordinary production, because they harmonise with the design of the present work, and afford principles, in regard to preserving an equability of temper, which may guide us in Literary Quarrels.

Frankly observes, on Cibber’s declaration that he is not uneasy at Pope’s satire, that “no blockhead is so dull as not to be sore when he is called so; and (you’ll excuse me) if that were to be your own case, why should we believe you would not be as uneasy at it as another blockhead?

Author. This is pushing me pretty home indeed; but I wont give out. For as it is not at all inconceivable, that a blockhead of my size may have a particular knack of doing some useful thing that might puzzle a wiser man to be master of, will not that blockhead still have something in him to be conceited of? If so, allow me but the vanity of supposing I may have had some such possible knack, and you will not wonder (though in many other points I may still be a blockhead) that I may, notwithstanding, be contented with my condition.

Frankly. Is it not commendable, in a man of parts, to be warmly concerned for his reputation?

Author. In what regards his honesty or honour, I will make some allowance; but for the reputation of his parts, not one tittle.

Frankly. How! not to be concerned for what half the learned world are in a continual war about.

Author. So are another half about religion; but neither Turk or Pope, swords or anathemas, can alter truth! There it stands! always visible to reason, self-defended and immovable! Whatever it was, or is, it ever will be! As no attack can alter, so no defence can add to its proportion.

Frankly. At this rate, you pronounce all controversies in wit to be either needless or impertinent.

Author. When one in a hundred happens not to be so, or to make amends for being either by its pleasantry, we ought in justice to allow it a great rarity. A reply to a just satire or criticism will seldom be thought better of.

Author. Yes, but never absolutely necessary; for as your work (or reputation) must have been good or bad, before it was censured, your reply to that censure could not alter it: it would still be but what it was. If it was good, the attack could not hurt it: if bad, the reply could not mend it.[224]

Frankly. But slander is not always so impotent as you seem to suppose it; men of the best sense may be misled by it, or, by their not inquiring after truth, may never come at it; and the vulgar, as they are less apt to be good than ill-natured, often mistake malice for wit, and have an uncharitable joy in commending it. Now, when this is the case, is not a tame silence, upon being satirically libelled, as liable to be thought guilt or stupidity, as to be the result of innocence or temper?—Self-defence is a very natural and just excuse for a reply.

Author. Be it so! But still that does not always make it necessary; for though slander, by their not weighing it, may pass upon some few people of sense for truth, and might draw great numbers of the vulgar into its party, the mischief 311 can never be of long duration. A satirical slander, that has no truth to support it, is only a great fish upon dry land: it may flounce and fling, and make a fretful pother, but it wont bite you; you need not knock it on the head; it will soon lie still, and die quietly of itself.

Author. Indeed they wont. I’m not so mad as to think myself a match for the invulnerable.

Author. Ay, so will bugs and fleas; but that’s only for sustenance: everything must feed, you know; and your creeping critics are a sort of vermin, that if they could come to a king, would not spare him; yet, whenever they can persuade others to laugh at their jest upon me, I will honestly make one of the number; but I must ask their pardon, if that should be all the reply I can afford them.”

This “boy of seventy odd,” for such he was when he wrote “The Egotist,” unfolds his character by many lively personal touches. He declares he could not have “given the world so finished a coxcomb as Lord Foppington, if he had not found a good deal of the same stuff in himself to make him with.” He addresses “A Postscript, To those few unfortunate Readers and Writers who may not have more sense than the Author:” and he closes, in all the fulness of his spirit, with a piece of consolation for those who are so cruelly attacked by superior genius.

“Let us then, gentlemen, who have the misfortune to lie thus at the mercy of those whose natural parts happen to be stronger than our own—let us, I say, make the most of our sterility! Let us double and treble the ranks of our thickness, that we may form an impregnable phalanx, and stand every way in front to the enemy! or, would you still be liable to less hazard, lay but yourselves down, as I do, flat and quiet upon your faces, when Pride, Malice, Envy, Wit, or Prejudice let fly their formidable shot at you, what odds is it they don’t all whistle over your head? Thus, too, though we may want the artillery of missive wit to make reprisals, we may at least in security bid them kiss the tails we have turned to them. Who knows but, by this our supine, or rather prone serenity, their disappointed valour may become their own vexation? Or let us yet, at worst, but solidly stand our ground, like so many defensive stone-posts, and we may defy the 312 proudest Jehu of them all to drive over us. Thus, gentlemen, you see that Insensibility is not without its comforts; and as I give you no worse advice than I have taken myself, and found my account in, I hope you will have the hardness to follow it, for your own good and the glory of

After all, one may perceive, that though the good-humour of poor Cibber was real, still the immortal satire of Pope had injured his higher feelings. He betrays his secret grief at his close, while he seems to be sporting with his pen; and though he appears to confide in the falsity of the satire as his best chance for saving him from it, still he feels that the caustic ink of such a satirist must blister and spot wherever it falls. The anger of Warburton, and the sternness of Johnson, who seem always to have considered an actor as an inferior being among men of genius, have degraded Cibber. They never suspected that “a blockhead of his size could do what wiser men could not,” and, as a fine comic genius, command a whole province in human nature.

The quarrel between Pope and Addison originated in one of the infirmities of genius—a subject of inquiry even after their death, by Sir William Blackstone—Pope courts Addison—suspects Addison of jealousy—Addison’s foible to be considered a great poet—interview between the rivals, of which the result was the portrait of Atticus, for which Addison was made to sit.

Among the Literary Quarrels of Pope one acquires dignity and interest from the characters of both parties. It closed by producing the severest, but the most masterly portrait of one man of genius, composed by another, which has ever been hung on the satiric Parnassus for the contemplation of ages. Addison must descend to posterity with the dark spots of Atticus staining a purity of character which had nearly proved immaculate.

The friendship between Pope and Addison was interrupted by one of the infirmities of genius. Tempers of watchful delicacy gather up in silence and darkness motives so shadowy in their origin, and of such minute growth, that, never breaking out into any open act, they escape all other eyes but those of the parties themselves. These causes of enmity are too subtle to bear the touch; they cannot be inquired after, nor can they be described; and it may be said that the minds of such men have rather quarrelled than they themselves: they utter no complaints, but they avoid each other. All the world perceived that two authors of the finest genius had separated from motives on which both were silent, but which had evidently operated with equal force on both. Their admirers were very general, and at a time when literature divided with politics the public interest, the best feelings of the nation were engaged in tracking the obscure commencements and the secret growth of this literary quarrel, in which the amiable and moral qualities of Addison, and the gratitude and honour of Pope, were equally involved. The friends of either party pretended that their chiefs entertained a reciprocal regard for each other, while the illustrious characters themselves were 314 living in a state of hostility. Even long after these literary heroes were departed, the same interest was general among the lovers of literature; but those obscure motives which had only influenced two minds—those imperceptible events, which are only events as they are watched by the jealousy of genius—eluded the most anxious investigation. Yet so lasting and so powerful was the interest excited by this literary quarrel, that, within a few years, the elegant mind of Sir William Blackstone withdrew from the severity of profounder studies to inquire into the causes of a quarrel which was still exciting the most opposite opinions. Blackstone has judged and summed up; but though he evidently inclines to favour Addison, by throwing into the balance some explanation for the silence of Addison against the audible complaints of Pope; though sometimes he pleads as well as judges, and infers as well as proves; yet even Blackstone has not taken on himself to deliver a decision. His happy genius has only honoured literary history by the masterly force and luminous arrangement of investigation, to which, since the time of Bayle, it has been too great a stranger.[225]

At this day, removed from all personal influence and affections, and furnished with facts which contemporaries could not command, we take no other concern in this literary quarrel but as far as curiosity and truth delight us in the study of human nature. We are now of no party—we are only historians!

Pope was a young writer when introduced to Addison by the intervention of that generously-minded friend of both, Steele. Addison eulogised Pope’s “Essay on Criticism;” and this fine genius covering with his wing an unfledged bardling, conferred a favour which, in the estimation of a poet, claims a life of indelible gratitude.

Pope zealously courted Addison by his poetical aid on several important occasions; he gave all the dignity that fine poetry could confer on the science of medals, which Addison had written on, and wrote the finest prologue in the language for the Whig tragedy of his friend. Dennis attacked, 315 and Pope defended Cato[226]. Addison might have disapproved both of the manner and the matter of the defence; but he did more—he insulted Pope by a letter to Dennis, which Dennis eagerly published as Pope’s severest condemnation. An alienation of friendship must have already taken place, but by no overt act on Pope’s side.

Not that, however, Pope had not found his affections weakened: the dark hints scattered in his letters show that something was gathering in his mind. Warburton, from his familiar intercourse with Pope, must be allowed to have known his literary concerns more than any one; and when he drew up the narrative,[227] seems to me to have stated uncouthly, but expressively, the progressive state of Pope’s feelings. According to that narrative, Pope “reflected,” that after he had first published “The Rape of the Lock,” then nothing more than a hasty jeu d’esprit, when he communicated to Addison his very original project of the whole sylphid machinery, Addison chilled the ardent bard with his coldness, advised him against any alteration, and to leave it as “a delicious little thing, merum sal.” It was then, says Warburton, “Mr. Pope began to open his eyes to Addison’s character.” But when afterwards he discovered that Tickell’s 316 Homer was opposed to his, and judged, as Warburton says, “by laying many odd circumstances together,” that Addison,[228] and not Tickell, was the author—the alienation on Pope’s side was complete. No open breach indeed had yet taken place between the rival authors, who, as jealous of dominion as two princes, would still demonstrate, in their public edicts, their inviolable regard; while they were only watching the advantageous moment when they might take arms against each other.

Still Addison publicly bestowed great encomiums on Pope’s Iliad, although he had himself composed the rival version, and in private preferred his own.[229] He did this with the same ease he had continued its encouragement while Pope was employed on it. We are astonished to discover such deep politics among literary Machiavels! Addison had certainly raised up a literary party. Sheridan, who wrote nearly with the knowledge of a contemporary, in his “Life of Swift,” would naturally use the language and the feelings of the time; and in describing Ambrose Phillips, he adds, he was “one of Mr. Addison’s little senate.”

But in this narrative I have dropt some material parts. Pope believed that Addison had employed Gildon to write against him, and had encouraged Phillips to asperse his character.[230] We cannot, now, quite demonstrate these alleged facts; but we can show that Pope believed them, and that Addison does not appear to have refuted them.[231] Such tales, whether 317 entirely false or partially true, may be considered in this inquiry of little amount. The greater events must regulate the lesser ones.[232]

Was Addison, then, jealous of Pope? Addison, in every respect, then, his superior; of established literary fame when Pope was yet young; preceding him in age and rank; and fortunate in all the views of human ambition. But what if Addison’s foible was that of being considered a great poet? His political poetry had raised him to an undue elevation, and the growing celebrity of Pope began to offend him, not with the appearance of a meek rival, with whom he might have held divided empire, but as a master-spirit, that was preparing to reign alone. It is certain that Addison was the most feeling man alive at the fate of his poetry. At the representation of his Cato, such was his agitation, that had Cato been condemned, the life of Addison might, too, have been shortened. When a wit had burlesqued some lines of this dramatic poem, his uneasiness at the innocent banter was 318 equally oppressive; nor could he rest, till, by the interposition of a friend, he prevailed upon the author to burn them.[233]

To the facts already detailed, and to this disposition in Addison’s temper, and to the quick and active suspicions of Pope, irritable, and ambitious of all the sovereignty of poetry, we may easily conceive many others of those obscure motives, and invisible events, which none but Pope, alienated every day more and more from his affections for Addison, too acutely perceived, too profoundly felt, and too unmercifully avenged. These are alluded to when the satirist sings—

Accusations crowded faster than the pen could write them down. Pope never composed with more warmth. No one can imagine that Atticus was an ideal personage, touched as it is with all the features of an extraordinary individual. In a word, it was recognised instantly by the individual himself; and it was suppressed by Pope for near twenty years, before he suffered it to escape to the public.

It was some time during their avowed rupture, for the exact period has not been given, that their friends promoted a meeting between these two great men. After a mutual lustration, it was imagined they might have expiated their error, and have been restored to their original purity. The interview did take place between the rival wits, and was productive of some very characteristic ebullitions, strongly corroborative of the facts as they have been stated here. This extraordinary interview has been frequently alluded to. There can be no doubt of the genuineness of the narrative but I know not on what authority it came into the world.[234]

The interview between Addison and Pope took place in the presence of Steele and Gay. They met with cold civility. Addison’s reserve wore away, as was usual with him, when wine and conversation imparted some warmth to his native phlegm. At a moment the generous Steele deemed auspicious, he requested Addison would perform his promise in renewing his friendship with Pope. Pope expressed his desire: he said he was willing to hear his faults, and preferred candour and severity rather than forms of complaisance; but he spoke in a manner as conceiving Addison, and not himself, had been the aggressor. So much like their humblest inferiors do great men act under the influence of common passions: Addison was overcome with anger, which cost him an effort to suppress; but, in the formal speech he made, he reproached Pope with indulging a vanity that far exceeded his merit; that he had not yet attained to the excellence he imagined; and observed, that his verses had a different air when Steele and himself corrected them; and, on this occasion, reminded Pope of a particular line which Steele had improved in the “Messiah.”[235] Addison seems at that moment 320 to have forgotten that he had trusted, for the last line of his own dramatic poem, rather to the inspiration of the poet he was so contemptuously lecturing than to his own.[236] He proceeded with detailing all the abuse the herd of scribblers had heaped on Pope; and by declaring that his Homer was “an ill-executed thing,” and Tickell’s had all the spirit. We are told, he concluded “in a low hollow voice of feigned temper,” in which he asserted that he had ceased to be solicitous about his own poetical reputation since he had entered into more public affairs; but, from friendship for Pope, desired him to be more humble, if he wished to appear a better man to the world.

When Addison had quite finished schooling his little rebel, Gay, mild and timid (for it seems, with all his love for Pope, his expectations from the court, from Addison’s side, had tethered his gentle heart), attempted to say something. But Pope, in a tone far more spirited than all of them, without reserve told Addison that he appealed from his judgment, and did not esteem him able to correct his verses; upbraided him as a pensioner from early youth, directing the learning which had been obtained by the public money to his own selfish desire of power, and that he “had always endeavoured to cut down new-fledged merit.” The conversation now became a contest, and was broken up without ceremony. Such was the notable interview between two rival wits, which only ended in strengthening their literary quarrel; and sent back the enraged satirist to his inkstand, where he composed a portrait, for which Addison was made to sit, with the fine chiar’ oscuro of Horace, and with as awful and vindictive features as the sombre hand of Juvenal could have designed.

Lord Bolingbroke affects violent resentment for Pope’s pretended breach of confidence in having printed his “Patriot King”—Warburton’s apology for Pope’s disinterested intentions—Bolingbroke instigates Mallet to libel Pope, after the poet’s death—The real motive for libelling Pope was Bolingbroke’s personal hatred of Warburton, for the ascendancy the latter had obtained over the poet—Some account of their rival conflicts—Bolingbroke had unsettled Pope’s religious opinions, and Warburton had confirmed his faith—Pope, however, refuses to abjure the Catholic religion—Anecdote of Pope’s anxiety respecting a future state—Mallet’s intercourse with Pope: anecdote of “The Apollo Vision,” where Mallet mistook a sarcasm for a compliment—Mallet’s character—Why Leonidas Glover declined writing the Life of Marlborough—Bolingbroke’s character hit off—Warburton, the concealed object of this posthumous quarrel with Pope.

On the death of Pope, 1500 copies of one of Lord Bolingbroke’s works, “The Patriot King,” were discovered to have been secretly printed by Pope, but never published. The honest printer presented the whole to his lordship, who burned the edition in his gardens at Battersea. The MS. had been delivered to our poet by his lordship, with a request to print a few copies for its better preservation, and for the use of a few friends.

Bolingbroke affected to feel the most lively resentment for what he chose to stigmatise as “a breach of confidence.” “His thirst of vengeance,” said Johnson, “incited him to blast the memory of the man over whom he had wept in his last struggles; and he employed Mallet, another friend of Pope, to tell the tale to the public with all its aggravations. Warburton, whose heart was warm with his legacy, and tender by the recent separation,” apologised for Pope. The irregular conduct which Bolingbroke stigmatised as a breach of trust, was attributed to a desire of perpetuating the work of his friend, who might have capriciously destroyed it. Our poet could have no selfish motive; he could not gratify his vanity by publishing the work as his own, nor his avarice by 322 its sale, which could never have taken place till the death of its author; a circumstance not likely to occur during Pope’s lifetime.[237]

The vindictive rage of Bolingbroke; the bitter invective he permitted Mallet to publish, as the editor of his works; and the two anonymous pamphlets of the latter, which I have noticed in the article of Warburton; are effects much too disproportionate to the cause which is usually assigned. Johnson does not develope the secret motives of what he has energetically termed “Bolingbroke’s thirst of vengeance.” He and Mallet carried their secret revenge beyond all bounds: the lordly stoic and the irritated bardling, under the cloak of anonymous calumny, have but ill-concealed the malignity of their passions. Let anonymous calumniators recollect, in the midst of their dark work, that if they escape the detection of their contemporaries, their reputation, if they have any to lose, will not probably elude the researches of the historian;—a fatal witness against them at the tribunal of posterity.

The preface of Mallet to the “Patriot King” of Bolingbroke, produced a literary quarrel; and more pamphlets than perhaps I have discovered were published on this occasion.

Every lover of literature was indignant to observe that the vain and petulant Mallet, under the protection of Pope’s

should have been permitted to have aspersed Pope with the most degrading language. Pope is here always designated as “This Man.” Thus “This Man was no sooner dead than Lord Bolingbroke received information that an entire edition of 1500 copies of these papers had been printed; that this very Man had corrected the press, &c.” Could one imagine that this was the Tully of England, describing our Virgil? For Mallet was but the mouthpiece of Bolingbroke.

After a careful detection of many facts concerning the parties now before us, I must attribute the concealed motive 323 of this outrage on Pope to the election the dying poet made of Warburton as his editor. A mortal hatred raged between Bolingbroke and Warburton. The philosophical lord had seen the mighty theologian ravish the prey from his grasp. Although Pope held in idolatrous veneration the genius of Bolingbroke, yet had this literary superstition been gradually enlightened by the energy of Warburton. They were his good and his evil genii in a dreadful conflict, wrestling to obtain the entire possession of the soul of the mortal. Bolingbroke and Warburton one day disputed before Pope, and parted never to meet again. The will of Pope bears the trace of his divided feelings: he left his MSS. to Bolingbroke as his executor, but his works to Warburton as his editor. The secret history of Bolingbroke and Warburton with Pope is little known: the note will supply it.[238]

But how did the puny Mallet stand connected with these great men? By the pamphlets published during this literary quarrel he appears to have enjoyed a more intimate intercourse with them than is known. In one of them he is characterised “as a fellow who, while Mr. Pope lived, was as diligent in licking his feet, as he is now in licking your lordship’s; and who, for the sake of giving himself an air of importance, in being joined with you, and for the vanity of saying ‘the Author and I,’—‘the Editor and me,’—has sacrificed all his pretensions to friendship, honour, and humanity.”[239] An anecdote in this pamphlet assigns a sufficient motive to excite some wrath in a much less irritable animal than the self-important editor of Bolingbroke’s Works. The anecdote may be distinguished as

THE APOLLO VISION.

“The editor (Mallet) being in company with the person to whom Mr. Pope has consigned the care of his works (Warburton), and who, he thought, had some intention of writing Mr. Pope’s life, told him he had an anecdote, which he believed nobody knew but himself. I was sitting one day (said he) with Mr. Pope, in his last illness, who coming suddenly out of a reverie, which you know he frequently fell into at that time, and fixing his eyes steadfastly upon me; ‘Mr. M. (said he), I have had an odd kind of vision. Methought I saw my own head open, and Apollo came out of it; I then saw your head open, and Apollo went into it; after which our heads closed up again.’ The gentleman (Warburton) could not help smiling at his vanity; and with some humour replied, ‘Why, sir, if I had an intention of writing your life, this 325 might perhaps be a proper anecdote; but I don’t see, that in Mr. Pope’s it will be of any consequence at all.’” P. 14.

This exhibits a curious instance of an author’s egotism, or rather of Mallet’s conceit, contriving, by some means, to have his name slide into the projected Life of Pope by Warburton, who appears, however, always to have treated him with the contempt Pope himself evidently did.[240] What opinion could the 326 poet have entertained of the taste of that weak and vain critic, who, when Pope published anonymously “The Essay on Man,” being asked if anything new had appeared, replied that he had looked over a thing called an “Essay on Man,” but, discovering the utter want of skill and knowledge in the author, had thrown it aside. Pope mortified him by confiding to him the secret.

“The Apollo Vision” was a stinging anecdote, and it came from Warburton either directly or indirectly. This was followed 327 up by “A Letter to the Editor of the Letters on the Spirit of Patriotism, the Idea of a Patriot King,” &c., a dignified remonstrance of Warburton himself; but “The Impostor Detected and Convicted, or the Principles and Practices of the Author of the Spirit of Patriotism (Lord Bolingbroke) set forth in a clear light, in a Letter to a Member of Parliament in Town, from his Friend in the Country, 1749,” is a remarkable production. Lord Bolingbroke is the impostor and the concealed Jacobite. Time, the ablest critic on these party productions, has verified the predictions of this seer. We discover here, too, a literary fact, which is necessary to complete our present history. It seems that there were omissions and corrections in the edition Pope printed of “The Patriot King,” which his caution or his moderation prompted, and which such a political demagogue as Bolingbroke never forgave. They are thus alluded to: “Lord B. may remember” (from a conversation held, at which the writer appears to have been present), “that a difference in opinion prevailed, and a few points were urged by that gentleman (Pope) in opposition to some particular tenets which related to the limitation of the English monarchy, and to the ideal doctrine of a patriot king. These were Mr. P.’s reasons for the emendations he made; and which, together with the consideration that both their lives were at that time in a declining state, was the true cause, and no other, of his care to preserve those letters, by handing them to the press, with the precaution mentioned by the author.” Indeed the cry raised against the dead man by Bolingbroke and Mallet, was an artificial one: that it should ever have tainted the honour of the bard, or that it should ever have been excited by his “Philosopher and Friend,” are equally strange; it is possible that the malice of Mallet was more at work than that of Bolingbroke, who suffered himself to be the dupe of a man held in contempt by Pope, by Warburton, and by others. But the pamphlet I have just noticed might have enraged Bolingbroke, because his true character is ably drawn in it. The writer says that “a person in an eminent station of life abroad, when Lord B—— was at Paris to transact a certain affair, said, C’est certainement un homme d’esprit, mais un coquin sans probité.” This was a very disagreeable truth!

In one of these pamphlets, too, Bolingbroke was mortified at his dignity being lessened by the writer, in comparing his lordship with their late friend Pope.—“I venture to foretell, 328 that the name of Mr. Pope, in spite of your unmanly endeavours, shall revive and blossom in the dust, from his own merits; and presume to remind you, that yours, had it not been for his genius, his friendship, his idolatrous veneration for you, might, in a short course of years, have died and been forgotten.” Whatever the degree of genius Bolingbroke may claim, doubtless the verse of Pope has embalmed his fame. I have never been able to discover the authors of these pamphlets, who all appear of the first rank, and who seem to have written under the eye of Warburton. The awful and vindictive Bolingbroke, and the malignant and petulant Mallet, did not long brood over their anger: he or they gave it vent on the head of Warburton, in those two furious pamphlets, which I have noticed in the “Quarrels of Warburton.” All these pamphlets were published in the same year, 1749, so that it is now difficult to arrange them according to their priority. Enough has been shown to prove, that the loud outcry of Bolingbroke and Mallet, in their posthumous attack on Pope, arose from their unforgiving malice against him, for the preference by which the poet had distinguished Warburton; and that Warburton, much more than Pope, was the real object of this masked battery.

An odd sort of a literary curiosity has fallen in my way. It throws some light on the history of the heroes of the Dunciad; but such minutiæ literariæ are only for my bibliographical readers.

It is a book of accounts, which belonged to the renowned Bernard Lintot, the bookseller, whose character has been so humorously preserved by Pope, in a dialogue which the poet has given as having passed between them in Windsor Forest. The book is entitled “Copies, when Purchased.” The power of genius is exemplified in the ledger of the bookseller as much as in any other book; and while I here discover, that the moneys received even by such men of genius as Gay, Farquhar, Cibber, and Dr. King, amount to small sums, and such authors as Dennis, Theobald, Ozell, and Toland, scarcely amount to anything, that of Pope much exceeds 4000l.

I am not in all cases confident of the nature of these 329 “Copies purchased;” those works which were originally published by Lintot may be considered as purchased at the sums specified: some few might have been subsequent to their first edition. The guinea, at that time, passing for twenty-one shillings and sixpence, has occasioned the fractions.

I transcribe Pope’s account. Here it appears that he sold “The Key to the Lock” and “Parnell’s Poems.” The poem entitled, “To the Author of a Poem called Successio,” appears to have been written by Pope, and has escaped the researches of his editors. The smaller poems were contributed to a volume of Poetical Miscellanies, published by Lintot.[241]

MR. POPE.

MR. GAY.

MR. DENNIS.

Dennis must have sold himself to criticism from ill-nature, and not for pay. One is surprised that his two tragedies should have been worth a great deal more than his criticism. Criticism was then worth no more than too frequently it deserves; Dr. Sewel, for his “Observations on the Tragedy of Jane Shore,” received only a guinea.

I had suggested a doubt whether Theobald attempted to translate from the original Greek: one would suppose he did by the following entry, which has a line drawn through it, as if the agreement had not been executed. Perhaps Lintot submitted to pay Theobald for not doing the Odyssey when Pope undertook it.

MR. THEOBALD.

It appears that Toland never got above 5l., 10l., or 20l., for his publications. See his article in “Calamities of Authors,” p. 155. I discovered the humiliating conditions that attended his publications, from an examination of his original papers. All this author seems to have reaped from a life devoted to literary enterprise, and philosophy, and patriotism, appears not to have exceeded 200l.

Here, too, we find that the facetious Dr. King threw away all his sterling wit for five miserable pounds, though “The Art of Cookery,” and that of “Love,” obtained a more honourable price. But a mere school-book probably inspired our lively genius with more real facetiousness than any of those works which communicate so much to others.

Lintot utters a groan over “The Duke of Buckingham’s Works” (Sheffield), for “having been jockeyed of them by Alderman Barber and Tonson.” Who can ensure literary celebrity? No bookseller would now regret being jockeyed out of his Grace’s works!

The history of plays appears here somewhat curious:—tragedies, then the fashionable dramas, obtained a considerable 333 price; for though Dennis’s luckier one reached only to 21l., Dr. Young’s Busiris acquired 84l. Smith’s Phædra and Hippolytus, 50l.; Rowe’s Jane Shore, 50l. 15s.; and Jane Gray, 75l. 5s. Cibber’s Nonjuror obtained 105l. for the copyright.

Is it not a little mortifying to observe, that among all these customers of genius whose names enrich the ledger of the bookseller, Jacob, that “blunderbuss of law,” while his law-books occupy in space as much as Mr. Pope’s works, the amount of his account stands next in value, far beyond many a name which has immortalised itself!

We find by the first edition of Lintot’s “Miscellaneous Poems,” that the anonymous lines “To the Author of a Poem called Successio,” was a literary satire by Pope, written when he had scarcely attained his fourteenth year. This satire, the first probably he wrote for the press, and in which he has succeeded so well, that it might have induced him to pursue the bent of his genius, merits preservation. The juvenile composition bears the marks of his future excellences: it has the tune of his verse, and the images of his wit. Thirty years afterwards, when occupied by the Dunciad, he transplanted and pruned again some of the original images.

The hero of this satire is Elkanah Settle. The subject is one of those Whig poems, designed to celebrate the happiness of an uninterrupted “Succession” in the Crown, at the time the Act of Settlement passed, which transferred it to the Hanoverian line. The rhymer and his theme were equally contemptible to the juvenile Jacobite poet.

The hoarse and voluminous Codrus of Juvenal aptly designates this eternal verse-maker;—one who has written with such constant copiousness, that no bibliographer has presumed to form a complete list of his works.[247]

When Settle had outlived his temporary rivalship with Dryden, and was reduced to mere Settle, he published party-poems, in folio, composed in Latin, accompanied by his own translations. These folio poems, uniformly bound, except that the arms of his patrons, or rather his purchasers, richly 334 gilt, emblazon the black morocco, may still be found. These presentation-copies were sent round to the chiefs of the party, with a mendicant’s petition, of which some still exist. To have a clear conception of the present views of some politicians, it is necessary to read their history backwards. In 1702, when Settle published “Successio,” he must have been a Whig. In 1685 he was a Tory, commemorating, by a heroic poem, the coronation of James II., and writing periodically against the Whigs. In 1680 he had left the Tories for the Whigs, and conducted the whole management of burning the Pope, then a very solemn national ceremony.[248] A Whig, a pope-burner, and a Codrus, afforded a full draught of inspiration to the nascent genius of our youthful satirist.

Settle, in his latter state of wretchedness, had one standard elegy and epithalamium printed off with blanks. By the ingenious contrivance of inserting the name of any considerable person who died or was married, no one who had gone out of the world or was entering into it but was equally welcome to this dinnerless livery-man of the draggled-tailed Muses. I have elsewhere noticed his last exit from this state of poetry and of pauperism, when, leaping into a green dragon which his own creative genius had invented, in a theatrical booth, Codrus, in hissing flames and terrifying-morocco folds, discovered “the fate of talents misapplied!”

The Royal Society at first opposed from various quarters—their Experimental Philosophy supplants the Aristotelian methods—suspected of being the concealed Advocates of Popery, Arbitrary Power, and Atheism—disappointments incurred by their promises—the simplicity of the early Inquirers—ridiculed by the Wits and others—Narrative of a quarrel between a Member of the Royal Society and an Aristotelian—Glanvill writes his “Plus Ultra,” to show the Improvements of Modern Knowledge—Character of Stubbe of Warwick—his Apology, from himself—opposes the “Plus Ultra” by the “Plus Ultra reduced to a Nonplus”—his “Campanella revived”—the Political Projects of Campanella—Stubbe persecuted, and menaced to be publicly whipped; his Roman spirit—his “Legends no Histories”—his “Censure on some Passages of the History of the Royal Society”—Harvey’s ambition to be considered the Discoverer of the Circulation of the Blood, which he demonstrates—Stubbe describes the Philosophy of Science—attacks Sprat’s Dedication to the King—The Philosophical Transactions published by Sir Hans Sloane ridiculed by Dr. King—his new Species of Literary Burlesque—King’s character—these attacks not ineffectually renewed by Sir John Hill.

The Royal Society, on its first establishment, at the era of the Restoration, encountered fierce hostilities; nor, even at later periods, has it escaped many wanton attacks. A great revolution in the human mind was opening with that establishment; for the spirit which had appeared in the recent political concussion, and which had given freedom to opinion, and a bolder scope to enterprise, had now reached the literary and philosophical world; but causes of the most opposite natures operated against this institution of infant science.

In the first place, the new experimental philosophy, full of inventions and operations, proposed to supplant the old scholastic philosophy, which still retained an obscure jargon of terms, the most frivolous subtilties, and all those empty and artificial methods by which it pretended to decide on all topics. Too long it had filled the ear with airy speculation, while it starved the mind that languished for sense and knowledge. But this emancipation menaced the power of the followers of Aristotle, who were still slumbering in their undisputed authority, 337 enthroned in our Universities. For centuries the world had been taught that the philosopher of Stagira had thought on every subject: Aristotle was quoted as equal authority with St. Paul, and his very image has been profanely looked on with the reverence paid to Christ. Bacon had fixed a new light in Europe, and others were kindling their torches at his flame. When the great usurper of the human understanding was once fairly opposed to Nature, he betrayed too many symptoms of mere humanity. Yet this great triumph was not obtained without severe contention; and upon the Continent even blood has been shed in the cause of words. In our country, the University of Cambridge was divided by a party who called themselves Trojans, from their antipathy to the Greeks, or the Aristotelians; and once the learned Richard Harvey, the brother of Gabriel, the friend of Spenser, stung to madness by the predominant powers, to their utter dismay set up their idol on the school-gates, with his heels upwards, and ass’s ears on his head. But at this later period, when the Royal Society was established, the war was more open, and both parties more inveterate. Now the world seemed to think, so violent is the reaction of public opinion, that they could reason better without Aristotle than with him: that he had often taught them nothing more than self-evident propositions, or had promoted that dangerous idleness of maintaining paradoxes, by quibbles and other captious subtilties. The days had closed of the “illuminated,” the “profound,” and the “irrefragable,” titles, which the scholastic heroes had obtained; and the Aristotelian four modes, by which all things in nature must exist, of materialiter, formaliter, fundamentaliter, and eminenter, were now considered as nothing more than the noisy rattles, or chains of cherry-stones, which had too long detained us in the nursery of the human mind.[253] The world had been cheated with words 338 instead of things; and the new experimental philosophy insisted that men should be less loquacious, but more laborious.

Some there were, in that unsettled state of politics and religion, in whose breasts the embers of the late Revolution were still hot: they were panic-struck that the advocates of popery and arbitrary power were returning on them, disguised as natural philosophers. This new terror had a very ludicrous origin:—it arose from some casual expressions, in which the Royal Society at first delighted, and by which an air of mystery was thrown over its secret movements: such was that “Universal Correspondence” which it affected to boast of; and the vaunt to foreigners of its “Ten Secretaries,” when, in truth, all these magnificent declarations were only objects of their wishes. Another fond but singular expression, which the illustrious Boyle had frequently applied to it in its earliest state, when only composed of a few friends, calling it “The Invisible College,” all concurred to make the 339 Royal Society wear the appearance of a conspiracy against the political freedom of the nation. At a time, too, when, according to the historian of the Royal Society, “almost every family was widely disagreed among themselves on matters of religion,” they believed that this “new experimental philosophy was subversive of the Christian faith!”[254] and many mortally hated the newly-invented optical glasses, the telescope and the microscope, as atheistical inventions, which perverted our sight, and made everything appear in a new and false light! Sprat wrote his celebrated “History of the Royal Society,” to show that experimental philosophy was neither designed for the extinction of the Universities, nor of the Christian religion, which were really imagined to be in danger.

Others, again, were impatient for romantic discoveries; miracles were required, some were hinted at, while some were promised. In the ecstasy of imagination, they lost their soberness, forgetting that they were but the historians of nature, and not her prophets.[255] But amid these dreams of 340 hope and fancy, the creeping experimentalist was still left boasting of improvements, so slow that they were not perceived, and of novelties so absurd that they too often raised the laugh against their grave and unlucky discoverers. The philosophers themselves seemed to have been fretted into the impatient humour which they attempted to correct; and the amiable Evelyn becomes an irritated satirist, when he attempts to reply to the repeated question of that day, “What have they done?”[256]

But a source of the ridicule which was perpetually flowing against the Royal Society, was the almost infantine simplicity of its earliest members, led on by their honest zeal; and the absence of all discernment in many trifling and ludicrous researches, which called down the malice of the wits;[257] there was, too, much of that unjust contempt between the parties, which students of opposite pursuits and tastes so liberally bestow on each other. The researches of the Antiquarian Society were sneered at by the Royal, and the antiquaries 342 avenged themselves by their obstinate incredulity at the prodigies of the naturalists; the student of classical literature was equally slighted by the new philosophers; who, leaving the study of words and the elegancies of rhetoric for the study merely of things, declared as the cynical ancient did of metaphors, “Poterimus vivere sine illis”—We can do very well without them! The ever-witty South, in his oration at Oxford, made this poignant reflection on the Royal Society—“Mirantur nihil nisi pulices, pediculos, et seipsos.” They can admire nothing except fleas, lice, and themselves! And even Hobbes so little comprehended the utility of these new pursuits, that he considered the Royal Society merely as so many labourers, who, when they had washed their hands after their work, should leave to others the polishing of their discourses. He classed them, in the way they were proceeding, with apothecaries, and gardeners, and mechanics, who might now “all put in for, and get the prize.” Even at a later period, Sir William Temple imagined the virtuosi to be only so many Sir Nicholas Gimcracks; and contemptuously called them, from the place of their first meeting, “the Men of Gresham!” doubtless considering them as wise as “the Men of Gotham!” Even now, men of other tempers and other studies are too apt to refuse the palm of philosophy to the patient race of naturalists.[258] Wotton, who wrote so zealously at the commencement of the last century in favour of modern knowledge, is alarmed lest the effusions of wit, in his time, should “deaden the industry of the philosophers of the next age; for,” he adds, “nothing wounds so effectually as a jest; and when men once become ridiculous, their labours will be slighted, and they will find few imitators.” The alarm shows his zeal, but not his discernment: since curiosity in hidden causes is a passion which endures with human nature. “The 343 philosophers of the next age” have shown themselves as persevering as their predecessors, and the wits as malicious. The contest between men of meditation and men of experiment, is a very ancient quarrel; and the “divine” Socrates was no friend to, and even a ridiculer of, those very pursuits for which the Royal Society was established.[259]

In founding this infant empire of knowledge, a memorable literary war broke out between Glanvill, the author of the treatise on “Witches,” &c., and Stubbe, a physician, a man of great genius. It is the privilege of genius that its controversies enter into the history of the human mind; what is but temporary among the vulgar of mankind, with the curious and the intelligent become monuments of lasting interest. The present contest, though the spark of contention flew out of a private quarrel, at length blazed into a public controversy.

The obscure individual who commenced the fray, is forgotten in the boasted achievements of his more potent ally; he was a clergyman named Cross, the Vicar of Great Chew, in Somersetshire, a stanch Aristotelian.

Glanvill, a member of the Royal Society, and an enthusiast for the new philosophy, had kindled the anger of the peripatetic, 344 who was his neighbour, and who had the reputation of being the invincible disputant of his county.[260] Some, who had in vain contended with Glanvill, now contrived to inveigle the modern philosopher into an interview with this redoubted champion.

When Glanvill entered the house, he perceived that he was to begin an acquaintance in a quarrel, which was not the happiest way to preserve it. The Vicar of Great Chew sat amid his congregated admirers. The peripatetic had promised them the annihilation of the new-fashioned virtuoso, and, like an angry boar, had already been preluding by whetting his tusks. Scarcely had the first cold civilities passed, when Glanvill found himself involved in single combat with an assailant armed with the ten categories of Aristotle. Cross, with his Quodam modo, and his Modo quodam, with his Ubi and his Quando, scattered the ideas of the simple experimentalist, who, confining himself to a simple recital of facts and a description of things, was referring, not to the logic of Aristotle, but to the works of nature. The imperative Aristotelian was wielding weapons, which, says Glanvill, “were nothing more than like those of a cudgel-player, or fencing-master.”[261]

The last blow was still reserved, when Cross asserted that Aristotle had more opportunities to acquire knowledge than the Royal Society, or all the present age had, or could have, for this definitive reason, “because Aristotle did, totam peragrare Asiam.” Besides, in the Chew philosophy, where novelty was treason, improvements or discoveries could never exist. Here the Aristotelian made his stand; and at length, gently hooking Glanvill between the horns of a dilemma, the entrapped virtuoso threw himself into an unguarded affirmation; at which the Vicar of Great Chew, shouting in triumph, with a sardonic grin, declared that Glanvill and his Royal Society had now avowed themselves to be atheistical! This made an end of the interview, and a beginning of the quarrel.[262]

Glanvill addressed an expostulatory letter to the inhuman Aristotelian, who only replied by calling it a recantation, asserting that the affair had finished with the conviction.

On this, Glanvill produced his “Plus Ultra,”[263] on the 346 modern improvements of knowledge. The quaint title referred to that Asian argument which placed the boundaries of knowledge at the ancient limits fixed by Aristotle, like the pillars of Hercules, on which was inscribed Ne plus ultra, to mark the extremity of the world. But Glanvill asserted we might advance still further—plus ultra! To this book the Aristotelian replied with such rancour, that he could not obtain a licence for the invective either at Oxford or London. Glanvill contrived to get some extracts, and printed a small number of copies for his friends, under the sarcastic title of “The Chew Gazette,”—a curiosity, we are told, of literary scolding, and which might now, among literary trinkets, fetch a Roxburgh prize.

Cross, maddened that he could not get his bundle of peripatetic ribaldries printed, wrote ballads, which he got sung as it chanced. But suppressed invectives and eking rhymes could but ill appease so fierce a mastiff: he set on the poor F.R.S. an animal as rabid, but more vigorous than himself—both of them strangely prejudiced against the modern improvements of knowledge; so that, like mastiffs in the dark, they were only the fiercer.

This was Dr. Henry Stubbe, a physician of Warwick—one of those ardent and versatile characters, strangely made up of defects as strongly marked as their excellences. He was one of those authors who, among their numerous remains, leave little of permanent value; for their busy spirits too keenly delight in temporary controversy, and they waste the efforts of a mind on their own age, which else had made the next their own. Careless of worldly opinions, these extraordinary men, with the simplicity of children, are mere beings of sensation; perpetually precipitated by their feelings, with slight powers of reflection, and just as sincere when they act in contradiction to themselves, as when they act in contradiction to others. In their moral habits, therefore, we are often struck with strange contrasts; their whole life is a jumble of actions; and we are apt to condemn their versatility of principles as arising from dishonest motives; yet their temper has often proved more generous, and their integrity purer, than those who have crept up in one unvarying progress to an eminence which they quietly possess, without any of the 347 ardour of these original, perhaps whimsical, minds. The most tremendous menace to a man of this class would be to threaten to write the history of his life and opinions. When Stubbe attacked the Royal Society, this threat was held out against him. But menaces never startled his intrepid genius; he roved in all his wild greatness; and, always occupied more by present views than interested by the past events of his life, he cared little for his consistency in the high spirit of his independence.

The extraordinary character of Stubbe produced as uncommon a history. Stubbe had originally been a child of fortune, picked up at Westminster school by Sir Henry Vane the younger, who sent him to Oxford; where this effervescent genius was, says Wood, “kicked, and beaten, and whipped.”[264] But if these little circumstances marked the irritability and boldness of his youth, it was equally distinguished by an entire devotion to his studies. Perhaps one of the most anomalous of human characters was that of his patron, Sir Henry Vane the younger (whom Milton has immortalised in one of the noblest of sonnets), the head of the Independents, who combined with the darkest spirit of fanaticism the clear views of the most sagacious politician. The gratitude of Stubbe lasted through all the changeful fortunes of the chief of a faction—a long date in the records of human affection! Stubbe had written against monarchy, the church, the university, &c.; for which, after the Restoration, he was accused by 348 his antagonists. He exults in the reproach; he replies with all that frankness of simplicity, so beautiful amid our artificial manners. He denies not the charge; he never trims, nor glosses over, nor would veil, a single part of his conduct. He wrote to serve his patrons, but never himself. I preserve the whole of this noble passage in the note.[265] Wood bears witness 349 to his perfect disinterestedness. He never partook of the prosperity of his patron, nor mixed with any parties, loving the retirement of his private studies; and if he scorned and hated one party, the Presbyterians, it was, says Wood, because his high generous nature detested men “void of generous souls, sneaking, snivelling, &c.” Stubbe appears to have carried this philosophical indifference towards objects of a higher interest than those of mere profit; for, at the Restoration, he found no difficulty in conforming to the Church [266] and to the Government. The king bestowed on him the title of his physician; yet, for the sake of making philosophical experiments, Stubbe went to Jamaica, and intended to have proceeded to Mexico and Peru, pursuing his profession, but still an adventurer. At length Stubbe returned home; established himself as a physician at Warwick, where, though he died early, he left a name celebrated.[267] The fertility of his pen appears in a great number of philosophical, political, and medical publications. But all his great learning, the facility of his genius, his poignant wit, his high professional character, his lofty independence, his scorn of practising the little mysterious arts of life, availed nothing; for while he was making himself popular among his auditors, he was eagerly depreciated by those who would not willingly allow merit to a man who owned no master, and who feared no rival.

Literary coteries were then held at coffee-houses;[268] and there presided the voluble Stubbe, with “a big and magisterial voice, while his mind was equal to it,” says the characterising Wood; but his attenuated frame seemed too delicate 350 to hold long so unbroken a spirit. It was an accident, however, which closed this life of toil and hurry and petulant genius. Going to a patient at night, Stubbe was drowned in a very shallow river, “his head (adds our cynic, who had generously paid the tribute of his just admiration with his strong peculiarity of style) being then intoxicated with bibbing, but more with talking and snuffing of powder.”

Such was the adversary of the Royal Society! It is quite in character that, under the government of Cromwell, he himself should have spread a taste for what was then called “The New Philosophy” among our youth and gentlemen, with the view of rendering the clergy contemptible; or, as he says, “to make them appear egregious fools in matters of common discourse.” He had always a motive for his actions, however opposite they were; pretending that he was never moved by caprice, but guided by principle. One of his adversaries, however, has reason to say, that judging him by his “printed papers, he was a man of excellent contradictory parts.” After the Restoration, he furnished as odd, but as forcible a reason, for opposing the Royal Society. At that time the nation, recent from republican ardours, was often panic-struck by papistical conspiracies, and projects of arbitrary power; and it was on this principle that he took part against the Society. Influenced by Dr. Fell and others, he suffered them to infuse these extravagant opinions into his mind. No private ends appear to have influenced his changeable conduct; and in the present instance he was sacrificing his personal feelings to his public principles; for Stubbe was then in the most friendly correspondence with the illustrious Boyle, the father of the Royal Society, who admired the ardour of Stubbe, till he found its inconvenience.[269]

Stubbe opened his formidable attacks, for they form a series, by replying to the “Plus Ultra” of Glanvill, with a title as quaint, “The Plus Ultra reduced to a Non-plus, in animadversions on Mr. Glanvill and the Virtuosi.” For a pretence for this violent attack, he strained a passage in Glanvill; insisting that the honour of the whole faculty of which he was a member was deeply concerned to refute Glanvill’s assertion, that “the ancient physicians could not cure a cut finger.”—This Glanvill denied he had ever affirmed or thought;[270] but war once resolved on, a pretext as slight as the present serves the purpose; and so that an odium be raised against the enemy, the end is obtained before the injustice is acknowledged. This is indeed the history of other wars than those of words. The present was protracted with an hostility unsubduing and unsubdued. At length the malicious ingenuity, or the heated fancy, of Stubbe, hardly sketched a political conspiracy, accusing the Royal Society of having adopted the monstrous projects of Campanella;—an anomalous genius, who was confined by the Inquisition the greater part of his life, and who, among some political reveries, projected the establishment of a universal empire, though he was for shaking off the yoke of authority in the philosophical world. He was for one government and one religion throughout 352 Europe, but in other respects he desired to leave the minds of men quite free. Campanella was one of the new lights of the age; and his hardy, though wild genius much more resembled our Stubbe, who denounced his extravagancies, than any of the Royal Society, to whom he was so artfully compared.

This tremendous attack appeared in Stubbe’s “Campanella Revived, or an Enquiry into the History of the Royal Society; whether the Virtuosi there do not pursue the projects of Campanella, for reducing England into Popery; relating the quarrel betwixt H. S. and the R. S., &c. 1670.”[271]

Such was the dread which his reiterated attacks caused the Royal Society, that they employed against him all the petty persecutions of power and intrigue. “Thirty legions,” says Stubbe, alluding to the famous reply of the philosopher, who 354 would not dispute with a crowned head, “were to be called to aid you against a young country physician, who had so long discontinued studies of this nature.” However, he announces that he has finished three more works against the Royal Society, and has a fourth nearly ready, if it be necessary to prove that the rhetorical history of the Society by Sprat must be bad, because “no eloquence can be complete if the subject-matter be foolish!” His adversaries not only threatened to write his life,[272] but they represented him to the king as a libeller, who ought to be whipped at a cart’s tail; a circumstance which Stubbe records with the indignation of a Roman spirit.[273] They stopped his work several times, and by some stratagem they hindered him from correcting the press; but nothing could impede the career of his fearless genius. 355 He treated with infinite ridicule their trivial or their marvellous discoveries in his “Legends no Histories,” and his “Censure on some Passages of the History of the Royal Society.” But while he ridiculed, he could instruct them; often contributing new knowledge, which the Royal Society had certainly been proud to have registered in their history. In his determination of depreciating the novelties of his day, he disputes even the honour of Harvey to the discovery of the circulation of the blood: he attributes it to Andreas Cæsalpinus, who not only discovered it, but had given it the name of Circulatio Sanguinis.[274]

Stubbe was not only himself a man of science, but a caustic satirist, who blends much pleasantry with his bitterness. In 356 the first ardour of philosophical discovery, the Society, delighted by the acquisition of new facts, which, however, rarely proved to be important, and were often ludicrous in their detail, appear to have too much neglected the arts of reasoning; they did not even practise common discernment, or what we might term philosophy, in its more enlarged sense.[275] Stubbe, with no respect for “a Society,” though dignified by the addition of “Royal,” says, “a cabinet of virtuosi are but pitiful reasoners. Ignorance is infectious; and ’tis possible for men to grow fools by contact. I will speak to the virtuosi in the language of the Romish Saint Francis (who, in the wilderness, so humbly addressed his only friends,) ‘Salvete, fratres asini! Salvete, fratres lupi!’” As for their Transactions and their History, he thinks “they purpose to grow famous, as the Turks do to gain Paradise, by treasuring up all the waste paper they meet with.” He rallies them on some ridiculous attempts, such as “An Art of Flying;” an art, says Stubbe, in which they have not so much as effected the most facile part of the attempt, which is to break their necks!

Sprat, in his dedication to the king, had said that “the establishment of the Royal Society was an enterprise equal to the most renowned actions of the best princes.” One would imagine that the notion of a monarch founding a society for the cultivation of the sciences could hardly be 357 made objectionable; but, in literary controversy, genius has the power of wresting all things to its purpose by its own peculiar force, and the art of placing every object in the light it chooses, and can thus obtain our attention in spite of our conviction. I will add the curious animadversion of Stubbe on Sprat’s compliment to the king:—

“Never Prince acquired the fame of great and good by any knickknacks—but by actions of political wisdom, courage, justice,” &c.

Stubbe shows how Dionysius and Nero had been depraved by these mechanic philosophers—that

“An Aristotelian would never pardon himself if he compared this heroical enterprise with the actions of our Black Prince or Henry V.; or with Henry VIII. in demolishing abbeys and rejecting the papal authority; or Queen Elizabeth’s exploits against Spain; or her restoring the Protestant religion, putting the Bible into English, and supporting the Protestants beyond sea. But the reason he (Sprat) gives why the establishment of the Royal Society of experimentators equals the most renowned actions of the best princes, is such a pitiful one as Guzman de Alfarache never met with in the whole extent of the Hospital of Fools—‘To increase the power, by new arts, of conquered nations!’ These consequences are twisted like the cordage of Ocnus, the God of Sloth, in hell, which are fit for nothing but to fodder asses with. If our historian means by every little invention to increase the powers of mankind, as an enterprise of such renown, he is deceived; this glory is not due to such as go about with a dog and a hoop, nor to the practicers of legerdemain, or upon the high or low rope; not to every mountebank and his man Andrew; all which, with many other mechanical and experimental philosophers, do in some sort increase the powers of mankind, and differ no more from some of the virtuosi, than a cat in a hole doth from a cat out of a hole; betwixt which that inquisitive person Asdryasdust Tossoffacan found a very great resemblance. ’Tis not the increasing of the powers of mankind by a pendulum watch, nor spectacles whereby divers may see under water, nor the new ingenuity of apple-roasters, nor every petty discovery or instrument, must be put in comparison, much less preferred, before the protection and enlargement of empires.”[276]

Had Stubbe’s death not occurred, this warfare had probably continued. He insisted on a complete victory. He had forced the Royal Society to disclaim their own works, by an announcement that they were not answerable, as a body, for the various contributions which they gave the world: an advertisement which has been more than once found necessary to be renewed. As for their historian Sprat, our intrepid Stubbe very unexpectedly offered to manifest to the parliament that this courtly adulator, by his book, was chargeable with high treason; if they believed that the Royal Society were really engaged so deeply as he averred in the portentous Cæsarean Popery of Campanella. Glanvill, who had “insulted all university learning,” had been immolated at the pedestal of Aristotle. “I have done enough,” he adds, “since my animadversions contain more than they all knew; and that these have shown that the virtuosi are very great impostors, or men of little reading;” alluding to the various discoveries which they promulgated as novelties, but which Stubbe had asserted were known to the ancients and others of a later period. This forms a perpetual accusation against the inventors and discoverers, who may often exclaim, “Perish those who have done our good works before us!” “The Discoveries of the Ancients and Moderns” by Dutens, had this book been then published, might have assisted our keen investigator; but our combatant ever proudly met his adversaries single-handed.

The “Philosophical Transactions” were afterwards accused of another kind of high treason, against grammar and common sense. It was long before the collectors of facts practised the art of writing on them; still later before they could philosophise, as well as observe: Bacon and Boyle were at first only imitated in their patient industry. When Sir Hans Sloane was the secretary of the Royal Society, he, and most of his correspondents, wrote in the most confused manner imaginable. A wit of a very original cast, the facetious Dr. King,[277] took advantage of their perplexed and often 359 unintelligible descriptions; of the meanness of their style, which humbled even the great objects of nature; of their credulity that heaped up marvels, and their vanity that prided itself on petty discoveries, and invented a new species of satire. Sloane, a name endeared to posterity, whose life was that of an enthusiast of science, and who was the founder of a national collection; and his numerous friends, many of whose names have descended with the regard due to the votaries of knowledge, fell the victims. Wit is an unsparing leveller.

The new species of literary burlesque which King seems to have invented, consists in selecting the very expressions and absurd passages from the original he ridiculed, and framing out of them a droll dialogue or a grotesque narrative, he adroitly inserted his own remarks, replete with the keenest irony, or the driest sarcasm.[278] Our arch wag says, “The bulls and blunders which Sloane and his friends so naturally 360 pour forth cannot be misrepresented, so careful I am in producing them.” King still moves the risible muscles of his readers. “The Voyage to Cajamai,” a travestie of Sloane’s valuable “History of Jamaica,” is still a peculiar piece of humour; and it has been rightly distinguished as “one of the severest and merriest satires that was ever written in prose.”[279] The author might indeed have blushed at the labour bestowed on these drolleries; he might have dreaded that humour so voluminous might grow tedious; but King, often with a Lucianic spirit, with flashes of Rabelais, and not seldom with the causticity of his friend Swift, dissipated life in literary idleness, with parodies and travesties on most of his contemporaries; and he made these little things often more exquisite at the cost of consuming on them a genius capable of better. A parodist or a burlesquer is a wit who is perpetually on the watch to catch up or to disguise an author’s words, to swell out his defects, and pick up his blunders—to amuse the public! King was a wit, who lived on the highway of literature, appropriating, for his own purpose, the property of the most eminent passengers, by a dextrous mode no other had hit on. What an important lesson the labours of King offer to real genius! Their temporary humour lost with their prototypes becomes like a paralytic limb, which, refusing to do its office, impedes the action of the vital members.

Wotton, in summing up his “Reflections upon Ancient and Modern Learning,” was doubtful whether knowledge would improve in the next age proportionably as it had done in his own. “The humour of the age is visibly altered,” he says, “from what it had been thirty years ago. Though the 361 Royal Society has weathered the rude attacks of Stubbe,” yet “the sly insinuations of the Men of Wit,” with “the public ridiculing of all who spend their time and fortunes in scientific or curious researches, have so taken off the edge of those who have opulent fortunes and a love to learning, that these studies begin to be contracted amongst physicians and mechanics.”—He treats King with good-humour. “A man is got but a very little way (in philosophy) that is concerned as often as such a merry gentleman as Dr. King shall think fit to make himself sport.”[280]

A Parallel between Orator Henley and Sir John Hill—his love of the Science of Botany, with the fate of his “Vegetable System”—ridicules scientific Collectors; his “Dissertation on Royal Societies,” and his “Review of the Works of the Royal Society”—compliments himself that he is NOT a Member—successful in his attacks on the Experimentalists, but loses his spirit in encountering the Wits—“The Inspector”—a paper war with Fielding—a literary stratagem—battles with Smart and Woodward—Hill appeals to the Nation for the Office of Keeper of the Sloane Collection—closes his life by turning Empiric—Some Epigrams on Hill—his Miscellaneous Writings.

In the history of literature we discover some who have opened their career with noble designs, and with no deficient powers, yet unblest with stoic virtues, having missed, in their honourable labours, those rewards they had anticipated, they have exhibited a sudden transition of character, and have left only a name proverbial for its disgrace.

Our own literature exhibits two extraordinary characters, indelibly marked by the same traditional odium. The wit and acuteness of Orator Henley, and the science and vivacity of the versatile Sir John Hill, must separate them from those who plead the same motives for abjuring all moral restraint, without having ever furnished the world with a single instance that they were capable of forming nobler views.

This orator and this knight would admit of a close parallel;[281] both as modest in their youth as afterwards remarkable for their effrontery. Their youth witnessed the same devotedness to study, with the same inventive and enterprising genius. Hill projected and pursued a plan of botanical travels, to form a collection of rare plants: the patronage he received was too 363 limited, and he suffered the misfortune of having anticipated the national taste for the science of botany by half a century. Our young philosopher’s valuable “Treatise on Gems,” from Theophrastus, procured for him the warm friendship of the eminent members of the Royal Society. To this critical period of the lives of Henley and of Hill, their resemblance is striking; nor is it less from the moment the surprising revolution in their characters occurred.

Pressed by the wants of life, they lost its decencies. Henley attempted to poise himself against the University; Hill against the Royal Society. Rejected by these learned bodies, both these Cains of literature, amid their luxuriant ridicule of eminent men, still evince some claims to rank among them. The one prostituted his genius in his “Lectures;” the other, in his “Inspectors.” Never two authors were more constantly pelted with epigrams, or buffeted in literary quarrels. They have met with the same fate; covered with the same odium. Yet Sir John Hill, this despised man, after all the fertile absurdities of his literary life, performed more for the improvement of the “Philosophical Transactions,” and was the cause of diffusing a more general taste for the science of botany, than any other contemporary. His real ability extorts that regard which his misdirected ingenuity, instigated by vanity, and often by more worthless motives, had lost for him in the world.[282]

At the time that Hill was engaged in several large compilations for the booksellers, his employers were desirous that the honours of an F.R.S. should ornament his title-page. This versatile genius, however, during these graver works, had suddenly emerged from his learned garret, and, in the shape of a fashionable lounger, rolled in his chariot from the Bedford to Ranelagh; was visible at routs; and sate at the theatre a tremendous arbiter of taste, raising about him tumults and divisions;[283] and in his “Inspectors,” a periodical paper which he published in the London Daily Advertiser, retailed all the great matters relating to himself, and all the little matters he collected in his rounds relating to others. Among other personalities, he indulged his satirical fluency on the scientific collectors. The Antiquarian Society were twitted as medal-scrapers and antediluvian knife-grinders; conchologists were turned into cockleshell merchants; and the naturalists were made to record pompous histories of stickle-hacks and cockchafers. Cautioned by Martin Folkes, President of the Royal Society,[284] not to attempt his election, our enraged comic philosopher, 365 who had preferred his jests to his friends, now discovered that he had lost three hundred at once. Hill could not obtain three signatures to his recommendation. Such was the real, but, as usual, not the ostensible, motive of his formidable attack on the Royal Society. He produced his “Dissertation on Royal Societies, in a letter from a Sclavonian nobleman to his friend,” 1751; a humorous prose satire, exhibiting a ludicrous description of a tumultuous meeting at the Royal Society, contrasted with the decorum observed in the French Academy; and moreover, he added a conversazione in a coffee-house between some of the members.

Such was the declaration of war, in a first act of hostility; but the pitched-battle was fought in “A Review of the Works of the Royal Society, in eight parts,” 1751. This literary satire is nothing less than a quarto volume, resembling, in its form and manner, the Philosophical Transactions themselves; printed as if for the convenience of members to enable them to bind the “Review” with the work reviewed. Voluminous pleasantry incurs the censure of that tedious trifling which it designs to expose. In this literary facetia, however, no inconsiderable knowledge is interspersed with the ridicule. Perhaps Hill might have recollected the successful attempts of Stubbe on the Royal Society, who contributed that curious knowledge which he pretended the Royal Society wanted; and with this knowledge he attempted to combine the humour of Dr. King.[285]

Hill’s rejection from the Royal Society, to another man would have been a puddle to step over; but he tells a story, and cleanly passes on, with impudent adroitness.[286]

Hill, however, though he used all the freedom of a satirist, by exposing many ridiculous papers, taught the Royal Society a more cautious selection. It could, however, obtain no forgiveness from the parties it offended; and while the respectable men whom Hill had the audacity to attack, Martin Folkes, the friend and successor of Newton, and Henry Baker, the naturalist, were above his censure,—his own reputation remained in the hands of his enemies. While Hill was gaining over the laughers on his side, that volatile populace soon discovered that the fittest object to be laughed at was our literary Proteus himself.

The most egregious egotism alone could have induced this 367 versatile being, engaged in laborious works, to venture to give the town the daily paper of The Inspector, which he supported for about two years. It was a light scandalous chronicle all the week, with a seventh-day sermon. His utter contempt for the genius of his contemporaries, and the bold conceit of his own, often rendered the motley pages amusing. The Inspector became, indeed, the instrument of his own martyrdom; but his impudence looked like magnanimity; for he endured, with undiminished spirit, the most biting satires, the most wounding epigrams, and more palpable castigations.[287] His 368 vein of pleasantry ran more freely in his attacks on the Royal Society than in his other literary quarrels. When Hill had not to banter ridiculous experimentalists, but to encounter wits, his reluctant spirit soon bowed its head. Suddenly even his pertness loses its vivacity; he becomes drowsy with dulness, and, conscious of the dubiousness of his own cause, he skulks away terrified: he felt that the mask of quackery and impudence which he usually wore was to be pulled off by the hands now extended against him.

A humorous warfare of wit opened between Fielding, in his Covent-Garden Journal, and Hill, in his Inspector. The Inspector had made the famous lion’s head, at the Bedford, which the genius of Addison and Steele had once animated, the receptacle of his wit; and the wits asserted, of this now inutile lignum, that it was reduced to a mere state of blockheadism. Fielding occasionally gave a facetious narrative of a paper war between the forces of Sir Alexander Drawcansir, the literary hero of the Covent-Garden Journal, and the army of Grub-street; it formed an occasional literary satire. Hill’s lion, no longer Addison’s or Steele’s, is not described without humour. Drawcansir’s “troops are kept in awe by a strange mixed monster, not much unlike the famous chimera of old. For while some of our Reconnoiterers tell us that this monster has the appearance of a lion, others assure us that his ears are much longer than those of that generous beast.”

Hill ventured to notice this attack on his “blockhead;” and, as was usual with him, had some secret history to season his defence with.

“The author of ‘Amelia,’ whom I have only once seen, told me, at that accidental meeting, he held the present set of writers in the utmost contempt; and that, in his character of Sir Alexander Drawcansir, he should treat them in the most unmerciful manner. He assured me he had always excepted me; and after honouring me with some encomiums, he proceeded to mention a conduct which would be, he said, useful to both; this was, the amusing our readers with a mock fight; giving blows that would not hurt, and sharing the advantage in silence.”[288]

Thus, by reversing the fact, Hill contrived to turn aside the frequent stories against him by a momentary artifice, arresting or dividing public opinion. The truth was, more probably, as Fielding relates it, and the story, as we shall see, then becomes quite a different affair. At all events, Hill incurred the censure of the traitor who violates a confidential intercourse.

Fielding lost no time in reply. To have brought down the Inspector from his fastnesses into the open field, was what our new General only wanted: a battle was sure to be a victory. Our critical Drawcansir has performed his part, with his indifferent puns, but his natural facetiousness.

“It being reported to the General that a hill must be levelled, before the Bedford coffee-house could be taken, orders were given; but this was afterwards found to be a mistake; for this hill was only a little paltry dunghill, and had long before been levelled with the dirt. The General was then informed of a report which had been spread by his lowness, the Prince of Billingsgate, in the Grub-street army, that his Excellency had proposed, by a secret treaty with that Prince, to carry on the war only in appearance, and so to betray the common cause; upon which his Excellency said with a smile:—‘If the betrayer of a private treaty could ever deserve the least credit, yet his Lowness here must proclaim himself either a liar or a fool. None can doubt but that he is the former, if he hath feigned this treaty; and I think few would scruple to call him the latter, if he had rejected it.’ The General then declared the fact stood thus:—‘His Lowness came to my tent on an affair of his own. I treated him, though a commander in the enemy’s camp, with civility, and even kindness. I told him, with the utmost good-humour, I should attack his Lion; and that he might, if he pleased, in the same manner defend him; from which, said I, no great loss can happen on either side—’”

During his inspectorship, he invented a whimsical literary stratagem, which ended in his receiving a castigation more lasting than the honours performed on him at Ranelagh by the cane of a warm Hibernian. Hill seems to have been desirous of abusing certain friends whom he had praised in the Inspectors; so volatile, like the loves of coquettes, are the literary friendships of the “Scribleri.” As this could not be done with any propriety there, he published the first number of a new paper, entitled The Impertinent. Having thus relieved his private feelings, he announced the cessation of this new enterprise in his Inspectors, and congratulated the public on the ill reception it had given to the Impertinent, applauding them for their having shown by this that “their indignation was superior to their curiosity.” With impudence all his own, he adds—“It will not be easy to say too much in favour of the candour of the town, which has despised a piece that cruelly and unjustly attacked Mr. Smart the poet.” What innocent soul could have imagined that The Impertinent and The Inspector were the same individual? The style is a specimen of persiflage; the thin sparkling thought; the pert vivacity, that looks like wit without wit; the glittering bubble, that rises in emptiness;—even its author tells us, in The Inspector, it is “the most pert, the most pretending,” &c.[289]

Smart, in return for our Janus-faced critic’s treatment, balanced the amount of debtor and creditor with a pungent Dunciad The Hilliad. Hill, who had heard of the rod in pickle, anticipated the blow, to break its strength; and, according to his adopted system, introduced himself and Smart, with a story of his having recommended the bard to his bookseller, “who took him into salary on my approbation. I betrayed him into the profession, and having starved upon it, he has a right to abuse me.” This story was formally denied by an advertisement from Newbery, the bookseller.

“The Hilliad” is a polished and pointed satire. The hero is thus exhibited on earth, and in heaven.

with “moon-struck madness,” awards him all the wealth and fame she could afford him for sixpence; and closes her orgasm with the sage admonition—

But in heaven, among the immortals, never was an unfortunate hero of the vindicative Muses so reduced into nothingness! Jove, disturbed at the noise of this thing of wit, exclaims, that nature had never proved productive in vain before, but now,

The careless style of the fluent Inspectors, beside their audacity, brought Hill into many scrapes. He called Woodward, the celebrated harlequin, “the meanest of all characters.” This Woodward resented in a pamphlet-battle, in which Hill was beaten at all points.[290] But Hill, or the Monthly Reviewer, who might be the same person, for that journal writes with the tenderness of a brother of whatever relates to our hero, pretends that the Inspector only meant, that “the character of Harlequin (if a thing so unnatural and ridiculous ought to be called a character) was the meanest on the stage!”[291]

I will here notice a characteristic incident in Hill’s literary life, of which the boldness and the egotism is scarcely paralleled, even by Orator Henley. At the time the Sloane Collection of Natural History was purchased, to form a part of our grand national establishment, the British Museum, Hill offered himself, by public advertisement, in one of his Inspectors, as the properest person to be placed at its head. The world will condemn him for his impudence. The most reasonable objection against his mode of proceeding would be, that the thing undid itself; and that the very appearance, by public advertisement, was one motive why so confident an offer should be rejected. Perhaps, after all, Hill only wanted to advertise himself.

But suppose that Hill was the man he represents himself to be, and he fairly challenges the test, his conduct only appears eccentric, according to routine. Unpatronised and unfriended men are depressed, among other calamities, with their quiescent modesty; but there is a rare spirit in him who dares to claim favours, which he thinks his right, in the most public manner. I preserve, in the note, the most striking passages of this extraordinary appeal.[292]

At length, after all these literary quarrels, Hill survived his literary character. He had written himself down to so low a degree, that whenever he had a work for publication, his employers stipulated, in their contracts, that the author should conceal his name; a circumstance not new among a certain race of writers.[293] But the genius of Hill was not annihilated 375 by being thrown down so violently on his mother earth; like Anthæus, it rose still fresh; and like Proteus, it assumed new forms.[294] Lady Hill and the young Hills were claimants on his industry far louder than the evanescent epigrams which darted around him: these latter, however, were more numerous than ever dogged an author in his road to literary celebrity.[295] His science, his ingenuity, and his impudence once more practised on the credulity of the public, with the innocent quackery of attributing all medicinal virtues to British herbs. 376 He made many walk out, who were too sedentary; they were delighted to cure headaches by feverfew tea; hectic fevers by the daisy; colics by the leaves of camomile, and agues by its flowers. All these were accompanied by plates of the plants, with the Linnæan names.[296] This was preparatory to the Essences of Sage, Balsams of Honey, and Tinctures of Valerian. Simple persons imagined they were scientific botanists in their walks, with Hill’s plates in their hands. But one of the newly-discovered virtues of British herbs was, undoubtedly, that of placing the discoverer in a chariot.

In an Apology for the character of Sir John Hill, published after his death, where he is painted with much beauty of colouring, and elegance of form, the eruptions and excrescences of his motley physiognomy, while they are indicated—for they were too visible to be entirely omitted in anything pretending to a resemblance—are melted down, and even touched into a grace. The Apology is not unskilful, but the real purpose appears in the last page; where we are informed that Lady Hill, fortunately for the world, possesses all his valuable recipes and herbal remedies!

A Faction of Wits at Oxford the concealed movers of this Controversy—Sir William Temple’s opinions the ostensible cause; Editions of classical Authors by young Students at Oxford the probable one—Boyle’s first attack in the Preface to his “Phalaris”—Bentley, after a silence of three years, betrays his feelings on the literary calumny of Boyle—Boyle replies by the “Examination of Bentley’s Dissertation”—Bentley rejoins by enlarging it—the effects of a contradictory Narrative at a distant time—Bentley’s suspicions of the origin of the “Phalaris,” and “The Examination,” proved by subsequent facts—Bentley’s dignity when stung at the ridicule of Dr. King—applies a classical pun, and nicknames his facetious and caustic Adversary—King invents an extraordinary Index to dissect the character of Bentley—specimens of the Controversy; Boyle’s menace, anathema, and ludicrous humour—Bentley’s sarcastic reply not inferior to that of the Wits.

The splendid controversy between Boyle and Bentley was at times a strife of gladiators, and has been regretted as the opprobrium of our literature; but it should be perpetuated to its honour; for it may be considered, on one side at least, as a noble contest of heroism.

The ostensible cause of the present quarrel was inconsiderable; the concealed motive lies deeper; and the party feelings of the haughty Aristarchus of Cambridge, and a faction of wits at Oxford, under the secret influence of Dean Aldrich, provoked this fierce and glorious contest.

Wit, ridicule, and invective, by cabal and stratagem, obtained a seeming triumph over a single individual, but who, like the Farnesian Hercules, personified the force and resistance of incomparable strength. “The Bees of Christchurch,” as this conspiracy of wits has been called, so musical and so angry, rushed in a dark swarm about him, but only left their fine stings in the flesh they could not wound. He only put out his hand in contempt, never in rage. The Christchurch men, as if doubtful whether wit could prevail against learning, had recourse to the maliciousness of personal satire. They amused an idle public, who could even relish sense and Greek, seasoned as they were with wit and satire, while Boyle was 378 showing how Bentley wanted wit, and Bentley was proving how Boyle wanted learning.

To detect the origin of the controversy, we must find the seed-plot of Bentley’s volume in Sir William Temple’s “Essay upon Ancient and Modern Learning,” which he inscribed to his alma mater, the University of Cambridge. Sir William, who had caught the contagion of the prevalent literary controversy of the times, in which the finest geniuses in Europe had entered the lists, imagined that the ancients possessed a greater force of genius, with some peculiar advantages—that the human mind was in a state of decay—and that our knowledge was nothing more than scattered fragments saved out of the general shipwreck. He writes with a premeditated design to dispute the improvements or undervalue the inventions of his own age. Wotton, the friend of Bentley, replied by his curious volume of “Reflections on Ancient and Modern Learning.” But Sir William, in his ardour, had thrown out an unguarded opinion, which excited the hostile contempt of Bentley. “The oldest books,” he says, “we have, are still in their kind the best; the two most ancient that I know of, in prose, are ‘Æsop’s Fables’ and ‘Phalaris’s Epistles.’”—The “Epistles,” he insists, exhibit every excellence of “a statesman, a soldier, a wit, and a scholar.” That ancient author, who Bentley afterwards asserted was only “some dreaming pedant, with his elbow on his desk.”

Bentley, bristled over with Greek, perhaps then considered that to notice a vernacular and volatile writer ill assorted with the critic’s Fastus. But about this time Dean Aldrich had set an example to the students of Christchurch of publishing editions of classical authors. Such juvenile editorships served as an easy admission into the fashionable literature of Oxford. Alsop had published the “Æsop;” and Boyle, among other “young gentlemen,” easily obtained the favour of the dean, “to desire him to undertake an edition of the ‘Epistles of Phalaris.’” Such are the modest terms Boyle employs in his reply to Bentley, after he had discovered the unlucky choice he had made of an author.

For this edition of “Phalaris” it was necessary to collate a MS. in the king’s library; and Bentley, about this time, had become the royal librarian. Boyle did not apply directly to Bentley, but circuitously, by his bookseller, with whom the doctor was not on terms. Some act of civility, or a Mercury more “formose,” to use one of his latinisms, was probably 379 expected. The MS. was granted, but the collator was negligent; in six days Bentley reclaimed it, “four hours” had been sufficient for the purpose of collation.

When Boyle’s “Phalaris” appeared, he made this charge in the preface, that having ordered the Epistles to be collated with the MS. in the king’s library, the collator was prevented perfecting the collation by the singular humanity of the library-keeper, who refused any further use of the MS.; pro singulari suâ humanitate negavit: an expression that sharply hit a man marked by the haughtiness of his manners.[297]

Bentley, on this insult, informed Boyle of what had passed. He expected that Boyle would have civilly cancelled the page; though he tells us he did not require this, because, “to have insisted on the cancel, might have been forcing a gentleman to too low a submission;”—a stroke of delicacy which will surprise some to discover in the strong character of Bentley. But he was also too haughty to ask a favour, and too conscious of his superiority to betray a feeling of injury. Boyle replied, that the bookseller’s account was quite different from the doctor’s, who had spoken slightingly of him. Bentley said no more.

Three years had nearly elapsed, when Bentley, in a new edition of his friend Wotton’s book, published “A Dissertation on the Epistles of the Ancients;” where, reprehending the false criticism of Sir William Temple, he asserted that the “Fables of Æsop” and the “Epistles of Phalaris” were alike spurious. The blow was levelled at Christchurch, and all “the bees” were brushed down in the warmth of their summer-day.

It is remarkable that Bentley kept so long a silence; indeed, he had considered the affair so trivial, that he had preserved no part of the correspondence with Boyle, whom no doubt he slighted as the young editor of a spurious author. But Boyle’s edition came forth, as Bentley expresses it, “with 380 a sting in its mouth.” This, at first, was like a cut finger—he breathed on it, and would have forgotten it; but the nerve was touched, and the pain raged long after the stroke. Even the great mind of Bentley began to shrink at the touch of literary calumny, so different from the vulgar kind, in its extent and its duration. He betrays the soreness he would wish to conceal, when he complains that “the false story has been spread all over England.”

The statement of Bentley produced, in reply, the famous book of Boyle’s “Examination of Bentley’s Dissertation.” It opens with an imposing narrative, highly polished, of the whole transaction, with the extraordinary furniture of documents, which had never before entered into a literary controversy—depositions—certificates—affidavits—and private letters. Bentley now rejoined by his enlarged “Dissertation on Phalaris,” a volume of perpetual value to the lovers of ancient literature, and the memorable preface of which, itself a volume, exhibits another Narrative, entirely differing from Boyle’s. These produced new replies and new rejoinders. The whole controversy became so perplexed, that it has frightened away all who have attempted to adjust the particulars. With unanimous consent they give up the cause, as one in which both parties studied only to contradict each other. Such was the fate of a Narrative, which was made out of the recollections of the parties, with all their passions at work, after an interval of three years. In each, the memory seemed only retentive of those passages which best suited their own purpose, and which were precisely those the other party was most likely to have forgotten. What was forgotten, was denied; what was admitted, was made to refer to something else; dialogues were given which appear never to have been spoken; and incidents described which are declared never to have taken place; and all this, perhaps, without any purposed violation of truth. Such were the dangers and misunderstandings which attended a Narrative framed out of the broken or passionate recollections of the parties on the watch to confound one another.[298]

Bentley’s Narrative is a most vigorous production: it heaves with the workings of a master-spirit; still reasoning with such force, and still applying with such happiness the stores of his copious literature, had it not been for this literary quarrel, the mere English reader had lost this single opportunity of surveying that commanding intellect.

Boyle’s edition of “Phalaris” was a work of parade, designed to confer on a young man, who bore an eminent name, some distinction in the literary world. But Bentley seems to have been well-informed of the secret transactions at Christchurch. In his first attack he mentions Boyle as “the young gentleman of great hopes, whose name is set to the edition;” and asserts that the editor, no more than his own “Phalaris,” has written what was ascribed to him. He persists in making a plurality of a pretended unity, by multiplying Boyle into a variety of little personages, of “new editors,” our “annotators,” our “great geniuses.”[299] Boyle, 382 touched at these reflections, declared “they were levelled at a learned society, in which I had the happiness to be educated; as if ‘Phalaris’ had been made up by contributions from several hands.” Pressed by Bentley to acknowledge the assistance of Dr. John Freind, Boyle confers on him the ambiguous title of “The Director of Studies.” Bentley links the Bees together—Dr. Freind and Dr. Alsop. “The Director of Studies, who has lately set out Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses,’ with a paraphrase and notes, is of the same size for learning with the late editor of the Æsopian Fables. They bring the nation into contempt abroad, and themselves into it at home;” and adds to this magisterial style, the mortification of his criticism on Freind’s Ovid, as on Alsop’s Æsop.

But Boyle assuming the honours of an edition of “Phalaris,” was but a venial offence, compared with that committed by the celebrated volume published in its defence.

If Bentley’s suspicions were not far from the truth, that “the ‘Phalaris’ had been made up by contributions,” they approached still closer when they attacked “The Examination of his Dissertation.” Such was the assistance which Boyle received from all “the Bees,” that scarcely a few ears of that rich sheaf fall to his portion. His efforts hardly reach to the mere narrative of his transactions with Bentley. All the varied erudition, all the Attic graces, all the inexhaustible wit, are claimed by others; so that Boyle was not materially concerned either in his “Phalaris,” or in the more memorable work.[300]

The Christchurch party now formed a literary conspiracy against the great critic; and as treason is infectious when the faction is strong, they were secretly engaging new associates; Whenever any of the party published anything themselves, 384 they had sworn to have always “a fling at Bentley,” and intrigued with their friends to do the same.

They procured Keil, the professor of astronomy, in so grave a work as “The Theory of the Earth,” to have a fling at Bentley’s boasted sagacity in conjectural criticism. Wotton, in a dignified reproof, administered a spirited correction to the party-spirit; while his love of science induced him generously to commend Keil, and intimate the advantages the world may derive from his studies, “as he grows older.” Even Garth and Pope struck in with the alliance, and condescended to pour out rhymes more lasting than even the prose of “the Bees.”

But of all the rabid wits who, fastening on their prey, never drew their fangs from the noble animal, the facetious Dr. King seems to have been the only one who excited Bentley’s anger. Persevering malice, in the teasing shape of caustic banter, seems to have affected the spirit even of Bentley.

At one of those conferences which passed between Bentley and the bookseller, King happened to be present; and being called on by Boyle to bear his part in the drama, he performed it quite to the taste of “the Bees.” He addressed a letter to Dean Aldrich, in which he gave one particular: and, to make up a sufficient dose, dropped some corrosives. He closes his letter thus:—“That scorn and contempt which I have naturally for pride and insolence, makes me remember that which otherwise I might have forgotten.” Nothing touched Bentley more to the quick than reflections on “his pride and insolence.” Our defects seem to lose much of their character, in reference to ourselves, by habit and natural disposition; yet we have always a painful suspicion of their existence; and he who touches them with no tenderness is never pardoned. The invective of King had all the bitterness 385 of truth. Bentley applied a line from Horace; which showed that both Horace and Bentley could pun in anger:—

The particular incident which King imperfectly recollected, made afterwards much noise among the wits, for giving them a new notion of the nature of ancient MSS. King relates that Dr. Bentley said—“If the MS. were collated, it would be worth nothing for the future.” Bentley, to mortify the pertness of the bookseller, who would not send his publications to the Royal Library, had said that he ought to do so, were it but to make amends for the damage the MS. would sustain by his printing the various readings; “for,” added Bentley, “after the various lections were once taken and printed, the MS. would be like a squeezed orange, and little worth for the future.” This familiar comparison of a MS. with a squeezed orange provoked the epigrammatists. Bentley, in retorting on King, adds some curious facts concerning the fate of MSS. after they have been printed; but is aware, he says, of what little relish or sense the Doctor has of MSS., who is better skilled in “the catalogue of ales, his Humty-Dumty, Hugmatee, Three-threads, and the rest of that glorious list, than in the catalogue of MSS.” King, in his banter on Dr. Lister’s journey to Paris, had given a list of these English beverages. It was well known that he was in too constant an intercourse with them all. Bentley nicknames King through the progress of his Controversy, for his tavern-pleasures, Humty-Dumty, and accuses him of writing more in a tavern than in a study. He little knew the injustice of his charge against a student who had written notes on 22,000 books and MSS.; but they were not Greek ones.

All this was not done with impunity. An irritated wit only finds his adversary cutting out work for him. A second letter, more abundant with the same pungent qualities, fell on the head of Bentley. King says of the arch-critic—“He thinks meanly, I find, of my reading; yet for all that, I dare say I have read more than any man in England besides him 386 and me; for I have read his book all over.”[302] Nor was this all; “Humty-Dumty” published eleven “Dialogues of the Dead,” supposed to be written by a student at Padua, concerning “one Bentivoglio, a very troublesome critic in the world;” where, under the character of “Signior Moderno,” Wotton falls into his place. Whether these dialogues mortified Bentley, I know not: they ought to have afforded him very high amusement. But when a man is at once tickled and pinched, the operation requires a gentler temper than Bentley’s. “Humty-Dumty,” indeed, had Bentley too often before him. There was something like inveteracy in his wit; but he who invented the remarkable index to Boyle’s book, must have closely studied Bentley’s character. He has given it with all its protuberant individuality.[303]

Bentley, with his peculiar idiom, had censured “all the 387 stiffness and stateliness, and operoseness of style, quite alien from the character of ‘Phalaris,’ a man of business and despatch.” Boyle keenly turns his own words on Bentley. “Stiffness and stateliness, and operoseness of style, is indeed quite alien from the character of a man of business; and being but a library-keeper, it is not over-modestly done, to oppose his judgment and taste to that of Sir William Temple, who knows more of these things than Dr. Bentley does of Hesychius and Suidas. Sir William Temple has spent a good part of his life in transacting affairs of state: he has written to kings, and they to him; and this has qualified him to judge how kings should write, much better than the library-keeper at St. James’s.”—This may serve as a specimen of the Attic style of the controversy. Hard words sometimes passed. Boyle complains of some of the similes which Bentley employs, more significant than elegant. For the new readings of “Phalaris,” “he likens me to a bungling tinker mending old kettles.” Correcting the faults of the version, he says, “The first epistle cost me four pages in scouring;” and, “by the help of a Greek proverb, he calls me downright ass.” But while Boyle complains of these sprinklings of ink, he himself contributes to Bentley’s “Collection of Asinine Proverbs,” and “throws him in one out of Aristophanes,” of “an ass carrying mysteries:” “a proverb,” says Erasmus, (as ‘the Bees’ construe him.) “applied to those who were preferred to some place they did not deserve, as when a dunce was made a library-keeper.”

Some ambiguous threats are scattered in the volume, while others are more intelligible. When Bentley, in his own defence, had referred to the opinions which some learned foreigners entertained of him—they attribute these to “the foreigners, because they are foreigners—we, that have the happiness of a nearer conversation with him, know him better; and we may perhaps take an opportunity of setting these mistaken strangers right in their opinions.” They threaten him with his character, “in a tongue that will last longer, and go further, than their own;” and, in the imperious style of Festus, add:—“Since Dr. Bentley has appealed to foreign universities, to foreign universities he must go.” Yet this is light, compared with the odium they would raise against him by the menace of the resentments of a whole society of learned men.

“Single adversaries die and drop off; but societies are immortal: 388 their resentments are sometimes delivered down from hand to hand; and when once they have begun with a man, there is no knowing when they will leave him.”

In reply to this literary anathema, Bentley was furnished, by his familiarity with his favourite authors, with a fortunate application of a term, derived from Phalaris himself. Cicero had conveyed his idea of Cæsar’s cruelty by this term, which he invented from the very name of the tyrant.[304]

“There is a certain temper of mind that Cicero calls Phalarism; a spirit like Phalaris’s. One would be apt to imagine that a portion of it had descended upon some of his translators. The gentleman has given a broad hint more than once in his book, that if I proceed further against Phalaris, I may draw, perhaps, a duel, or a stab upon myself; a generous threat to a divine, who neither carries arms nor principles fit for that sort of controversy. I expected such usage from the spirit of Phalarism.”

In this controversy, the amusing fancy of “the Bees” could not pass by Phalaris without contriving to make some use of that brazen bull by which he tortured men alive. Not satisfied in their motto, from the Earl of Roscommon, with wedging “the great critic, like Milo, in the timber he strove to rend,” they gave him a second death in their finis, by throwing Bentley into Phalaris’s bull, and flattering their vain imaginations that they heard him “bellow.”

“He has defied Phalaris, and used him very coarsely, under the assurance, as he tells us, that ‘he is out of his reach.’ Many of Phalaris’s enemies thought the same thing, and repented of their vain confidence afterwards in his bull. Dr. Bentley is perhaps, by this time, or will be suddenly, satisfied that he also has presumed a little too much upon his distance; but it will be too late to repent when he begins to bellow.”[305]

Bentley, although the solid force of his mind was not favourable to the lighter sports of wit, yet was not quite destitute of those airy qualities; nor does he seem insensible to the literary merits of “that odd work,” as he calls Boyle’s volume, which he conveys a very good notion of:—“If his 389 book shall happen to be preserved anywhere as an useful commonplace book for ridicule, banter, and all the topics of calumny.” With equal dignity and sense he observes on the ridicule so freely used by both parties—“I am content that what is the greatest virtue of his book should be counted the greatest fault of mine.”

His reply to “Milo’s fate,” and the tortures he was supposed to pass through when thrown into Phalaris’s bull, is a piece of sarcastic humour which will not suffer by comparison with the volume more celebrated for its wit.

“The facetious examiner seems resolved to vie with Phalaris himself in the science of Phalarism; for his revenge is not satisfied with one single death of his adversary, but he will kill me over and over again. He has slain me twice by two several deaths! one, in the first page of his book; and another, in the last. In the title-page I die the death of Milo, the Crotonian:—

“The application of which must be this:—That as Milo, after his victories at six several Olympiads, was at last conquered and destroyed in wrestling with a tree, so I, after I had attained to some small reputation in letters, am to be quite baffled and run down by wooden antagonists. But in the end of his book he has got me into Phalaris’s bull, and he has the pleasure of fancying that he hears me begin to bellow. Well, since it is certain that I am in the bull, I have performed the part of a sufferer. For as the cries of the tormented in old Phalaris’s bull, being conveyed through pipes lodged in the machine, were turned into music for the entertainment of the tyrant, so the complaints which my torments express from me, being conveyed to Mr. Boyle by this answer, are all dedicated to his pleasure and diversion. But yet, methinks, when he was setting up to be Phalaris junior, the very omen of it might have deterred him. As the old tyrant himself at last bellowed in his own bull, his imitators ought to consider that at long run their own actions may chance to overtake them.”—p. 43.

Wit, however, enjoyed the temporary triumph; not but that some, in that day, loudly protested against the award.[306] 390 “The Episode of Bentley and Wotton,” in “The Battle of the Books,” is conceived with all the caustic imagination of the first of our prose satirists. There Bentley’s great qualities are represented as “tall, without shape or comeliness; large, without strength or proportion.” His various erudition, as “armour patched up of a thousand incoherent pieces;” his book, as “the sound” of that armour, “loud and dry, like that made by the fall of a sheet of lead from the roof of some steeple;” his haughty intrepidity, as “a vizor of brass, tainted by his breath, corrupted into copperas, nor wanted gall from the same fountain; so that, whenever provoked by anger or labour, an atramentous quality of most malignant nature was seen to distil from his lips.” Wotton is “heavy-armed and slow of foot, lagging behind.” They perish together in one ludicrous death. Boyle, in his celestial armour, by a stroke of his weapon, transfixes both “the lovers,” “as a cook trusses a brace of woodcocks, with iron skewer piercing the tender sides of both. Joined in their lives, joined in their death, so closely joined, that Charon would mistake them both for one, and waft them over Styx for half his fare.” Such is the candour of wit! The great qualities of an adversary, as in Bentley, are distorted into disgraceful attitudes; while the suspicious virtues of a friend, as in Boyle, not passed over in prudent silence, are ornamented with even spurious panegyric.

Posterity justly appreciates the volume of Bentley for its stores of ancient literature; and the author, for that peculiar sagacity in emending a corrupt text, which formed his distinguishing characteristic as a classical critic; and since his book but for this literary quarrel had never appeared, reverses the names in the verse of the “Satirist.”

Marvell the founder of “a newly-refined art of jeering buffoonery”—his knack of nicknaming his adversaries—Parker’s Portrait—Parker suddenly changes his principles—his declamatory style—Marvell prints his anonymous letter as a motto to “The Rehearsal Transprosed”—describes him as an “At-all”—Marvell’s ludicrous description of the whole posse of answers summoned together by Parker—Marvell’s cautious allusion to Milton—his solemn invective against Parker—anecdote of Marvell and Parker—Parker retires after the second part of “The Rehearsal Transprosed”—The Recreant, reduced to silence, distils his secret vengeance in a posthumous libel.

One of the legitimate ends of satire, and one of the proud triumphs of genius, is to unmask the false zealot; to beat back the haughty spirit that is treading down all; and if it cannot teach modesty, and raise a blush, at least to inflict terror and silence. It is then that the satirist does honour to the office of the executioner.

The quarrel between Parker and Marvell is a striking example of the efficient powers of genius, in first humbling, and then annihilating, an unprincipled bravo, who had placed himself at the head of a faction.

Marvell, the under-secretary and the bosom-friend of Milton, whose fancy he has often caught in his verse, was one of the greatest wits of the luxuriant age of Charles II.; he was a master in all the arts of ridicule; and his inexhaustible spirit only required some permanent subject to have rivalled the causticity of Swift, whose style, in neatness and vivacity, seems to have been modelled on his.[308] But Marvell placed 392 the oblation of genius on a temporary altar, and the sacrifice sunk with it; he wrote to the times, and with the times his writings have passed away; yet something there is incorruptible in wit, and wherever its salt has fallen, that part is still preserved.

Such are the vigour and fertility of Marvell’s writings, that our old Chronicler of Literary History, Anthony Wood, considers him as the founder of “the then newly-refined art (though much in mode and fashion almost ever since) of sportive and jeering buffoonery;”[309] and the crabbed humorist describes “this pen-combat as briskly managed on both sides; a jerking flirting way of writing entertaining the reader, by seeing two such right cocks of the game so keenly engaging with sharp and dangerous weapons.”—Burnett calls Marvell “the liveliest droll of the age, who writ in a burlesque strain, but with so peculiar and entertaining a conduct, that from the king to the tradesman, his books were read with great pleasure.” Charles II. was a more polished judge than these uncouth critics; and, to the credit of his impartiality,—for that 393 witty monarch and his dissolute court were never spared by Marvell, who remained inflexible to his seduction—he deemed Marvell the best prose satirist of the age. But Marvell had other qualities than the freest humour and the finest wit in this “newly-refined art,” which seems to have escaped these grave critics—a vehemence of solemn reproof, and an eloquence of invective, that awes one with the spirit of the modern Junius,[310] and may give some notion of that more ancient satirist, whose writings are said to have so completely answered their design, that, after perusal, their victim hanged himself on the first tree; and in the present case, though the delinquent did not lay violent hands on himself, he did what, for an author, may be considered as desperate a course, “withdraw from the town, and cease writing for some years.”[311]

The celebrated work here to be noticed is Marvell’s “Rehearsal Transprosed;” a title facetiously adopted from Bayes in “The Rehearsal Transposed” of the Duke of Buckingham. It was written against the works and the person of Dr. Samuel Parker, afterwards Bishop of Oxford, whom he designates under the character of Bayes, to denote the incoherence and ridiculousness of his character. Marvell had a peculiar knack of calling names,—it consisted in appropriating 394 a ludicrous character in some popular comedy, and dubbing his adversaries with it. In the same spirit he ridiculed Dr. Turner, of Cambridge, a brother-genius to Parker, by nicknaming him “Mr. Smirk, the Divine in Mode,” the name of the Chaplain in Etherege’s “Man of Mode,” and thus, by a stroke of the pen, conveyed an idea of “a neat, starched, formal, and forward divine.” This application of a fictitious character to a real one, this christening a man with ridicule, though of no difficult invention, is not a little hazardous to inferior writers; for it requires not less wit than Marvell’s to bring out of the real character the ludicrous features which mark the factitious prototype.

Parker himself must have his portrait, and if the likeness be justly hit off, some may be reminded of a resemblance. Mason applies the epithet of “Mitred Dullness” to him: but although he was at length reduced to railing and to menaces, and finally mortified into silence, this epithet does not suit so hardy and so active an adventurer.

The secret history of Parker may be collected in Marvell,[312] and his more public one in our honest chronicler, Anthony Wood. Parker was originally educated in strict sectarian principles; a starch Puritan, “fasting and praying with the Presbyterian students weekly, and who, for their refection feeding only on thin broth made of oatmeal and water, were commonly called Gruellers.” Among these, says Marvell, “it was observed that he was wont to put more graves than all the rest into his porridge, and was deemed one of the preciousest[313] young men in the University.” It seems that these mortified saints, both the brotherhood and the sisterhood, held their chief meetings at the house of “Bess Hampton, an old and crooked maid that drove the trade of laundry, who, being from her youth very much given to the godly party, as they call themselves, had frequent meetings, especially for those that were her customers.” Such is the dry humour of honest Anthony, who paints like the Ostade of literary history.

But the age of sectarism and thin gruel was losing all its coldness in the sunshine of the Restoration; and this “preciousest young man,” from praying and caballing against 395 episcopacy, suddenly acquainted the world, in one of his dedications, that Dr. Ralph Bathurst had “rescued him from the chains and fetters of an unhappy education,” and, without any intermediate apology, from a sullen sectarian turned a flaming highflyer for the “supreme dominion” of the Church.[314]

It is the after-conduct of Parker that throws light on this rapid change. On speculative points any man may be suddenly converted; for these may depend on facts or arguments which might never have occurred to him before. But when we watch the weathercock chopping with the wind, so pliant to move, and so stiff when fixed—when we observe this “preciousest grueller” clothed in purple, and equally hardy in the most opposite measures—become a favourite with James II., and a furious advocate for arbitrary power; when we see him railing at and menacing those, among whom he had committed as many extravagances as any of them;[315] can we 396 hesitate to decide that this bold, haughty, and ambitious man was one of those who, having neither religion nor morality for a casting weight, can easily fly off to opposite extremes? and whether a puritan or a bishop, we must place his zeal to the same side of his religious ledger—that of the profits of barter!

The quarrel between Parker and Marvell originated in a preface,[316] written by Parker, in which he had poured down his contempt and abuse on his old companions, the Nonconformists. It was then Marvell clipped his wings with his “Rehearsal Transprosed;” his wit and humour were finely contrasted with Parker’s extravagances, set off in his declamatory style; of which Marvell wittily describes “the volume and circumference of the periods, which, though he takes always to be his chiefest strength, yet, indeed, like too great a line, weakens the defence, and requires too many men to make it good.” The tilt was now opened, and certain masqued knights appeared in the course; they attempted to grasp the sharp and polished weapon of Marvell, to turn it on himself.[317] But Marvell, with malicious ingenuity, sees Parker in them all—they so much resembled their master! “There were no less,” says the wit, “than six scaramouches together on the stage, all of them of the same gravity and behaviour, the same tone, the same habit, that it was impossible to discern which was the true author of the ‘Ecclesiastical 397 Polity.’ I believe he imitated the wisdom of some other princes, who have sometimes been persuaded by their servants to disguise several others in the regal garb, that the enemy might not know in the battle whom to single.” Parker, in fact, replied to Marvell anonymously, by “A Reproof to the Rehearsal Transprosed,” with a mild exhortation to the magistrate to crush with the secular arm the pestilent wit, the servant of Cromwell, and the friend of Milton. But this was not all; something else, anonymous too, was despatched to Marvell: it was an extraordinary letter, short enough to have been an epigram, could Parker have written one; but short as it was, it was more in character, for it was only a threat of assassination! It concluded with these words: “If thou darest to print any lie or libel against Dr. Parker, by the Eternal God I will cut thy throat.” Marvell replied to “the Reproof,” which he calls a printed letter, by the second part of “the Rehearsal Transprosed;” and to the unprinted letter, by publishing it on his own title-page.

Of two volumes of wit and broad humour, and of the most galling invective, one part flows so much into another, that the volatile spirit would be injured by an analytical process. But Marvell is now only read by the curious lovers of our literature, who find the strong, luxuriant, though not the delicate, wit of the wittiest age, never obsolete: the reader shall not, however, part from Marvell without some slight transplantations from a soil whose rich vegetation breaks out in every part.

Of the pleasantry and sarcasm, these may be considered as specimens. Parker was both author and licenser of his own work on “Ecclesiastical Polity;”[318] and it appears he got the licence for printing Marvell’s first Rehearsal recalled. The Church appeared in danger when the doctor discovered he was so furiously attacked. Marvell sarcastically rallies him on his dual capacity:—

“He is such an At-all, of so many capacities, that he would excommunicate any man who should have presumed to intermeddle with any one of his provinces. Has he been an author? he is too the licenser. Has he been a father? he will stand too for godfather. Had he acted Pyramus, he 398 would have been Moonshine too, and the Hole in the Wall. That first author of ‘Ecclesiastical Polity,’ (such as his) Nero, was of the same temper. He could not be contented with the Roman empire, unless he were too his own precentor; and lamented only the detriment that mankind must sustain at his death, in losing so considerable a fiddler.”

The satirist describes Parker’s arrogance for those whom Parker calls the vulgar, and whom he defies as “a rout of wolves and tigers, apes and buffoons;” yet his personal fears are oddly contrasted with his self-importance: “If he chance but to sneeze, he prays that the foundations of the earth be not shaken.—Ever since he crept up to be but the weathercock of a steeple, he trembles and cracks at every puff of wind that blows about him, as if the Church of England were falling.” Parker boasted, in certain philosophical “Tentamina,” or essays of his, that he had confuted the atheists: Marvell declares, “If he had reduced any atheist by his book, he can only pretend to have converted them (as in the old Florentine wars) by mere tiring them out, and perfect weariness.” A pleasant allusion to those mock fights of the Italian mercenaries, who, after parading all day, rarely unhorsed a single cavalier.

“The whole Posse Archidiaconatus was raised to repress me; and great rising there was, and sending post every way to pick out the ablest ecclesiastical droles to prepare an answer. Never was such a hubbub made about a sorry book. One flattered himself with being at least a surrogate; another was so modest as to set up with being but a paritor; while the most generous hoped only to be graciously smiled upon at a good dinner; but the more hungry starvelings generally looked upon it as an immediate call to a benefice; and he that could but write an answer, whatsoever it were, took it for the most dexterous, cheap, and legal way of simony. As is usual on these occasions, there arose no small competition and mutiny among the pretenders.”

It seems all the body had not impudence enough, and had too nice consciences, and could not afford an extraordinary expense in wit for the occasion. It was then

“The author of the ‘Ecclesiastical Polity’ altered his lodgings to a calumny-office, and kept open chamber for all comers, that he might be supplied himself, or supply others, 399 as there was occasion. But the information came in so slenderly, that he was glad to make use of anything rather than sit out; and there was at last nothing so slight, but it grew material; nothing so false, but he resolved it should go for truth; and what wanted in matter, he would make out with invention and artifice. So that he and his remaining comrades seemed to have set up a glass-house, the model of which he had observed from the height of his window in the neighbourhood, and the art he had been initiated into ever since from the manufacture (he will criticise because not orifacture) of soap-bubbles, he improved by degrees to the mystery of making glass-drops, and thence, in running leaps, mounted by these virtues to be Fellow of the Royal Society, Doctor of Divinity, Parson, Prebend, and Archdeacon. The furnace was so hot of itself, that there needed no coals, much less any one to blow them. One burnt the weed, another calcined the flint, a third melted down that mixture; but he himself fashioned all with his breath, and polished with his style, till, out of a mere jelly of sand and ashes, he had furnished a whole cupboard of things, so brittle and incoherent, that the least touch would break them again in pieces, and so transparent, that every man might see through them.”

Parker had accused Marvell with having served Cromwell, and being the friend of Milton, then living, at a moment when such an accusation not only rendered a man odious, but put his life in danger.[319] Marvell, who now perceived that Milton, whom he never looked on but with the eyes of reverential awe, was likely to be drawn into his quarrel, touches on this subject with infinite delicacy and tenderness, but not with diminished energy against his malignant adversary, whom he shows to have been an impertinent intruder in Milton’s house, where indeed he had first known him. He cautiously alludes to our English Homer by his initials: at that moment the very name of Milton would have tainted the page!

“J. M. was, and is, a man of great learning and sharpness of wit, as any man. It was his misfortune, living in a 400 tumultuous time, to be tossed on the wrong side; and he writ, flagrante bello, certain dangerous treatises. But some of his books, upon which you take him at advantage, were of no other nature than that one writ by your own father; only with this difference, that your father’s, which I have by me, was written with the same design, but with much less wit or judgment, for which there was no remedy, unless you will supply his judgment with his high Court of Justice. At his Majesty’s happy return, J. M. did partake, even as you yourself did, for all your huffing, of his royal clemency, and has ever since expiated himself in a retired silence. Whether it were my foresight, or my good fortune, I never contracted any friendship or confidence with you; but then it was you frequented J. M. incessantly, and haunted his house day by day. What discourses you there used, he is too generous to remember. But for you to insult over his old age, to traduce him by your scaramouches, and in your own person, as a schoolmaster, who was born and hath lived more ingenuously and liberally than yourself!”

Marvell, when he lays by his playful humour and fertile fancy for more solemn remonstrances, assumes a loftier tone, and a severity of invective, from which, indeed, Parker never recovered.

Accused by Parker of aiming to degrade the clerical character, Marvell declares his veneration for that holy vocation, and that he reflected even on the failings of the men, from whom so much is expected, with indulgent reverence:—

“Their virtues are to be celebrated with all encouragement; and if their vices be not notoriously palpable, let the eye, as it defends its organ, so conceal the object by connivance.” But there are cases when even to write satirically against a clergyman may be not only excusable, but necessary:—“The man who gets into the church by the belfry or the window, ought never to be borne in the pulpit; and so the man who illustrates his own corrupt doctrines with as ill a conversation, and adorns the lasciviousness of his life with an equal petulancy of style and language.”—In such a concurrence of misdemeanors, what is to be done? The example and the consequence so pernicious! which could not be, “if our great pastors but exercise the wisdom of common shepherds, by parting with one to stop the infection of the whole flock, when his rottenness grows notorious. Or if our clergy would but use the instinct of other creatures, and chastise the blown deer out of their herd, such mischiefs might easily be 401 remedied. In this case it is that I think a clergyman is laid open to the pen of any one that knows how to manage it; and that every person who has either wit, learning, or sobriety, is licensed, if debauched, to curb him; if erroneous, to catechise him; and if foul-mouthed and biting, to muzzle him. Such an one would never have come into the church, but to take sanctuary; rather wheresoever men shall find the footing of so wanton a satyr out of his own bounds, the neighbourhood ought, notwithstanding all his pretended capering divinity, to hunt him through the woods, with hounds and horse, home to his harbour.”

And he frames an ingenious apology for the freedom of his humour, in this attack on the morals and person of his adversary:—

“To write against him (says Marvell) is the odiousest task that ever I undertook, and has looked to me all the while like the cruelty of a living dissection; which, however it may tend to public instruction, and though I have picked out the noxious creature to be anatomised, yet doth scarce excuse the offensiveness of the scent and fouling of my fingers: therefore, I will here break off abruptly, leaving many a vein not laid open, and many a passage not searched into. But if I have undergone the drudgery of the most loathsome part already (which is his personal character), I will not defraud myself of what is more truly pleasant, the conflict with, if it may be so called, his reason.”

It was not only in these “pen-combats” that this Literary Quarrel proceeded; it seems also to have broken out in the streets; for a tale has been preserved of a rencontre, which shows at once the brutal manners of Parker, and the exquisite wit of Marvell. Parker meeting Marvell in the streets, the bully attempted to shove him from the wall: but, even there, Marvell’s agility contrived to lay him sprawling in the kennel; and looking on him pleasantly, told him to “lie there for a son of a whore!” Parker complained to the Bishop of Rochester, who immediately sent for Marvell, to reprimand him; but he maintained that the doctor had so called himself, in one of his recent publications; and pointing to the preface, where Parker declares “he is ‘a true son of his mother, the Church of England:’ and if you read further on, my lord, you find he says: ‘The Church of England has spawned two bastards, the Presbyterians and the Congregationists;’ ergo, my lord, he expressly declares that he is the son of a whore!”

Although Parker retreated from any further attack, after the second part of “The Rehearsal Transprosed,” he in truth only suppressed passions to which he was giving vent in secrecy and silence. That, indeed, was not discovered till a posthumous work of his appeared, in which one of the most striking parts is a most disgusting caricature of his old antagonist. Marvell was, indeed, a republican, the pupil of Milton, and adored his master: but his morals and his manners were Roman—he lived on the turnip of Curtius, and he would have bled at Philippi. We do not sympathise with the fierce republican spirit of those unhappy times that scalped the head feebly protected by a mitre or a crown. But the private virtues and the rich genius of such a man are pure from the taint of party. We are now to see how far private hatred can distort, in its hideous vengeance, the resemblance it affects to give after nature. Who could imagine that Parker is describing Marvell in these words?—

“Among these insolent revilers of great fame for ribaldry was one Marvell. From his youth he lived in all manner of wickedness; and thus, with a singular petulancy from nature, he performed the office of a satirist for the faction, not so much from the quickness of his wit, as from the sourness of his temper. A vagabond, ragged, hungry poetaster, beaten at every tavern, where he daily received the rewards of his impudence in kicks and blows.[320] By the interest of Milton, to whom he was somewhat agreeable for his malignant wit, he became the under-secretary to Cromwell’s secretary.”

And elsewhere he calls him “a drunken buffoon,” and asserts that “he made his conscience more cheap than he had formerly made his reputation;” but the familiar anecdote of Marvell’s political honesty, when, wanting a dinner, he declined the gold sent to him by the king, sufficiently replies to the calumniator. Parker, then in his retreat, seems not to have been taught anything like modesty by his silence, as Burnet conjectured; who says, “That a face of brass must grow red when it is burnt as his was.” It was even then that the recreant, in silence, was composing the libel, which his cowardice dared not publish, but which his invincible malice has sent down to posterity.

Calamities of Epic Poets—Character and Anecdotes of D’Avenant—attempts a new vein of invention—the Critics marshalled against each other on the “Gondibert”—D’Avenant’s sublime feelings of Literary Fame—attacked by a Club of Wits in two books of Verses—the strange misconception hitherto given respecting the Second Part—various specimens of the Satires on Gondibert, the Poet, and his Panegyrist Hobbes—the Poet’s silence; and his neglect of the unfinished Epic, while the Philosopher keenly retorts on the Club, and will not allow of any authority in Wit.

The memoirs of epic poets, in as far as they relate to the history of their own epics, would be the most calamitous of all the suitors of the Muses, whether their works have reached us, or scarcely the names of the poets. An epic, which has sometimes been the labour of a life, is the game of the wits and the critics. One ridicules what is written; the other censures for what has not been written:—and it has happened, in some eminent instances, that the rudest assailants of him who “builds the lofty rhyme,” have been his ungenerous contemporaries. Men, whose names are now endeared to us, and who have left their ΚΤΗΜΑ ΕΣ ΑΕΙ, which Hobbes so energetically translates “a possession for everlasting,” have bequeathed an inheritance to posterity, of which they have never been in the receipt of the revenue. “The first fruits” of genius have been too often gathered to place upon its tomb. Can we believe that Milton did not endure mortification from the neglect of “evil days,” as certainly as Tasso was goaded to madness by the systematic frigidity of his critics? He who is now before us had a mind not less exalted than Milton or Tasso; but was so effectually ridiculed, that he has only sent us down the fragment of a great work.

One of the curiosities in the history of our poetry, is the Gondibert of D’Avenant; and the fortunes and the fate of this epic are as extraordinary as the poem itself. Never has 404 an author deserved more copious memoirs than the fertility of this man’s genius claims. His life would have exhibited a moving picture of genius in action and in contemplation. With all the infirmities of lively passions, he had all the redeeming virtues of magnanimity and generous affections; but with the dignity and the powers of a great genius, falling among an age of wits, he was covered by ridicule. D’Avenant was a man who had viewed human life in all its shapes, and had himself taken them. A poet and a wit, the creator of the English stage with the music of Italy and the scenery of France; a soldier, an emigrant, a courtier, and a politician:—he was, too, a state-prisoner, awaiting death with his immortal poem in his hand;[321] and at all times a philosopher!

That hardiness of enterprise which had conducted him through life, brought the same novelty, and conferred on him the same vigour in literature.

D’Avenant attempted to open a new vein of invention in 405 narrative poetry; which not to call epic, he termed heroic; and which we who have more completely emancipated ourselves from the arbitrary mandates of Aristotle and Bossu, have since styled romantic. Scott, Southey, and Byron have taught us this freer scope of invention, but characterised by a depth of passion which is not found in D’Avenant. In his age, the title which he selected to describe the class of his poetical narrative, was a miserable source of petty criticism. It was decreed that every poem should resemble another poem, on the plan of the ancient epic. This was the golden age of “the poet-apes,” till they found that it was easier to produce epic writers than epic readers.

But our poet, whose manly genius had rejected one great absurdity, had the folly to adopt another. The first reformers are always more heated with zeal than enlightened by sagacity. The four-and-twenty chapters of an epic, he perceived, were but fantastical divisions, and probably, originally, but accidental; yet he proposed another form as chimerical; he imagined that by having only five he was constructing his poem on the dramatic plan of five acts. He might with equal propriety have copied the Spanish comedy which I once read, in twenty-five acts, and in no slender folio. “Sea-marks (says D’Avenant, alluding to the works of antiquity) are chiefly useful to coasters, and serve not those who have the ambition of discoverers, that love to sail in untried seas;” and yet he was attempting to turn an epic poem into a monstrous drama, from the servile habits he had contracted from his intercourse with the theatre! This error of the poet has, however, no material influence on the “Gondibert,” as it has come down to us; for, discouraged and ridiculed, our adventurer never finished his voyage of discovery. He who had so nobly vindicated the freedom of the British Muse from the meanness of imitation, and clearly defined what such a narrative as he intended should be, “a perfect glass of nature, which gives us a familiar and easy view of ourselves,” did not yet perceive that there is no reason why a poetical narrative should be cast into any particular form, or be longer or shorter than the interest it excites will allow.

More than a century and a half have elapsed since the first publication of “Gondibert,” and its merits are still a subject of controversy; and indubitable proof of some inherent excellence not willingly forgotten. The critics are marshalled on each side, one against the other, while between these formidable 406 lines stands the poet, with a few scattered readers;[322] but what is more surprising in the history of the “Gondibert,” the poet is a great poet, the work imperishable!

The “Gondibert” has poetical defects fatal for its popularity; the theme was not happily chosen; the quatrain has been discovered by capricious ears to be unpleasing, though its 407 solemnity was felt by Dryden.[323] The style is sometimes harsh and abrupt, though often exquisite; and the fable is deficient in that rapid interest which the story-loving readers of all times seem most to regard. All these are diseases which would have long since proved mortal in a poem less vital; but our poet was a commanding genius, who redeemed his bold errors by his energetic originality. The luxuriancy of his fancy, the novelty of his imagery, the grandeur of his views of human life; his delight in the new sciences of his age;—these are some of his poetical virtues. But, above all, we dwell on the impressive solemnity of his philosophical reflections, and his condensed epigrammatic thoughts. The work is often more ethical than poetical; yet, while we feel ourselves becoming wiser at every page, in the fulness of our minds we still perceive that our emotions have been seldom stirred by passion. The poem falls from our hands! yet is there none of which we wish to retain so many single verses. D’Avenant is a poetical Rochefoucault; the sententious force of his maxims on all human affairs could only have been composed by one who had lived in a constant intercourse with mankind.[324]

A delightful invention in this poem is “the House of Astragon,” a philosophical residence. Every great poet is affected by the revolutions of his age. The new experimental philosophy had revived the project of Lord Bacon’s learned retirement, in his philosophical romance of the Atalantis; and subsequently in a time of civil repose after civil war, Milton, Cowley, and Evelyn attempted to devote an abode to science itself. These tumults of the imagination subsided in the establishment of the Royal Society. D’Avenant anticipated this institution. On an estate consecrated to philosophy stands a retired building on which is inscribed, “Great Nature’s Office,” inhabited by sages, who are styled “Nature’s Registers,” busily recording whatever is brought to them by “a throng of Intelligencers,” who make “patient observations” in the field, the garden, the river, on every plant, and “every fish, and fowl, and beast.” Near at hand is “Nature’s Nursery,” a botanical garden. We have also “a Cabinet of Death,” “the Monument of Bodies,” an anatomical collection, which leads to “the Monument of vanished Minds,” as the poet finely describes the library. Is it not striking to find, says Dr. Aikin, so exact a model of the school of Linnæus?

This was a poem to delight a philosopher; and Hobbes, in a curious epistle prefixed to the work, has strongly marked its distinct beauties. “Gondibert” not only came forth with the elaborate panegyric of Hobbes, but was also accompanied by the high commendatory poems of Waller and Cowley; a cause which will sufficiently account for the provocations it inflamed among the poetical crew; and besides these accompaniments, there is a preface of great length, stamped with all the force and originality of the poet’s own mind; and a postscript, as sublime from the feelings which dictated it as from the time and place of its composition.

In these, this great genius pours himself out with all that “glory of which his large soul appears to have been full,” as Hurd has nobly expressed it.[325] Such a conscious dignity of 409 character struck the petulant wits with a provoking sense of their own littleness.

A club of wits caballed and produced a collection of short poems sarcastically entitled “Certain Verses written by several of the Author’s Friends, to be reprinted in the Second Edition of ‘Gondibert,’” 1653. Two years after appeared a brother volume, entitled “The Incomparable Poem of Gondibert vindicated from the Wit-Combats of Four Esquires; Clinias, Dametas, Sancho and Jack Pudding;”[326] with these mottoes:

Of these rare tracts, we are told by Anthony Wood and all subsequent literary historians, too often mere transcribers of title-pages, that the second was written by our author himself. Would not one imagine that it was a real vindication, or at least a retort-courteous on these obliging friends. The irony of the whole volume has escaped their discovery. The second tract is a continuation of the satire: a mock defence, where the sarcasm and the pretended remonstrance are sometimes keener than the open attack. If, indeed, D’Avenant were the author of a continuation of a satire on himself, it is an act of felo de se no poet ever committed; a self-flagellation by an iron whip, where blood is drawn at every stroke, the most penitent bard never inflicted on himself. Would D’Avenant have bantered his proud labour, by calling it “incomparable?” And were it true, that he felt the strokes of their witty malignity so lightly, would he not have secured his triumph by finishing that “Gondibert,” “the monument of his mind?” It is too evident that this committee of wits hurt the quiet of a great mind.

As for this series of literary satires, it might have been expected, that since the wits clubbed, this committee ought to have been more effective in their operations. Many of their papers were, no doubt, more blotted with their wine than their ink. Their variety of attack is playful, sarcastic, and malicious. They were then such exuberant wits, that they could make even ribaldry and grossness witty. My business with these wicked trifles is only as they concerned the feelings of the great poet, whom they too evidently hurt, as well as the great philosopher who condescended to notice these wits, with wit more dignified than their own.

Unfortunately for our “jeered Will,” as in their usual court-style they call him, he had met with “a foolish mischance,” well known among the collectors of our British portraits. There was a feature in his face, or rather no feature at all, that served as a perpetual provocative: there was no precedent of such a thing, says Suckling, in “The Sessions of the Poets”—

The preface of “Gondibert,” the critical epistle of Hobbes, 411 and the poems of the two greatest poets in England, were first to be got rid of. The attack is brisk and airy.

This stroke, in the mock defence, is thus warded off, with a slight confession of the existence of “the mouse.”

Among the personal foibles of D’Avenant appears a desire to disguise his humble origin; and to give it an air of lineal descent, he probably did not write his name as his father had done. It is said he affected, at the cost of his mother’s honour, to insinuate that he was the son of Shakspeare, who used to bait at his father’s inn.[327] These humorists first reduce D’Avenant to “Old Daph.”

Daph swells afterwards into “Daphne;” a change of sex inflicted on the poet for making one of his heroines a man; and this new alliance to Apollo becomes a source of perpetual allusion to the bays—

Because, as seven cities disputed for the birth of Homer, so after ages will not want towns claiming to be Avenant—

D’Avenant had been knighted for his good conduct at the siege of Gloucester, and was to be tried by the Parliament, but procured his release without trial. This produces the following sarcastic epigram:—

Of the malignancy of their wit, we must preserve one specimen. They probably harassed our poet with anonymous 413 despatches from the Club: for there appears another poem on D’Avenant’s anger on such an occasion:—

These literary satires contain a number of other “pasquils,” burlesquing the characters, the incidents, and the stanza, of the Gondibert: some not the least witty are the most gross, and must not be quoted; thus the wits of that day were poetical suicides, who have shortened their lives by their folly.

D’Avenant, like more than one epic poet, did not tune to his ear the names of his personages. They have added, to show that his writings are adapted to an easy musical singer, the names of his heroes and heroines, in these verses:—

And “epithets that will serve for any substantives, either in this part or the next.”

Such are the labours of the idlers of genius, envious of the nobler industry of genius itself!—How the great author’s spirit was nourished by the restoratives of his other friends, after the bitter decoctions prescribed by these “Four,” I fear we may judge by the unfinished state in which “Gondibert” has come down to us. D’Avenant seems, however, to have guarded his dignity by his silence; but Hobbes took an opportunity of delivering an exquisite opinion on this Club of Wits, with perfect philosophical indifference. It is in a letter to the Hon. Edward Howard, who requested to have his sentiments on another heroic poem of his own, “The British Princes.”

“My judgment in poetry hath, you know, been once already censured, by very good wits, for commending ‘Gondibert;’ but yet they have not, I think, disabled my testimony. For, 414 what authority is there in wit? A jester may have it; a man in drink may have it, and be fluent over-night, and wise and dry in the morning. What is it? or who can tell whether it be better to have it, or be without it, especially if it be a pointed wit? I will take my liberty to praise what I like, as well as they do to reprehend what they do not like.”

The stately “Gondibert” was not likely to recover favour in the court of Charles the Second, where man was never regarded in his true greatness, but to be ridiculed; a court where the awful presence of Clarendon became so irksome, that the worthless monarch exiled him; a court where nothing was listened to but wit at the cost of sense, the injury of truth, and the violation of decency; where a poem of magnitude with new claims was a very business for those volatile arbiters of taste; an epic poem that had been travestied and epigrammed, was a national concern with them, which, next to some new state-plot, that occurred oftener than a new epic, might engage the monarch and his privy council. These were not the men to be touched by the compressed reflections and the ideal virtues personified in this poem. In the court of the laughing voluptuary the manners as well as the morals of these satellites of pleasure were so little heroic, that those of the highest rank, both in birth and wit, never mentioned each other but with the vulgar familiarity of nicknames, or the coarse appellatives of Dick, Will, and Jack! Such was the era when the serious “Gondibert” was produced, and such were the judges who seem to have decided its fate.

The “Mercuries” and “Diurnals,” archives of political fictions—“The Diurnals,” in the pay of the Parliament, described by Butler and Cleveland—Sir John Birkenhead excels in sarcasm, with specimens of his “Mercurius Aulicus”—how he corrects his own lies—Specimens of the Newspapers on the side of the Commonwealth.

Among these battles of logomachy, in which so much ink has been spilt, and so many pens have lost their edge—at a very solemn period in our history, when all around was distress and sorrow, stood forwards the facetious ancestors of that numerous progeny who still flourish among us, and who, without a suspicion of their descent, still bear the features of their progenitors, and inherit so many of the family humours. These were the Mercuries and Diurnals—the newspapers of our Civil Wars.

The distinguished heroes of these Paper-Wars, Sir John Birkenhead, Marchmont Needham, and Sir Roger L’Estrange, I have elsewhere portrayed.[329] We have had of late correct lists of these works; but no one seems as yet to have given any clear notion of their spirit and their manner.

The London Journals in the service of the Parliament were usually the Diurnals. These politicians practised an artifice which cannot be placed among “the lost inventions.” As these were hawked about the metropolis to spur curiosity, often languid from over-exercise, or to wheedle an idle spectator into a reader, every paper bore on its front the inviting heads of its intelligence. Men placed in the same circumstances will act in the same manner, without any notion of imitation; and the passions of mankind are now addressed by the same means which our ancestors employed, by those who do not suspect they are copying them.

These Diurnals have been blasted by the lightnings of 416 Butler and Cleveland. Hudibras is made happy at the idea that he may be

But Cleveland has left us two remarkable effusions of his satiric and vindictive powers, in his curious character of “A Diurnal Maker,” and “A London Diurnal.” He writes in the peculiar vein of the wit of those times, with an originality of images, whose combinations excite surprise, and whose abundance fatigues our weaker delicacy.

“A Diurnal-Maker is the Sub-Almoner of History; Queen Mab’s Register; one whom, by the same figure that a North-country pedler is a merchantman, you may style an author. The silly countryman who, seeing an ape in a scarlet coat, blessed his young worship, and gave his landlord joy of the hopes of his house, did not slander his compliment with worse application than he that names this shred an historian. To call him an Historian is to knight a Mandrake; ’tis to view him through a perspective, and, by that gross hyperbole, to give the reputation of an engineer to a maker of mousetraps. When these weekly fragments shall pass for history, let the poor man’s box be entitled the Exchequer, and the alms-basket a Magazine. Methinks the Turke should license Diurnals, because he prohibits learning and books.” He characterises the Diurnal as “a puny chronicle, scarce pin-feathered with the wings of time; it is a history in sippets; the English Iliads in a nutshell; the Apocryphal Parliament’s Book of Maccabees in single sheets.”

But Cleveland tells us that these Diurnals differ from a Mercurius Aulicus (the paper of his party),—“as the Devil and his Exorcist, or as a black witch doth from a white one, whose office is to unravel her enchantments.”

The Mercurius Aulicus was chiefly conducted by Sir John Birkenhead, at Oxford, “communicating the intelligence and affairs of the court to the rest of the kingdom.” Sir John was a great wag, and excelled in sarcasm and invective; his facility is equal to repartee, and his spirit often reaches to wit: a great forger of tales, who probably considered that a romance was a better thing than a newspaper.[330] The royal 417 party were so delighted with his witty buffoonery, that Sir John was recommended to be Professor of Moral Philosophy at Oxford. Did political lying seem to be a kind of moral philosophy to the feelings of a party? The originality of Birkenhead’s happy manner consists in his adroit use of sarcasm: he strikes it off by means of a parenthesis. I shall give, as a specimen, one of his summaries of what the Parliamentary Journals had been detailing during the week.

“The Londoners in print this week have been pretty copious. They say that a troop of the Marquess of Newcastle’s horse have submitted to the Lord Fairfax. (They were part of the German horse which came over in the Danish fleet.)[331] That the Lord Wilmot hath been dead five weeks, but the Cavaliers concealed his death. (Remember this!) That Sir John Urrey [332] is dead and buried at Oxford. (He died the same day with the Lord Wilmot.) That the 418 Cavaliers, before they have done, will Hurrey all men into misery. (This quibble hath been six times printed, and nobody would take notice of it; now let’s hear of it no more!) That all the Cavaliers which Sir William Waller took prisoners (besides 500) tooke the National Covenant. (Yes, all he took (besides 500) tooke the Covenant.) That 2000 Irish Rebels landed in Wales. (You called them English Protestants till you cheated them of their money.) That Sir William Brereton left 140 good able men in Hawarden Castle. (’Tis the better for Sir Michael Earnley, who hath taken the Castle.) That the Queen hath a great deafnesse. (Thou hast a great blister on thy tongue.) That the Cavaliers burned all the suburbs of Chester, that Sir William Brereton might find no shelter to besiedge it. (There was no hayrick, and Sir William cares for no other shelter.)[333] The Scottish Dove says (there are Doves in Scotland!) that Hawarden Castle had but forty men in it when the Cavaliers took it. (Another told you there were 140 lusty stout fellows in it: for shame, gentlemen! conferre Notes!) That Colonel Norton at Rumsey took 200 prisoners. (I saw them counted: they were just two millions.) Then the Dove hath this sweet passage: O Aulicus, thou profane wretch, that darest scandalize God’s saints, darest thou call that loyal subject Master Pym a 419 traitor? (Yes, pretty Pigeon,[334] he was charged with six articles by his Majesty’s Atturney Generall.) Next he says, that Master Pym died like Moses upon the Mount. (He did not die upon the mount, but should have done.) Then he says Master Pym died in a good old age, like Jacob in Egypt. (Not like Jacob, yet just as those died in Egypt in the days of Pharaoh.”)[335]

As Sir John was frequently the propagator of false intelligence, it was necessary at times to seem scrupulous, and to correct some slight errors. He does this very adroitly, without diminishing his invectives.

“We must correct a mistake or two in our two last weeks. We advertised you of certain money speeches made by Master John Sedgwick: on better information, it was not John, but Obadiah, Presbyter of Bread-street, who in the pulpit in hot weather used to unbutton his doublet, which John, who wanteth a thumbe, forbears to practise. And when we told you last week of a committee of Lawyers appointed to put their new Seale in execution, we named, among others, Master George Peard.[336] I confess this was no small errour to reckon 420 Master Peard among the Lawyers, because he now lies sicke, and so farre from being their new Lord Keeper, that he now despairs to become their Door Keeper, which office he performed heretofore. But since Master Peard has become desperately sick; and so his vote, his law, and haire have all forsook him, his corporation of Barnstable have been in perfect health and loyalty. The town of Barnstable having submitted to the King, this will no doubt be a special cordial for their languishing Burgess. And yet the man may grow hearty again when he hears of the late defeat given to his Majesty’s forces in Lincolnshire.”

This paper was immediately answered by Marchmont Needham, in his “Mercurius Britannicus,” who cannot boast the playful and sarcastic bitterness of Sir John; yet is not the dullest of his tribe. He opens his reply thus:

“Aulicus will needs venture his soule upon the other half-sheet; and this week he lies, as completely as ever he did in two full sheets; full of as many scandals and fictions, full of as much stupidity and ignorance, full of as many tedious untruths as ever. And because he would recrute the reputation of his wit, he falls into the company of our Diurnals very furiously, and there lays about him in the midst of our weekly pamphlets; and he casts in the few squibs, and the little wildfire he hath, dashing out his conceits; and he takes it ill that the poore scribblers should tell a story for their living; and after a whole week spent at Oxford, in inke and paper, to as little purpose as Maurice spent his shot and powder at Plimouth, he gets up, about Saturday, into a jingle or two, for he cannot reach to a full jest; and I am informed that the three-quarter conceits in the last leafe of his Diurnall cost him fourteen pence in aqua vitæ.”

Sir John never condescends formally to reply to Needham, for which he gives this singular reason:—“As for this libeller, we are still resolved to take no notice till we find him able to spell his own name, which to this hour Britannicus never did.”

In the next number of Needham, who had always written it Brittanicus, the correction was silently adopted. There was no crying down the etymology of an Oxford malignant.

I give a short narrative of the political temper of the times, in their unparalleled gazettes.

At the first breaking out of the parliament’s separation from the royal party, when the public mind, full of consternation 421 in that new anarchy, shook with the infirmity of childish terrors, the most extravagant reports were as eagerly caught up as the most probable, and served much better the purposes of their inventors. They had daily discoveries of new conspiracies, which appeared in a pretended correspondence written from Spain, France, Italy, or Denmark: they had their amusing literature, mixed with their grave politics; and a dialogue between “a Dutch mariner and an English ostler,” could alarm the nation as much as the last letter from their “private correspondent.” That the wildest rumours were acceptable appears from their contemporary Fuller. Armies were talked of, concealed under ground by the king, to cut the throats of all the Protestants in a night. He assures us that one of the most prevailing dangers among the Londoners was “a design laid for a mine of powder under the Thames, to cause the river to drown the city.” This desperate expedient, it seems, was discovered just in time to prevent its execution; and the people were devout enough to have a public thanksgiving, and watched with a little more care that the Thames might not be blown up. However, the plot was really not so much at the bottom of the Thames as at the bottom of their purses. Whenever they wanted 100,000l. they raised a plot, they terrified the people, they appointed a thanksgiving-day, and while their ministers addressed to God himself all the news of the week, and even reproached him for the rumours against their cause, all ended, as is usual at such times, with the gulled multitude contributing more heavily to the adventurers who ruled them than the legal authorities had exacted in their greatest wants. “The Diurnals” had propagated thirty-nine of these “Treasons, or new Taxes,” according to one of the members of the House of Commons, who had watched their patriotic designs.

These “Diurnals” sometimes used such language as the following, from The Weekly Accompt, January, 1643:—

“This day afforded no newes at all, but onely what was heavenly and spiritual;” and he gives an account of the public fast, and of the grave divine Master Henderson’s sermon, with his texts in the morning; and in the afternoon, another of Master Strickland, with his texts—and of their spiritual effect over the whole parliament![337]

“From Oxford it is informed, that on Sunday last was fortnight in the evening, Prince Rupert, accompanied with some lords, and other cavaliers, danced through the streets openly, with music before them, to one of the colleges; where, after they had stayed about half an houre, they returned back again, dancing with the same music; and immediately there followed a pack of women, or curtizans, as it may be supposed, for they were hooded, and could not be knowne; and this the party who related affirmed he saw with his own eyes.”

On this the Diurnal-maker pours out severe anathemas—and one with a note, that “dancing and drabbing are inseparable companions, and follow one another close at the heels.” He assures his readers, that the malignants, or royalists, only fight like sensual beasts, to maintain their dancing and drabbing!—Such was the revolutionary tone here, and such the arts of faction everywhere. The matter was rather peculiar to our country, but the principle was the same as practised in France. Men of opposite characters, when acting for the same concealed end, must necessarily form parallels.

Anthony Wood and Locke—Milton and Sprat—Burnet and his History—Prior and Addison—Swift and Steele—Wagstaffe and Steele—Steele and Addison—Hooke and Middleton—Gilbert Wakefield—Marvel and Milton—Clarendon and May.

Voltaire, in his letters on our nation, has hit off a marked feature in our national physiognomy. “So violent did I find parties in London, that I was assured by several that the Duke of Marlborough was a coward, and Mr. Pope a fool.”

A foreigner indeed could hardly expect that in collecting the characters of English authors by English authors (a labour which has long afforded me pleasure often interrupted by indignation)—in a word, that a class of literary history should turn out a collection of personal quarrels. Would not this modern Baillet, in his new Jugemens des Sçavans, so ingeniously inquisitive but so infinitely confused, require to be initiated into the mysteries of that spirit of party peculiar to our free country!

All that boiling rancour which sputters against the thoughts, the style, the taste, the moral character of an author, is often nothing more than practising what, to give it a name, we may call Political Criticism in Literature; where an author’s literary character is attacked solely from the accidental circumstance of his differing in opinion from his critics on subjects unconnected with the topics he treats of.

Could Anthony Wood, had he not been influenced by this political criticism, have sent down Locke to us as “a man of a turbulent spirit, clamorous, and never contented, prating and troublesome?”[338] But Locke was the antagonist of Filmer, that advocate of arbitrary power; and Locke is 424 described “as bred under a fanatical tutor,” and when in Holland, as one of those who under the Earl of Shaftesbury “stuck close to him when discarded, and carried on the trade of faction beyond and within the seas several years after.” In the great original genius, born, like Bacon and Newton, to create a new era in the history of the human mind, this political literary critic, who was not always deficient in his perceptions of genius, could only discover “a trader in faction,” though in his honesty he acknowledges him to be “a noted writer.”

A more illustrious instance of party-spirit operating against works of genius is presented to us in the awful character of Milton. From earliest youth to latest age endowed with all the characteristics of genius; fervent with all the inspirations of study; in all changes still the same great literary character as Velleius Paterculus writes of one of his heroes—“Aliquando fortunâ, semper animo maximus:” while in his own day, foreigners, who usually anticipate posterity, were inquiring after Milton, it is known how utterly disregarded he lived at home. The divine author of the “Paradise Lost” was always connected with the man for whom a reward was offered in the London Gazette. But in their triumph, the lovers of monarchy missed their greater glory, in not separating for ever the republican Secretary of State from the rival of Homer.

That the genius of Milton pined away in solitude, and that all the consolations of fame were denied him during his life, from this political criticism on his works, is generally known; but not perhaps that this spirit propagated itself far beyond the poet’s tomb. I give a remarkable instance. Bishop Sprat, who surely was capable of feeling the poetry of Milton, yet from political antipathy retained such an abhorrence of his name, that when the writer of the Latin Inscription on the poet John Philips, in describing his versification, applied to it the term Miltono, Sprat ordered it to be erased, as 425 polluting a monument raised in a church.[339] A mere critical opinion on versification was thus sacrificed to political feeling:—a stream indeed which in its course has hardly yet worked itself clear. It could only have been the strong political feeling of Warton which could have induced him to censure the prose of Milton with such asperity, while he closed his critical eyes on its resplendent passages, which certainly he wanted not the taste to feel,—for he caught in his own pages, occasionally, some of the reflected warmth. This feeling took full possession of the mind of Johnson, who, with all the rage of political criticism on subjects of literature, has condemned the finest works of Milton, and in one of his terrible paroxysms has demonstrated that the Samson Agonistes is “a tragedy which ignorance has admired and bigotry applauded.” Had not Johnson’s religious feelings fortunately interposed between Milton and his “Paradise,” we should have wanted the present noble effusion of his criticism; any other Epic by Milton 426 had probably sunk beneath his vigorous sophistry, and his tasteless sarcasm. Lauder’s attack on Milton was hardily projected, on a prospect of encouragement, from this political criticism on the literary character of Milton; and he succeeded as long as he could preserve the decency of the delusion.

The Spirit of Party has touched with its plague-spot the character of Burnet; it has mildewed the page of a powerful mind, and tainted by its suspicions, its rumours, and its censures, his probity as a man. Can we forbear listening to all the vociferations which faction has thrown out? Do we not fear to trust ourselves amid the multiplicity of his facts? And when we are familiarised with the variety of his historical portraits, are we not startled when it is suggested that “they are tinged with his own passions and his own weaknesses?” Burnet has indeed made “his humble appeal to the great God of Truth” that he has given it as fully as he could find it; and he has expressed his abhorrence of “a lie in history,” so much greater a sin than a lie in common discourse, from its lasting and universal nature. Yet these hallowing protestations have not saved him! A cloud of witnesses, from different motives, have risen up to attaint his veracity and his candour; while all the Tory wits have ridiculed his style, impatiently inaccurate, and uncouthly negligent, and would sink his vigour and ardour, while they expose the meanness and poverty of his genius. Thus the literary and the moral character of no ordinary author have fallen a victim to party-feeling.[340]

But this victim to political criticism on literature was himself criminal, and has wreaked his own party feelings on the Papist Dryden, and the Tory Prior; Dryden he calls, in the 428 most unguarded language, “a monster of immodesty and impurity of all sorts.” There had been a literary quarrel between Dryden and Burnet respecting a translation of Varillas’ “History of Heresies;” Burnet had ruined the credit of the papistical author while Dryden was busied on the translation; and as Burnet says, “he has wreaked his malice on me for spoiling his three months’ labour.” In return, he kindly informs Dryden, alluding to his poem of “The Hind and the Panther,” “that he is the author of the worst poem the age has produced;” and that as for “his morals, it is scarce possible to grow a worse man than he was”—a personal style not to be permitted in any controversy, but to bring this passion on the hallowed ground of history, was not “casting away his shoe” in the presence of the divinity of truth.[341] It could only have been the spirit of party which 429 induced Burnet, in his History, to mention with contempt and pretended ignorance so fine a genius as “one Prior, who had been Jersey’s secretary.” It was the same party-feeling in the Tory Prior, in his elegant “Alma,” where he has interwoven so graceful a wreath for Pope, that could sneer at the fine soliloquy of the Roman Cato of the Whig Addison:

It was the same spirit which would not allow that Garth was the author of his celebrated poem—

as Pope ironically alludes to the story of the times:—a contemporary wit has recorded this literary injury, by repeating it.[342] And Swift, who once exclaimed to Pope, “The deuce take party!” was himself the greatest sinner of them all. He, once the familiar friend of Steele till party divided them, not only emptied his shaft of quivers against his literary character, but raised the horrid yell of the war-whoop in his inhuman exultation over the unhappy close of the desultory life of a man of genius. Bitterly has he written—

When Steele published “The Crisis,” Swift attacked the author in so exquisite a piece of grave irony, that I am tempted to transcribe his inimitable parallels of a triumvirate composed of the writer of the Flying Post, Dunton the literary projector, and poor Steele: the one, the Iscariot of hackney scribes; the other a crack-brained scribbling bookseller, who boasted he had a thousand projects, fancied he had 430 methodised six hundred, and was ruined by the fifty he executed. The following is a specimen of that powerful irony in which Swift excelled all other writers; that fine Cervantic humour, that provoking coolness which Swift preserves while he is panegyrising the objects of his utter contempt.

“Among the present writers on the Whig side, I can recollect but three of any great distinction, which are the Flying Post, Mr. Dunton, and the Author of ‘The Crisis.’ The first of these seems to have been much sunk in reputation since the sudden retreat of the only true, genuine, original author, Mr. Ridpath, who is celebrated by the Dutch Gazetteer as one of the best pens in England. Mr. Dunton hath been longer and more conversant in books than any of the three, as well as more voluminous in his productions: however, having employed his studies in so great a variety of other subjects, he hath, I think, but lately turned his genius to politics. His famous tract entitled ‘Neck or Nothing’ must be allowed to be the shrewdest piece, and written with the most spirit of any which hath appeared from that side since the change of the ministry. It is indeed a most cutting satire upon the Lord Treasurer and Lord Bolingbroke; and I wonder none of our friends ever undertook to answer it. I confess I was at first of the same opinion with several good judges, who from the style and manner suppose it to have issued from the sharp pen of the Earl of Nottingham; and I am still apt to think it might receive his lordship’s last hand. The third and principal of this triumvirate is the author of ‘The Crisis,’ who, although he must yield to the Flying Post in knowledge of the world and skill in politics, and to Mr. Dunton in keenness of satire and variety of reading, hath yet other qualities enough to denominate him a writer of a superior class to either, provided he would a little regard the propriety and disposition of his words, consult the grammatical part, and get some information on the subject he intends to handle.”[343]

So far this fine ironical satire may be inspected as a model; the polished weapon he strikes with so gracefully, is allowed by all the laws of war; but the political criticism on the literary character, the party feeling which degrades a man of genius, is the drop of poison on its point.

Steele had declared in the “Crisis” that he had always maintained an inviolable respect for the clergy. Swift (who perhaps was aimed at in this instance, and whose character, since the publication of “The Tale of a Tub,” lay under a suspicion of an opposite tendency) turns on Steele with all the vigour of his wit, and all the causticity of retort:—

“By this he would insinuate that those papers among the Tatlers and Spectators, where the whole order is abused, were not his own. I will appeal to all who know the flatness of his style, and the barrenness of his invention, whether he doth not grossly prevaricate? Was he ever able to walk without his leading-strings, or swim without bladders, without being discovered by his hobbling or his sinking?”

Such was the attack of Swift, which was pursued in the Examiner, and afterwards taken up by another writer. This is one of the evils resulting from the wantonness of genius: it gives a contagious example to the minor race; its touch opens a new vein of invention, which the poorer wits soon break into; the loose sketch of a feature or two from its rapid hand is sufficient to become a minute portrait, where not a hair is spared by the caricaturist. This happened to Steele, whose literary was to be sacrificed to his political character; and this superstructure was confessedly raised on the malicious hints we have been noticing. That the Examiner was the seed-plot of “The Character of Richard St—le, Esq.,” appears by its opening—“It will be no injury, I am persuaded, to the Examiner to borrow him a little (Steele), upon promise of returning him safe, as children do their playthings, when their mirth is over, and, they have done with them.”

The author of the “Character of Richard St—le, Esq.,” was Dr. Wagstaffe, one of those careless wits [344] who lived to 432 repent a crazy life of wit, fancy, and hope, and an easy, indolent one, whose genial hours force up friends like hot-house plants, that bloom and flower in the spot where they are raised, but will not endure the change of place and season—this wit caught the tone of Swift, and because, as his editor tells us, “he had some friends in the ministry, and thought he could not take a better way to oblige them than by showing his dislike to a gentleman who had so much endeavoured to oppose them,” he sat down to write a libel with all the best humour imaginable; for, adds this editor, “he was so far from having any personal pique or enmity against Mr. Steele, that at the time of his writing he did not so much as know him, even by sight.” This principle of “having some friends in the ministry,” and not “any knowledge” of the character to be attacked, has proved a great source of invention to our political adventurers;—thus Dr. Wagstaffe was fully enabled to send down to us a character where the moral and literary qualities of a genius, to whom this country owes so much as the father of periodical papers, are immolated to his political purpose. This severe character passed through several editions. However the careless Steele might be willing to place the elaborate libel to the account of party writings, if he did not feel disturbed at reproaches and accusations, which are confidently urged, and at critical animadversions, to which the negligence of his style sometimes laid him too open, his insensibility would have betrayed a depravity in his morals and taste which never entered into his character.[345]

Steele was doomed even to lose the friendship of Addison amid political discords; but on that occasion Steele showed that his taste for literature could not be injured by political animosity. It was at the close of Addison’s life, and on occasion of the Peerage Bill, Steele published “The Plebeian,” a cry against enlarging the aristocracy. Addison replied with “The Old Whig,” Steele rejoined without alluding to the person of his opponent. But “The Old Whig” could not restrain his political feelings, and contemptuously described “little Dicky, whose trade it was to write pamphlets.” 434 Steele replied with his usual warmth; but indignant at the charge of “vassalage,” he says, “I will end this paper, by firing every free breast with that noble exhortation of the tragedian—

Thus delicately he detects the anonymous author, and thus energetically commends, while he reproves him!

Hooke (a Catholic), after he had written his “Roman History,” published “Observations on Vertot, Middleton, &c., on the Roman Senate,” in which he particularly treated Dr. Middleton with a disrespect for which the subject gave no occasion: this was attributed to the Doctor’s offensive letter from Rome. Spelman, in replying to this concealed motive of the Catholic, reprehends him with equal humour and bitterness for his desire of roasting a Protestant parson.

Our taste, rather than our passions, is here concerned; but the moral sense still more so. The malice of faction has long produced this literary calamity; yet great minds have not always degraded themselves; not always resisted the impulse of their finer feelings, by hardening them into insensibility, or goading them in the fury of a misplaced revenge. How delightful it is to observe Marvell, the Presbyterian and Republican wit, with that generous temper that instantly discovers the alliance of genius, warmly applauding the great work of Butler, which covered his own party with odium and ridicule. “He is one of an excellent wit,” says Marvell, “and whoever dislikes the choice of his subject, cannot but commend the performance.”[346]

Clarendon’s profound genius could not expand into the same liberal feelings. He highly commends May for his learning, his wit and language, and for his Supplement to Lucan, which he considered as “one of the best epic poems in the English language;” but this great spirit sadly winces in the soreness of his feelings when he alludes to May’s “History of the Parliament;” then we discover that this late “ingenious person” performed his part “so meanly, that he seems to have lost his wit when he left his honesty.” Behold the political criticism in literature! However we may incline to respect the feelings of Clarendon, this will not save his judgment nor 435 his candour. We read May now, as well as Clarendon; nor is the work of May that of a man who “had lost his wits,” nor is it “meanly performed.” Warburton, a keen critic of the writers of that unhappy and that glorious age for both parties, has pronounced this “History” to be “a just composition, according to the rules of history; written with much judgment, penetration, manliness, and spirit, and with a candour that will greatly increase your esteem, when you understand that he wrote by order of his masters the Parliament.”

Thus have authors and their works endured the violations of party feelings; a calamity in our national literature which has produced much false and unjust criticism.[347] The better spirit of the present times will maintain a safer and a more honourable principle,—the true objects of Literature, the cultivation of the intellectual faculties, stand entirely unconnected with Politics and Religion, let this be the imprescriptible right of an author. In our free country unhappily they have not been separated—they run together, and in the ocean of human opinions, the salt and bitterness of these mightier waves have infected the clear waters from the springs of the Muses. I once read of a certain river that ran through the sea without mixing with it, preserving its crystalline purity and all its sweetness during its course; so that it tasted the same at the Line as at the Poles. This stream indeed is only to be found in the geography of an old romance; literature should be this magical stream!

Why Hobbes disguised his sentiments—why his philosophy degraded him—of the sect of the Hobbists—his Leviathan; its principles adapted to existing circumstances—the author’s difficulties on its first appearance—the system originated in his fears, and was a contrivance to secure the peace of the nation—its duplicity and studied ambiguity illustrated by many facts—the advocate of the national religion—accused of atheism—Hobbe’s religion—his temper too often tried—attacked by opposite parties—Bishop Fell’s ungenerous conduct—makes Hobbes regret that juries do not consider the quarrels of authors of any moment—the mysterious panic which accompanied him through life—its probable cause—he pretends to recant his opinions—he is speculatively bold, and practically timorous—an extravagant specimen of the anti-social philosophy—the SELFISM of Hobbes—his high sense of his works, in regard to foreigners and posterity—his monstrous egotism—his devotion to his literary pursuits—the despotic principle of the Leviathan of an innocent tendency—the fate of systems of opinions.

The history of the philosopher of Malmesbury exhibits a large picture of literary controversy, where we may observe how a persecuting spirit in the times drives the greatest men to take refuge in the meanest arts of subterfuge. Compelled to disguise their sentiments, they will not, however, suppress them; and hence all their ambiguous proceedings, all that ridicule and irony, and even recantation, with which ingenious minds, when forced to their employ, have never failed to try the patience, or the sagacity, of intolerance.[348]

The character of Hobbes will, however, serve a higher moral design. The force of his intellect, the originality of his views, and the keenest sagacity of observation, place him in the first order of minds; but he has mortified, and then degraded man into a mere selfish animal. From a cause we shall discover, he never looked on human nature but in terror or in contempt. The inevitable consequence of that mode of thinking, or that system of philosophy, is to make the philosopher the abject creature he has himself imagined; and it is then he libels the species from his own individual experience.[349] 438 More generous tempers, men endowed with warmer imaginations, awake to sympathies of a higher nature, will indignantly reject the system, which has reduced the unlucky system-maker himself to such a pitiable condition.

Hobbes was one of those original thinkers who create a new era in the philosophical history of their nation, and perpetuate their name by leaving it to a sect.[350]

The eloquent and thinking Madame de Staël has asserted that “Hobbes was an Atheist and a Slave.” Yet I still think that Hobbes believed, and proved, the necessary existence of a Deity, and that he loved freedom, as every sage desires it. It is now time to offer an apology for one of those great men who are the contemporaries of all ages, and, by fervent inquiry, to dissipate that traditional cloud which hangs over one of “those monuments of the mind” which Genius has built with imperishable materials.

The author of the far-famed “Leviathan” is considered as a vehement advocate for absolute monarchy. This singular production may, however, be equally adapted for a republic; and the monstrous principle may be so innocent in its nature, as even to enter into our own constitution, which presumes to be neither.[351]

As “The Leviathan” produced the numerous controversies of Hobbes, a history of this great moral curiosity enters into our subject.

Hobbes, living in times of anarchy, perceived the necessity of re-establishing authority with more than its usual force. But how were the divided opinions of men to melt together, and where in the State was to be placed absolute power? for a remedy of less force he could not discover for that disordered state of society which he witnessed. Was the sovereign or the people to be invested with that mighty power which was to keep every other quiescent?—a topic which had been discussed for ages, and still must be, as the humours of men incline—was, I believe, a matter perfectly indifferent to our philosopher, provided that whatever might be the government, absolute power could somewhere be lodged in it, to force men to act in strict conformity. He discovers his perplexity in the dedication of his work. “In a way beset with those that contend on one side for too great liberty, on the other side for too much authority, ’tis hard to pass between the points of both unwounded.” It happened that our cynical Hobbes had no respect for his species; terrified at anarchy, he seems to have lost all fear when he flew to absolute power—a sovereign remedy unworthy of a great spirit, though convenient for a timid one like his own. Hobbes considered men merely as animals of prey, living in a state of perpetual hostility, and his solitary principle of action was self-preservation at any price.

He conjured up a political phantom, a favourite and fanciful notion, that haunted him through life. He imagined that the many might be more easily managed by making them up into an artificial One, and calling this wonderful political unity the Commonwealth, or the Civil Power, or the Sovereign, or by whatever name was found most pleasing; he personified it by the image of “Leviathan.”[352]

At first sight the ideal monster might pass for an innocent conceit; and there appears even consummate wisdom in erecting a colossal power for our common security; but Hobbes assumed that Authority was to be supported to its extreme pitch. Force with him appeared to constitute right, and unconditional submission then became a duty: these were consequences quite natural to one who at his first step degraded man by comparing him to a watch, and who would not have him go but with the same nicety of motion, wound up by a great key.

To be secure, by the system of Hobbes, we must at least lose the glory of our existence as intellectual beings. He would persuade us into the dead quietness of a commonwealth of puppets, while he was consigning into the grasp of his “Leviathan,” or sovereign power, the wire that was to communicate a mockery of vital motion—a principle of action without freedom. The system was equally desirable to the Protector Cromwell as to the regal Charles. A conspiracy against mankind could not alarm their governors: it is not therefore surprising that the usurper offered Hobbes the office of Secretary of State; and that he was afterwards pensioned by the monarch.

A philosophical system, moral or political, is often nothing more than a temporary expedient to turn aside the madness of the times by substituting what offers an appearance of relief; nor is it a little influenced by the immediate convenience of the philosopher himself; his personal character enters a good deal into the system. The object of Hobbes in 442 his “Leviathan” was always ambiguous, because it was, in truth, one of these systems of expediency, conveniently adapted to what has been termed of late “existing circumstances.” His sole aim was to keep all things in peace, by creating one mightiest power in the State, to suppress instantly all other powers that might rise in insurrection. In his times, the establishment of despotism was the only political restraint he could discover of sufficient force to chain man down, amid the turbulence of society; but this concealed end he is perpetually shifting and disguising; for the truth is, no man loved slavery less.[353]

The system of Hobbes could not be limited to politics: he knew that the safety of the people’s morals required an Established Religion. The alliance between Church and State had been so violently shaken, that it was necessary to cement them once more. As our philosopher had been terrified in his politics by the view of its contending factions, so, in religion, he experienced the same terror at the hereditary rancours of its multiplied sects. He could devise no other means than to attack the mysteries and dogmas of theologians, those after-inventions and corruptions of Christianity, by which the artifices of their chiefs had so long split them into perpetual 444 factions:[354] he therefore asserted that the religion of the people ought to exist, in strict conformity to the will of the State.[355]

When Hobbes wrote against mysteries, the mere polemics sent forth a cry of his impiety; the philosopher was branded with Atheism;—one of those artful calumnies, of which, after 445 a man has washed himself clean, the stain will be found to have dyed the skin.[356]

To me it appears that Hobbes, to put an end to these religious wars, which his age and country had witnessed, perpetually kindled by crazy fanatics and intolerant dogmatists, insisted that the crosier should be carried in the left hand of 447 his Leviathan, and the sword in his right.[357] He testified, as strongly as man could, by his public actions, that he was a Christian of the Church of England, “as by law established,” and no enemy to the episcopal order; but he dreaded the encroachments 448 of the Churchmen in his political system; jealous of that supremacy at which some of them aimed. Many enlightened bishops sided with the philosopher.[358] At a time when Milton sullenly withdrew from every public testimonial of divine worship, Hobbes, with more enlightened views, attended Church service, and strenuously supported an established religion; yet one is deemed a religious man, and the other an Atheist! Were the actions of men to be decisive of their characters, the reverse might be inferred.

The temper of our philosopher, so ill-adapted to contradiction, was too often tried; and if, as his adversary, Harrington, in the “Oceana,” says, “Truth be a spark whereunto objections are like bellows,” the mind of Hobbes, for half a century, was a very forge, where the hammer was always beating, and the flame was never allowed to be extinguished. Charles II. strikingly described his worrying assailants. “Hobbes,” said the king, “was a bear against whom the Church played their young dogs, in order to exercise them.”[359] A strange repartee has preserved the causticity of his wit. Dr. Eachard, perhaps one of the prototypes of Swift, wrote two admirable ludicrous dialogues, in ridicule of Hobbes’s “State of Nature.”[360] These 449 were much extolled, and kept up the laugh against the philosophic misanthropist: once when he was told that the clergy said that “Eachard had crucified Hobbes,” he bitterly retorted, “Why, then, don’t they fall down and worship me?”[361]

“The Leviathan” was ridiculed by the wits, declaimed against by the republicans, denounced by the monarchists, and menaced by the clergy. The commonwealth man, the dreamer of equality, Harrington, raged at the subtile advocate for despotic power; but the glittering bubble of his fanciful “Oceana” only broke on the mighty sides of the Leviathan, wasting its rainbow tints: the mitred Bramhall, at “The Catching of Leviathan, or the Great Whale,” flung his harpoon, demonstrating consequences from the principles of Hobbes, which he as eagerly denied. But our ambiguous philosopher had the hard fate to be attacked even by those who were labouring to the same end.[362] The literary wars of Hobbes were fierce and long; heroes he encountered, but heroes too were fighting by his side. Our chief himself wore a kind of magical armour; for, either he denied the consequences his adversaries deduced from his principles, or he surprised by new conclusions, which many could not discover in them; but by such means he had not only the art of infusing confidence among the Hobbists, but the greater one of dividing his adversaries, who often retreated, rather fatigued than victorious. Hobbes owed this partly to the happiness of a genius which excelled in controversy, but more, perhaps, to the advantage of the ground he occupied as a metaphysician: the usual darkness of that spot is favourable to those shiftings and turnings which the equivocal 450 possessor may practise with an unwary assailant. Far different was the fate of Hobbes in the open daylight of mathematics: there his hardy genius lost him, and his sophistry could spin no web; as we shall see in the memorable war of twenty years waged between Hobbes and Dr. Wallis. But the gall of controversy was sometimes tasted, and the flames of persecution flashed at times in the closet of our philosopher. The ungenerous attack of Bishop Fell, who, in the Latin translation of Wood’s “History of the University of Oxford,” had converted eulogium into the most virulent abuse,[363] without the participation of Wood, who resented it 451 with his honest warmth, was only an arrow snatched from a quiver which was every day emptying itself on the devoted head of our ambiguous philosopher. Fell only vindicated himself by a fresh invective on “the most vain and waspish animal of Malmesbury,” and Hobbes was too frightened to reply. This was the Fell whom it was so difficult to assign a reason for not liking:

A curious incident in the history of the mind of this philosopher, was the mysterious panic which accompanied him to his latest day. It has not been denied that Hobbes was subject to occasional terrors: he dreaded to be left without company; and a particular instance is told, that on the Earl of Devonshire’s removal from Chatsworth, the philosopher, then in a dying state, insisted on being carried away, though on a feather-bed. Various motives have been suggested to account for this extraordinary terror. Some declared he was afraid of spirits; but he was too stout a materialist![364]—another, that he dreaded assassination; an ideal poniard indeed might scare even a materialist. But Bishop Atterbury, in a sermon on the Terrors of Conscience, illustrates their nature by the character of our philosopher. Hobbes is there accused of attempting to destroy the principles of religion against his own inward conviction: this would only prove the insanity of 452 Hobbes! The Bishop shows that “the disorders of conscience are not a continued, but an intermitting disease;” so that the patient may appear at intervals in seeming health and real ease, till the fits return: all this he applies to the case of our philosopher. In reasoning on human affairs, the shortest way will be to discover human motives. The spirit, or the assassin of Hobbes, arose from the bill brought into Parliament, when the nation was panic-struck on the fire of London, against Atheism and Profaneness; he had a notion that a writ de heretico comburendo was intended for him by Bishop Seth Ward, his quondam admirer.[365] His spirits would sink at those moments; for in the philosophy of Hobbes, the whole universe was concentrated in the small space of Self. There was no length he refused to go for what he calls “the natural right of preservation, which we all receive from the uncontrollable dictates of Necessity.” He exhausts his imagination in the forcible descriptions of his extinction: “the terrible enemy of nature, Death,” is always before him. The “inward horror” he felt of his extinction, Lord Clarendon thus alludes to: “If Mr. Hobbes and some other man were both condemned to death (which is the most formidable thing Mr. Hobbes can conceive)”—and Dr. Eachard rallies him on the infinite anxiety he bestowed on his body, and thinks that “he had better compound to be kicked and beaten twice a day, than to be so dismally tortured about an old rotten carcase.” Death was perhaps the only subject about which Hobbes would not dispute.

Such a materialist was then liable to terrors; and though, 453 when his works were burnt, the author had not a hair singed, the convulsion of the panic often produced, as Bishop Atterbury expresses it, “an intermitting disease.”

Persecution terrified Hobbes, and magnanimity and courage were no virtues in his philosophy. He went about hinting that he was not obstinate (that is, before the Bench of Bishops); that his opinions were mere conjectures, proposed as exercises for the powers of reasoning. He attempted (without meaning to be ludicrous) to make his opinions a distinct object from his person; and, for the good order of the latter, he appealed to the family chaplain for his attendance at divine service, from whence, however, he always departed at the sermon, insisting that the chaplain could not teach him anything. It was in one of these panics that he produced his “Historical Narrative of Heresy, and the Punishment thereof,” where, losing the dignity of the philosophic character, he creeps into a subterfuge with the subtilty of the lawyer; insisting that “The Leviathan,” being published at a time when there was no distinction of creeds in England (the Court of High Commission having been abolished in the troubles), that therefore none could be heretical.[366]

No man was more speculatively bold, and more practically timorous;[367] and two very contrary principles enabled him, through an extraordinary length of life, to deliver his opinions and still to save himself: these were his excessive vanity and his excessive timidity. The one inspired his hardy originality, and the other prompted him to protect himself by any means. His love of glory roused his vigorous intellect, while his fears shrunk him into his little self. Hobbes, engaged in the cause of truth, betrayed her dignity by his ambiguous and abject conduct: this was a consequence of his selfish philosophy; and this conduct has yielded no dubious triumph to the noble school which opposed his cynical principles.

A genius more luminous, sagacity more profound, and morals less tainted, were never more eminently combined than in this very man, who was so often reduced to the most abject state. But the anti-social philosophy of Hobbes terminated in preserving a pitiful state of existence. He who considered nothing more valuable than life, degraded himself by the meanest artifices of self-love,[368] and exulted in the most cynical 455 truths.[369] The philosophy of Hobbes, founded on fear and suspicion, and which, in human nature, could see nothing beyond himself, might make him a wary politician, but always an imperfect social being. We find, therefore, that the philosopher of Malmesbury adroitly retained a friend at court, to protect him at an extremity; but considering all men alike, as bargaining for themselves, his friends occasioned him as much uneasiness as his enemies. He lived in dread that the Earl of Devonshire, whose roof had ever been his protection, should at length give him up to the Parliament! There are no friendships among cynics!

To such a state of degradation had the selfish philosophy reduced one of the greatest geniuses; a philosophy true only for the wretched and the criminal.[370] But those who feel moving 456 within themselves the benevolent principle, and who delight in acts of social sympathy, are conscious of passions and motives, which the others have omitted in their system. And the truth is, these “unnatural philosophers,” as Lord Shaftesbury expressively terms them, are by no means the monsters they tell us they are: their practice is therefore usually in opposition to their principles. While Hobbes was for chaining down mankind as so many beasts of prey, he surely betrayed his social passion, in the benevolent warnings he was perpetually 457 giving them; and while he affected to hold his brothers in contempt, he was sacrificing laborious days, and his peace of mind, to acquire celebrity. Who loved glory more than this sublime cynic?—“Glory,” says our philosopher, “by those whom it displeaseth, is called Pride; by those whom it pleaseth, it is termed a just valuation of himself.”[371] Had Hobbes defined, as critically, the passion of self-love, without resolving all our sympathies into a single monstrous one, we might have been disciplined without being degraded.

Hobbes, indeed, had a full feeling of the magnitude of his labours, both for foreigners and posterity, as he has expressed it in his life. He disperses, in all his works, some Montaigne-like notices of himself, and they are eulogistic. He has not omitted any one of his virtues, nor even an apology for his deficiency in others. He notices with complacency how Charles II. had his portrait placed in the royal cabinet; how it was frequently asked for by his friends, in England and in France.[372] He has written his life several times, in verse and in prose; and never fails to throw into the eyes of his adversaries the reputation he gained abroad and at home.[373] He 458 delighted to show he was living, by annual publications; and exultingly exclaims, “That when he had silenced his adversaries, he published, in the eighty-seventh year of his life, the Odyssey of Homer, and the next year the Iliad, in English verse.”

His greatest imperfection was a monstrous egotism—the fate of those who concentrate all their observations in their own individual feelings. There are minds which may think too much, by conversing too little with books and men. Hobbes exulted he had read little; he had not more than half-a-dozen books about him; hence he always saw things in his own way, and doubtless this was the cause of his mania for disputation.

He wrote against dogmas with a spirit perfectly dogmatic. He liked conversation on the terms of his own political system, provided absolute authority was established, peevishly referring to his own works whenever contradicted; and his friends stipulated with strangers, that “they should not dispute with the old man.” But what are we to think of that pertinacity of opinion which he held even with one as great as himself? Selden has often quitted the room, or Hobbes been driven from it, in the fierceness of their battle.[374] Even to his latest day, the “war of words” delighted the man of confined reading. The literary duels between Hobbes and another hero celebrated in logomachy, the Catholic priest, Thomas White, have been recorded by Wood. They had both passed their eightieth year, and were fond of paying visits to one another: but the two literary Nestors never met to part in cool blood, “wrangling, squabbling, and scolding on philosophical matters,” as our blunt and lively historian has described.[375]

His little qualities were the errors of his own selfish philosophy; his great ones were those of nature. He was a votary to his studies:[376] he avoided marriage, to which he was inclined; and refused place and wealth, which he might have enjoyed, for literary leisure. He treated with philosophic pleasantry his real contempt of money.[377] His health and his studies were the sole objects of his thoughts; and notwithstanding 460 that panic which so often disturbed them, he wrote and published beyond his ninetieth year. He closes the metrical history of his life with more dignity than he did his life itself; for his mind seems always to have been greater than his actions. He appeals to his friends for the congruity of his life with his writings; for his devotion to justice; and for a generous work, which no miser could have planned; and closes thus:—

Of the works of Hobbes we must not conclude, as Hume tells us, that “they have fallen into neglect;” nor, in the style with which they were condemned at Oxford, that “they are pernicious and damnable.” The sanguine opinion of the author himself was, that the mighty “Leviathan” will stand for all ages, defended by its own strength; for the rule of justice, the reproof of the ambitious, the citadel of the Sovereign, and the peace of the people.[379] But the smaller 461 treatises of Hobbes are not less precious. Locke is the pupil of Hobbes, and it may often be doubtful whether the scholar has rivalled the nervous simplicity and the energetic originality of his master.

The genius of Hobbes was of the first order; his works abound with the most impressive truths, in all the simplicity of thought and language, yet he never elevates nor delights. Too faithful an observer of the miserable human nature before him, he submits to expedients; he acts on the defensive; and because he is in terror, he would consider security to be the happiness of man. In Religion he would stand by an established one; yet thus he deprives man of that moral freedom which God himself has surely allowed us. Locke has the glory of having first given distinct notions of the nature of toleration. In Politics his great principle is the establishment of Authority, or, as he terms it, an “entireness of sovereign power:” here he seems to have built his arguments with such eternal truths and with such a contriving wisdom as to adapt his system to all the changes of government. Hobbes found it necessary in his day to place this despotism in the hands of his colossal monarch; and were Hobbes now living, he would not relinquish the principle, though perhaps he might vary the application; for if Authority, strong as man can create it, is not suffered to exist in our free constitution, what will become of our freedom? Hobbes would now maintain his system by depositing his “entireness of sovereign power” in the Laws of his Country. So easily shifted is the vast political machine of the much abused “Leviathan!” The Citizen of Hobbes, like the Prince of Machiavel, is alike innocent, when the end of their authors is once detected, amid those ambiguous means by which the hard necessity of their times constrained their mighty genius to disguise itself.

It is, however, remarkable of Systems of Opinions, that the founder’s celebrity has usually outlived his sect’s. Why are systems, when once brought into practice, so often discovered to be fallacies? It seems to me the natural progress of 462 system-making. A genius of this order of invention long busied with profound observations and perpetual truths, would appropriate to himself this assemblage of his ideas, by stamping his individual mark on them; for this purpose he strikes out some mighty paradox, which gives an apparent connexion to them all: and to this paradox he forces all parts into subserviency. It is a minion of the fancy, which his secret pride supports, not always by the most scrupulous means. Hence the system itself, with all its novelty and singularity, turns out to be nothing more than an ingenious deception carried on for the glory of the inventor; and when his followers perceive they were the dupes of his ingenuity, they are apt, in quitting the system, to give up all; not aware that the parts are as true as the whole together is false; the sagacity of Genius collected the one, but its vanity formed the other!

Hobbes’s passion for the study of Mathematics began late in life—attempts to be an original discoverer—attacked by Wallis—various replies and rejoinders—nearly maddened by the opposition he encountered—after four years of truce, the war again renewed—character of Hobbes by Dr. Wallis, a specimen of invective and irony; serving as a remarkable instance how the greatest genius may come down to us disguised by the arts of an adversary—Hobbes’s noble defence of himself; of his own great reputation; of his politics; and of his religion—a literary stratagem of his—reluctantly gives up the contest, which lasted twenty years.

The Mathematical War between Hobbes and the celebrated Dr. Wallis is now to be opened. A series of battles, the renewed campaigns of more than twenty years, can be described by no term less eventful. Hobbes himself considered it as a war, and it was a war of idle ambition, in which he took too much delight. His “Amata Mathemata” became his pride, his pleasure, and at length his shame. He attempted to maintain his irruption into a province he ought never to have entered in defiance, by “a new method;” but having invaded the powerful natives, he seems to have almost repented the folly, and retires, leaving “the unmanageable brutes” to themselves:

His language breathes war, while he sounds his retreat, and confesses his repulse. The Algebraists had all declared against the Invader.

So that we have sufficient authority to consider this Literary Quarrel as a war, and a “Bellum Peloponnesiacum” too, for it lasted as long. Political, literary, and even personal feelings were called in to heat the temperate blood of two Mathematicians.

Hobbes was one of the many victims who lost themselves in squaring the circle, and doubling the cube. He applied, late in life, to mathematical studies, not so much, he says, to learn the subtile demonstrations of its figures, as to acquire those habits of close reasoning, so useful in the discovery of new truths, to prove or to refute. So justly he reasoned on mathematics; but so ill he practised the science, that it made him the most unreasonable being imaginable, for he resisted mathematical demonstration, itself![380]

His great and original character could not but prevail in everything he undertook; and his egotism tempted him to raise a name in the world of Science, as he had in that of Politics and Morals. With the ardour of a young mathematician, he exclaimed, “Eureka!” “I have found it.” The quadrature of the circle was indeed the common Dulcinea of the Quixotes of the time; but they had all been disenchanted. Hobbes alone clung to his ridiculous mistress. Repeatedly confuted, he was perpetually resisting old reasonings and producing new ones. Were only genius requisite for an able mathematician, Hobbes had been among the first; but patience and docility, not fire and fancy, are necessary. His reasonings were all paralogisms, and he had always much to say, from not understanding the subject of his inquiries.

When Hobbes published his “De Corpore Philosophico,” 1655, he there exulted that he had solved the great mystery. Dr. Wallis, the Savilian professor of mathematics at Oxford,[381] 465 with a deep aversion to Hobbes’s political and religious sentiments, as he understood them, rejoiced to see this famous combatant descending into his own arena. He certainly was eager to meet him single-handed; for he instantly confuted Hobbes, by his “Elenchus Geometriæ Hobbianæ.” Hobbes, who saw the newly-acquired province of his mathematics in danger, and which, like every new possession, seemed to involve his honour more than was necessary, called on all the world to be witnesses of this mighty conflict. He now published his work in English, with a sarcastic addition, in a magisterial tone, of “Six Lessons to the Professors of Mathematics in Oxford.” These were Seth Ward [382] and Wallis, both no friends to Hobbes, and who hungered after him as a relishing morsel. Wallis now replied in English, by “Due Correction for Mr. Hobbes, or School-discipline for not saying his Lessons Right,” 1656. That part of controversy which is usually the last had already taken place in their choice of phrases.[383]

In the following year the campaign was opened by Hobbes with “ΣΤΙΓΜΑΙ; or, marks of the absurd Geometry, rural Language, Scottish Church-politics, and Barbarisms, of John Wallis.” Quick was the routing of these fresh forces; not one was to escape alive! for Wallis now took the field with “Hobbiani Puncti dispunctio! or, the undoing of Mr. Hobbes’s Points; in answer to Mr. Hobbes’s ΣΤΙΓΜΑΙ, id est, Stigmata Hobbii.” Hobbes seems now to have been reduced to great straits; perhaps he wondered at the obstinacy of his adversary. It seems that Hobbes, who had been used to other studies, and who confesses all the algebraists were against him, could not conceive a point to exist without quantity; or a line could be drawn without latitude; or a superficies be without depth or thickness; but mathematicians conceive them without these qualities, when they exist abstractedly in the mind; though, when for the purposes of science they are produced to the senses, they necessarily have all the qualities. It was understanding these figures, in the vulgar way, which led Hobbes into a labyrinth of confusions and absurdities.[384] They appear to have nearly maddened the clear and vigorous intellect of our philosopher; for he exclaims, in one of these writings:—

“I alone am mad, or they are all out of their senses: so that no third opinion can be taken, unless any will say that we are all mad.”

Four years of truce were allowed to intervene between the next battle; when the irrefutable Hobbes, once more collecting his weak and his incoherent forces, arranged them, as well as he was able, into “Six Dialogues,” 1661. The utter annihilation he intended for his antagonist fell on himself. Wallis borrowing the character of “The Self-tormentor” from Terence, produced “Hobbius Heauton-timorumenos (Hobbes 467 the Self-tormentor); or, a Consideration of Mr. Hobbes’s Dialogues; addressed to Robert Boyle,” 1662.

This attack of Wallis is of a very opposite character to the arid discussion of abstract blunders in geometry. He who began with points, and doubling the cube, and squaring the circle, now assumes a loftier tone, and carrying his personal and moral feelings into a mere controversy between two idle mathematicians, he has formed a solemn invective, and edged it with irony. I hope the reader has experienced sufficient interest in the character of Hobbes to read the long, but curious extract I shall now transcribe, with that awe and reverence which the old man claims. It will show how even the greatest genius may be disguised, when viewed through the coloured medium of an adversary. One is, however, surprised to find such a passage in a mathematical work.

“He doth much improve; I mean he doth, proficere in pejus; more, indeed, than I could reasonably have expected he would have done;—insomuch, that I cannot but profess some relenting thoughts (though I had formerly occasion to use him somewhat coarsely), to see an old man thus fret and torment himself to no purpose. You, too, should pity your antagonist; not as if he did deserve it, but because he needs it; and as Chremes, in Terence, of his Senex, his self-tormenting Menedemus—

“Consider the temper of the man, to move your pity; a person extremely passionate and peevish, and wholly impatient of contradiction. A temper which, whether it be a greater fault or torment (to one who must so often meet with what he is so ill able to bear), is hard to say.

“And to this fretful humour you must add another as bad, which feeds it. You are therefore next to consider him as one highly opinionative and magisterial. Fanciful in his conceptions, and deeply enamoured with those phantasmes, without a rival. He doth not spare to profess, upon all occasions, how incomparably he thinks himself to have surpassed all, ancient, modern, schools, academies, persons, societies, philosophers, divines, heathens, Christians; how despicable he thinks all their writings in comparison of his; and what hopes he hath, that, by the sovereign command of some absolute prince, all other doctrines being exploded, his new dictates should be 468 peremptorily imposed, to be alone taught in all schools and pulpits, and universally submitted to. To recount all which he speaks of himself magnificently, and contemptuously of others, would fill a volume. Should some idle person read over all his books, and collecting together his arrogant and supercilious speeches, applauding himself, and despising all other men, set them forth in one synopsis, with this title, Hobbius de se—what a pretty piece of pageantry this would make!

“The admirable sweetness of your own nature has not given you the experience of such a temper: yet your contemplation must have needs discerned it, in those symptoms which you have seen it work in others, like the strange effervescence, ebullition, fumes, and fetors, which you have sometimes given yourself the content to observe, in some active acrimonious chymical spirits upon the injection of some contrariant salts strangely vexing, fretting, and tormenting itself, while it doth but administer sport to the unconcerned spectator. Which temper, being so eminent in the person we have to deal with, your generous nature, which cannot but pity affliction, how much soever deserved, must needs have some compassion for him: who, besides those exquisite torments wherewith he doth afflict himself, like that

is unavoidably exposed to those two great mischiefs; an incapacity to be taught what he doth not know, or to be advised when he thinks amiss; and moreover, to this inconvenience, that he must never hear his faults but from his adversaries; for those who are willing to be reputed friends must either not advertise what they see amiss, or incommode themselves.

“But, you will ask, what need he thus torment himself? What need of pity? If he have hopes to be admitted the sole dictator in philosophy, civil and natural, in schools and pulpits, and to be owned as the only magister sententiarum, what would he have more?

“True, if he have; but what if he have not? That he had some hopes of such an honour, he hath not been sparing to let us know, and was providing against the envy that might attend it (nec deprecabor invidiam, sed augendo, ulciscar, was his resolution); but I doubt these hopes are at an end. He did not find (as he expected) that the fairies and hobgoblins 469 (for such he reputes all that went before him) did vanish presently, upon the first appearance of his sunshine: and, which is worse, while he was on the one side guarding himself against envy, he is, on the other side, unhappily surprised by a worse enemy, called contempt, and with which he is less able to grapple.

“I forbear to mention (lest I might seem to reproach that age which I reverence) the disadvantages which he may sustain by his old age. ’Tis possible that time and age, in a person somewhat morose, may have riveted faster that preconceived opinion of his own worth and excellency beyond others. ’Tis possible, also, that he may have forgotten much of what once he knew. He may, perhaps, be sometimes more secure than safe; while trusting to what he thinks a firm foundation, his footing fails him; nor always so vigilant or quicksighted as to discern the incoherence or inconsequence of his own discourses; unwilling, notwithstanding, to make use of the eyes of other men, lest he should seem thereby to disparage his own; but certainly (though his will may be as good as ever) his parts are less vegete and nimble, as to invention at least, than in his younger days.

“While he had endeavoured only to raise an expectation, or put the world in hopes of what great things he had in hand (to render all philosophy as clear and certain as Euclid’s Elements), if he had then died, it might, perhaps, have been thought by some that the world had been deprived of a great philosopher, and learning sustained an invaluable loss, by the abortion of so desired a piece. But since that Partus Montis is come to light, and found to be no more than what little animals have brought forth, and that deformed enough and unamiable, he might have sooner gone off the stage with more advantage than now he is like to do; such is the misfortune for a man to outlive his reputation!

“By this time, perhaps, you may see cause to pity him while you see him falling. But if you consider him tumbling headlong from so great a height, ’twill make some addition to that compassion which doth already begin to work. You are therefore next to consider that when, upon the account of geometry, he was unsafely mounted to that height of vanity, he did unhappily fall into the hands of two mathematicians, who have used him so unmercifully as would have put a person of greater patience into passion, and meeting with such a temper, have so discomposed him that he hath ever since 470 talked idly: and to augment the grief, these mathematicians were both divines—he had rather have fallen by any other hand. These mathematical divines (a term which he had thought incomponible) began to unravel the wrong end; and while he thought they should have first untiled the roof, and by degrees gone downward, they strike at the foundation, and make the building tumble all at once; and that in such confusion, that by dashing one part against another, they make each help to destroy the whole. They first fall upon his last reserve, and rout his mathematics beyond a possibility of rallying; and by firing his magazine upon the first assault, make his own weapons fight against him. Not contented herewith, they enter the breach, and pursue the rout through his Logics, Physics, Metaphysics, Theology, where they find all in confusion.”

This invective and irony from this celebrated mathematician, so much out of the path of his habitual studies, might have proved a tremendous blow; but the genius of Hobbes was invulnerable to mere human opposition, unless accompanied by the supernatural terrors of penal fires or perpetual dungeons. Our hero received the whole discharge of this battering train, and stood invulnerable, while he returned the fire in “Considerations upon the Reputation, Loyalty, Manners, and Religion of Thomas Hobbes, of Malmesbury, written by way of Letter to a learned person, Dr. Wallis,” 1662.

It is an extraordinary production. His lofty indignation retorts on the feeble irony of his antagonist with keen and caustic accusations; and the green strength of youth was still seen in the old man whose head was covered with snows.

From this spirited apology for himself I shall give some passages. Hobbes thus replied to Dr. Wallis, who affected to consider the old man as a fit object for commiseration.

“You would make him contemptible, and move Mr. Boyle to pity him. This is a way of railing too much beaten to be thought witty: besides, ’tis no argument of your contempt to spend upon him so many angry lines, as would have furnished you with a dozen of sermons. If you had in good earnest despised him, you would have let him alone, as he does Dr. Ward, Mr. Baxter, Pike, and others, that have reviled him as you do. As for his reputation beyond the seas, it fades not yet; and because, perhaps, you have no means to know it, I will cite you a passage of an epistle written by a learned Frenchman 471 to an eminent person in France, in a volume of epistles.” Hobbes quotes the passage at length, in which his name appears joined with Galileo, Descartes, Bacon, and Gassendi.

In reply to Wallis’ sarcastic suggestion that an idle person should collect together Hobbes’s arrogant and supercilious speeches applauding himself, under one title, Hobbius de se, he says—

“Let your idle person do it; Mr. Hobbes shall acknowledge them under his hand, and be commended for it, and you scorned. A certain Roman senator having propounded something in the assembly of the people, which they, misliking, made a noise at, boldly bade them hold their peace, and told them he knew better what was good for the commonwealth than all they; and his words are transmitted to us as an argument of his virtue; so much do truth and vanity alter the complexion of self-praise. You can have very little skill in morality, that cannot see the justice of commending a man’s self, as well as of anything else, in his own defence; and it was want of prudence in you to constrain him to a thing that would so much displease you.

“When you make his age a reproach to him, and show no cause that might impair the faculties of his mind, but only age, I admire how you saw not that you reproached all old men in the world as much as him, and warranted all young men, at a certain time which they themselves shall define, to call you fool! Your dislike of old age you have also otherwise sufficiently signified, in venturing so fairly as you have done to escape it. But that is no great matter to one that hath so many marks upon him of much greater reproaches. By Mr. Hobbes’s calculation, that derives prudence from experience, and experience from age, you are a very young man; but, by your own reckoning, you are older already than Methuselah.

“During the late trouble, who made both Oliver and the people mad but the preachers of your principles? But besides the wickedness, see the folly of it. You thought to make them mad, but just to such a degree as should serve your own turn; that is to say, mad, and yet just as wise as yourselves. Were you not very imprudent to think to govern madness?”—p. 15.

“The king was hunted as a partridge in the mountains, and though the hounds have been hanged, yet the hunters were as guilty as they, and deserved no less punishment. 472 And the decypherers (Wallis had decyphered the royal letters),[385] and all that blew the horn, are to be reckoned among the hunters. Perhaps you would not have had the prey killed, but rather have kept it tame. And yet who can tell? I have read of few kings deprived of their power by their own subjects that have lived any long time after it, for reasons that every man is able to conjecture.”

“Mr. Hobbes has been always far from provoking any man, though, when he is provoked, you find his pen as sharp as yours. All you have said is error and railing; that is, stinking wind, such as a jade lets fly when he is too hard girt upon a full belly. I have done. I have considered you now, but will not again, whatsoever preferment any of your friends shall procure you.”

These were the pitched battles; but many skirmishes occasionally took place. Hobbes was even driven to a ruse de guerre. When he found his mathematical character in the utmost peril, there appeared a pamphlet, entitled “Lux Mathematica, &c., or, Mathematical Light struck out from the clashings between Dr. John Wallis, Professor of Geometry in the celebrated University of Oxford (celeberrima Academia), and Thomas Hobbes, of Malmesbury; augmented with many and shining rays of the Author, R. R.” 1672.

Here the victories of Hobbes are trumpeted forth, but the fact is, that R. R. should have been T. H. It was Hobbes’s own composition! R. R. stood for Roseti Repertor, that is, the Finder of the Rosary, one of the titles of Hobbes’s mathematical discoveries. Wallis asserts that this R. R. may still serve, for it may answer his own book, “Roseti Refutator, or, the Refuter of the Rosary.”

Poor Hobbes gave up the contest reluctantly; if, indeed, the controversy may not be said to have lasted all his life. He acknowledges he was writing to no purpose; and that the medicine was obliged to yield to the disease.

He seems to have gone down to the grave, in spite of all the reasonings of the geometricians on this side of it, with a firm conviction that its superficies had both depth and thickness.[386] Such were the fruits of a great genius, entering into a province out of his own territories; and, though a most energetic reasoner, so little skilful in these new studies, that he could never know when he was confuted and refuted.[387]

Ben Jonson appears to have carried his military spirit into the literary republic—his gross convivialities, with anecdotes of the prevalent taste in that age for drinking-bouts—his “Poetaster” a sort of Dunciad, besides a personal attack on the frequenters of the theatres, with anecdotes—his Apologetical Dialogue, which was not allowed to be repeated—characters of Decker and of Marston—Decker’s Satiromastix, a parody on Jonson’s “Poetaster”—Ben exhibited under the character of “Horace Junior”—specimens of that literary satire; its dignified remonstrance, and the honourable applause bestowed on the great bard—some foibles in the literary habits of Ben, alluded to by Decker—Jonson’s noble reply to his detractors and rivals.

This quarrel is a splendid instance how genius of the first order, lavishing its satirical powers on a number of contemporaries, may discover, among the crowd, some individual who may return with a right aim the weapon he has himself used, and who will not want for encouragement to attack the common assailant: the greater genius is thus mortified by a victory conceded to the inferior, which he himself had taught the meaner one to obtain over him.

Jonson, in his earliest productions, “Every Man in his Humour,” and “Every Man out of his Humour,” usurped that dictatorship, in the Literary Republic, which he so sturdily and invariably maintained, though long and hardily disputed. No bard has more courageously foretold that posterity would be interested in his labours; and often with very dignified feelings he casts this declaration into the teeth of his adversaries: but a bitter contempt for his brothers and his contemporaries was not less vehement than his affections for those who crowded under his wing. To his “sons” and his admirers he was warmly attached, and no poet has left behind him, in MS., so many testimonies of personal fondness, in the inscriptions and addresses, in the copies of his works which he presented to friends: of these I have seen more than one fervent and impressive.

Drummond of Hawthornden, who perhaps carelessly and imperfectly minuted down the heads of their literary conference 475 on the chief authors of the age, exposes the severity of criticism which Ben exercised on some spirits as noble as his own. The genius of Jonson was rough, hardy, and invincible, of which the frequent excess degenerated into ferocity; and by some traditional tales, this ferocity was still inflamed by large potations: for Drummond informs us, “Drink was the element in which he lived.”[388] Old Ben had given, on two 476 occasions, some remarkable proofs of his personal intrepidity. When a soldier, in the face of both armies, he had fought single-handed with his antagonist, had slain him, and carried off his arms as trophies. Another time he killed his man in a duel. Jonson appears to have carried the same military spirit into the Literary Republic.

Such a genius would become more tyrannical by success, and naturally provoked opposition, from the proneness of mankind to mortify usurped greatness, when they can securely do it. The man who hissed the poet’s play had no idea that he might himself become one of the dramatic personages. Ben then produced his “Poetaster,” which has been called the Dunciad 477 of those times; but it is a Dunciad without notes. The personages themselves are now only known by their general resemblance to nature, with the exception of two characters, those of Crispinus and Demetrius.[389]

In “The Poetaster,” Ben, with flames too long smothered, burst over the heads of all rivals and detractors. His enemies seem to have been among all classes; personages recognised 478 on the scene as soon as viewed; poetical, military, legal, and histrionic. It raised a host in arms. Jonson wrote an apologetical epilogue, breathing a firm spirit, worthy of himself; but its dignity was too haughty to be endured by contemporaries, whom genius must soothe by equality. This apologetical dialogue was never allowed to be repeated; now we may do it with pleasure. Writings, like pictures, require a particular light and distance to be correctly judged and inspected, without any personal inconvenience.

And he proceeds to tell us, that to obviate this accusation he had placed his scenes in the age of Augustus.

Names were certainly not necessary to portraits, where every day the originals were standing by their side. This 479 is the studied pleading of a poet, who knows he is concealing the truth.

There is a passage in the play itself where Jonson gives the true cause of “the tumult” raised against him. Picturing himself under the character of his favourite Horace, he makes the enemies of Horace thus describe him, still, however, preserving the high tone of poetical superiority.

“Alas, sir, Horace is a mere sponge. Nothing but humours and observations he goes up and down sucking from every society, and when he comes home squeezes himself dry again. He will pen all he knows. He will sooner lose his best friend than his least jest. What he once drops upon paper against a man, lives eternally to upbraid him.”

Such is the true picture of a town-wit’s life! The age of Augustus was much less present to Jonson than his own; and Ovid, Tibullus, and Horace were not the personages he cared so much about, as “that society in which,” it was said, “he went up and down sucking in and squeezing himself dry:” the formal lawyers, who were cold to his genius; the sharking captains, who would not draw to save their own swords, and would cheat “their friend, or their friend’s friend,” while they would bully down Ben’s genius; and the little sycophant histrionic, “the twopenny [390] tear-mouth, copper-laced scoundrel, stiff-toe, who used to travel with pumps full of gravel after a blind jade and a hamper, and stalk upon boards and barrel-heads to an old crackt trumpet;” and who all now made a party with some rival of Jonson.

All these personages will account for “the tumult” which excites the innocent astonishment of our author. These only resisted him by “filling every ear with noise.” But one of the “screaming grasshoppers held by the wings,” boldly turned on the holder with a scorpion’s bite; and Decker, who had been lashed in “The Poetaster,” produced his “Satiromastix, or the untrussing of the humorous Poet.” Decker was a subordinate author, indeed; but, what must have been very galling to Jonson, who was the aggressor, indignation proved such an inspirer, that Decker seemed to have caught some portion of Jonson’s own genius, who had the art of making even Decker popular; while he discovered that his own laurel-wreath had been dexterously changed by the “Satiromastix” into a garland of “stinging nettles.”

In “The Poetaster,” Crispinus is the picture of one of those impertinent fellows who resolve to become poets, having an equal aptitude to become anything that is in fashionable request. When Hermogenes, the finest singer in Rome, refused to sing, Crispinus gladly seizes the occasion, and whispers the lady near him—“Entreat the ladies to entreat me to sing, I beseech you.” This character is marked by a ludicrous peculiarity which, turning on an individual characteristic, must have assisted the audience in the true application. Probably Decker had some remarkable head of hair,[391] and that his locks hung not like “the curls of Hyperion;” for the jeweller’s wife admiring among the company the persons of Ovid, Tibullus, &c., Crispinus acquaints her that they were poets, and, since she admires them, promises to become a poet himself. The simple lady further inquires, “if, when he is a poet, his looks will change? and particularly if his hair will change, and be like those gentlemen’s?” “A man,” observes Crispinus, “may be a poet, and yet not change his hair.” “Well!” exclaims the simple jeweller’s wife, “we shall see your cunning; yet if you can change your hair, I pray do it.”

In two elaborate scenes, poor Decker stands for a full-length. Resolved to be a poet, he haunts the company of Horace: he meets him in the street, and discovers all the variety of his nothingness: he is a student, a stoic, an architect: everything by turns, “and nothing long.” Horace impatiently attempts to escape from him, but Crispinus foils him at all points. This affectionate admirer is even willing to go over the world with him. He proposes an ingenious project, if Horace will introduce him to Mæcenas. Crispinus offers to become “his assistant,” assuring him that “he would be content with the next place, not envying thy reputation with thy patron;” and he thinks that Horace and himself “would soon lift out of favour Virgil, Varius, and the best of them, and enjoy them wholly to ourselves.” The restlessness of Horace to extricate himself from this “Hydra of Discourse,” the passing friends whom he calls on to assist him, and the glue-like pertinacity of Crispinus, are richly coloured.

A ludicrous and exquisitely satirical scene occurs at the trial 481 of Crispinus and his colleagues. Jonson has here introduced an invention, which a more recent satirist so happily applied to our modern Lexiphanes, Dr. Johnson, for his immeasurable polysyllables. Horace is allowed by Augustus to make Crispinus swallow a certain pill; the light vomit discharges a great quantity of hard matter, to clear

These consist of certain affectations in style, and adulteration of words, which offended the Horatian taste: “the basin” is called quickly for and Crispinus gets rid easily of some, but others were of more difficult passage:—

But all was not yet over: “Prorumpt” made a terrible rumbling, as if his spirit was to have gone with it; and there were others which required all the kind assistance of the Horatian “light vomit.” This satirical scene closes with some literary admonitions from the grave Virgil, who details to Crispinus the wholesome diet to be observed after his surfeits, which have filled

Virgil’s counsels to the vicious neologist, who debases the purity of English diction by affecting new words or phrases, may too frequently be applied.

Virgil adds something which breathes all the haughty spirit of Ben: he commands Crispinus:

“The Satiromastix” may be considered as a parody on “The Poetaster.” Jonson, with classical taste, had raised his scene in the court of Augustus: Decker, with great unhappiness, places it in that of William Rufus. The interest of the piece arises from the dexterity with which Decker has accommodated those very characters which Jonson has satirised in his “Poetaster.” This gratified those who came every day to the theatre, delighted to take this mimetic revenge on the arch bard.

In Decker’s prefatory address “To the World,” he observes, “Horace haled his Poetasters to the bar;[392] the Poetasters untrussed Horace: Horace made himself believe that his Burgonian wit [393] might desperately challenge all comers, and that none durst take up the foils against him.” But Decker is the Earl Rivers! He had been blamed for the personal attacks on Jonson; for “whipping his fortunes and condition of life; where the more noble reprehension had been of his mind’s deformity:” but for this he retorts on Ben. Some censured Decker for barrenness of invention, in bringing on those characters in his own play whom Jonson had stigmatised; but “it was not improper,” he says, “to set the same dog upon Horace, whom Horace had set to worry others.” Decker warmly concludes with defying the Jonsonians.

“Let that mad dog Detraction bite till his teeth be worn to the stumps; Envy, feed thy snakes so fat with poison till they burst; World, let all thy adders shoot out their Hydra-headed forked stings! I thank thee, thou true Venusian Horace, for these good words thou givest me. Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo.”

The whole address is spirited. Decker was a very popular 483 writer, whose numerous tracts exhibit to posterity a more detailed narrative of the manners of the town in the Elizabethan age than is elsewhere to be found.

In Decker’s Satiromastix, Horace junior is first exhibited in his study, rehearsing to himself an ode: suddenly the Pindaric rapture is interrupted by the want of a rhyme; this is satirically applied to an unlucky line of Ben’s own. One of his “sons,” Asinius Bubo, who is blindly worshipping his great idol, or “his Ningle,” as he calls him, amid his admiration of Horace, perpetually breaks out into digressive accounts of what sort of a man his friends take him to be. For one, Horace in wrath prepares an epigram: and for Crispinus and Fannius, brother bards, who threaten “they’ll bring your life and death on the stage, as a bricklayer in a play,” he says, “I can bring a prepared troop of gallants, who, for my sake, shall distaste every unsalted line in their fly-blown comedies.” “Ay,” replies Asinius, “and all men of my rank!” Crispinus, Horace calls “a light voluptuous reveller,” and Fannius “the slightest cobweb-lawn piece of a poet.” Both enter, and Horace receives them with all friendship.

At this the galled Horace winces. Crispinus continues, that it is in vain Horace swears, that

Fannius, too, joins, and shows Ben the absurd oaths he takes, when he swears to all parties, that he does not mean them. How, then, of five hundred and four, five hundred

Horace is awkwardly placed between these two friendly remonstrants, to whom he promises perpetual love.

Captain Tucca, a dramatic personage in Jonson’s Poetaster, and a copy of his own Bobadil, whose original the poet had found at “Powles,” the fashionable lounge of that day, is here continued with the same spirit; and as that character permitted from the extravagance of its ribaldry, it is now made the vehicle for those more personal retorts, exhibiting the secret history of Ben, which perhaps twitted the great bard more than the keenest wit, or the most solemn admonition which Decker could ever attain. Jonson had cruelly touched on Decker being out at elbows, and made himself too merry with the histrionic tribe: he, who was himself a poet, and had been a Thespian! The blustering captain thus attacks the great wit:—“Do’st stare, my Saracen’s head at Newgate? I’ll march through thy Dunkirk guts, for shooting jests at me.” He insists that as Horace, “that sly knave, whose shoulders were once seen lapp’d in a player’s old cast cloak,” and who had reflected on Crispinus’s satin doublet being ravelled out; that he should wear one of Crispinus’s 485 “old cast sattin suits,” and that Fannius should write a couple of scenes for his own “strong garlic comedies,” and Horace should swear that they were his own—he would easily bear “the guilt of conscience.” “Thy Muse is but a hagler, and wears clothes upon best be trust (a humorous Deckerian phrase)—thou’rt great in somebody’s books for this!” Did it become Jonson to gibe at the histrionic tribe, who is himself accused of “treading the stage, as if he were treading mortar.”[394] He once put up—“a supplication to be a poor journeyman player, and hadst been still so, but that thou couldst not set a good face upon’t. Thou hast forget how thou ambled’st in leather-pilch, by a play-waggon in the highway; and took’st mad Jeronimo’s part, to get service among the mimics,” &c.

Ben’s person was, indeed, not gracious in the playfulness of love or fancy. A female, here, thus delineates Ben:—

“That same Horace has the most ungodly face, by my fan; it looks for all the world like a rotten russet-apple, when ’tis bruised. It’s better than a spoonful of cinnamon-water next my heart, for me to hear him speak; he sounds it so i’ th’ nose, and talks and rants like the poor fellows under Ludgate—to see his face make faces, when he reads his songs and sonnets.”

Again, we have Ben’s face compared with that of his favourite, Horace’s—“You staring Leviathan! look on the sweet visage of Horace; look, parboil’d face, look—he has not his face punchtfull of eyelet-holes, like the cover of a warming-pan.”

Joseph Warton has oddly remarked that most of our poets were handsome men. Jonson, however, was not poetical on that score; though his bust is said to resemble Menander’s.

Horace is thrown into many ludicrous situations. He is told that “admonition is good meat.” Various persons bring forward their accusations; and Horace replies that they envy him,

The greatness of Ben’s genius is by no means denied by 486 his rivals; and Decker makes Fannius reply, with noble feelings, and in an elevated strain of poetry:—

To which one adds, that “jewels, master Horace, must be hanged, you know.” This “Whip of Men,” with Asinius his admirer, are brought to court, transformed into satyrs, and bound together: “not lawrefied, but nettle-fied;” crowned with a wreath of nettles.

Horace is called on to swear, after Asinius had sworn to give up his “Ningle.”

“Now, master Horace, you must be a more horrible swearer; for your oath must be, like your wits, of many colours; and like a broker’s book, of many parcels.”

Horace offers to swear till his hairs stand up on end, to be rid of this sting. “Oh, this sting!” alluding to the nettles. “’Tis not your sting of conscience, is it?” asks one. In the inventory of his oaths, there is poignant satire, with strong humour; and it probably exhibits some foibles in the literary habits of our bard.

He swears “Not to hang himself, even if he thought any man could write plays as well as himself; not to bombast out a new play with the old linings of jests stolen from the Temple’s Revels; not to sit in a gallery, when your comedies have entered their actions, and there make vile and bad faces at every line, to make men have an eye to you, and to make players afraid; not to venture on the stage, when your play is ended, and exchange courtesies and compliments with gallants to make all the house rise and cry—‘That’s Horace 487 that’s he that pens and purges humours.’ When you bid all your friends to the marriage of a poor couple, that is to say, your Wits and Necessities—alias, a poet’s Whitsun-ale—you shall swear that, within three days after, you shall not abroad, in bookbinders’ shops, brag that your viceroys, or tributary-kings, have done homage to you, or paid quarterage. Moreover, when a knight gives you his passport to travel in and out to his company, and gives you money for God’s sake—you will swear not to make scald and wry-mouthed jests upon his knighthood. When your plays are misliked at court, you shall not cry Mew! like a puss-cat, and say, you are glad you write out of the courtier’s element; and in brief, when you sup in taverns, amongst your betters, you shall swear not to dip your manners in too much sauce; nor, at table, to fling epigrams or play-speeches about you.”

Such were the bitter apples which Jonson, still in his youth, plucked from the tree of his broad satire, that branched over all ranks in society. That even his intrepidity and hardiness felt the incessant attacks he had raised about him, appears from the close of the Apologetical Epilogueto “The Poetaster;” where, though he replies with all the consciousness of genius, and all its haughtiness, he closes with a determination to give over the composition of comedies! This, however, like all the vows of a poet, was soon broken; and his masterpieces were subsequently produced.

His Friend tells him that he is accused that “all his writing is mere railing;” which Jonson nobly compares to “the salt in the old comedy;” that they say, that he is slow, and “scarce brings forth a play a year.”

Such was the noble strain in which Jonson replied to his detractors in the town and to his rivals about him. Yet this poem, composed with all the dignity and force of the bard, was not suffered to be repeated. It was stopped by authority. But Jonson, in preserving it in his works, sends it “TO POSTERITY, that it may make a difference between their manners that provoked me then, and mine that neglected them ever.”

Literary, like political history, is interested in the cause of an obscure individual, when deprived of his just rights—character of Camden—Brooke’s “Discovery of Errors” in the “Britannia”—his work disturbed in the printing—afterwards enlarged, but never suffered to be published—whether Brooke’s motive was personal rancour!—the persecuted author becomes vindictive—his keen reply to Camden—Camden’s beautiful picture of calumny—Brooke furnishes a humorous companion-piece—Camden’s want of magnanimity and justice—when great authors are allowed to suppress the works of their adversary, the public receives the injury and the insult.

In the literary as well as the political commonwealth, the cause of an obscure individual violently deprived of his just rights is a common one. We protest against the power of genius itself, when it strangles rather than wrestles with its adversary, or combats in mail against a naked man. The general interests of literature are involved by the illegitimate suppression of a work, of which the purpose is to correct another, whatever may be the invective which accompanies the correction: nor are we always to assign to malignant motives even this spirit of invective, which, though it betrays a contracted genius, may also show the earnestness of an honest one.

The quarrel between Camden, the great author of the “Britannia,” and Brooke, the “York Herald,” may illustrate these principles. It has hitherto been told to the shame of the inferior genius; but the history of Brooke was imperfectly known to his contemporaries. Crushed by oppression, his tale was marred in the telling. A century sometimes passes away before the world can discover the truth even of a private history.

Brooke is aspersed as a man of the meanest talents, insensible to the genius of Camden, rankling with envy at his fame, and correcting the “Britannia” out of mere spite.

When the history of Brooke is known, and his labours fairly estimated, we shall blame him much less than he has been blamed; and censure Camden, who has escaped all censure, 491 and whose conduct, in the present instance, was destitute of magnanimity and justice.

The character of the author of “Britannia” is great, and this error of his feelings, now first laid to his charge, may be attributed as much to the weakness of the age as to his own extreme timidity, and perhaps to a little pride. Conscious as was Camden of enlarged views, we can easily pardon him for the contempt he felt, when he compared them with the subordinate ones of his cynical adversary.

Camden possessed one of those strongly directed minds which early in life plan some vast labour, while their imagination and their industry feed on it for many successive years; and they shed the flower and sweetness of their lives in the preparation of a work which at its maturity excites the gratitude of their nation. His passion for our national antiquities discovered itself even in his school-days, grew up with him at the University; and, when afterwards engaged in his public duties as master at Westminster school, he there composed his “Britannia,” “at spare hours, and on festival days.” To the perpetual care of his work, he voluntarily sacrificed all other views in life, and even drew himself away from domestic pleasures; for he refused marriage and preferments, which might interrupt his beloved studies! The work at length produced, received all the admiration due to so great an enterprise; and even foreigners, as the work was composed in the universal language of learning, could sympathise with Britons, when they contemplated the stupendous labour. Camden was honoured by the titles (for the very names of illustrious genius become such), of the Varro, the Strabo, and the Pausanias of Britain.

While all Europe admired the “Britannia,” a cynical genius, whose mind seemed bounded by his confined studies, detected one error amidst the noble views the mighty volume embraced; the single one perhaps he could perceive, and for which he stood indebted to his office as “York Herald.” Camden, in an appendage to the end of each county, had committed numerous genealogical errors, which he afterwards affected, in his defence, to consider as trivial matters in so great a history, and treats his adversary with all the contempt and bitterness he could inflict on him; but Ralph Brooke entertained very high notions of the importance of heraldical studies, and conceived that the “Schoolmaster” Camden, as he considered him, had encroached on the rights 492 and honours of his College of Heralds. When particular objects engage our studies, we are apt to raise them in the scale of excellence to a degree disproportioned to their real value; and are thus liable to incur ridicule. But it should be considered that many useful students are not philosophers, and the pursuits of their lives are never ridiculous to them. It is not the interest of the public to degrade this class too low. Every species of study contributes to the perfection of human knowledge, by that universal bond which connects them all in a philosophical mind.

Brooke prepared “A Discovery of Certain Errors in the Much-commended Britannia.” When we consider Brooke’s character, as headstrong with heraldry as Don Quixote’s with romances of chivalry, we need not attribute his motives (as Camden himself, with the partial feelings of an author, does, and subsequent writers echo) to his envy at Camden’s promotion to be Clarencieux King of Arms; for it appears that Brooke began his work before this promotion. The indecent excesses of his pen, with the malicious charges of plagiarism he brings against Camden for the use he made of Leland’s collections, only show the insensibility of the mere heraldist to the nobler genius of the historian. Yet Brooke had no ordinary talents: his work is still valuable for his own peculiar researches; but his naïve shrewdness, his pointed precision, the bitter invective, and the caustic humour of his cynical pen, give an air of originality, if not of genius, which no one has dared to notice. Brooke’s first work against Camden was violently disturbed in its progress, and hurried, in a mutilated state, into the world, without licence or a publisher’s name. Thus impeded, and finally crushed, the howl of persecution followed his name; and subsequent writers servilely traced his character from their partial predecessors.

But Brooke, though denied the fair freedom of the press, and a victim to the powerful connexions of Camden, calmly pursued his silent labour with great magnanimity. He wrote his “Second Discovery of Errors,” an enlargement of the first. This he carefully finished for the press, but could never get published. The secret history of the controversy may be found there.[396]

Brooke had been loudly accused of indulging a personal rancour against Camden, and the motive of his work was attributed to envy of his great reputation; a charge constantly repeated.

Yet this does not appear, for when Brooke first began his “Discovery of Errors,” he did not design its publication; for he liberally offered Camden his Observations and Collections. They were fastidiously, perhaps haughtily, rejected; on this pernicious and false principle, that to correct his errors in genealogy might discredit the whole work. On which absurdity Brooke shrewdly remarks—“As if healing the sores would have maimed the body.” He speaks with more humility on this occasion than an insulted, yet a skilful writer, was likely to do, who had his labours considered, as he says, “worthy neither of thanks nor acceptance.”

“The rat is not so contemptible but he may help the lion, at a pinch, out of those nets wherein his strength is hampered; and the words of an inferior may often carry matter in them to admonish his superior of some important consideration; and surely, of what account soever I might have seemed to this learned man, yet, in respect to my profession and courteous offer, (I being an officer-of-arms, and he then but a schoolmaster), might well have vouchsafed the perusal of my notes.”

When he published, our herald stated the reasons of writing against Camden with good-humour, and rallies him on his “incongruity in his principles of heraldry—for which I challenge him!—for depriving some nobles of issue to succeed them, who had issue, of whom are descended many worthy families: denying barons and earls that were, and making barons and earls of others that were not; mistaking the son for the father, and the father for the son; affirming legitimate children to be illegitimate, and illegitimate to be legitimate; and framing incestuous and unnatural marriages, making the father to marry the son’s wife, and the son his own mother.”

He treats Camden with the respect due to his genius, while he judiciously distinguishes where the greatest ought to know when to yield.

“The most abstruse arts I profess not, but yield the palm and victory to mine adversary, that great learned Mr. Camden, 494 with whom, yet, a long experimented navigator may contend about his chart and compass, about havens, creeks, and sounds; so I, an ancient herald, a little dispute, without imputation of audacity, concerning the honour of arms, and the truth of honourable descents.”

Brooke had seen, as he observes, in four editions of the “Britannia,” a continued race of errors, in false descents, &c., and he continues, with a witty allusion:—

“Perceiving that even the brains of many learned men beyond the seas had misconceived and miscarried in the travail and birth of their relations, being gotten, as it were, with child (as Diomedes’s mares) by the blasts of his erroneous puffs; I could not but a little question the original father of their absurdities, being so far blown, with the trumpet of his learning and fame, into foreign lands.”

He proceeds with instances of several great authors on the Continent having been misled by the statements of Camden.

Thus largely have I quoted from Brooke, to show, that at first he never appears to have been influenced by the mean envy, or the personal rancour, of which he is constantly accused. As he proceeded in his work, which occupied him several years, his reproaches are whetted with a keener edge, and his accusations are less generous. But to what are we to attribute this? To the contempt and persecution Brooke so long endured from Camden: these acted on his vexed and degraded spirit, till it burst into the excesses of a man heated with injured feelings.

When Camden took his station in the Herald’s College with Brooke, whose offers of his notes he had refused to accept, they soon found what it was for two authors to live under the same roof, who were impatient to write against each other. The cynical York, at first, would twit the new king-of-arms, perpetually affirming that “his predecessor was a more able herald than any who lived in this age:” a truth, indeed, acknowledged by Dugdale. On this occasion, once the king-of-arms gave malicious York “the lie!” reminding the crabbed herald of “his own learning; who, as a scholar, was famous through all the provinces of Christendom.” “So that (adds Brooke) now I learnt, that before him, when we speak in commendation of any other, to say, I must always except Plato.” Camden would allow of no private communication between them; and in Sermonibus Convivalibus, in his table-talk, “the heat and height of his spirit” often scorched 495 the contemned Yorkist, whose rejected “Discovery of Errors” had no doubt been too frequently enlarged, after such rough convivialities. Brooke now resolved to print; but, in printing the work, the press was disturbed, and his house was entered by “this learned man, his friends, and the stationers.” The latter were alarmed for the sale of the “Britannia,” which might have been injured by this rude attack. The work was therefore printed in an unfinished state: part was intercepted; and the author stopped, by authority, from proceeding any further. Some imperfect copies got abroad.

The treatment the exasperated Brooke now incurred was more provoking than Camden’s refusal of his notes, and the haughtiness of his “Sermonibus Convivalibus.” The imperfect work was, however, laid before the public, so that Camden could not refuse to notice its grievous charges. He composed an angry reply in Latin, addressed ad Lectorem! and never mentioning Brooke by name, contemptuously alludes to him only by a Quidam and Iste (a certain person, and He!)—“He considers me (cries the mortified Brooke, in his second suppressed work) as an Individuum vagum, and makes me but a Quidam in his pamphlet, standing before him as a schoolboy, while he whips me. Why does he reply in Latin to an English accusation? He would disguise himself in his school-rhetoric; wherein, like the cuttle-fish, being stricken, he thinks to hide and shift himself away in the ink of his rhetoric. I will clear the waters again.”

He fastens on Camden’s former occupation, virulently accusing him of the manners of a pedagogue:—“A man may perceive an immoderate and eager desire of vainglory growing in hand, ever since he used to teach and correct children for these things, according to the opinion of some, in mores et naturam abeunt.” He complains of “the school-hyperboles” which Camden exhausts on him, among which Brooke is compared to “the strumpet Leontion,” who wrote against “the divine Theophrastus.” To this Brooke keenly replies:

“Surely, had Theophrastus dealt with women’s matters, a woman, though mean, might in reason have contended with him. A king must be content to be laughed at if he come into Apelles’s shop, and dispute about colours and portraiture. I am not ambitious nor envious to carp at matters of higher learning than matters of heraldry, which I profess: that is the slipper, wherein I know a slip when I find it. But see your cunning; you can, with the blur of your pen, dipped in 496 copperas and gall, make me learned and unlearned; nay, you can almost change my sex, and make me a whore, like Leontion; and, taking your silver pen again, make yourself the divine Theophrastus.”

At the close of Camden’s answer, he introduced the allegorical picture of Calumny, that elegant invention of the Grecian fancy of Apelles, painted by him when suffering under the false accusations of a rival. The picture is described by Lucian; but it has received many happy touches from the classical hand of the master of Westminster School. As a literary satire, he applies it with great dignity. I give here a translation, but I preserve the original Latin in the note as Camden’s reply to Brooke is not easily to be procured.

“But though I am not disposed to waste more words on these, and this sort of men, yet I cannot resist the temptation of adding a slight sketch, for I cannot give that vivacity of colouring of the picture of the great artist Apelles that our Antiphilus and the like, whose ears are ever open to calumny, may, in contemplating it, find a reflection of themselves.

“On the right hand sits a man, who, to show his credulity, is remarkable for his prodigious ears, similar to those of Midas. He extends his hand to greet Calumny, who is approaching him. The two diminutive females around him are Ignorance and Suspicion. Opposite to them, Calumny advances, betraying in her countenance and gesture the savage rage and anger working in her tempestuous breast: her left hand holds a flaming torch; while with her right she drags by the hair a youth, who, stretching his uplifted hands to Heaven, is calling on the immortal powers to bear testimony to his innocence. She is preceded by a man of a pallid and impure appearance, seemingly wasting away under some severe disease, except that his eye sparkles, and has not the dulness usual to such. That Envy is here meant, you readily conjecture. Some diminutive females, frauds and deceits, attend her as companions, whose office is to encourage and instruct, and studiously to adorn their mistress. In the background, Repentance, sadly arrayed in a mournful, worn-out, and ragged garment, who, with averted head, with tears and shame, acknowledges and prepares to receive Truth, approaching from a distance.”[397]

This elegant picture, so happily introduced into a piece of literary controversy, appears to have only slightly affected the mind of Brooke, which was probably of too stout a grain to take the folds of Grecian drapery. Instead of sympathising with its elegance, he breaks out into a horse-laugh; and, what is quite unexpected among such grave inquiries into a ludicrous tale in verse, which, though it has not Grecian fancy, has broad English humour, where he maliciously insinuates that Camden had appropriated to his own use, or “new-coated his ‘Britannia’” with Leland’s MSS., and disguised what he had stolen.

Now, to show himself as good a painter as he is a herald, he propounded, at the end of his book, a table (i.e. a picture) of his own invention, being nothing comparable to “Apelles,” as he himself confesseth, and we believe him; for, like the rude painter that was fain to write, ‘This is a Horse,’ upon his painted horse, he writes upon his picture the names of all that furious rabble therein expressed—which, for to requite him, I will return a tale of John Fletcher (some time of Oxford) and his horse. Neither can this fable be any disparagement to his table, being more ancient and authenticall, and far more conceipted than his envious picture. And thus it was:—

To close with honour to Brooke; in his graver moments he warmly repels the accusation Camden raised against him, as an enemy to learning, and appeals to many learned scholars, who had tasted of his liberality at the Universities, towards their maintenance; but, in an elevated tone, he asserts his right to deliver his animadversions as York Herald.

“I know (says Brooke) the great advantage my adversary has over me, in the received opinion of the world. If some will blame me for that my writings carry some characters of spleen against him, men of pure affections, and not partial, will think reason that he should, by ill hearing, lose the pleasure he conceived by ill speaking. But since I presume not to understand above that which is meet for me to know, I must not be discouraged, nor fret myself, because of the malicious; for I find myself seated upon a rock, that is sure from tempest and waves, from whence I have a prospect into his errors and waverings. I do confess his great worth and merit, and that we Britons are in some sort beholding to him; and might have been much more, if God had lent him 499 the grace to have played the faithful steward, in the talent committed to his trust and charge.”

Such was the dignified and the intrepid reply of Ralph Brooke, a man whose name is never mentioned without an epithet of reproach; and who, in his own day, was hunted down, and not suffered, vindictive as he was no doubt, to relieve his bitter and angry spirit, by pouring it forth to the public eye.[399]

But the story is not yet closed. Camden, who wanted the magnanimity to endure with patient dignity the corrections of an inferior genius, had the wisdom, with the meanness, silently to adopt his useful corrections, but would never confess the hand which had brought them.[400]

Thus hath Ralph Brooke told his own tale undisturbed, and, after the lapse of more than a century, the press has been opened to him. Whenever a great author is suffered to gag the mouth of his adversary, Truth receives the insult. But there is another point more essential to inculcate in literary controversy. Ought we to look too scrupulously into the motives which may induce an inferior author to detect the errors of a greater? A man from no amiable motive may perform a proper action: Ritson was useful after Warton; nor have we a right to ascribe it to any concealed motives, which, after all, may be doubtful. In the present instance, our much-abused Ralph Brooke first appears to have composed his elaborate 500 work from the most honourable motives: the offer he made of his Notes to Camden seems a sufficient evidence. The pride of a great man first led Camden into an error, and that error plunged him into all the barbarity of persecution; thus, by force, covering his folly. Brooke over-valued his studies: it is the nature of those peculiar minds adapted to excel in such contracted pursuits. He undertook an ungracious office, and he has suffered by being placed by the side of the illustrious genius with whom he has so skilfully combated in his own province; and thus he has endured contempt, without being contemptible. The public are not less the debtors to such unfortunate, yet intrepid authors.[401]

Of the two prevalent factions in the reign of Elizabeth, the Catholics and the Puritans—Elizabeth’s philosophical indifference offends both—Maunsell’s Catalogue omits the books of both parties—of the Puritans, “the mild and moderate, with the fierce and fiery,” a great religious body covering a political one—Thomas Cartwright, the chief of the Puritans, and his rival Whitgift—attempts to make the Ecclesiastical paramount to the Civil Power—his plan in dividing the country into comitial, provincial, and national assemblies, to be concentrated under the secret head at Warwick, where Cartwright was elected “perpetual Moderator!”—after the most bitter controversies, Cartwright became very compliant to his old rival Whitgift, when Archbishop of Canterbury—of Martin Mar-Prelate—his sons—specimens of their popular ridicule and invective—Cartwright approves of this mode of controversy—better counteracted by the wits than by the grave admonishers—specimens of the Anti-Martin Mar-Prelates—of the authors of these surreptitious publications.

The Reformation, or the new Religion, as it was then called, under Elizabeth, was the most philosophical she could form, and therefore the most hateful to the zealots of all parties. It was worthy of her genius, and of a better age! Her sole object was, a deliverance from the Papal usurpation. Her own supremacy maintained, she designed to be the great sovereign of a great people; and the Catholic, for some time, was called to her council-board, and entered with the Reformer into the same church. But wisdom itself is too weak to regulate human affairs, when the passions of men rise up in obstinate insurrection. Elizabeth neither won over the Reformers nor the Catholics. An excommunicating bull, precipitated by Papal Machiavelism, driving on the brutalised obedience of its slaves, separated the friends. This was a political error arising from a misconception of the weakness of our government; and when discovered as such, a tolerating dispensation was granted “till better times;” an unhealing expedient, to join again a dismembered nation! It would surprise many, were they aware how numerous were our ancient families and our eminent characters who still remained 502 Catholics.[402] The country was then divided, and Englishmen who were heroic Romanists fell the terrible victims.

On the other side, the national evil took a new form. It is probable that the Queen, regarding the mere ceremonies of religion, now venerable with age, as matters of indifference, and her fine taste perhaps still lingering amid the solemn gorgeousness of the Roman service, and her senses and her emotions excited by the religious scenery, did not share in that abhorrence of the paintings and the images, the chant and the music, the censer and the altar, and the pomp of the prelatical habits, which was prompting many well-intentioned Reformers to reduce the ecclesiastical state into apostolical nakedness and primitive rudeness. She was slow to meet this austerity of feeling, which in this country at length extirpated those arts which exalt our nature, and for this these pious Vandals nicknamed the Queen “the untamed heifer;” and the fierce Knox expressly wrote his “First Blast Against the Monstrous Government of Women.” Of these Reformers, many had imbibed the republican notions of Calvin. In their hatred of Popery, they imagined that they had not gone far enough in their wild notions of reform, for they viewed it, still shadowed out in the new hierarchy of the bishops. The fierce Calvin, in his little church at Geneva, presumed to rule a great nation on the scale of a parish institution; copying the apostolical equality at a time when the Church (say the Episcopalians) had all the weakness of infancy, and could live together in a community of all things, from a sense of their common poverty. Be this as it may, the dignified ecclesiastical order was a vulnerable institution, which could do no greater injury, and might effect as much public good as any other order in the state.[403] My business 503 is not with this discussion. I mean to show how the republican system of these Reformers ended in a political struggle which, crushed in the reign of Elizabeth, and beaten down in that of James, so furiously triumphed under Charles. Their history exhibits the curious spectacle of a great religious body covering a political one—such as was discovered among the Jesuits, and such as may again distract the empire, in some new and unexpected shape.

Elizabeth was harassed by the two factions of the intriguing Catholic and the disguised Republican. The age abounded with libels.[404] Many a Benedicite was handed to 504 her from the Catholics; but a portentous personage, masked, stepped forth from a club of Puritans, and terrified the nation by continued visitations, yet was never visible till the instant of his adieus—“starting like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons!”

Men echo the tone of their age, yet still the same unvarying human nature is at work; and the Puritans,[405] who in the 505 reign of Elizabeth imagined it was impossible to go too far in the business of reform, were the spirits called Roundheads under Charles, and who have got another nickname in our days. These wanted a Reformation of a Reformation—they aimed at reform, but they designed Revolution; and they would not accept of toleration, because they had determined on predominance.[406]

Of this faction, the chief was Thomas Cartwright, a person of great learning, and doubtless of great ambition. 506 Early in life a disappointed man, the progress was easy to a disaffected subject. At a Philosophy Act, in the University of Cambridge, in the royal presence, the queen preferred and rewarded his opponent for the slighter and more attractive elegances in which the learned Cartwright was deficient. He felt the wound rankle in his ambitious spirit. He began, as Sir George Paul, in his “Life of Archbishop Whitgift,” expresses it, “to kick against her Ecclesiastical Government.” He expatriated himself several years, and returned fierce with the republican spirit he had caught among the Calvinists at Geneva, which aimed at the extirpation of the bishops. It was once more his fate to be poised against another rival, Whitgift, the Queen’s Professor of Divinity. Cartwright, in some lectures, advanced his new doctrines; and these innovations soon raised a formidable party, “buzzing their conceits into the green heads of the University.”[408] Whitgift regularly preached at Cartwright, but to little purpose; for when Cartwright preached at St. Mary’s they were forced to take down the windows. Once our sly polemic, taking advantage of the absence of Whitgift, so powerfully operated, in three sermons on one Sunday, that in the evening his victory declared itself, by the students of Trinity College rejecting their surplices, as Papistical badges. Cartwright was now to be confuted by other means. The University refused him his degree of D.D.; condemned the lecturer to silence; and at length performed that last feeble act of power, expulsion. In a heart already alienated from the established authorities, this could only envenom a bitter spirit. Already he had felt a personal dislike to royalty, and now he had received an insult from the University: these were motives which, though concealed, could not fail to work in a courageous mind, whose new forms of religion accorded with his political feelings. The “Degrees” of the University, which he now declared to be “unlawful,” were to be considered “as limbs of Antichrist.” The whole hierarchy was to be exterminated for a republic of Presbyters; till, through the church, the republican, 507 as we shall see, discovered a secret passage to the Cabinet of his Sovereign, where he had many protectors.

Such is my conception of the character of Cartwright. The reader is enabled to judge for himself by the note.[409]

But Cartwright, chilled by an imprisonment, and witnessing some of his party condemned, and some executed, after having long sustained the most elevated and rigid tone, suddenly let his alp of ice dissolve away in the gentlest thaw that ever occurred in political life. Ambitious he was, but not of martyrdom! His party appeared once formidable,[410] and his protection at Court sure. I have read several letters of the Earl of Leicester, in MS., that show he always shielded Cartwright, whenever in danger. Many of the ministers of Elizabeth were Puritans; but doubtless this was before their state policy had detected the politicians in mask. When some of his followers had dared to do what he had only thought, he appears to have forsaken them. They reproached him for this left-handed policy, some of the boldest of them declaring that they had neither acted nor written anything but what was warranted by his principles. I do 509 not know many political ejaculations more affecting than that of Henry Barrow, said to have been a dissipated youth, when Cartwright refused, before Barrow’s execution, to allow of a conference. The deluded man, after a deep sigh, said: “Shall I be thus forsaken by him? Was it not he that brought me first into these briars? and will he now leave me in the same? Was it not from him alone that I took my grounds? Or did I not, out of such premises as he pleased to give me, infer those propositions, and deduce those conclusions, for which I am now kept in these bonds?” He was soon after executed, with others.

Then occurred one of those political spectacles at which the simple-minded stare, and the politic smile; when, after the most cruel civil war of words,[411] Cartwright wrote very compliant letters to his old rival, Whitgift, now Archbishop of Canterbury; while the Archbishop was pleading with the Queen in favour of the inveterate Republican, declaring that had Cartwright not so far engaged himself in the beginning, he thought he would have been, latterly, drawn into conformity. To clear up this mysterious conduct, we must observe that Cartwright seems to have graduated his political ambition to the degree the government touched of weakness or of strength; and besides, he was now growing prudent as he was growing rich. For it seems that he who was for scrambling for the Church revenues, while telling the people of the Apostles, silver and gold they had none, was himself “feeding too fair and fat” for the meagre groaning state of a pretended reformation. He had early in life studied that part of the law by which he had learned the marketable price of 510 landed property; and as the cask still retains its old flavour, this despiser of bishops was still making the best interest for his money by land-jobbing.[412]

One of the memorable effects of this attempted innovation was that continued stream of libels which ran throughout the nation, under the portentous name of Martin Mar-Prelate.[413] This extraordinary personage, in his collective form, for he is to be splitted into more than one, long terrified Church and State. He walked about the kingdom invisibly, dropping here a libel, and there a proclamation for sedition; but wherever Martinism was found, Martin was not. He prided himself in what he calls “Pistling the Bishops.” Sometimes he hints to his pursuers how they may catch him, for he prints, “within two furlongs of a bouncing priest,” or “in Europe;” while he acquaints his friends, who were so often uneasy for his safety, that “he has neither wife nor child,” and prays “they may not be anxious for him, for he wishes that his head might not go to the grave in peace.”—“I come, with the rope about my neck, to save you, howsoever it goeth with me.” His press is interrupted, he is silent, and Lambeth seems to breathe in peace. But he has “a son; nay, five hundred sons!” and Martin Junior starts up! He inquires

“Where his father is; he who had studied the art of pistle-making? Why has he been tongue-tied these four or five months? Good Nuncles (the bishops), have you closely murthered the gentleman in some of your prisons? Have you choaked him with a fat prebend or two? I trow my father will swallow down no such pills, for he would thus soon purge away all the conscience he hath. Do you mean to have the keeping of him? What need that? he hath five hundred sons in the land. My father would be sorry to put you to any such cost as you intend to be at with him. A meaner house, and less strength than the Tower, the Fleet, or Newgate, would serve him well enough. He is not of that ambitious vein that many of his brethren the bishops are, in seeking for more costly houses than even his father built for him.”

This same “Martin Junior,” who, though he is but young, as he says, “has a pretty smattering gift in this pistle-making; and I fear, in a while, I shall take a pride in it.” He had picked up beside a bush, where it had dropped from somebody, an imperfect paper of his father’s:—

“Theses Martinianæ—set forth as an after-birth of the noble gentleman himselfe, by a pretty stripling of his, Martin Junior, and dedicated by him to his good nuncka, Maister John Cankerbury (i.e. Canterbury). Printed without a sly privilege of the Cater Caps”—(i.e. the square caps the bishops wore).

But another of these five hundred sons, who declares himself to be his “reverend and elder brother, heir to the renowned Martin Mar-Prelate the Great,” publishes

“The just Censure and Reproof of Martin Junior; where, lest the Springall should be utterly discouraged in his good meaning, you shall finde that he is not bereaved of his due commendation.”

Martin Senior, after finding fault with Martin Junior for “his rash and indiscreet headiness,” notwithstanding agrees with everything he had said. He confirms all, and cheers him; but charges him,

“Should he meet their father in the street, never to ask his blessing, but walke smoothly and circumspectly; and if anie offer to talk with thee of Martin, talke thou straite of the voyage into Portugal, or of the happie death of the Duke of Guise, or some such accident; but meddle not with thy father. Only, if thou have gathered anie thing in visitation for thy father, intreate him to signify, in some secret printed 512 pistle, where a will have it lefte. I feare least some of us should fall into John Canterburie’s hand.”

Such were the mysterious personages who, for a long time, haunted the palaces of the bishops and the vicarages of the clergy, disappearing at the moment they were suddenly perceived to be near. Their slanders were not only coarse buffooneries, but the hottest effusions of hatred, with an unparalleled invective of nicknames.[414] Levelled at the bishops, even the natural defects, the personal infirmities, the domestic privacies, much more the tyranny, of these now “petty popes,” now “bouncing priests,” now “terrible priests,” were the inexhaustible subjects of these popular invectives.[415] Those 513 “pillars of the State” were now called “its caterpillars;” and the inferior clergy, who perhaps were not always friendly to their superiors, yet dreaded this new race of innovators, were distinguished as “halting neutrals.” These invectives were well farced for the gross taste of the multitude; and even the jargon of the lowest of the populace affected, and perhaps the coarse malignity of two cobblers who were connected with the party, often enlivened the satirical page. The Martin Mar-Prelate productions are not, however, effusions of genius; they were addressed to the coarser passions of mankind, their hatred and contempt. The authors were grave men, but who affected to gain over the populace with a 514 popular familiarity.[416] In vain the startled bishops remonstrated: they were supposed to be criminals, and were little attended to as their own advocates. Besides, they were solemn admonishers, and the mob are composed of laughers and scorners.

The Court-party did not succeed more happily when they persecuted Martin, broke up his presses, and imprisoned his 515 assistants. Never did sedition travel so fast, nor conceal itself so closely; for they employed a moveable press; and, as soon as it was surmised that Martin was in Surrey, it was found he was removed to Northamptonshire, while the next account came that he was showing his head in Warwickshire. And long they invisibly conveyed themselves, till in Lancashire the snake was scotched by the Earl of Derby, with all its little brood.[417]

These pamphlets were “speedily dispersed and greedily read,” not only by the people; they had readers and even patrons among persons of condition. They were found in the corners of chambers at Court; and when a prohibition issued that no person should carry about them any of the Mar-Prelate pamphlets on pain of punishment, the Earl of Essex observed to the Queen, “What then is to become of me?” drawing one of these pamphlets out of his bosom, and presenting it to her.

The Martinists were better counteracted by the Wits, in 517 some extraordinary effusions, prodigal of humour and invective Wit and raillery were happily exercised against these masked divines: for the gaiety of the Wits was not foreign to their feelings. The Mar-Prelates showed merry faces, but it was with a sardonic grin they had swallowed the convulsing herb; they horridly laughed against their will—at bottom all was gloom and despair. The extraordinary style of their pamphlets, concocted in the basest language of the populace, might have originated less from design than from the impotence of the writers. Grave and learned persons have often found to their cost that wit and humour must spring from the soil; no art of man can plant them there. With such, this play and grace of the intellect can never be the movements of their nature, but its convulsions.

Father Martin and his two sons received “A sound boxe of the eare,” in “a pistle” to “the father and the two sonnes, Huffe, Ruffe, and Snuffe, the three tame ruffians of the Church, who take pepper in the nose because they cannot marre prelates grating,” when they once met with an adversary who openly declared—

“I profess rayling, and think it is as good a cudgel for a Martin as a stone for a dogge, or a whip for an ape, or poison for a rat. Who would curry an ass with an ivory comb? Give this beast thistles for provender. I doe but yet angle with a silken flie, to see whether Martins will nibble; and if I see that, why then I have wormes for the nonce, and will give them line enough, like a trowte, till they swallow both hooke and line, and then, Martin, beware your gills, for I’ll make you daunce at the pole’s end.”

“Fill thy answer as full of lies as of lines, swell like a toade, hiss like an adder, bite like a dog, and chatter like a monkey, my pen is prepared, and my mind; and if you chaunce to find anie worse words than you broughte, let them be put in your dad’s dictionarie. Farewell, and be hanged; and I pray God you fare no worse.—Yours at an hour’s warning.”

This was the proper way to reply to such writers, by driving them out of the field with their own implements of warfare. “Pasquill of England”[418] admirably observed of the papers of this faction—“Doubt not but that the same reckoning in the ende will be made of you which your favourers 518 commonly make of their old shooes—when they are past wearing, they barter them awaie for newe broomes, or carrie them forth to the dunghill and leave them there.” The writers of these Martin Mar-Prelate books have been tolerably ascertained,[419] considering the secrecy with which they were printed—sometimes at night, sometimes hid in cellars, and never long in one place: besides the artifices used in their dispersion, by motley personages, held together by an invisible chain of confederacy. Conspiracy, like other misery, “acquaints a man with strange bedfellows;” and the present confederacy combined persons of the most various descriptions, and perhaps of very opposite views. I find men of learning, and of rigid lives, intimately associated with dissipated, or with too ardently-tempered youths; connected, too, with maniacs, whose lunacy had taken a revolutionary turn; and men of rank combining with old women and cobblers.[420] Such 519 are the party-coloured apostles of insurrection! and thus their honourable and dishonourable motives lie so blended together, that the historian cannot separate them. At the moment the haughty spirit of a conspirator is striking at the head of established authority, he is himself crouching to the basest intimates; and to escape often from an ideal degradation, he can bear with a real one.

Of the heads of this party, I shall notice Penry and Udall, two self-devoted victims to Nonconformity. The most active was John Penry, or Ap Henry. He exulted that “he was born and bred in the mountains of Wales:” he had, however, studied at both our Universities. He had all the heat of his soil and of his party. He “wished that his head might not go down to the grave in peace,” and was just the man to obtain his purpose. When he and his papers were at length seized, Penry pleaded that he could not be tried for sedition, professing unbounded loyalty to the Queen: such is the usual plea of even violent Reformers. Yet how could Elizabeth be the sovereign, unless she adopted the mode of government planned by these Reformers? In defence of his papers, he declared that they were only the private memorandums of a scholar, in which, during his wanderings about the kingdom, he had collected all the objections he had heard against the government. Yet these, though written down, might not be his own. He observed that they were not even English, nor intelligible to his accusers; but a few Welshisms could not save Ap Henry; and the judge, assuming the hardy position, that scribere est agere, the author found more honour conferred on his MSS. than his genius cared to receive. It was this very principle which proved so fatal, at a later period, to a more elevated politician than Penry; yet Algernon Sidney, perhaps, possessed not a spirit more Roman.[421] State necessity claimed another victim; and this ardent young man, whose execution had been at first unexpectedly postponed, was suddenly hurried from his dinner to a temporary gallows; a 521 circumstance marked by its cruelty, but designed to prevent an expected tumult.[422]

Contrasted with this fiery Mar-Prelate was another, the learned subtile John Udall. His was the spirit which dared to do all that Penry had dared, yet conducting himself in the heat of action with the tempered wariness of age: “If they silence me as a minister,” said he, “it will allow me leisure to write; and then I will give the bishops such a blow as shall make their hearts ache.” It was agreed among the party neither to deny, or to confess, writing any of their books, lest among the suspected the real author might thus be discovered, or forced solemnly to deny his own work; and when the Bishop of Rochester, to catch Udall by surprise, 522 suddenly said, “Let me ask you a question concerning your book,” the wary Udall replied, “It is not yet proved to be mine!” He adroitly explained away the offending passages the lawyers picked out of his book, and in a contest between him and the judge, not only repelled him with his own arms, but when his lordship would have wrestled on points of divinity, Udall expertly perplexed the lawyer by showing he had committed an anachronism of four hundred years! He was equally acute with the witnesses; for when one deposed that he had seen a catalogue of Udall’s library, in which was inserted “The Demonstration of Discipline,” the anonymous book for which Udall was prosecuted; with great ingenuity he observed that this was rather an argument that he was not the author, for “scholars use not to put their own books in the catalogue of those they have in their study.” We observe with astonishment the tyrannical decrees of our courts of justice, which lasted till the happy Revolution. The bench was as depraved in their notions of the rights of the subject in the reign of Elizabeth as in those of Charles II. and James II. The Court refused to hear Udall’s witnesses, on this strange principle, that “witnesses in favour of the prisoner were against the queen!” To which Udall replied, “It is for the queen to hear all things when the life of any of her subjects is in question.” The criminal felt what was just more than his judges; and yet the judge, though to be reprobated for his mode, calling so learned a man “Sirrah!” was right in the thing, when he declared that “you would bring the queen and the crown under your girdles.” It is remarkable that Udall repeatedly employed that expression which Algernon Sidney left as his last legacy to the people, when he told them he was about to die for “that Old Cause in which I was from my youth engaged.” Udall perpetually insisted on “The Cause.” This was a term which served at least for a watchword: it rallied the scattered members of the republican party. The precision of the expression might have been difficult to ascertain; and, perhaps, like every popular expedient, varied with “existing circumstances.” I did not, however, know it had so remote an origin as in the reign of Elizabeth; and suspect it may still be freshened up, and varnished over, for any present occasion.

The last stroke for Udall’s character is the history of his condemnation. He suffered the cruel mockery of a pardon granted conditionally, by the intercession of the Scottish 523 monarch but never signed by the Queen—and Udall mouldered away the remnant of his days in a rigid imprisonment.[423] Cartwright and Travers, the chief movers of this faction, retreated with haste and caution from the victims they had conducted to the place of execution, while they themselves sunk into a quiet forgetfulness and selfish repose.

As a literary curiosity, I shall preserve a very rare poetical tract, which describes with considerable force the Revolutionists of the reign of Elizabeth. They are indeed those of wild democracy; and the subject of this satire will, I fear, be never out of time. It is an admirable political satire against a mob-government. In our poetical history, this specimen too is curious, for it will show that the stanza in alternate rhymes, usually denominated elegiac, is adapted to very opposite themes. The solemnity of the versification is impressive, and the satire equally dignified and keen.

The taste of the mere modern reader had been more gratified by omitting some unequal passages; but, after deliberation, I found that so short a composition would be injured by dismembering extracts. I have distinguished by italics the lines to which I desire the reader’s attention, and have added a few notes to clear up some passages which might appear obscure.

Anecdote of a Bishop and a Doctor—Dr. Middleton and Dr. Bentley—Warburton and Dr. Taylor—Warburton and Edwards—Swift and Dryden—Pope and Bentley—why fiction is necessary for satire, according to Lord Rochester’s confession—Rowe and Addison—Pope and Atterbury—Sir John Hawkins and George Steevens—a fierce controversial author a dangerous neighbour—a ludicrous instance of a literary quarrel from personal motives between Bohun and the Wykehamists.

Literary Quarrels have abundantly sprung from mere personal motives; and controversies purely literary, sometimes of magnitude, have broken out, and been voluminously carried on, till the public are themselves involved in the contest, while the true origin lies concealed in some sudden squabble; some neglect of petty civility; some unlucky epithet; or some casual observation dropped without much consideration, which mortified or enraged the author. How greatly has passion prevailed in literary history! How often the most glorious pages in the chronicles of literature are tainted with the secret history which must be placed by their side, so that the origin of many considerable works, which do so much honour to the heads of their authors, sadly accuse their hearts. But the heaven of Virgil was disturbed with quarrels—

And has not a profound observer of human affairs declared, Ex privatis odiis respublica crescit? individual hatreds aggrandize the republic. This miserable philosophy will satisfy those who are content, from private vices, to derive public benefits. One wishes for a purer morality, and a more noble inspiration.

To a literary quarrel from personal motives we owe the origin of a very remarkable volume. When Dr. Parr delivered his memorable sermon, which, besides the “sesquipedalia verba,” was perhaps the longest that ever was heard—if not listened to—Bishop Hurd, who had always played the part of one of the most wary of politicians in private life, and who had occasion once adroitly to explain the French word Retenue, which no man better understood, in a singularly unguarded moment, sarcastically observed that he did not like “the doctor’s long vernacular sermon.” The happy epithet was soon conveyed to the classical ear of the modern Grecian: it was a wasp in it! The bishop had, in the days of literary adventure, published some pieces of irony, which were thought more creditable to his wit than his feelings—and his great patron, Warburton, certain juvenile prose and verse—all of which they had rejected from their works. But this it is to be an author!—his errors remain when he has outlived and corrected them. The mighty and vindictive Grecian in rage collected them all; exhausted his own genius in perpetuating follies; completed the works of the two bishops in utter spite; and in “Tracts by Warburton and a Warburtonian,” has furnished posterity with a specimen of the force of his own “vernacular” style, giving a lesson to the wary bishop, who had scarcely wanted one all his life—of the dangers of an unlucky epithet!

Dr. Conyers Middleton, the author of the “Life of Cicero,” seldom wrote but out of pique; and he probably owed his origin as an author to a circumstance of this nature. Middleton when young was a Dilettante in music; and Dr. Bentley, in contempt, applied the epithet “fiddling Conyers.” Had the irascible Middleton broken his violin about the head of the learned Grecian, and thus terminated the quarrel, the epithet had then cost Bentley’s honour much less than it afterwards did. It seems to have excited Middleton to deeper studies, which the great Bentley not long after felt when he published proposals for an edition of the New Testament in Greek. Middleton published his “Remarks, paragraph by paragraph, upon the proposals,” to show that Bentley had neither talents nor materials proper for the work. This opened a great paper-war, and again our rabid wolf fastened on the majestic lion, “paragraph by paragraph.” And though the lion did affect to bear in contempt the fangs of his little active enemy, the flesh was torn. “The proposals” sunk 531 before the “paragraph by paragraph,” and no edition of the Greek Testament by Bentley ever appeared. Bentley’s proposals at first had met with the greatest success; the subscription-money amounted to two thousand pounds, and it was known that his nephew had been employed by him to travel abroad to collect these MSS. He declared he would make use of no MS. that was not a thousand years old, or above; of which sort he had collected twenty, so that they made up a total of twenty thousand years. He was four years studying them before he issued his proposals. The Doctor rested most on eight Greek MSS., the most recent of which was one thousand years old. All this wore a very imposing appearance. At a touch the whole magnificent edifice fell to pieces! Middleton says, “His twenty old MSS. shrink at once to eight, and he is forced again to own that even of these eight there are only four which had not been used by Dr. Mill;” and these Middleton, by his sarcastic reasoning, at last reduces to “some pieces only of the New Testament in MS.” So that twenty MSS. and their twenty thousand years were battered by the “fiddling Conyers” into a solitary fragment of little value! Bentley returned the subscription-money, and would not publish; the work still lies in its prepared state, and some good judges of its value have expressed a hope to see it yet published. But Bentley himself was not untainted in this dishonourable quarrel: he well knew that Middleton was the author of this severe attack; but to show his contempt of the real author, and desirous, in his turn, of venting his disappointment on a Dr. Colbatch, he chose to attribute it to him, and fell on Colbatch with a virulence that made the reply perfectly libellous, if it was Bentley’s, as was believed.

The irascibility of Middleton, disguising itself in a literary form, was still more manifested by a fact recorded of him by Bishop Newton. He had applied to Sir Robert Walpole for the mastership of the Charter-house, who honestly informed him that Bishop Sherlock, with the other Bishops, were against his being chosen. Middleton attributed the origin of this opposition to Bishop Sherlock, and wreaked his vengeance by publishing his “Animadversions upon Sherlock’s Discourses on Prophecy.” The book had been long published, and had passed through successive editions; but Middleton pretended he had never seen them before, and from this time Lambeth-house was a strong provocative for his vindictive temper.

Nor was the other great adversary of Middleton, he who so long affected to be the lord paramount, the Suzerain in the feudal empire, rather than the republic of letters—Warburton himself—less easily led on to these murderous acts of personal rancour. A pamphlet of the day has preserved an anecdote of this kind. Dr. Taylor, the Chancellor of Lincoln, once threw out in company an opinion derogatory to the scholarship of Warburton, who seems to have had always some choice spirits of his legion as spies in the camp of an enemy, and who sought their tyrant’s grace by their violation of the social compact. The tyrant himself had an openness, quite in contrast with the dark underworks of his satellites. He boldly interrogated our critic, and Taylor replied, undauntedly and more poignantly than Warburton might have suspected, that “he did not recollect ever saying that Dr. Warburton was no scholar, but that indeed he had always thought so.” To this intrepid spirit the world owes one of the remarkable prefaces to the “Divine Legation”—in which the Chancellor of Lincoln, intrepid as he was, stands like a man of straw, to be buffeted and tossed about with all those arts of distortion which the wit and virulence of Warburton almost every day was practising at his “established places of execution,” as his prefaces and notes have been wittily termed.

Even Warburton himself, who committed so many personal injuries, has, in his turn, most eminently suffered from the same motive. The personal animosity of a most ingenious man was the real cause of the utter destruction of Warburton’s critical reputation. Edwards, the author of the “Canons of Criticism,” when young and in the army, was a visitor at Allen’s of Prior-park, the patron of Warburton; and in those literary conversations which usually occupied their evenings, Warburton affected to show his superiority in his acquaintance with the Greek writers, never suspecting that a red coat covered more Greek than his own—which happened unluckily to be the case. Once, Edwards in the library, taking down a Greek author, explained a passage in a manner which did not suit probably with some new theory of the great inventor of so many; a contest arose, in which Edwards discovered how Warburton came by his illegitimate knowledge of Greek authors: Edwards attempted to convince him that he really did not understand Greek, and that his knowledge, such as it was, was derived from French translations—a provoking act of literary kindness, which took place in the presence of Ralph 533 Allen and his niece, who, though they could not stand as umpires, did as witnesses. An incurable breach took place between the parties, and from this trifling altercation, Edwards produced the bitter “Canons of Criticism,” and Warburton those foaming notes in the Dunciad.

Such is the implacable nature of literary irascibility! Men so tenderly alive to intellectual sensibility, find even the lightest touch profoundly enter into the morbid constitution of the literary temper; and even minds of a more robust nature have given proof of a sickly delicacy hanging about them quite unsuspected. Swift is a remarkable instance of this kind: the foundation of the character of this great wit was his excellent sense. Yet having, when young, composed one of the wild Pindarics of the time, addressed to the Athenian Society, and Dryden judiciously observing that “cousin Jonathan would never be a poet,” the enraged wit, after he had reached the maturity of his own admirable judgment, and must have been well aware of the truth of the friendly prediction, could never forgive it. He has indulged the utmost licentiousness of personal rancour; he even puns miserably on his name to degrade him as the emptiest of writers. His spirited translation of Virgil, which was admired even by Pope, he levels by the most grotesque sarcastic images to mark the poet’s diminutive genius—he says this version-maker is so lost in Virgil, that he is like “the lady in a lobster; a mouse under a canopy of state; a shrivelled beau within the penthouse of a full-bottomed perriwig.” He never was generous enough to contradict his opinion, and persisted in it to the last. Some critic, about Swift’s own time, astonished at his treatment of Dryden, declares he must have been biassed by some prejudice—the anecdote here recorded, not then probably known, discovers it.

What happened to Pope on the publication of his Homer shows all the anxious temper of the author. Being in company with Bentley, the poet was very desirous of obtaining the doctor’s opinion of it, which Bentley contrived to parry as well as he could; but in these matters an author who calculates on a compliment, will risk everything to obtain it. The question was more plainly put, and the answer was as plainly given. Bentley declared that “the verses were good verses, but the work is not Homer—it is Spondanus!” From this interview posterity derives from the mortified poet the full-length 534 figure of “the slashing Bentley,” in the fourth book of the Dunciad:

When Bentley was told by some officious friend that Pope had abused him, he only replied, “Ay, like enough! I spoke against his Homer, and the portentous cub never forgives!” Part of Pope’s severe criticism only is true; but to give full effect to their severity, poets always infuse a certain quantity of fiction. This is an artifice absolutely necessary to practise; so I collect from a great master in the arts of satire, and who once honestly avowed that no satire could be composed unless it was personal; and no personalities would sufficiently adorn a poem without lies. This great satirist was Rochester. Burnet details a curious conversation between himself and his lordship on this subject. The bishop tells us that “he would often go into the country, and be for some months wholly employed in study, or the sallies of his wit chiefly directed to satire. And this he often defended to me by saying, there were some people that could not be kept in order, or admonished, but in this way.” Burnet remonstrated, and Rochester replied—“A man could not write with life unless he were heated by revenge; for to make a satire without resentments, upon the cold notions of philosophy, was as if a man would, in cold blood, cut men’s throats who had never offended him. And he said, the lies in these libels came often in as ornaments, that could not be spared without spoiling the beauty of the poem.” It is as useful to know how the materials of satire are put together; as thus the secret of pulling it to pieces more readily may sometimes be obtained.

These facts will sufficiently establish this disgraceful principle of the personal motives which have influenced the quarrels of authors, and which they have only disguised by giving them a literary form. Those who are conversant in literary history can tell how many works, and some considerable ones, have entirely sprung out of the vengeance of authors. Johnson, to whom the feelings of the race were so well known, has made a curious observation, which none but an author could have made:—“The best advice to authors would be, that they should keep out of the way of one another.” He says this in the “Life of Rowe,” on the 535 occasion of Addison’s Observations on Rowe’s Character. Rowe had expressed his happiness to Pope at Addison’s promotion; and Pope, who wished to conciliate Addison towards Rowe, mentioned it, adding, that he believed Rowe was sincere. Addison replied, “That he did not suspect Rowe feigned; but the levity of his heart is such, that he is struck with any new adventure: and it would affect him just in the same manner as if he heard I was going to be hanged.” Warburton adds that Pope said he could not deny but Addison understood Rowe well. Such is the fact on which Johnson throws out an admirable observation:—“This censure time has not left us the power of confirming or refuting; but observation daily shows that much stress is not to be laid on hyperbolical accusations and pointed sentences, which even he that utters them desires to be applauded, rather than credited. Addison can hardly be supposed to have meant all that he said. Few characters can bear the microscopic scrutiny of WIT quickened by ANGER.” I could heap up facts to demonstrate this severe truth. Even of Pope’s best friends, some of their severities, if they ever reached him, must have given the pain he often inflicted. His friend Atterbury, to whom he was so partial, dropped an expression, in the heat of conversation, which Pope could never have forgiven; that our poet had “a crooked mind in a crooked body.” There was a rumour, after Pope’s death, that he had left behind him a satirical “Life of Dean Swift.” Let genius, whose faculty detects the foibles of a brother, remember he is a rival, and be a generous one. In that extraordinary morsel of literary history, the “Conversations of Ben Jonson with his friend Drummond of Hawthornden,” preserving his opinions of his contemporaries, if I err not in my recollection, I believe that he has not spoken favourably of a single individual!

The personal motives of an author, influencing his literary conduct, have induced him to practise meannesses and subterfuges. One remarkable instance of this nature is that of Sir John Hawkins, who indeed had been hardly used by the caustic pleasantries of George Steevens. Sir John, in his edition of Johnson, with ingenious malice contrived to suppress the acknowledgment made by Johnson to Steevens of his diligence and sagacity, at the close of his preface to Shakspeare. To preserve the panegyric of Steevens mortified Hawkins beyond endurance; yet, to suppress it openly, his character 536 as an editor did not permit. In this dilemma he pretended he reprinted the preface from the edition of 1765; which, as it appeared before Johnson’s acquaintance with Steevens, could not contain the tender passage. However, this was unluckily discovered to be only a subterfuge, to get rid of the offensive panegyric. On examination, it proved not true; Hawkins did not reprint from this early edition, but from the latest, for all the corrections are inserted in his own. “If Sir John were to be tried at Hicks’s Hall (long the seat of that justice’s glory), he would be found guilty of clipping,” archly remarks the periodical critic.

A fierce controversial author may become a dangerous neighbour to another author: a petulant fellow, who does not write, may be a pestilent one; but he who prints a book against us may disturb our life in endless anxieties. There was once a dean who actually teased to death his bishop, wore him out in journeys to London, and at length drained all his faculties—by a literary quarrel from personal motives.

Dr. Thomas Pierce, Dean of Sarum—a perpetual controversialist, and to whom it was dangerous to refuse a request, lest it might raise a controversy—wanted a prebend of Dr. Ward, Bishop of Salisbury, for his son Robert. He was refused; and now, studying revenge, he opened a controversy with the bishop, maintaining that the king had the right of bestowing all dignities in all cathedrals in the kingdom, and not the bishops. This required a reply from the bishop, who had been formerly an active controversialist himself. Dean Pierce renewed his attack with a folio volume, entitled “A Vindication of the King’s Sovereign Right, &c.,” 1683.—Thus it proceeded, and the web thickened around the bishop in replies and rejoinders. It cost him many tedious journeys to London, through bad roads, fretting at “the King’s Sovereign Right” all the way; and, in the words of a witness, “in unseasonable times and weather, that by degrees his spirits were exhausted, his memory quite gone, and he was totally unfitted for business.”[431] Such was the fatal disturbance occasioned by Dean Pierce’s folio of “The King’s Sovereign Right,” and his son Bob being left without a prebend!

I shall close this article with a very ludicrous instance of a literary quarrel from personal motives. This piece of secret 537 history had been certainly lost, had not Bishop Lowth condescended to preserve it, considering it as necessary to assign a sufficient reason for the extraordinary libel it produced.

Bohun, an antiquarian lawyer, in a work entitled “The English Lawyer,” in 1732, in illustrating the origin of the Act of Scandalum Magnatum, which arose in the time of William of Wykeham, the chancellor and bishop of Edward III. and the founder of New College, in Oxford; took that opportunity of committing the very crime on the venerable manes of Wykeham himself. He has painted this great man in the darkest colours. Wykeham is charged with having introduced “Alice Piers, his niece or,” &c., for the truth is he was uncertain who she was, to use his peculiar language, “into the king’s bosom;” to have joined her in excluding the Black Prince from all power in the state; and he hints at this hero having been poisoned by them; of Wykeham’s embezzling a million of the public money, and, when chancellor, of forging an Act of Parliament to indemnify himself, and thus passing his own pardon. It is a singularity in this libellous romance, that the contrary of all this only is true. But Bohun has so artfully interwoven his historical patches of misrepresentations, surmises, and fictions, that he succeeded in framing an historical libel.

Not satisfied with this vile tissue, in his own obscure volume, seven years afterwards, being the editor of a work of high reputation, Nathaniel Bacon’s “Historical and Political Discourse of the Laws and Government of England,” he further satiated his frenzy by contriving to preserve his libel in a work which he was aware would outlive his own.

Whence all this persevering malignity? Why this quarrel of Mr. Bohun, of the Middle Temple, with the long-departed William of Wykeham?

He took all these obscure pains, and was moved with this perpetual rancour against William of Wykeham, merely to mortify the Wykehamists; and slandered their founder, with the idea that the odium might be reflected on New College. Bohun, it seems, had a quarrel with them concerning a lease on which he had advanced money; but the holder had contrived to assign it to the well-known Eustace Budgell: the college confirmed the assignment. At an interview before 538 the warden, high words had arisen between the parties: the warden withdrew, and the wit gradually shoved the antiquary off the end of the bench on which they were sitting: a blow was struck, and a cane broken. Bohun brought an action, and the Wykehamites travelled down to give bail at Westminster Hall, where the legal quarrel was dropped, and the literary one then began. Who could have imagined that the venerable bishop and chancellor of Edward III. was to be involved in a wretched squabble about a lease with an antiquary and a wit? “Fancying,” says Bishop Lowth, “he could inflict on the Society of New College a blow which would affect them more sensibly by wounding the reputation of their founder, he set himself to collect everything he could meet with that was capable of being represented to his discredit, and to improve it with new and horrible calumnies of his own invention.” Thus originated this defamatory attack on the character of William of Wykeham! And by arts which active writers may practise, and innocent readers cannot easily suspect, a work of the highest reputation, like that of Nathaniel Bacon’s, may be converted into a vehicle of personal malignity, while the author himself disguises his real purpose under the specious appearance of literature! The present case, it must be acknowledged, is peculiar, where a dead person was attacked with a spirit of rancour to which the living only appear subject; but the author was an antiquary, who lived as much with the dead as the living: his personal motive was the same as those already recorded, and here he was acting with a double force on the dead and the living!

But here I stop my hand, my list would else be too complete. Great names are omitted—Whitaker and Gibbon;[432] Pope and Lord Hervey;[433] Wood and South;[434] Rowe, Mores, and Ames;[435] and George Steevens and Gough.[436]

This chapter is not honourable to authors; but historians are only Lord Chief Justices, who must execute the laws, even on their intimate friends, when standing at the bar. The chapter is not honourable—but it may be useful; and 539 that is a quality not less valuable to the public. It lets in their readers to a kind of knowledge, which opens a necessary comment on certain works, and enlarges our comprehension of their spirit.

If in the heat of controversy authors imprudently attack each other with personalities, they are only scattering mud and hurling stones, and will incur the ridicule or the contempt of those who, unfriendly to the literary character, feel a secret pleasure in its degradation; but let them learn, that to open a literary controversy from mere personal motives; thus to conceal the dagger of private hatred under the mantle of literature, is an expedient of short duration, for the secret history is handed down with the book; and when once the dignity of the author’s character sinks in the meanness of his motives, powerful as the work may be, even Genius finds its lustre diminished, and Truth itself becomes suspicious.

[1]

A modern writer observes, that “Valeriano is chiefly known to the present times by his brief but curious and interesting work, De Literatorum Infelicitate, which has preserved many anecdotes of the principal scholars of the age, not elsewhere to be found.”—Roscoe’s Leo X. vol. iv. p. 175.

[2]

There is also a bulky collection of this kind, entitled, Analecta de Calamitate Literatorum, edited by Mencken, the author of Charlataneria Eruditorum.

[3]

From the Grecian Psyche, or the soul, the Germans have borrowed this expressive term. They have a Psychological Magazine. Some of our own recent authors have adopted the term peculiarly adapted to the historian of the human mind.

[4]

It has been lately disclosed that Home, the author of “Douglas,” was pensioned by Lord Bute to answer all the papers and pamphlets of the Government, and to be a vigilant defender of the measures of Government.

[5]

I have elsewhere portrayed the personal characters of the hireling chiefs of these paper wars: the versatile and unprincipled Marchmont Needham, the Cobbett of his day; the factious Sir Roger L’Estrange; and the bantering and profligate Sir John Birkenhead.

[6]

An ample view of these lucubrations is exhibited in the early volumes of the Gentleman’s Magazine.

[7]

It was said of this man that “he had submitted to labour at the press, like a horse in a mill, till he became as blind and as wretched.” To show the extent of the conscience of this class of writers, and to what lengths mere party-writers can proceed, when duly encouraged, Oldmixon, who was a Whig historian, if a violent party-writer ought ever to be dignified by so venerable a title, unmercifully rigid to all other historians, was himself guilty of the crimes with which he so loudly accused others. He charged three eminent persons with interpolating Lord Clarendon’s History; this charge was afterwards disproved by the passages being produced in his Lordship’s own handwriting, which had been fortunately preserved; and yet this accuser of interpolation, when employed by Bishop Kennett to publish his collection of our historians, made no scruple of falsifying numerous passages in Daniel’s Chronicle, which makes the first edition of that collection of no value.

[8]

Smollett died in a small abode in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, where he had resided some time in the hope of recovering his shattered health; and where he wrote his “Humphrey Clinker.” His friends had tried in vain to procure for him the appointment of consul to any one of the ports of the Mediterranean. He is buried in the English cemetery at Leghorn.—Ed.

[9]

It stands opposite Dalquhurn House, where he was born, near the village of Renton, Dumbartonshire. Had Smollett lived a few more years, he would have been entitled to an estate of about 1000l. a year. There is also a cenotaph to his memory on the banks of Leven-water, which he has consecrated in one of his best poems.—Ed.

[10]

The following facts will show the value of literary property; immense profits and cheap purchases! The manuscript of “Robinson Crusoe” ran through the whole trade, and no one would print it; the bookseller who did purchase it, who, it is said, was not remarkable for his discernment, but for a speculative turn, got a thousand guineas by it. How many have the booksellers since accumulated? Burn’s “Justice” was disposed of by its author for a trifle, as well as Buchan’s “Domestic Medicine;” these works yield annual incomes. Goldsmith’s “Vicar of Wakefield” was sold in the hour of distress, with little distinction from any other work in that class of composition; and “Evelina” produced five guineas from the niggardly trader. Dr. Johnson fixed the price of his “Biography of the Poets” at two hundred guineas; and Mr. Malone observes, the booksellers in the course of twenty-five years have probably got five thousand. I could add a great number of facts of this nature which relate to living writers; the profits of their own works for two or three years would rescue them from the horrors and humiliation of pauperism. It is, perhaps, useful to record, that, while the compositions of genius are but slightly remunerated, though sometimes as productive as “the household stuff” of literature, the latter is rewarded with princely magnificence. At the sale of the Robinsons, the copyright of “Vyse’s Spelling-book” was sold at the enormous price of 2200l., with an annuity of fifty guineas to the author!

[11]

The circumstance, with the poet’s dignified petition, and the King’s honourable decree, are preserved in “Curiosities of Literature,” vol. i. p. 406.

[12]

The elder Tonson’s portrait represents him in his gown and cap, holding in his right hand a volume lettered “Paradise Lost”—such a favourite object was Milton and copyright! Jacob Tonson was the founder of a race who long honoured literature. His rise in life is curious. He was at first unable to pay twenty pounds for a play by Dryden, and joined with another bookseller to advance that sum; the play sold, and Tonson was afterwards enabled to purchase the succeeding ones. He and his nephew died worth two hundred thousand pounds.—Much old Tonson owed to his own industry; but he was a mere trader. He and Dryden had frequent bickerings; he insisted on receiving 10,000 verses for two hundred and sixty-eight pounds, and poor Dryden threw in the finest Ode in the language towards the number. He would pay in the base coin which was then current; which was a loss to the poet. Tonson once complained to Dryden, that he had only received 1446 lines of his translation of Ovid for his Miscellany for fifty guineas, when he had calculated at the rate of 1518 lines for forty guineas; he gives the poet a piece of critical reasoning, that he considered he had a better bargain with “Juvenal,” which is reckoned “not so easy to translate as Ovid.” In these times such a mere trader in literature has disappeared.

[13]

Sir James Burrows’ Reports on the question concerning Literary Property, 4to. London, 1773.

[14]

Mirror of Parliament, 3529.

[15]

See “Amenities of Literature” for an account of this author.

[16]

A coster-monger, or Costard-monger, is a dealer in apples, which are so called because they are shaped like a costard, i.e. a man’s head. Steevens.—Johnson explains the phrase eloquently: “In these times when the prevalence of trade has produced that meanness, that rates the merit of everything by money.”

[17]

An abundance of these amusing tracts eagerly bought up in their day, but which came in the following generation to the ballad-stalls, are in the present enshrined in the cabinets of the curious. Such are the revolutions of literature! [It is by no means uncommon to find them realise sums at the rate of a guinea a page; but it is to be solely attributed to their extreme rarity; for in many instances the reprints of such tracts are worthless.]

[18]

Poverty and the gaol alternated with tavern carouses or the place of honour among the wild young gallants at the playhouses. They were gentlemen or beggars as daily circumstances ordained. When this was the case with such authors as Greene, Peele, and Massinger, we need not wonder at finding “a whole knot” of writers in infinitely worse plight, who lived (or starved) by writing ballads and pamphlets on temporary subjects. In a brief tract, called “The Downfall of Temporising Poets,” published 1641, they are said to be “an indifferent strong corporation, twenty-three of you sufficient writers, besides Martin Parker,” who was the great ballad and pamphlet writer of the day. The shifts they were put to, and the difficulties of their living, is denoted in the reply of one of the characters in this tract, who on being asked if he has money, replies “Money? I wonder where you ever see poets have money two days together; I sold a copy last night, and have spent the money; and now have another copy to sell, but nobody will buy it.”—Ed.

[19]

Chatterton had written a political essay for “The North Briton,” which opened with the preluding flourish of “A spirited people freeing themselves from insupportable slavery:” it was, however, though accepted, not printed, on account of the Lord Mayor’s death. The patriot thus calculated the death of his great patron!

			£	s.	d.
Lost by his death in this Essay			1	11	6
Gained in Elegies	£2	2
—— in Essays	3	3
			5	5	0
Am glad he is dead by			£3	13	6

[20]

This author, now little known but to the student of our rarer early poets, was a native of Shrewsbury, and had served in the army. He wrote a large number of poetical pieces, all now of the greatest rarity; their names have been preserved by that industrious antiquary Joseph Ritson, in his Bibliographia Poetica. The principal one was termed “The Worthiness of Wales,” and is written in laudation of the Principality. He was frequently employed to supply verses for Court Masques and Pageantry. He composed “all the devises, pastimes, and plays at Norwich” when Queen Elizabeth was entertained there; as well as gratulatory verses to her at Woodstock. He speaks of his mind as “never free from studie,” and his body “seldom void of toyle”—“and yet both of them neither brought greate benefits to the life, nor blessing to the soule” he adds, in the words of a man whose hope deferred has made his heart sick!—Ed.

[21]

Villanellas, or rather “Villanescas, are properly country rustic songs, but commonly taken for ingenious ones made in imitation of them.”—Pineda.

[22]

This practice of dedications had indeed flourished before; for authors had even prefixed numerous dedications to the same work, or dedicated to different patrons the separate divisions. Fuller’s “Church History” is disgraced by the introduction of twelve title-pages, besides the general one; with as many particular dedications, and no less than fifty or sixty inscriptions, addressed to benefactors; for which he is severely censured by Heylin. It was an expedient to procure dedication fees; for publishing books by subscription was an art not then discovered.

[23]

The price of the dedication of a play was even fixed, from five to ten guineas, from the Revolution to the time of George I., when it rose to twenty—but sometimes a bargain was to be struck—when the author and the play were alike indifferent. Even on these terms could vanity be gratified with the coarse luxury of panegyric, of which every one knew the price.

[24]

This circumstance was so notorious at the time, that it occasioned a poetical satire in a dialogue between Motteux and his patron Henningham—preserved in that vast flower-bed or dunghill, for it is both, of “Poems on Affairs of State,” vol. ii. 251. The patron, in his zeal to omit no possible distinction that could attach to him, had given one circumstance which no one but himself could have known, and which he thus regrets:

“PATRON.

I must confess I was to blame
That one particular to name;
The rest could never have been known,
I made the style so like thy own.

POET.

I beg your pardon, Sir, for that!

PATRON.

Why d——e what would you be at?
I writ below myself, you sot!
Avoiding figures, tropes, what not;
For fear I should my fancy raise
Above the level of thy plays!”

[25]

“Athenæ Britannicæ, or a Critical History of the Oxford and Cambridge Writers and Writings, with those of the Dissenters and Romanists, as well as other Authors and Worthies, both Domestic and Foreign, both Ancient and Modern. Together with an occasional freedom of thought, in criticising and comparing the parallel qualifications of the most eminent authors and their performances, both in MS. and print, both at home and abroad. By M. D. London, 1716.” On the first volume of this series, Dr. Farmer, a bloodhound of unfailing scent in curious and obscure English books, has written on the leaf “This is the only copy I have met with.” Even the great bibliographer, Baker, of Cambridge, never met but with three volumes (the edition at the British Museum is in seven), sent him as a great curiosity by the Earl of Oxford, and now deposited in his collection at St. John’s College. Baker has written this memorandum in the first volume: “Few copies were printed, so the work has become scarce, and for that reason will be valued. The book in the greatest part is borrowed from modern historians, but yet contains some things more uncommon, and not easily to be met with.” How superlatively rare must be the English volumes which the eyes of Farmer and Baker never lighted on!

[26]

These clubs are described in Macky’s “Journey through England,” 1724. He says they were formed to uphold the Royalist party on the accession of King George I. “This induced a set of gentlemen to establish Mughouses in all the corners of this great city, for well-affected tradesmen to meet and keep up the spirit of loyalty to the Protestant succession,” and to be ready to join their forces for the suppression of the other party. “Many an encounter they had, till at last the Parliament was obliged by a law to put an end to this city strife, which had this good effect, that upon the pulling down of the Mughouse in Salisbury Court, for which some boys were hanged on this act, the city has not been troubled with them since.” It was the custom in these houses to allow no other drink but ale to be consumed, which was brought in mugs of earthenware; a chairman was elected, and he called on the members of the company for songs, which were generally party ballads of a strongly-worded kind, as may be seen in the small collection printed in 1716, entitled “A Collection of State Songs, Poems, &c., published since the Rebellion, and sung in the several Mughouses in the cities of London and Westminster.”—Ed.

[27]

My researches could never obtain more than one letter of Cowley’s—it is but an elegant trifle—returning thanks to his friend Evelyn for some seeds and plants. “The Garden” of Evelyn is immortalised in a delightful Ode of Cowley’s, as well as by Evelyn himself. Even in this small note we may discover the touch of Cowley. The original is in Astle’s collection.

MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY TO JOHN EVELYN, ESQ.

“Barn Elms, March 23, 1663.

“Sir,—There is nothing more pleasant than to see kindness in a person for whom we have great esteem and respect: no, not the sight of your garden in May, or even the having such an one; which makes me more obliged to return you my most humble thanks for the testimonies I have lately received of you, both by your letter and your presents. I have already sowed such of your seeds as I thought most proper upon a hot-bed; but cannot find in all my books a catalogue of these plants which require that culture, nor of such as must be set in pots; which defects, and all others, I hope shortly to see supplied, as I hope shortly to see your work of Horticulture finished and published; and long to be in all things your disciple, as I am in all things now,

“Sir, your most humble and most obedient Servant,

“A. Cowley.”

[Barn Elms, from whence this letter is dated, was the first country residence of Cowley. It lies low on the banks of the Thames, and here the poet was first seized with a fever, which obliged him to remove; but he chose an equally improper locality for a man of his temperament, in Chertsey, where he died from the effects of a severe cold.]

Such were the ordinary letters which passed between two men whom it would be difficult to parallel for their elegant tastes and gentle dispositions. Evelyn’s beautiful retreat at Sayes Court, at Deptford, is described by a contemporary as “a garden exquisite and most boscaresque, and, as it were, an exemplar of his book of Forest-trees.” It was the entertainment and wonder of the greatest men of those times, and inspired the following lines of Cowley, to Evelyn and his lady, who excelled in the arts her husband loved; for she designed the frontispiece to his version of Lucretius—

“In books and gardens thou hast placed aright
(Things well which thou dost understand,
And both dost make with thy laborious hand)
Thy noble innocent delight;
And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost meet
Both pleasures more refined and sweet;
The fairest garden in her looks,
And in her mind the wisest books.”

[28]

A term the French apply to those botches which bad poets use to make out their metre.

[29]

This comedy was first presented very hurriedly for the amusement of Prince Charles as he passed through Cambridge to York. Cowley himself describes it, then, as “neither made nor acted, but rough-drawn by him, and repeated by his scholars” for this temporary purpose. After the Restoration he endeavoured to do more justice to his juvenile work, by remodelling it, and producing it at the Duke of York’s theatre. But as many of the characters necessarily retained the features of the older play, and times had changed; it was easy to affix a false stigma to the poet’s pictures of the old Cavaliers; and the play was universally condemned as a satire on the Royalists. It was reproduced with success at the theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, as long afterwards as the year 1730.—Ed.

[30]

The anecdote, probably little known, may be found in “The Judgment of Dr. Prideaux in Condemning the Murder of Julius Cæsar by the Conspirators as a most villanous act, maintained,” 1721, p. 41.

[31]

He was the youngest son of the celebrated minister, Sir Robert Walpole.—Ed.

[32]

In his letters there are uncommon instances of vivacity, whenever pointed against authors. The following have not yet met the public eye. What can be more maliciously pungent than this on Spence? “As I know Mr. J. Spence, I do not think I should have been so much delighted as Dr. Kippis with reading his letters. He was a good-natured harmless little soul, but more like a silver penny than a genius. It was a neat fiddle-faddle bit of sterling, that had read good books, and kept good company; but was too trifling for use, and only fit to please a child.”—On Dr. Nash’s first volume of ‘Worcestershire’: “It is a folio of prodigious corpulence, and yet dry enough; but it is finely dressed with many heads and views.” He characterises Pennant; “He is not one of our plodders (alluding to Gough); rather the other extreme; his corporal spirits (for I cannot call them animal) do not allow him to digest anything. He gave a round jump from ornithology to antiquity, and, as if they had any relation, thought he understood everything that lay between them. The report of his being disordered is not true; he has been with me, and at least is as composed as ever I saw him.” His literary correspondence with his friend Cole abounds with this easy satirical criticism—he delighted to ridicule authors!—as well as to starve the miserable artists he so grudgingly paid. In the very volumes he celebrated the arts, he disgraced them by his penuriousness; so that he loved to indulge his avarice at the expense of his vanity!

[33]

This opinion on Walpole’s talent for letter-writing was published in 1812, many years before the public had the present collection of his letters; my prediction has been amply verified. He wrote a great number to Bentley, the son of Dr. Bentley, who ornamented Gray’s works with some extraordinary designs. Walpole, who was always proud and capricious, observes his friend Cole, broke with Bentley because he would bring his wife with him to Strawberry-hill. He then asked Bentley for all his letters back, but he would not in return give Bentley’s own.

This whole correspondence abounded with literature, criticism, and wit of the most original and brilliant composition. This is the opinion of no friend, but an admirer, and a good judge; for it was Bentley’s own.

[34]

This is the renowned Strawberry-hill, a villa still standing on the banks of the Thames, between Teddington and Twickenham, but now despoiled of the large collection of pictures, curiosities, and articles of vertu so assiduously collected by Walpole during a long life. The ground on which it stands was originally partially occupied by a small cottage, built by a nobleman’s coachman for a lodging-house, and occupied by a toy-woman of the name of Chevenix. Hence Walpole says of it, in a letter to General Conway, “it is a little plaything house that I got out of Mrs. Chevenix’s shop, and is the prettiest bauble you ever saw.”—Ed.

[35]

Walpole’s characters are not often to be relied on, witness his injustice to Hogarth as a painter, and his insolent calumny of Charles I. His literary opinions of James I. and of Sidney might have been written without any acquaintance with the works he has so maliciously criticised. In his account of Sidney he had silently passed over the “Defence of Poetry;” and in his second edition has written this avowal, that “he had forgotten it; a proof that I at least did not think it sufficient foundation for so high a character as he acquired.” How heartless was the polished cynicism which could dare to hazard this false criticism! Nothing can be more imposing than his volatile and caustic criticisms on the works of James I., yet he had probably never opened that folio he so poignantly ridicules. He doubts whether two pieces, “The Prince’s Cabala,” and “The Duty of a King in his Royal Office,” were genuine productions of James I. The truth is that both these works are nothing more than extracts printed with those separate titles and drawn from the king’s “Basilicon Doron.” He had probably neither read the extracts nor the original.

[36]

It was such a person as Cole of Milton, his correspondent of forty years, who lived at a distance, and obsequious to his wishes, always looking up to him, though never with a parallel glance—with whom he did not quarrel, though if Walpole could have read the private notes Cole made in his MSS. at the time he was often writing the civilest letters of admiration,—even Cole would have been cashiered from his correspondence. Walpole could not endure equality in literary men.—Bentley observed to Cole, that Walpole’s pride and hauteur were excessive; which betrayed themselves in the treatment of Gray who had himself too much pride and spirit to forgive it when matters were made up between them, and Walpole invited Gray to Strawberry-hill. When Gray came, he, without any ceremony, told Walpole that though he waited on him as civility required, yet by no means would he ever be there on the terms of their former friendship, which he had totally cancelled.—From Cole’s MSS.

[37]

It is curious to observe that Kippis, who classifies with the pomp of enumeration his heap of pamphlets, imagines that, as Blackmore’s Epic is consigned to oblivion, so likewise must be the criticism, which, however, he confesses he could never meet with. An odd fate attends Dennis’s works: his criticism on a bad work ought to survive it, as good works have survived his criticisms.

[38]

See in Dennis’s “Original Letters” one to Tonson, entitled, “On the conspiracy against the reputation of Mr. Dryden.” It was in favour of folly against wisdom, weakness against power, &c.; Pope against Dryden. He closes with a well-turned period. “Wherever genius runs through a work, I forgive its faults; and wherever that is wanting, no beauties can touch me. Being struck by Mr. Dryden’s genius, I have no eyes for his errors; and I have no eyes for his enemies’ beauties, because I am not struck by their genius.”

[39]

In the narrative of his frenzy (quoted p. 56), his personnel is thus given. “His aspect was furious, his eyes were rather fiery than lively, which he rolled about in an uncommon manner. He often opened his mouth as if he would have uttered some matter of importance, but the sound seemed lost inwardly. His beard was grown, which they told me he would not suffer to be shaved, believing the modern dramatic poets had corrupted all the barbers of the town to take the first opportunity of cutting his throat. His eyebrows were grey, long, and grown together, which he knit with indignation when anything was spoken, insomuch that he seemed not to have smoothed his forehead for many years.”—Ed.

[40]

There is an epigram on Dennis by Savage, which Johnson has preserved in his Life; and I feel it to be a very correct likeness, although Johnson censures Savage for writing an epigram against Dennis, while he was living in great familiarity with the critic. Perhaps that was the happiest moment to write the epigram. The anecdote in the text doubtless prompted “the fool” to take this fair revenge and just chastisement. Savage has brought out the features strongly, in these touches—

“Say what revenge on Dennis can be had,
Too dull for laughter, for reply too mad.
On one so poor you cannot take the law,
On one so old your sword you scorn to draw.
Uncaged then, let the harmless monster rage,
Secure in dulness, madness, want, and age!”

[41]

Dennis points his heavy cannon of criticism and thus bombards that aerial edifice, the “Rape of the Lock.” He is inquiring into the nature of poetical machinery, which, he oracularly pronounces, should be religious, or allegorical, or political; asserting the “Lutrin” of Boileau to be a trifle only in appearance, covering the deep political design of reforming the Popish Church!—With the yard of criticism he takes measure of the slender graces and tiny elegance of Pope’s aerial machines, as “less considerable than the human persons, which is without precedent. Nothing can be so contemptible as the persons or so foolish as the understandings of these hobgoblins. Ariel’s speech is one continued impertinence. After he has talked to them of black omens and dire disasters that threaten his heroine, those bugbears dwindle to the breaking a piece of china, to staining a petticoat, the losing a fan, or a bottle of sal volatile—and what makes Ariel’s speech more ridiculous is the place where it is spoken, on the sails and cordage of Belinda’s barge.” And then he compares the Sylphs to the Discord of Homer, whose feet are upon the earth, and head in the skies. “They are, indeed, beings so diminutive that they bear the same proportion to the rest of the intellectual that Eels in vinegar do to the rest of the material world; the latter are only to be seen through microscopes, and the former only through the false optics of a Rosicrucian understanding.” And finally, he decides that “these diminutive beings are only Sawney (that is, Alexander Pope), taking the change; for it is he, a little lump of flesh, that talks, instead of a little spirit.” Dennis’s profound gravity contributes an additional feature of the burlesque to these heroi-comic poems themselves, only that Dennis cannot be playful, and will not be good-humoured.

On the same tasteless principle he decides on the improbability of that incident in the “Conscious Lovers” of Steele, raised by Bevil, who, having received great obligations from his father, has promised not to marry without his consent. On this Dennis, who rarely in his critical progress will stir a foot without authority, quotes four formidable pages from Locke’s “Essay on Government,” to prove that, at the age of discretion, a man is free to dispose of his own actions! One would imagine that Dennis was arguing like a special pleader, rather than developing the involved action of an affecting drama. Are there critics who would pronounce Dennis to be a very sensible brother? It is here too he calls Steele “a twopenny author,” alluding to the price of the “Tatlers”—but this cost Dennis dear!

[42]

“The narrative of the frenzy of Mr. John Dennis,” published in the Miscellanies of Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot, and said to have been written by Pope, is a grave banter on his usual violence. It professes to be the account of the physician who attended him at the request of a servant, who describes the first attack of his madness coming on when “a poor simple child came to him from the printers; the boy had no sooner entered the room, but he cried out ‘the devil was come!’” The constant idiosyncrasy he had that his writings against France and the Pope might endanger his liberty, is amusingly hit off; “he perpetually starts and runs to the window when any one knocks, crying out ‘’Sdeath! a messenger from the French King; I shall die in the Bastile!’”—Ed.

[43]

So little is known of this singular man, that Mr. Dibdin, in his very curious “Bibliomania,” was not able to recollect any other details than those he transcribed from Warburton’s “Commentary on the Dunciad.” In Mr. Nichols’ “History of Leicestershire” a more copious account of Henley may be found; to their facts something is here added. It was, however, difficult to glean after so excellent a harvest-home. To the author of the “Life of Bowyer,” and other works devoted to our authors, our literary history is more indebted, than to the labours of any other contemporary. He is the Prosper Marchand of English literature.

[44]

It is, perhaps, unnecessary to point out this allusion of Pope to our ancient mysteries, where the Clergy were the actors; among which, the Vice or Punch was introduced. (See “Curiosities of Literature.”)

[45]

Specimens of Henley’s style may be most easily referred to in the “Spectator,” Nos. 94 and 518. The communication on punning, in the first; and that of judging character by exteriors, in the last; are both attributed to Henley.—Ed.

[46]

The title is, “Esther, Queen of Persia, an historical Poem, in four books; by John Henley, B.A. of St. John’s College, Cambridge. 1714.”

[47]

Many of the rough drafts of his famed discourses delivered at the Oratory are preserved in the library of the Guildhall, London. The advertisements he drew up for the papers, announcing their subject, are generally exceedingly whimsical, and calculated to attract popular attention.—Ed.

[48]

This narrative is subscribed A. Welstede. Warburton maliciously quotes it as a life of Henley, written by Welsted—doubtless designed to lower the writer of that name, and one of the heroes of the Dunciad. The public have long been deceived by this artifice; the effect, I believe, of Warburton’s dishonesty.

[49]

Every lecture is dedicated to some branch of the royal family. Among them one is on “University Learning,” an attack.—“On the English History and Historians,” extremely curious.—“On the Languages, Ancient and Modern,” full of erudition.—“On the English Tongue,” a valuable criticism at that moment when our style was receiving a new polish from Addison and Prior. Henley, acknowledging that these writers had raised correctness of expression to its utmost height, adds, though, “if I mistake not, something to the detriment of that force and freedom that ought, with the most concealed art, to be a perfect copy of nature in all compositions.” This is among the first notices of that artificial style which has vitiated our native idiom, substituting for its purity an affected delicacy, and for its vigour profuse ornament. Henley observes that, “to be perspicuous, pure, elegant, copious, and harmonious, are the chief good qualities of writing the English tongue; they are attained by study and practice, and lost by the contrary: but imitation is to be avoided; they cannot be made our own but by keeping the force of our understandings superior to our models; by rendering our thoughts the original, and our words the copy.”—“On Wit and Imagination,” abounding with excellent criticism.—“On grave conundrums and serious buffoons, in defence of burlesque discourses, from the most weighty authorities.”—“A Dissertation upon Nonsense.” At the close he has a fling at his friend Pope; it was after the publication of the Dunciad. “Of Nonsense there are celebrated professors; Mr. Pope grows witty like Bays in the ‘Rehearsal,’ by selling bargains (his subscriptions for Homer), praising himself, laughing at his joke, and making his own works the test of any man’s criticism; but he seems to be in some jeopardy; for the ghost of Homer has lately spoke to him in Greek, and Shakspeare resolves to bring him, as he has brought Shakspeare, to a tragical conclusion. Mr. Pope suggests the last choice of a subject for writing a book, by making the Nonsense of others his argument; while his own puts it out of any writer’s power to confute him.” In another fling at Pope, he gives the reason why Mr. Pope adds the dirty dialect to that of the water, and is in love with the Nymphs of Fleet ditch; and in a lecture on the spleen he announced “an anatomical discovery, that Mr. Pope’s spleen is bigger than his head!”

[50]

Thus he anticipated the term, since become so notorious among German theologians.

[51]

It is preserved in the “Historical Register,” vol. xi. for 1726. It is curious and well written.

[52]

“Gentleman’s Magazine,” vol. lvii. p. 876.

[53]

His “Defence of the Oratory” is a curious performance. He pretends to derive his own from great authority. “St. Paul is related, Acts 28, to have dwelt two whole years in his own hired house, and to have received all that came in unto him, teaching those things which concern the Lord Jesus Christ with all confidence, no man forbidding him. This was at Rome, and doubtless was his practice in his other travels, there being the same reason in the thing to produce elsewhere the like circumstances.” He proceeds to show “the calumnies and reproaches, and the novelty and impiety, with which Christianity, at its first setting out, was charged, as a mean, abject institution, not only useless and unserviceable, but pernicious to the public and its professors, as the refuse of the world.”—Of the false accusations raised against Jesus—all this he applies to himself and his oratory—and he concludes, that “Bringing men to think rightly will always be reckoned a depraving of their minds by those who are desirous to keep them in a mistake, and who measure all truth by the standard of their own narrow opinions, views, and passions. The principles of this institution are those of right reason: the first ages of Christianity; true facts, clear criticism, and polite literature—if these corrupt the mind, to find a place where the mind will not be corrupted will be impracticable.” Thus speciously could “the Orator” reason, raising himself to the height of apostolical purity. And when he was accused that he did all for lucre, he retorted, that “some do nothing for it;” and that “he preached more charity sermons than any clergyman in the kingdom.”

[54]

He once advertised an oration on marriage, which drew together an overflowing assembly of females, at which, solemnly shaking his head, he told the ladies, that “he was afraid, that oftentimes, as well as now, they came to church in hopes to get husbands, rather than be instructed by the preacher;” to which he added a piece of wit not quite decent. He congregated the trade of shoemakers, by offering to show the most expeditious method of making shoes: he held out a boot, and cut off the leg part. He gave a lecture, which he advertised was “for the instruction of those who do not like it; it was on the philosophy, history, and great use of Nonsense to the learned, political, and polite world, who excel in it.”

[55]

Dr. Cobden, one of George the Second’s chaplains, having, in 1748, preached a sermon at St. James’s from these words, “Take away the wicked from before the king, and his throne shall be established in righteousness,” it gave so much displeasure, that the doctor was struck out of the list of chaplains; and the next Saturday the following parody of his text appeared as a motto to Henley’s advertisement:

“Away with the wicked before the king,
And away with the wicked behind him;
His throne it will bless
With righteousness,
And we shall know where to find him.”

Chalmer’s “Biographical Dictionary.”

[56]

The history of the closing years of Henley’s life is thus given in “The History of the Robin Hood Society,” 1764, a political club, whose debates he occasionally enlivened:—“The Orator, with various success, still kept up his Oratory, King George’s, or Charles’s Chapel, as he differently termed it, till the year 1759, when he died. At its first establishment it was amazingly crowded, and money flowed in upon him apace; and between whiles it languished and drooped: but for some years before its author’s death it dwindled away so much, and fell into such an hectic state, that the few friends of it feared its decease was very near. The doctor, indeed, kept it up to the last, determined it should live as long as he did, and actually exhibited many evenings to empty benches. Finding no one at length would attend, he admitted the acquaintances of his door-keeper, runner, mouth-piece, and some other of his followers, gratis. On the 13th of October, however, the doctor died, and the Oratory ceased; no one having iniquity or impudence sufficient to continue it on.”—Ed.

[57]

Hogarth has preserved his features in the parson who figures so conspicuously in his “Modern Midnight Conversation.” His off-hand style of discourse is given in the Gray’s-Inn Journal, 1753 (No. 18), in an imaginary meeting of the political Robin Hood Society, where he figures as Orator Bronze, and exclaims:—“I am pleased to see this assembly—you’re a twig from me; a chip of the old block at Clare Market;—I am the old block, invincible; coup de grace as yet unanswered. We are brother rationalists; logicians upon fundamentals! I love ye all—I love mankind in general—give me some of that porter.”—Ed.

[58]

Hawkesworth, in the second paper of the “Adventurer,” has composed, from his own feelings, an elegant description of intellectual and corporeal labour, and the sufferings of an author, with the uncertainty of his labour and his reward.

[59]

Dr. Fuller’s “Medicina Gymnastica, or, a treatise concerning the power of Exercise, with respect to the Animal Œconomy, fifth edition, 1718,” is useful to remind the student of what he is apt to forget; for the object of this volume is to substitute exercise for medicine. He wrote the book before he became a physician. He considers horse-riding as the best and noblest of all exercises, it being “a mixed exercise, partly active and partly passive, while other sorts, such as walking, running, stooping, or the like, require some labour and more strength for their performance.” Cheyne, in his well-known treatise of “The English Malady,” published about twenty years after Fuller’s work, acknowledges that riding on horseback is the best of all exercises, for which he details his reasons. “Walking,” he says, “though it will answer the same end, yet is it more laborious and tiresome;” but amusement ought always to be combined with the exercise of a student; the mind will receive no refreshment by a solitary walk or ride, unless it be agreeably withdrawn from all thoughtfulness and anxiety; if it continue studying in its recreations, it is the sure means of obtaining neither of its objects—a friend, not an author, will at such a moment be the better companion.

The last chapter in Fuller’s work contains much curious reading on the ancient physicians, and their gymnastic courses, which Asclepiades, the pleasantest of all the ancient physicians, greatly studied; he was most fortunate in the invention of exercises to supply the place of much physic, and (says Fuller) no man in any age ever had the happiness to obtain so general an applause; Pliny calls him the delight of mankind. Admirable physician, who had so many ways, it appears, to make physic agreeable! He invented the lecti pensiles, or hanging beds, that the sick might be rocked to sleep; which took so much at that time, that they became a great luxury among the Romans.

Fuller judiciously does not recommend the gymnastic courses, because horse-riding, for persons of delicate constitutions, is preferable; he discovers too the reason why the ancients did not introduce this mode of exercise—it arose from the simple circumstance of their not knowing the use of stirrups, which was a later invention. Riding with the ancients was, therefore, only an exercise for the healthy and the robust; a horse without stirrups was a formidable animal for a valetudinarian.

[60]

Home was at the time when he wrote “Douglas” a clergyman in the Scottish Church; the theatre was then looked upon by the religious Scotsmen with the most perfect abhorrence. Many means were taken to deter the performance of the play; and as they did not succeed, others were tried to annoy the author, until their persevering efforts induced him to withdraw himself entirely from the clerical profession.—Ed.

[61]

The objection to his tragedy was made chiefly by his parishioners at South Leith, who were strongly opposed to their minister being in any way connected with the theatre. He therefore resigned his appointment, and settled in London, which he never afterwards abandoned, dying there in 1788.—Ed.

[62]

This admirable little work is entitled “A Dissertation on the Governments, Manners, and Spirit of Asia; Murray, 1787.” It is anonymous; but the publisher informed me it was written by Logan. His “Elements of the Philosophy of History” are valuable. His “Sermons” have been republished.

[63]

The finest provinces of Egypt gained from a neglected waste.

[64]

An attempt has been made to deprive Logan of the authorship of this poem. He had edited (very badly) the poems of a deceased friend, Michael Bruce; and the friends of the latter claimed this poem as one of them. In the words of one who has examined the evidence it may be sufficient to say, “his claim is not only supported by internal evidence, but the charge was never advanced against him while he was alive to repel it.”—Ed.

[65]

“The Comforts of Life” were written in prison; “The Miseries” (by Jas. Beresford) necessarily in a drawing-room. The works of authors are often in contrast with themselves; melancholy authors are the most jocular, and the most humorous the most melancholy.

[66]

Kennett was characterised throughout life by a strong party feeling, which he took care to display on every occasion. He was born at Dover in 1660, and his first publication, at the age of twenty, gave great offence to the Whig party; it was in the form of a letter from a Student at Oxford to a friend in the country, concerning the approaching parliament. He scarcely ever published a sermon without so far mixing party matters in it as to obtain replies and rejoinders; the rector of Whitechapel employed an artist to place his head on Judas’s shoulders in the picture of the Last Supper done for that church, and to make the figure unmistakeable, placed the patch on the forehead which Kennett wore, to conceal a scar he got by the bursting of a gun. His diligence and application through life was extraordinary. He assisted Anthony Wood in collecting materials for his “Athenæ Oxonienses;” and, like Oldys, was continually employed in noting books, or in forming manuscript collections on various subjects, all of which were purchased by the Earl of Shelburne, afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne, and were sold with the rest of his manuscripts to the British Museum. He died in 1714, of a fever he had contracted in a journey to Italy.—Ed.

[67]

See Bishop Kennett’s Letter in Nichols’s “Life of Bowyer,” vol. i, 383.

[68]

The best account of the Rev. Wm. Cole is to be found in Nichols’s “Literary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth Century,” vol. i. His life was eventless, and passed in studious drudgery. He had all that power of continuous application which will readily form immense manuscript collections. In this way his life was passed, occasionally aiding from his enormous stores the labours of others. He was an early and intimate acquaintance of Horace Walpole’s, and they visited France together in 1765. Browne Willis, the antiquary, gave him the rectory of Blecheley, in Buckinghamshire, and he was afterwards presented to the vicarage of Burnham, near Eton. He died in 1782, in the 68th year of his age, having chiefly employed a long life in noting on all subjects, until his manuscripts became a small library of themselves, which he bequeathed to the British Museum, with an order that they should not be opened for twenty years. They are correctly characterised by Nichols: he says, “many of the volumes exhibit striking traits of Mr. Cole’s own character; and a man of sufficient leisure might pick out of them abundance of curious matter.” He left a diary behind him which for puerility could not be exceeded, and of which Nichols gives several ridiculous specimens. If his parrot died, or his man-servant was bled; if he sent a loin of pork to a friend, and got a quarter of lamb in return; “drank coffee with Mrs. Willis,” or “sent two French wigs to a London barber,” all is faithfully recorded. It is a true picture of a lover of labour, whose constant energy must be employed, and will write even if the labour be worthless.—Ed.

[69]

Cole’s collection, ultimately bequeathed by him to the British Museum, is comprised in 92 volumes, and is arranged among the additional manuscripts there, of which it forms Nos. 5798 to 5887.—Ed.

[70]

In his “Critical and Philosophical Enquiry into the Causes of Prodigies.”

[71]

This, his most valuable work, has been most carefully edited, with numerous additions by Dr. Bliss, and is the great authority for Lives of Oxford men. Its author, born at Oxford in 1632, died there in 1695, having devoted his life strictly to study.—Ed.

[72]

Harleian MSS. 7523.

[73]

The late Richard Clark, of the Chapel Royal and Westminster Abbey, published in 1823 “An Account of the National Anthem, entitled God save the King,” in which he satisfactorily proves “that Carey neither had, nor could have had, any claim at all to this composition,” which he traces back to the celebrated composer, Dr. John Bull, who he believes composed it for the entertainment given by the Merchant Taylors Company to King James I., in 1607. Ward, in his “Lives of the Gresham Professors,” gives a list of Bull’s compositions, then in the possession of Dr. Pepusch (who arranged the music for the Beggar’s Opera), and Art. 56 is “God save the King.” At the Doctor’s death, his manuscripts, amounting to two cartloads, were scattered or sold for waste-paper, and this was one of the number. Clark ultimately recovered this MS.—Ed.

[74]

Dr. Zachary Grey was throughout a long life a busy contributor to literature. The mere list of his productions, in divinity and history, occupy some pages of our biographical dictionaries. He was born 1687, and died at Ampthill, in Bedfordshire, in 1766. In private he was noted for mild and pleasing manners. His “Hudibras,” which was first published in 1744, in two octavo volumes, is now the standard edition.—Ed.

[76]

This version of Lord Berners has been reprinted.

[77]

Those who desire to further investigate the utter misery of female authorship may be referred to Whyte’s vivid description of an interview with Mrs. Clarke (the daughter of Colley Cibber), about the purchase of a novel. It is appended to an edition of his own poems, printed at Dublin, 1792; and has been reproduced in Hone’s “Table Book,” vol. i.—Ed.

[78]

It is much to the honour of Carte, that the French acknowledge that his publication of the “Rolles Gascognes” gave to them the first idea of their learned work, the “Notice des Diplomes.”

[79]

This paper, which is a great literary curiosity, is preserved by Mr. Nichols in his “Literary History,” vol. ii.

[80]

Of Akenside few particulars have been recorded, for the friend who best knew him was of so cold a temper with regard to public opinion, that he has not, in his account, revealed a solitary feature in the character of the poet. Yet Akenside’s mind and manners were of a fine romantic cast, drawn from the moulds of classical antiquity. Such was the charm of his converse, that he even heated the cold and sluggish mind of Sir John Hawkins, who has, with unusual vivacity, described a day spent with him in the country. As I have mentioned the fictitious physician in “Peregrine Pickle,” let the same page show the real one. I shall transcribe Sir John’s forgotten words—omitting his “neat and elegant dinner:”—“Akenside’s conversation was of the most delightful kind, learned, instructive, and, without any affectation of wit, cheerful and entertaining. One of the pleasantest days of my life I passed with him, Mr. Dyson, and another friend, at Putney—where the enlivening sunshine of a summer’s day, and the view of an unclouded sky, were the least of our gratifications. In perfect good-humour with himself and all about him, he seemed to feel a joy that he lived, and poured out his gratulations to the great Dispenser of all felicity in expressions that Plato himself might have uttered on such an occasion. In conversations with select friends, and those whose studies had been nearly the same with his own, it was a usual thing with him, in libations to the memory of eminent men among the ancients, to bring their characters into view, and expatiate on those particulars of their lives that had rendered them famous.” Observe the arts of the ridiculer! he seized on the romantic enthusiasm of Akenside, and turned it to the cookery of the ancients!

[81]

This pamphlet has been ascribed to John Lilly, but it must be confessed that its native vigour strangely contrasts with the famous Euphuism of that refined writer. [There can, however, be little doubt that he was the author of this tract, as he is alluded to more than once as such by Harvey in his “Pierce’s Supererogation;”—“would that Lilly had alwaies been Euphues and never Pap-hatchet.”—Ed.]

[82]

Tarleton appears to have had considerable power of extemporising satirical rhymes on the fleeting events of his own day. A collection of his Jests was published in 1611; the following is a favourable specimen:—“There was a nobleman asked Tarleton what he thought of soldiers in time of peace. Marry, quoth he, they are like chimneys in summer.”—Ed.

[83]

A long list of Elderton’s popular rhymes is given by Ritson in his “Bibliographia Poetica.” One of them, on the “King of Scots and Andrew Browne,” is published in Percy’s “Reliques,” who speaks of him as “a facetious fuddling companion, whose tippling and whose rhymes rendered him famous among his contemporaries.” Ritson is more condensed and less civil in his analysis; he simply describes him as “a ballad-maker by profession, and drunkard by habit.”—Ed.

[84]

Harvey, in the title-page of his “Pierce’s Supererogation,” has placed an emblematic woodcut, expressive of his own confidence, and his contempt of the wits. It is a lofty palm-tree, with its durable and impenetrable trunk; at its feet lie a heap of serpents, darting their tongues, and filthy toads, in vain attempting to pierce or to pollute it. The Italian motto, wreathed among the branches of the palm, declares, Il vostro malignare non giova nulla: Your malignity avails nothing.

[85]

Among those Sonnets, in Harvey’s “Foure Letters, and certaine Sonnets, especially touching Robert Greene and other parties by him abused, 1592,” there is one, which, with great originality of conception, has an equal vigour of style, and causticity of satire, on Robert Greene’s death. John Harvey the physician, who was then dead, is thus made to address the town-wit, and the libeller of himself and his family. If Gabriel was the writer of this singular Sonnet, as he undoubtedly is of the verses to Spenser, subscribed Hobynol, it must be confessed he is a Poet, which he never appears in his English hexameters:—

John Harvey the Physician’s Welcome to Robert Greene!

“Come, fellow Greene, come to thy gaping grave,
Bid vanity and foolery farewell,
That ouerlong hast plaid the mad-brained knaue,
And ouerloud hast rung the bawdy bell.
Vermine to vermine must repair at last;
No fitter house for busie folke to dwell;
Thy conny-catching pageants are past [86],
Some other must those arrant stories tell;
These hungry wormes thinke long for their repast;
Come on; I pardon thy offence to me;
It was thy living; be not so aghast!
A fool and a physitian may agree!
And for my brothers never vex thyself;
They are not to disease a buried elfe.”

[86]

Greene had written “The Art of Coney-catching.” He was a great adept in the arts of a town-life.

[87]

Sir Egerton Brydges in his reprint of “Greene’s Groatsworth of Wit,” has given the only passage from “The Quip for an Upstart Courtier,” which at all alludes to Harvey’s father. He says with great justice, “there seems nothing in it sufficiently offensive to account for the violence of Harvey’s anger.” The Rev. A. Dyce, so well known from his varied researches in our dramatic literature, is of opinion that the offensive passage has been removed from the editions which have come down to us. Without some such key it is impossible to comprehend Harvey’s implacable hatred, or the words of himself and friends when they describe Greene as an “impudent railer in an odious and desperate mood,” or his satire as “spiteful and villanous abuse.” The occasion of the quarrel was an attack by Richard Harvey, who had the folly to “mis-term all our poets and writers about London, piperly make-plays and make-bates,” as Nash informs us; “hence Greene being chief agent to the company, for he writ more than four other, took occasion to canvass him a little,—about some seven or eight lines, which hath plucked on an invective of so many leaves.”—Ed.

[88]

Nash was a great favourite with the wits of his day. One calls him “our true English Aretine,” another, “Sweet satyric Nash,” a third describes his Muse as “armed with a gag-tooth (a tusk), and his pen possessed with Hercules’s furies.” He is well characterised in “The Return from Parnassus.”

“His style was witty, tho’ he had some gall;
Something he might have mended, so may all;
Yet this I say, that for a mother’s wit,
Few men have ever seen the like of it.”

Nash abounds with “Mother-wit;” but he was also educated at the University, with every advantage of classical studies.

[89]

Bombast was the tailors’ term in the Elizabethan era for the stuffing of horsehair or wool used for the large breeches then in fashion; hence the term was applied to high-sounding phrases—“all sound and fury, signifying nothing.”—Ed.

[90]

These were the loose heavy breeches so constantly worn by Swiss soldiers as to become a national costume, and which has been handed down to us by the artists of the day in a variety of forms. They obtained the name of galeaze, from their supposed resemblance to the broad-bottomed ship called a galliass.—Ed.

[91]

A cade is 500 herrings; a great quantity of an article of no value.

[92]

Harvey’s love of dress, and desire to indulge it cheaply, is satirically alluded to by Nash, in confuting Harvey’s assertion that Greene’s wardrobe at his death was not worth more than three shillings—“I know a broker in a spruce leather jerkin shall give you thirty shillings for the doublet alone, if you can help him to it. Hark in your ear! he had a very fair cloak, with sleeves of a goose green, it would serve you as fine as may be. No more words; if you be wise, play the good husband, and listen after it, you may buy it ten shillings better cheap than it cost him. By St. Silver, it is good to be circumspect in casting for the world; there’s a great many ropes go to ten shillings? If you want a greasy pair of silk stockings to shew yourself in the court, they are there to be had too, amongst his moveables.”—Ed.

[93]

This unlucky Venetian velvet coat of Harvey had also produced a “Quippe for an Vpstart Courtier, or a quaint dispute between Veluet-breeches and Cloth-breeches,” which poor Harvey declares was “one of the most licentious and intolerable invectives.” This blow had been struck by Greene on the “Italianated” Courtier.

[94]

“Pierce’s Supererogation, or a new praise of the Old Asse,” 1593.

[95]

Harvey’s opponents were much nimbler penmen, and could strike off these lampoons with all the facility of writers for the stage. Thus Nash declares, in his “Have with you to Saffron Walden,” that he leaves Lilly, who was also attacked, to defend himself, because “in as much time as he spends in taking tobacco one week, he can compile that would make Gabriell repent himself all his life after.”—Ed.

[96]

He had written an antiquarian work on the descent of Brutus on our island.—The party also who at the University attacked the opinions of Aristotle were nicknamed the Trojans, as determined enemies of the Greeks.

[97]

It may be curious to present Stuart’s idea of the literary talents of Henry. Henry’s unhappy turn for humour, and a style little accordant with historical dignity, lie fairly open to the critic’s animadversion. But the research and application of the writer, for that day, were considerable, and are still appreciated. But we are told that “he neither furnishes entertainment nor instruction. Diffuse, vulgar, and ungrammatical, he strips history of all her ornaments. As an antiquary, he wants accuracy and knowledge; and, as an historian, he is destitute of fire, taste, and sentiment. His work is a gazette, in which we find actions and events, without their causes; and in which we meet with the names, without the characters of personages. He has amassed all the refuse and lumber of the times he would record.” Stuart never imagined that the time would arrive when the name of Henry would be familiar to English readers, and by many that of Stuart would not be recollected.

[98]

The critique on Henry, in the Monthly Review, was written by Hume—and, because the philosopher was candid, he is here said to have doted.

[99]

So sensible was even the calm Newton to critical attacks, that Whiston tells us he lost his favour, which he had enjoyed for twenty years, for contradicting Newton in his old age; for no man was of “a more fearful temper.” Whiston declares that he would not have thought proper to have published his work against Newton’s “Chronology” in his lifetime, “because I knew his temper so well, that I should have expected it would have killed him; as Dr. Bentley, Bishop Stillingfleet’s chaplain, told me, that he believed Mr. Locke’s thorough confutation of the Bishop’s metaphysics about the Trinity hastened his end.” Pope writhed in his chair from the light shafts which Cibber darted on him; yet they were not tipped with the poison of the Java-tree. Dr. Hawkesworth, died of criticism.—Singing-birds cannot live in a storm.

[100]

In one of his own publications he quotes, with great self-complacency, the following lines on himself:—

“The wits who drink water and suck sugar-candy,
Impute the strong spirit of Kenrick to brandy:
They are not so much out; the matter in short is,
He sips aqua-vitæ and spits aqua-fortis.”

[101]

Dr. Kenrick’s character and career is thus summed up in the “Biographia Dramatica:”—“This author, with singular abilities, was neither happy or successful. Few persons were ever less respected by the world; still fewer have created so many enemies, or dropped into the grave so little regretted by their contemporaries. He was seldom without an enemy to attack or defend himself from.” He was the son of a London citizen, and is said to have served an apprenticeship to a brass-rule maker. One of his best known literary works was a comedy called Falstaff’s Wedding, which met with considerable success upon the stage, although its author ventured on the difficult task of adopting Shakespeare’s characters, and putting new words into the mouth of the immortal Sir John and his satellites.—Ed.

[102]

That all these works should not be wanting to posterity, Prynne deposited the complete collection in the library of Lincoln’s-Inn, about forty volumes in folio and quarto. Noy, the Attorney-General, Prynne’s great adversary, was provoked at the society’s acceptance of these ponderous volumes, and promised to send them the voluminous labours of Taylor the water-poet, to place by their side; he judged, as Wood says, that “Prynne’s books were worth little or nothing; that his proofs were no arguments, and his affirmations no testimonies.” But honest Anthony, in spite of his prejudices against Prynne, confesses, that though “by the generality of scholars they are looked upon to be rather rhapsodical and confused than polite or concise, yet, for antiquaries, critics, and sometimes for divines, they are useful.” Such erudition as Prynne’s always retains its value—the author who could quote a hundred authors on “the unloveliness of love-locks,” will always make a good literary chest of drawers, well filled, for those who can make better use of their contents than himself.

[103]

Prynne seems to have considered being debarred from pen, ink, and books as an act more barbarous than the loss of his ears. See his curious book of “A New Discovery of the Prelate’s Tyranny;” it is a complete collection of everything relating to Prynne, Bastwick, and Burton; three political fanatics, who seem impatiently to have courted the fate of Marsyas. Prynne, in his voluminous argument, proving the illegality of the sentences he had suffered, in his ninth point thus gives way to all the feelings of Martinus Scriblerus:—“Point 9th, that the prohibiting of me pen, ink, paper, and books, is against law.” He employs an argument to prove that the abuse of any lawful thing never takes away the use of it; therefore the law does not deprive gluttons or drunkards of necessary meat and drink; this analogy he applies to his pen, ink, and books, of which they could not deprive him, though they might punish him for their abuse. He asserts that the popish prelates, in the reign of Mary, were the first who invented this new torture of depriving a scribbler of pen and ink. He quotes a long passage from Ovid’s Tristia, to prove that, though exiled to the Isle of Pontus for his wanton books of love, pen and ink were not denied him to compose new poems; that St. John, banished to the Isle of Patmos by the persecuting Domitian, still was allowed pen and ink, for there he wrote the Revelation—and he proceeds with similar facts. Prynne’s books abound with uncommon facts on common topics, for he had no discernment; and he seems to have written to convince himself, and not the public.

But to show the extraordinary perseverance of Prynne in his love of scribbling, I transcribe the following title of one of his extraordinary works. He published “Comfortable Cordial against Discomfortable Fears of Imprisonment, containing some Latin verses, sentences and texts of Scripture, written by Mr. Wm. Prynne on his chamber-walls in the Tower of London during his imprisonment there; translated by him into English verse,” 1641. Prynne literally verifies Pope’s description—

“Is there who lock’d from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darken’d walls?”

We have also a catalogue of printed books written by Wm. Prynne, of Lincoln’s-Inn, Esq., in these classes—

Before	}
During	}	his imprisonment, with the motto Jucundi acti labores. 1643.
Since	}

[104]

The interesting particulars of this interview have been preserved by the Archbishop himself—and it is curious to observe how Laud could now utter the same tones of murmur and grief to which Prynne himself had recently given way. Studied insult in these cases accompanies power in the hands of a faction. I collect these particulars from “The History of the Troubles and Tryal of Archbishop Laud,” and refer to Vicars’s “God in the Mount, or a Parliamentarie Chronicle,” p. 344, for the Puritanic triumphs.

“My implacable enemy, Mr. Pryn, was picked out as a man whose malice might be trusted to make the search upon me, and he did it exactly. The manner of the search upon me was thus: Mr. Pryn came into the Tower so soon as the gates were open—commanded the Warder to open my door—he came into my chamber, and found me in bed—Mr. Pryn seeing me safe in bed, falls first to my pockets to rifle them—it was expressed in the warrant that he should search my pockets. Did they remember, when they gave this warrant, how odious it was to Parliaments, and some of themselves, to have the pockets of men searched? I rose, got my gown upon my shoulders, and he held me in the search till past nine in the morning (he had come in betimes in the morning in the month of May). He took from me twenty-one bundles of papers which I had prepared for my defence, &c., a little book or diary, containing all the occurrences of my life, and my book of private devotions; both written with my own hand. Nor could I get him to leave this last; he must needs see what passed between God and me. The last place he rifled was a trunk which stood by my bedside; in that he found nothing but about forty pounds in money, for my necessary expenses, which he meddled not with, and a bundle of some gloves. This bundle he was so careful to open, as that he caused each glove to be looked into; upon this I tendered him one pair of the gloves, which he refusing, I told him he might take them, and fear no bribe, for he had already done me all the mischief he could, and I asked no favour of him; so he thanked me, took the gloves, and bound up my papers, and went his way.”—Prynne had a good deal of cunning in his character, as well as fortitude. He had all the subterfuges and quirks which, perhaps, form too strong a feature in the character of “an utter Barrister of Lincoln’s Inn.” His great artifice was secretly printing extracts from the diary of Laud, and placing a copy in the hands of every member of the House, which was a sudden stroke on the Archbishop, when at the bar, that at the moment overcame him. Once when Prynne was printing one of his libels, he attempted to deny being the author, and ran to the printing-house to distribute the forms, but it was proved he had corrected the proof and the revise. Another time, when he had written a libellous letter to the Archbishop, Noy, the Attorney-General, sent for Prynne from his prison, and demanded of him whether the letter was of his own handwriting. Prynne said he must see and read the letter before he could determine; and when Noy gave it to him, Prynne tore it to pieces, and threw the fragments out of the window, that it might not be brought in evidence against him. Noy had preserved a copy, but that did not avail him, as Prynne well knew that the misdemeanour was in the letter itself; and Noy gave up the prosecution, as there was now no remedy.

[105]

Breviate of the Bishop’s intolerable usurpations, p. 35.

[106]

While Keeper of the Records, he set all the great energies of his nature to work upon the national archives. The result appeared in three folio volumes of the greatest value to the historian. They were published irregularly, and at intervals of time—thus the second volume was issued in 1665; the first in 1666; and the third in 1670. The first two volumes are of the utmost rarity, nearly all the copies having been destroyed in the great fire of London.—Ed.

[107]

Hume, in his History, has given some account of this enormous quarto; to which I refer the reader, vol. vi. chap. lii.

[108]

Milton admirably characterises Prynne’s absurd learning, as well as his character, in his treatise on “The likeliest means to remove hirelings out of the Church,” as “a late hot querist for tythes, whom ye may know by his wits lying ever beside him in the margin, to be ever beside his wits in the text. A fierce Reformer once; now rankled with a contrary heat.”

[109]

The very expression Prynne himself uses, see p. 668 of the Histriomastix; where having gone through “three squadrons,” he commences a fresh chapter thus: “The fourth squadron of authorities is the venerable troope of 70 several renowned ancient fathers;” and he throws in more than he promised, all which are quoted volume and page, as so many “play-confounding arguments.” He has quoted perhaps from three to four hundred authors on a single point.

[110]

Toland was born in Ireland, in 1669, of Roman Catholic parents, but became a zealous opponent of that faith before he was sixteen; after which he finished his education at Glasgow and Edinburgh; he retired to study at Leyden, where he formed the acquaintance of Leibnitz and other learned men. His first book, published in 1696, and entitled “Christianity not Mysterious,” was met by the strongest denunciation from the pulpit, was “presented” by the grand jury of Middlesex, and ordered to be burnt by the common hangman by the Parliament of Ireland. He was henceforth driven for employ to literature; and in 1699 was engaged by the Duke of Newcastle to edit the “Memoirs of Denzil, Lord Hollis;” and afterwards by the Earl of Oxford on a new edition of Harrington’s “Oceana.” He then visited the Courts of Berlin and Hanover. He published many works on politics and religion, the latter all remarkable for their deistical tendencies, and died in March, 1722, at the age of 53.—Ed.

[111]

These letters will interest every religious person; they may be found in Toland’s posthumous works, vol. ii. p. 295.

[112]

Toland pretends to prove that “there is nothing in the Christian Religion, not only which is contrary to reason, but even which is above it.”—He made use of some arguments (says Le Clerc) that were drawn from Locke’s Treatise on the Human Understanding. I have seen in MS. a finished treatise by Locke on Religion, addressed to Lady Shaftesbury; Locke gives it as a translation from the French. I regret my account is so imperfect; but the possessor may, perhaps, be induced to give it to the public. The French philosophers have drawn their first waters from English authors; and Toland, Tindale, and Woolston, with Shaftesbury, Bolingbroke, and Locke, were among their earliest acquisitions.

[113]

In examining the original papers of Toland, which are preserved, I found some of his agreements with booksellers. For his description of Epsom he was to receive only four guineas in case 1000 were sold. He received ten guineas for his pamphlet on Naturalising the Jews, and ten guineas more in case Bernard Lintott sold 2000. The words of this agreement run thus: “Whenever Mr. Toland calls for ten guineas, after the first of February next, I promise to pay them, if I cannot show that 200 of the copies remain unsold.” What a sublime person is an author! What a misery is authorship! The great philosopher who creates systems that are to alter the face of his country, must stand at the counter to count out 200 unsold copies!

[114]

Des Maiseaux frees Toland from this calumny, and hints at his own personal knowledge of the author—but he does not know what a foreign writer authenticates, that this blasphemous address to Bacchus is a parody of a prayer in the Roman ritual, written two centuries before by a very proper society of Pantheists, a club of drunkards!

[115]

Warburton has well described Des Maiseaux: “All the Life-writers we have had are, indeed, strange insipid creatures. The verbose tasteless Frenchman seems to lay it down as a principle that every life must be a book, and what is worse, it proves a book without a life; for what do we know of Boileau, after all his tedious stuff?”

[116]

One of these philosophical conferences has been preserved by Beausobre, who was indeed the party concerned. He inserted it in the “Bibliothèque Germanique,” a curious literary journal, in 50 volumes, written by L’Enfant, Beausobre, and Formey. It is very copious, and very curious, and is preserved in the General Dictionary, art. Toland. The parties, after a warm contest, were very wisely interrupted by the Queen, when she discovered they had exhausted their learning, and were beginning to rail at each other.

[117]

A political society which obtained its name from the malt liquors consumed at its meetings, and which was popularly termed October from the month when it was usually brewed. This club advocated the claims of the House of Hanover, and may have originated the Mughouses noted in p. 32.—Ed.

[118]

I subjoin, for the gratification of the curious, the titles of a few of these books. “Spanhemii Opera;” “Clerici Pentateuchus;” “Constantini Lexicon Græco-Latinum;” “Fabricii Codex Apocryphus Vet. et Nov. Test.;” “Synesius de Regno;” “Historia Imaginum Cœlestium Gosselini,” 16 volumes; “Caryophili Dissertationes;” “Vonde Hardt Ephemerides Philologicæ;” “Trismegisti Opera;” “Recoldus, et alia Mahomedica;” all the Works of Buxtorf; “Salviani Opera;” “Reland de Relig. Mahomedica;” “Galli Opuscula Mythologica;” “Apollodori Bibliotheca;” “Palingenius;” “Apuleius;” and every classical author of antiquity. As he was then employed in his curious history of the Druids, of which only a specimen is preserved, we may trace his researches in the following books: “Luydii Archæologia Britannica;” “Old Irish Testament,” &c.; “Maccurtin’s History of Ireland;” “O’Flaherty’s Ogygia;” “Epistolarum Hibernicarum;” “Usher’s Religion of the ancient Irish;” “Brand’s Isles of Orkney and Zetland;” “Pezron’s Antiquités des Celtes.”

There are some singular papers among these fragments. One title of a work is “Priesthood without Priestcraft; or Superstition distinguished from Religion, Dominion from Order, and Bigotry from Reason, in the most principal Controversies about Church government, which at present divide and deform Christianity.” He has composed “A Psalm before Sermon in praise of Asinity.” There are other singular titles and works in the mass of his papers.

[119]

A lover of all literature,

and knowing more than ten languages;

a champion for truth,

an assertor of liberty,

but the follower or dependant of no man;

nor could menaces nor fortune bend him;

the way he had chosen he pursued,

preferring honesty to his interest.

His spirit is joined with its ethereal father

from whom it originally proceeded;

his body likewise, yielding to Nature,

is again laid in the lap of its mother:

but he is about to rise again in eternity,

yet never to be the same Toland more.

[120]

Mr. Nichols’s “Epistolary Correspondence of Sir Richard Steele,” vol. i. p. 77.

[121]

Steele has given a delightful piece of self-biography towards the end of his “Apology for Himself and his Writings,” p. 80, 4to.

[122]

In the “Epistolary Correspondence of Sir Richard Steele,” edition of 1809, are preserved these extraordinary love-despatches; “Prue” used poor Steele at times very ill; indeed Steele seems to have conceived that his warm affections were all she required, for Lady Steele was usually left whole days in solitude, and frequently in want of a guinea, when Steele could not raise one. He, however, sometimes remonstrates with her very feelingly. The following note is an instance:—

“Dear Wife,—I have been in great pain of body and mind since I came out. You are extremely cruel to a generous nature, which has a tenderness for you that renders your least dishumour insupportably afflicting. After short starts of passion, not to be inclined to reconciliation, is what is against all rules of Christianity and justice. When I come home, I beg to be kindly received; or this will have as ill an effect upon my fortune, as on my mind and body.”

In a postscript to another billet, he thus “sneers at Lady Steele’s excessive attention to money”:—

“Your man Sam owes me threepence, which must be deducted in the account between you and me; therefore, pray take care to get it in, or stop it.”

Such despatches as the following were sent off three or four times in a day:—

“I beg of you not to be impatient, though it be an hour before you see

“Your obliged husband,

R. Steele.”

“Dear Prue,—Don’t be displeased that I do not come home till eleven o’clock.

Yours, ever.”

“Dear Prue,—Forgive me dining abroad, and let Will carry the papers to Buckley’s.

Your fond devoted

R. S.”

“Dear Prue,—I am very sleepy and tired, but could not think of closing my eyes till I had told you I am, dearest creature, your most affectionate, faithful husband,

R. Steele.

“From the Press, One in the morning.”

It would seem by the following note that this hourly account of himself was in consequence of the connubial mandate of his fair despot:—

“Dear Prue,—It is a strange thing, because you are handsome, that you will not behave yourself with the obedience that people of worse features do—but that I must be always giving you an account of every trifle and minute of my time. I send this to tell you I am waiting to be sent for again when my Lord Wharton is stirring.”

[123]

Leland, in his magnificent plan, included several curious departments. Jealous of the literary glory of the Italians, whom he compares to the Greeks for accounting all nations barbarous and unlettered, he had composed four books “De Viris Illustribus”, on English Authors, to force them to acknowledge the illustrious genius, and the great men of Britain. Three books “De Nobilitate Britannica” were to be “as an ornament and a right comely garland.”

[124]

What reason is there to suppose with Granger that his bust, so admirably engraven by Grignion, is supposititious? Probably struck by the premature old age of a man who died in his fortieth year, he condemned it by its appearance; but not with the eye of the physiognomist.

[125]

Ancient Funerall Monuments, p. 692.

[126]

In a letter to Joseph Warton.

[127]

Burton, the author of “The Anatomy of Melancholy,” offers a striking instance. Bishop Kennett, in his curious “Register and Chronicle,” has preserved the following particulars of this author. “In an interval of vapours he would be extremely pleasant, and raise laughter in any company. Yet I have heard that nothing at last could make him laugh but going down to the Bridge-foot at Oxford, and hearing the bargemen scold and storm and swear at one another; at which he would set his hands to his sides, and laugh most profusely; yet in his chamber so mute and mopish, that he was suspected to be felo de se.” With what a fine strain of poetic feeling has a modern bard touched this subject!—

“As a beam o’er the face of the waters may glow,
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.”

Moore’s “Irish Melodies.”

[128]

Dr. Edmund Castell offers a remarkable instance to illustrate our present investigation. He more than devoted his life to his “Lexicon Heptaglotton.” It is not possible, if there are tears that are to be bestowed on the afflictions of learned men, to read his pathetic address to Charles II., and forbear. He laments the seventeen years of incredible pains, during which he thought himself idle when he had not devoted sixteen or eighteen hours a day to this labour; that he had expended all his inheritance (it is said more than twelve thousand pounds); that it had broken his constitution, and left him blind as well as poor. When this invaluable Polyglott was published, the copies remained unsold in his hands; for the learned Castell had anticipated the curiosity and knowledge of the public by a full century. He had so completely devoted himself to oriental studies, that they had a very remarkable consequence, for he had totally forgotten his own language, and could scarcely spell a single word. This appears in some of his English Letters, preserved by Mr. Nichols in his valuable “Literary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth Century,” vol. iv. Five hundred of these Lexicons, unsold at the time of his death, were placed by Dr. Castell’s niece in a room so little regarded, that scarcely one complete copy escaped the rats, and “the whole load of learned rags sold only for seven pounds.” The work at this moment would find purchasers, I believe, at forty or fifty pounds.—The learned Sale, who first gave the world a genuine version of the Koran, and who had so zealously laboured in forming that “Universal History” which was the pride of our country, pursued his studies through a life of want—and this great orientalist (I grieve to degrade the memoirs of a man of learning by such mortifications), when he quitted his studies too often wanted a change of linen, and often wandered in the streets in search of some compassionate friend who would supply him with the meal of the day!

[129]

The following are extracts from Ockley’s letters to the Earl of Oxford, which I copy from the originals:—

“Cambridge Castle, May 2, 1717.

“I am here in the prison for debt, which must needs be an unavoidable consequence of the distractions in my family. I enjoy more repose, indeed, here, than I have tasted these many years, but the circumstance of a family obliges me to go out as soon as I can.”

“Cambridge, Sept. 7, 1717.

“I have at last found leisure in my confinement to finish my Saracen history, which I might have hoped for in vain in my perplexed circumstances.”

[130]

Cowel’s book, “The Interpreter,” though professedly a mere explanation of law terms, was believed to contain allusions or interpretations of law entirely adapted to party feeling. Cowel was blamed by both parties, and his book declared to infringe the royal prerogative or the liberties of the subject. It was made one of the articles against Laud at his trial, that he had sanctioned a new edition of this work to countenance King Charles in his measures. Cowel had died long before this (October, 1611); he had retired again to collegiate life as soon as he got free of his political persecutions.—Ed.

[131]

“The Discoverie of Witchcraft, necessary to be known for the undeceiving of Judges, Justices, and Juries, and for the Preservation of Poor People.” Third edition, 1665. This was about the time that, according to Arnot’s Scots Trials, the expenses of burning a witch amounted to ninety-two pounds, fourteen shillings, Scots. The unfortunate old woman cost two trees, and employed two men to watch her closely for thirty days! One ought to recollect the past follies of humanity, to detect, perhaps, some existing ones.

[132]

Except by the hand of literary charity; he was more than once relieved by the Literary Fund. Such are the authors only whom it is wise to patronise.

[133]

A letter found among the papers of the late Mr. Windham, which Mr. Malone has preserved.

[134]

There is an affecting remonstrance of Dryden to Hyde, Earl of Rochester, on the state of his poverty and neglect—in which is this remarkable passage:—“It is enough for one age to have neglected Mr. Cowley and starved Mr. Butler.”

[135]

The author explains the nature of his book in his title-page when he calls it “A Chorographicall Description of tracts, rivers, mountaines, forests, and other parts of this renowned Isle of Great Britaine, with intermixture of the most remarquable stories, antiquities, wonders, rarityes, pleasures, and commodities of the same; digested in a Poem.” The maps with which it is illustrated are curious for the impersonations of the nymphs of wood and water, the sylvan gods, and other characters of the poem; to which the learned Selden supplied notes. Ellis calls it “a wonderful work, exhibiting at once the learning of an historian, an antiquary, a naturalist, and a geographer, and embellished by the imagination of a poet.”—Ed.

[136]

In the dedication of the first part to Prince Henry, the author says of his work, “it cannot want envie: for even in the birth it alreadie finds that.”—Ed.

[137]

An elegant poet of our times alludes, with due feeling, to these personal sacrifices. Addressing Poetry, he exclaims—

“In devotion to thy heavenly charms,
I clasp’d thy altar with my infant arms;
For thee neglected the wide field of wealth;
The toils of interest, and the sports of health.”

How often may we lament that poets are too apt “to clasp the altar with infant arms.” Goldsmith was near forty when he published his popular poems—and the greater number of the most valued poems were produced in mature life. When the poet begins in “infancy,” he too often contracts a habit of writing verses, and sometimes, in all his life, never reaches poetry.

[138]

Vol. ii. p. 355.

[139]

My old favourite cynic, with all his rough honesty and acute discrimination, Anthony Wood, engraved a sketch of Stockdale when he etched with his aqua-fortis the personage of a brother:—“This Edward Waterhouse wrote a rhapsodical, indigested, whimsical work; and not in the least to be taken into the hand of any sober scholar, unless it be to make him laugh or wonder at the simplicity of some people. He was a cock-brained man, and afterwards took orders.”

[140]

It was published in quarto in 1673, and has engravings of the principal scene in each act, and a frontispiece representing the Duke’s Theatre in Dorset Gardens, where it was first acted publicly; it had been played twice at court before this, by noble actors, “persons of such birth and honour,” says Settle, “that they borrowed no greatness from the characters they acted.” The prologues were written by Lords Mulgrave and Rochester, and the utmost éclat given to the five long acts of rhyming bombast, which was declared superior to any work of Dryden’s. As City Poet afterwards Settle composed the pageants, speeches, and songs for the Lord Mayor’s Shows from 1691 to 1708. Towards the close of his career he became impoverished, and wrote from necessity on all subjects. One of his plays, composed for Mrs. Mynns’ booth in Bartholomew Fair, has been twice printed, though both editions are now uncommonly rare. It is called the “Siege of Troy;” and its popularity is attested by Hogarth’s print of Southwark Fair, where outside of Lee and Harper’s great theatrical booth is exhibited a painting of the Trojan horse, and the announcement “The Siege of Troy is here.”—Ed.

[141]

One of his lively adversaries, the author of the “Canons of Criticism,” observed the difficulty of writing against an author whose reputation so much exceeded the knowledge of his works. “It is my misfortune,” says Edwards, “in this controversy, to be engaged with a person who is better known by his name than his works; or, to speak more properly, whose works are more known than read.”—Preface to the Canons of Criticism.

[142]

Aristotle’s Rhetoric, B. III. c. 16.

[143]

The materials for a “Life of Warburton” have been arranged by Mr. Nichols with his accustomed fidelity.—See his Literary Anecdotes.

[144]

It is probable I may have drawn my meteor from our volcanic author himself, who had his lucid moments, even in the deliriums of his imagination. Warburton has rightly observed, in his “Divine Legation,” p. 203, that “Systems, Schemes, and Hypotheses, all bred of heat, in the warm regions of Controversy, like meteors in a troubled sky, have each its turn to blaze and fly away.”

[145]

It seems, even by the confession of a Warburtonian, that his master was of “a human size;” for when Bishop Lowth rallies the Warburtonians for their subserviency and credulity to their master, he aimed a gentle stroke at Dr. Brown, who, in his “Essays on the Characteristics,” had poured forth the most vehement panegyric. In his “Estimate of Manners of the Times,” too, after a long tirade of their badness in regard to taste and learning, he thus again eulogizes his mighty master:—“Himself is abused, and his friends insulted for his sake, by those who never read his writings; or, if they did, could neither taste nor comprehend them; while every little aspiring or despairing scribbler eyes him as Cassius did Cæsar: and whispers to his fellow—

‘Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.’

No wonder, then, if the malice of the Lilliputian tribe be bent against this dreaded Gulliver; if they attack him with poisoned arrows, whom they cannot subdue by strength.”

On this Lowth observes, that “this Lord Paramount in his pretensions doth bestride the narrow world of literature, and has cast out his shoe over all the regions of science.” This leads to a ludicrous comparison of Warburton, with King Pichrochole and his three ministers, who, in Urquhart’s admirable version of the French wit, are Count Merdaille, the Duke of Smalltrash, and the Earl Swashbuckler, who set up for universal monarchy, and made an imaginary expedition through all the quarters of the world, as Rabelais records, and the bishop facetiously quotes. Dr. Brown afterwards seemed to repent his panegyric, and contrives to make his gigantic hero shrink into a moderate size. “I believe still, every little aspiring fellow continues thus to eye him. For myself, I have ever considered him as a man, yet considerable among his species, as the following part of the paragraph clearly demonstrates. I speak of him here as a Gulliver indeed; yet still of no more than human size, and only apprehended to be of colossal magnitude by certain of his Lilliputian enemies.” Thus subtilely would poor Dr. Brown save appearances! It must be confessed that, in a dilemma, never was a giant got rid of so easily!—The plain truth, however, was, that Brown was then on the point of quarrelling with Warburton; for he laments, in a letter to a friend, that “he had not avoided all personal panegyric. I had thus saved myself the trouble of setting right a character which I far over-painted.” A part of this letter is quoted in the “Biographia Britannica.”

[146]

“Tracts by Warburton and a Warburtonian, not admitted into the collections of their respective works,” itself a collection which our shelves could ill spare, though maliciously republished by Dr. Parr. The dedication by Parr stands unparalleled for comparative criticism. It is the eruption of a volcano; it sparkles, it blazes, and scatters light and destruction. How deeply ought we to regret that this Nazarite suffered his strength to be shorn by the Delilahs of spurious fame. Never did this man, with his gifted strength, grasp the pillars of a temple, to shake its atoms over Philistines; but pleased the childlike simplicity of his mind by pulling down houses over the heads of their unlucky inhabitants. He consumed, in local and personal literary quarrels, a genius which might have made the next age his own. With all the stores of erudition, and all the eloquence of genius, he mortified a country parson for his politics, and a London accoucheur for certain obstetrical labours performed on Horace; and now his collected writings lie before us, volumes unsaleable and unread. His insatiate vanity was so little delicate, as often to snatch its sweetmeat from a foul plate; it now appears, by the secret revelations in Griffith’s own copy of his “Monthly Review,” that the writer of a very elaborate article on the works of Dr. Parr, was no less a personage than the Doctor himself. His egotism was so declamatory, that it unnaturalized a great mind, by the distortions of Johnsonian mimicry; his fierceness, which was pushed on to brutality on the unresisting, retreated with a child’s terrors when resisted; and the pomp of petty pride in table triumphs and evening circles, ill compensated for the lost century he might have made his own!

Lord o’er the greatest, to the least a slave,
Half-weak, half-strong, half-timid, and half-brave;
To take a compliment of too much pride,
And yet most hurt when praises are denied.
Thou art so deep discerning, yet so blind,
So learn’d, so ignorant, cruel, yet so kind;
So good, so bad, so foolish, and so wise;—
By turns I love thee, and by turns despise.
MS. Anon. (said to be by the late Dr. Homer.)

[147]

The “Quarterly Review,” vol. vii. p. 383.—So masterly a piece of criticism has rarely surprised the public in the leaves of a periodical publication. It comes, indeed, with the feelings of another age, and the reminiscences of the old and vigorous school. I cannot implicitly adopt all the sentiments of the critic, but it exhibits a highly-finished portrait, enamelled by the love of the artist.—This article was written by the late Dr. Whitaker, the historian of Craven, &c.

[148]

When Warburton, sore at having been refused academical honours at Oxford, which were offered to Pope, then his fellow-traveller, and who, in consequence of this refusal, did himself not accept them—in his controversy with Lowth (then the Oxford Professor), gave way to his angry spirit, and struck at the University itself, for its political jesuitism, being a place where men “were taught to distinguish between de facto and de jure,” caustic was the retort. Lowth, by singular felicity of application, touched on Warburton’s original designation, in a character he hit on in Clarendon. After remonstrating with spirit and dignity on this petulant attack, which was not merely personal, Lowth continues:—“Had I not your lordship’s example to justify me, I should think it a piece of extreme impertinence to inquire where YOU were bred; though one might justly plead, in excuse for it, a natural curiosity to know where and how such a phenomenon was produced. It is commonly said that your lordship’s education was of that particular kind, concerning which it is a remark of that great judge of men and manners, Lord Clarendon (on whom you have, therefore, with a wonderful happiness of allusion, justness of application, and elegance of expression, conferred ‘the unrivalled title of the Chancellor of Human Nature’), that it peculiarly disposes men to be proud, insolent, and pragmatical.” Lowth, in a note, inserts Clarendon’s character of Colonel Harrison: “He had been bred up in the place of a clerk, under a lawyer of good account in those parts; which kind of education introduces men into the language and practice of business; and if it be not resisted by the great ingenuity of the person, inclines young men to more pride than any other kind of breeding, and disposes them to be pragmatical and insolent.” “Now, my lord (Lowth continues), as you have in your whole behaviour, and in all your writings, remarkably distinguished yourself by your humility, lenity, meekness, forbearance, candour, humanity, civility, decency, good manners, good temper, moderation with regard to the opinions of others, and a modest diffidence of your own, this unpromising circumstance of your education is so far from being a disgrace to you, that it highly redounds to your praise.”—Lowth’s Letter to the Author of the D. L. p. 63.

Was ever weapon more polished and keen? This Attic style of controversy finely contrasts with the tasteless and fierce invective of the Warburtonians, although one of them is well known to have managed too adroitly the cutting instrument of irony; but the frigid malignancy of Hurd diminishes the pleasure we might find in his skill. Warburton ill concealed his vexation in the contempt he vented in a letter to Hurd on this occasion. “All you say about Lowth’s pamphlet breathes the purest spirit of friendship. His wit and his reasoning, God knows, and I also, (as a certain critic said once in a matter of the like great importance), are much below the qualities that deserve those names.”—He writes too of “this man’s boldness in publishing his letters.”—“If he expects an answer, he will certainly find himself disappointed; though I believe I could make as good sport with this devil of a vice, for the public diversion, as ever was made with him in the old Moralities.”—But Warburton did reply! Had he ever possessed one feeling of taste, never would he have figured the elegant Lowth as this grotesque personage. He was, however, at that moment sharply stung!

This circumstance of Attorneyship was not passed over in Mallet’s “Familiar Epistle to the Most Impudent Man Living.” Comparing, in the Spirit of “familiarity,” Arnall, an impudent scribbling attorney and political scribe, with Warburton, he says, “You have been an attorney as well as he, but a little more impudent than he was; for Arnall never presumed to conceal his turpitude under the gown and the scarf.” But this is mere invective!

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I have given a tempered opinion of his motive for this sudden conversion from Attorneyship to Divinity; for it must not be concealed, in our inquiry into Warburton’s character, that he has frequently been accused of a more worldly one. He was so fierce an advocate for some important causes he undertook, that his sincerity has been liable to suspicion; the pleader, in some points, certainly acting the part of a sophist. Were we to decide by the early appearances of his conduct, by the rapid change of his profession, by his obsequious servility to his country squire, and by what have been termed the hazardous “fooleries in criticism, and outrages in controversy,” which he systematically pursued, he looks like one not in earnest; and more zealous to maintain the character of his own genius, than the cause he had espoused. Leland once exclaimed, “What are we to think of the writer and his intentions? Is he really sincere in his reasonings?” Certain it is, his paradoxes often alarmed his friends, to repeat the words of a great critic, by “the absurdity of his criticism, the heterodoxy of his tenets, and the brutality of his invectives.” Our Juvenal, who, whatever might be the vehemence of his declamation, reflected always those opinions which floated about him, has drawn a full-length figure. He accounts for Warburton’s early motive in taking the cassock, as being

“——————thereto drawn
By some faint omens of the Lawn,
And on the truly Christian plan,
To make himself a gentleman:
A title, in which Form arrayed him,
Tho’ Fate ne’er thought of when she made him.
To make himself a man of note,
He in defence of Scripture wrote:
So long he wrote, and long about it,
That e’en believers ’gan to doubt it.
He wrote too of the Holy Ghost;
Of whom, no more than doth a post,
He knew; nor, should an angel show him,
Would he or know, or choose to know him.”

Churchill’s “Duellist.”

I would not insinuate that Warburton is to be ranked among the class he so loudly denounced, that of “Free-thinkers;” his mind, warm with imagination, seemed often tinged with credulity. But from his want of sober-mindedness, we cannot always prove his earnestness in the cause he advocated. He often sports with his fancies; he breaks out into the most familiar levity; and maintains, too broadly, subtile and refined principles, which evince more of the political than the primitive Christian. It is certain his infidelity was greatly suspected; and Hurd, to pass over the stigma of Warburton’s sudden conversion to the Church, insinuates that “an early seriousness of mind determined him to the ecclesiastical profession.”—“It may be so,” says the critic in the “Quarterly Review,” no languid admirer of this great man; “but the symptoms of that seriousness were very equivocal afterwards; and the certainty of an early provision, from a generous patron in the country, may perhaps be considered by those who are disposed to assign human conduct to ordinary motives, as quite adequate to the effect.”

Dr. Parr is indignant at such surmises; but the feeling is more honourable than the decision! In an admirable character of Warburton in the “Westminster Magazine” for 1779, it is acknowledged, “at his outset in life he was suspected of being inclined to infidelity; and it was not till many years had elapsed, that the orthodoxy of his opinions was generally assented to.” On this Dr. Parr observes, “Why Dr. Warburton was ever suspected of secret infidelity I know not. What he was inclined to think on subjects of religion, before, perhaps, he had leisure or ability to examine them, depends only upon obscure surmise, or vague report.” The words inclined to think seems a periphrase for secret infidelity. Our critic attributes these reports to “an English dunce, whose blunders and calumnies are now happily forgotten, and repeated by a French buffoon, whose morality is not commensurate with his wit.”—Tracts by Warburton, &c., p. 186.

“The English Dunce” I do not recollect; of this sort there are so many! Voltaire is “the French buffoon;” who, indeed, compares Warburton in his bishopric, to Peachum in the Beggar’s Opera—who, as Keeper of Newgate, was for hanging all his old accomplices!

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Warburton was far more extravagant in a later attempt which he made to expound the odd visions of a crack-brained Welshman, a prophesying knave; a knave by his own confession, and a prophet by Warburton’s. This commentary, inserted in Jortin’s “Remarks on Ecclesiastical History,” considerably injured the reputation of Jortin. The story of Warburton and his Welsh Prophet would of itself be sufficient to detect the shiftings and artifices of his genius. Rice or Arise Evans! was one of the many prophets who rose up in Oliver’s fanatical days; and Warburton had the hardihood to insert, in Jortin’s learned work, a strange commentary to prove that Arise Evans, in Cromwell’s time, in his “Echo from Heaven,” had manifestly prophesied the Hanoverian Succession! The Welshman was a knave by his own account in subscribing with his right hand the confession he calls his prophecy, before a justice, and with his left, that which was his recantation, signed before the recorder, adding, “I know the bench and the people thought I recanted; but, alas! they were deceived;” and this Warburton calls “an uncommon fetch of wit,” to save the truth of the prophecy, though not the honour of the prophet. If Evans meant anything, he meant what was then floating in all men’s minds, the probable restoration of the Stuarts. By this prelude of that inventive genius which afterwards commented, in the same spirit, on the Æneid of Virgil, and the “Divine Legation, itself,” and made the same sort of discoveries, he fixed himself in this dilemma: either Warburton was a greater impostor than Arise Evans, or he was more credulous than even any follower of the Welsh prophet, if he really had any. But the truth is, that Warburton was always writing for a present purpose, and believed, and did not believe, as it happened. “Ordinary men believe one side of a contradiction at a time, whereas his lordship” (says his admirable antagonist) “frequently believes, or at least defends both. So that it would have been no great wonder if he should maintain that Evans was both a real prophet and an impostor.” Yet this is not the only awkward attitude into which Warburton has here thrown himself. To strain the vision of the raving Welshman to events of which he could have no notion, Warburton has plunged into the most ludicrous difficulties, all which ended, as all his discoveries have done, in making the fortune of an adversary who, like the Momus of Homer, has raised through the skies “inextinguishable laughter,” in the amusing tract of “Confusion worse Confounded, Rout on Rout, or the Bishop of G——’s Commentary on Arise Evans; by Indignatio,” 1772. The writer was the learned Henry Taylor, the author of Ben Mordecai’s Apology.

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The correct taste of Lowth with some humour describes the last sentence of the “Enquiry on Prodigies” as “the Musa Pedestris got on horseback in a high prancing style.” He printed it in measured lines, without, however, changing the place of a single word, and it produced blank verse. Thus it reads—

“Methinks I see her like the mighty Eagle
renewing her immortal youth, and purging
her opening sight at the unobstructed beams
of our benign meridian Sun,” &c.

Such a glowing metaphor, in the uncouth prose of Warburton, startled Lowth’s classical ear. It was indeed “the Musa Pedestris who had got on horseback in a high prancing style;” for as it has since been pointed out, it is a well-known passage towards the close of the Areopagitica of Milton, whose prose is so often purely poetical. See Birch’s Edition of Milton’s Prose Works, I. 158. Warburton was familiarly conversant with our great vernacular writers at a time when their names generally were better known than their works, and when it was considered safe to pillage their most glorious passages. Warburton has been convicted of snatching their purple patches, and sewing them into his coarser web, without any acknowledgment; he did this in the present remarkable instance, and at a later day, in the preface to his “Julian,” he laid violent hands on one of Raleigh’s splendid metaphors.

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When Warburton was considered as a Colossus of literature, Ralph, the political writer, pointed a severe allusion to the awkward figure he makes in these Dedications. “The Colossus himself creeps between the legs of the late Sir Robert Sutton; in what posture, or for what purpose, need not be explained.”

Churchill has not passed by unnoticed Warburton’s humility, even to weakness, combined with pride which could rise to haughtiness.

“He was so proud, that should he meet
The twelve apostles in the street,
He’d turn his nose up at them all,
And shove his Saviour from the wall.”

Yet this man

——“Fawned through all his life
For patrons first, then for a wife;
Wrote Dedications, which must make
The heart of every Christian quake.”

The Duellist.

It is certain that the proud and supercilious Warburton long crouched and fawned. Mallet, at least, well knew all that passed between Warburton and Pope. In the “Familiar Epistle” he asserts that Warburton was introduced to Pope by his “nauseous flattery.” A remarkable instance, besides the dedications we have noticed, occurred in his correspondence with Sir Thomas Hanmer. He did not venture to attack “The Oxford Editor,” as he sarcastically distinguishes him, without first demanding back his letters, which were immediately returned, from Sir Thomas’s high sense of honour. Warburton might otherwise have been shown strangely to contradict himself, for in these letters he had been most lavish of his flatteries and encomiums on the man whom he covered with ridicule in the preface to his Shakspeare. See “An Answer to certain Passages in Mr. W.’s Preface to Shakspeare,” 1748.

His dedication to the plain unlettered Ralph Allen of Bath, his greatest of patrons, of his “Commentary on Pope’s Essay on Man,” is written in the same spirit as those to Sir Robert Sutton; but the former unlucky gentleman was more publicly exposed by it. The subject of this dedication turns on “the growth and progress of Fate, divided into four principal branches!” There is an episode about Free-will and Nature and Grace, and “a contrivance of Leibnitz about Fatalism.” Ralph Allen was a good Quaker-like man, but he must have lost his temper if he ever read the dedication! Let us not, however, imagine that Warburton was at all insensible to this violation of literary decorum; he only sacrificed propriety to what he considered a more urgent principle—his own personal interest. No one had a juster conception of the true nature of dedications; for he says in the famous one “to the Free-thinkers:”—“I could never approve the custom of dedicating books to men whose professions made them strangers to the subject. A Discourse on the Ten Predicaments to a Leader of Armies, or a System of Casuistry to a Minister of State, always appeared to me a high absurdity.”

All human characters are mixed—true! yet still we feel indignant to discover some of the greatest often combining the most opposite qualities; and then they are not so much mixed as the parts are naturally joined together. Could one imagine that so lofty a character as Warburton could have been liable to have incurred even the random stroke of the satirist? whether true or false, the events of his life, better known at this day than in his own, will show. Churchill says that

“He could cringe and creep, be civil,
And hold a stirrup to the devil,
If, in a journey to his mind,
He’d let him mount, and ride behind.”

The author of the “Canons of Criticism,” with all his sprightly sarcasm, gives a history of Warburton’s later Dedications. “The first edition of ‘The Alliance’ came out without a dedication, but was presented to the bishops; and when nothing came of that, the second was addressed to both the Universities; and when nothing came of that, the third was dedicated to a noble Earl, and nothing has yet come of that.” Appendix to “Canons of Criticism,” seventh edit. 261.

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The palace here alluded to is fully described in a volume of “Travels through Sicily and Malta,” by P. Brydone, F.R.S., in 1770. He describes it as belonging to “the Prince of Palermo, a man of immense fortune, who has devoted his whole life to the study of monsters and chimeras, greater and more ridiculous than ever entered into the imagination of the wildest writers of romance and knight-errantry.” He tells us this palace was surrounded by an army of statues, “not one made to represent any object in nature. He has put the heads of men to the bodies of every sort of animal, and the heads of every other animal to the bodies of men. Sometimes he makes a compound of five or six animals that have no sort of resemblance in nature. He puts the head of a lion on the neck of a goose, the body of a lizard, the legs of a goat, the tail of a fox; on the back of this monster he puts another, if possible still more hideous, with five or six heads, and a bush of horns. There is no kind of horn in the world he has not collected, and his pleasure is to see them all flourishing upon the same head.” The interior of the house was decorated in the same monstrous style, and the description, unique of its kind, occupies several pages of Mr. Brydone’s book.—Ed.

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This letter was written in 1726, and first found by Dr. Knight in 1750, in fitting up a house where Concanen had probably lodged. It was suppressed, till Akenside, in 1766, printed it in a sixpenny pamphlet, entitled “An Ode to Mr. Edwards.” He preserved the curiosity, with “all its peculiarities of grammar, spelling, and punctuation.” The insulted poet took a deep revenge for the contemptuous treatment he had received from the modern Stagirite. The “peculiarities” betray most evident marks of the self-taught lawyer; the orthography and the double letters were minted in the office. [Thus he speaks of Addison as this “exact Mr. of propriety,” and of his own studies of the English poets “to trace them to their sources; and observe what oar, as well as what slime and gravel they brought down with them.”] When I looked for the letter in Akenside’s Works, I discovered that it had been silently dropped. Some interest, doubtless, had been made to suppress it, for Warburton was humbled when reminded of it. Malone, fortunately, has preserved it in his Shakspeare, where it may be found, in a place not likely to be looked into for it, at the close of Julius Cæsar: this literary curiosity had otherwise been lost for posterity; its whole history is a series of wonderful escapes.

By this document we became acquainted with the astonishing fact, that Warburton, early in life, was himself one of those very dunces whom he has so unmercifully registered in their Doomsday-book; one who admired the genius of his brothers, and spoke of Pope with the utmost contempt! [Thus he says, “Dryden, I observe, borrows for want of leisure, and Pope for want of genius!”]

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Lee introduces Alexander the Great, saying,

“When Glory, like the dazzling eagle, stood
Perch’d on my beaver in the Granic flood,
When Fortune’s self my standard trembling bore,
And the pale Fates stood frighted on the shore;
When the Immortals on the billows rode,
And I myself appear’d the leading god!”

In the province of taste Warburton was always at sea without chart or compass, and was as unlucky in his panegyric on Milton as on Lee. He calls the “Paradise Regained” “a charming poem, nothing inferior in the poetry and the sentiments to the Paradise Lost.” Such extravagance could only have proceeded from a critic too little sensible to the essential requisites of poetry itself.

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Such opposite studies shot themselves into the most fantastical forms in his rocket-writings, whether they streamed in “The Divine Legation,” or sparkled in “The Origin of Romances,” or played about in giving double senses to Virgil, Pope, and Shakspeare. Churchill, with a good deal of ill-nature and some truth, describes them:—

“A curate first, he read and read,
And laid in, while he should have fed
The souls of his neglected flock,
Of rending, such a mighty stock,
That he o’ercharged the weary brain
With more than she could well contain;
More than she was with spirit fraught
To turn and methodise to thought;
And which, like ill-digested food,
To humours turn’d, and not to blood.”

The opinion of Bentley, when he saw “The Divine Legation,” was a sensible one. “This man,” said he, “has a monstrous appetite, with a very bad digestion.”

The Warburtonians seemed to consider his great work, as the Bible by which all literary men were to be sworn. Lowth ridicules their credulity. “‘The Divine Legation,’ it seems, contains in it all knowledge, divine and human, ancient and modern: it is a perfect Encyclopædia, including all history, criticism, divinity, law, politics, from the law of Moses down to the Jew bill, and from Egyptian hieroglyphics to modern Rebus-writing, &c.”

“In the 2014 pages of the unfinished ‘Divine Legation,’” observes the sarcastic Gibbon, “four hundred authors are quoted, from St. Austin down to Scarron and Rabelais!”

Yet, after all that satire and wit have denounced, listen to an enlightened votary of Warburton. He asserts that “The ‘Divine Legation’ has taken its place at the head, not to say of English theology, but almost of English literature. To the composition of this prodigious performance, Hooker and Stillingfleet could have contributed the erudition, Chillingworth and Locke the acuteness, Taylor an imagination even more wild and copious, Swift, and perhaps, Eachard, the sarcastic vein of wit; but what power of understanding, except Warburton’s, could first have amassed all these materials, and then compacted them into a bulky and elaborate work, so consistent and harmonious.”—Quarterly Review. vol. vii.

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“The Divine Legation of Moses Demonstrated,” vol. i. sec. iv. Observe the remarkable expression, “that last foible of superior genius.” He had evidently running in his mind Milton’s line on Fame—

“That last infirmity of noble minds.”

In such an exalted state was Warburton’s mind when he was writing this, his own character.

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The author of “The Canons of Criticism” addressed a severe sonnet to Warburton; and alludes to the “Alliance”:—

“Reign he sole king in paradoxal land,
And for Utopia plan his idle schemes
Of visionary leagues, alliance vain
’Twixt Will and Warburton—”

On which he adds this note, humorously stating the grand position of the work:—“The whole argument by which the alliance between Church and State is established, Mr. Warburton founds upon this supposition—‘That people, considering themselves in a religious capacity, may contract with themselves, considered in a civil capacity.’ The conceit is ingenious, but is not his own. Scrub, in the Beaux Stratagem, had found it out long ago: he considers himself as acting the different parts of all the servants in the family; and so Scrub, the coachman, ploughman, or justice’s clerk, might contract with Scrub, the butler, for such a quantity of ale as the other assumed character demanded.”—Appendix, p. 261.

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“Monthly Review,” vol. xvi. p. 324, the organ of the dissenters.

[160]

See article Hobbes, for his system. The great Selden was an Erastian; a distinction extremely obscure. Erastus was a Swiss physician of little note, who was for restraining the ecclesiastical power from all temporal jurisdiction. Selden did him the honour of adopting his principles. Selden wrote against the divine right of tithes, but allowed the legal right, which gave at first great offence to the clergy, who afterwards perceived the propriety of his argument, as Wotton has fully acknowledged.

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It does not always enter into the design of these volumes to examine those great works which produced literary quarrels. But some may be glad to find here a word on this original project.

The grand position of the Divine Legation is, that the knowledge of the immortality of the soul, or a future state of reward and punishment, is absolutely necessary in the moral government of the universe. The author shows how it has been inculcated by all good legislators, so that no religion could ever exist without it; but the Jewish could, from its peculiar government, which was theocracy—a government where the presence of God himself was perpetually manifested by miracles and new ordinances: and hence temporal rewards and punishments were sufficient for that people, to whom the unity and power of the Godhead were never doubtful. As he proceeded, he would have opened a new argument, viz., that the Jewish religion was only the part of a revelation, showing the necessity of a further one for its completion, which produced Christianity.

When Warburton was in good spirits with his great work (for he was not always so), he wrote thus to a friend:—“You judge right, that the next volume of the D. L. will not be the last. I thought I had told you that I had divided the work into three parts: the first gives you a view of Paganism; the second, of Judaism; and the third, of Christianity. You will wonder how this last inquiry can come into so simple an argument as that which I undertake to enforce. I have not room to tell you more than this—that after I have proved a future state not to be, in fact in the Mosaic dispensation, I next show that, if Christianity be true, it could not possibly be there; and this necessitates me to explain the nature of Christianity, with which the whole ends. But this inter nos. If it be known, I should possibly have somebody writing against this part too before it appears.”—Nichols’s “Literary Anecdotes,” vol. v. p. 551.

Thus he exults in the true tone, and with all the levity of a sophist. It is well that a true feeling of religion does not depend on the quirks and quibbles of human reasonings, or, what are as fallible, on masses of fanciful erudition.

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Warburton lost himself in the labyrinth he had so ingeniously constructed. This work harassed his days and exhausted his intellect. Observe the tortures of a mind, even of so great a mind as that of Warburton’s, when it sacrifices all to the perishable vanity of sudden celebrity. Often he flew from his task in utter exhaustion and despair. He had quitted the smooth and even line of truth, to wind about and split himself on all the crookedness of paradoxes. He paints his feelings in a letter to Birch. He says—“I was so disgusted with an old subject, that I had deferred it from month to month and year to year.” He had recourse to “an expedient;” which was, “to set the press on work, and so oblige himself to supply copy.” Such is the confession of the author of the “Divine Legation!” this “encyclopædia” of all ancient and modern lore—all to proceed from “a simple argument!” But when he describes his sufferings, hard is the heart of that literary man who cannot sympathise with such a giant caught in the toils! I give his words:—“Distractions of various kinds, inseparable from human life, joined with a naturally melancholy habit, contribute greatly to increase my indolence. This makes my reading wild and desultory; and I seek refuge from the uneasiness of thought, from any book, let it be what it will. By my manner of writing upon subjects, you would naturally imagine they afford me pleasure, and attach me thoroughly. I will assure you, No!”—Nichols’s “Literary Anecdotes,” vol. v. p. 562.

Warburton had not the cares of a family—they were merely literary ones. The secret cause of his “melancholy,” and his “indolence,” and that “want of attachment and pleasure to his subjects;” which his friends “naturally imagined” afforded him so much, was the controversies he had kindled, and the polemical battles he had raised about him. However boldly he attacked in return, his heart often sickened in privacy; for how often must he have beheld his noble and his whimsical edifices built on sands, which the waters were perpetually eating into!

At the last interview of Warburton with Pope, the dying poet exhorted him to proceed with “The Divine Legation.” “Your reputation,” said he, “as well as your duty, is concerned in it. People say you can get no farther in your proof. Nay, Lord Bolingbroke himself bids me expect no such thing.” This anecdote is rather extraordinary; for it appears in “Owen Ruffhead’s Life of Pope,” p. 497, a work written under the eye of Warburton himself; and in which I think I could point out some strong touches from his own hand on certain important occasions, when he would not trust to the creeping dulness of Ruffhead.

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His temerity had raised against him not only infidels, but Christians. If any pious clergyman now wrote in favour of the opinion that God’s people believed in the immortality of the soul—which can we doubt they did? and which Menasseh Ben Israel has written his treatise, “De Resurrectione Mortuorum,” to prove—it was a strange sight to behold a bishop seeming to deny so rational and religious a creed! Even Dr. Balguy confessed to Warburton, that “there was one thing in the argument of the ‘Divine Legation’ that stuck more with candid men than all the rest—how a religion without a future state could be worthy of God!” This Warburton promised to satisfy, by a fresh appendix. His volatile genius, however, was condemned to “the pelting of a merciless storm.” Lowth told him—“You give yourself out as demonstrator of the divine legation of Moses; it has been often demonstrated before; a young student in theology might undertake to give a better—that is, a more satisfactory and irrefragable demonstration of it in five pages than you have done in five volumes.”—Lowth’s “Letter to Warburton,” p. 12.

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Hurd was the son of a Staffordshire farmer, and was placed by him at Rugely, from whence he was removed to Emmanuel College, Cambridge. At the age of twenty-six he published a pamphlet entitled “Remarks on a late Book entitled ‘An Inquiry into the Rejection of the Christian Miracles by the Heathens, by William Weston,’” which met with considerable attention. In 1749, on the occasion of publishing a commentary on Horace’s “Ars Poetica,” he complimented Warburton so strongly as to ensure his favour. Warburton returned it by a puff for Hurd in his edition of Pope, and the two became fast friends. It was a profitable connexion to Hurd, for by the intercession of Warburton he was appointed one of the Whitehall preachers, a preacher at Lincoln’s Inn, and Archdeacon of Gloucester. He repaid Warburton by constant praises in print, and so far succeeded with that vain man, that when he read the dedication he made to him of his “Commentary on the Epistle to Augustus,” he wrote to him with mock humility—“I will confess to you how much satisfaction the groundless part of it, that which relates to myself, gave me.” When Dr. Jortin very properly spoke of Warburton with less of subserviency than the overbearing bishop desired, Hurd at once came forward to fight for Warburton in print, in a satirical treatise on “The Delicacy of Friendship,” which highly delighted his patron, who at once wrote to Dr. Lowth, stating him to be “a man of very superior talents, of genius, learning, and virtue; indeed, a principal ornament of the age he lives in.” Hurd was made Bishop of Lichfield in 1775, and of Winchester in 1779. He died in the year 1808.—Ed.

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The Attic irony was translated into plain English, in “Remarks on Dr. Warburton’s Account of the Sentiments of the Early Jews,” 1757; and the following rules for all who dissented from Warburton are deduced:—“You must not write on the same subject that he does. You must not glance at his arguments, even without naming him or so much as referring to him. If you find his reasonings ever so faulty, you must not presume to furnish him with better of your own, even though you prove, and are desirous to support his conclusions. When you design him a compliment, you must express it in full form, and with all the circumstance of panegyrical approbation, without impertinently qualifying your civilities by assigning a reason why you think he deserves them, as this might possibly be taken for a hint that you know something of the matter he is writing about as well as himself. You must never call any of his discoveries by the name of conjectures, though you allow them their full proportion of elegance, learning, &c.; for you ought to know that this capital genius never proposed anything to the judgment of the public (though ever so new and uncommon) with diffidence in his life. Thus stands the decree prescribing our demeanour towards this sovereign in the Republic of Letters, as we find it promulged, and bearing date at the palace of Lincoln’s Inn, Nov. 25, 1755.”—From whence Hurd’s “Seventh Dissertation” was dated.

[166]

Gibbon’s “Critical Observations on the Design of the Sixth Book of the Æneid.” Dr. Parr considers this clear, elegant, and decisive work of criticism, as a complete refutation of Warburton’s discovery.

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It is curious enough to observe that Warburton himself, acknowledging this to be a paradox, exultingly exclaims, “Which, like so many others I have had the ODD FORTUNE to advance, will be seen to be only another name for Truth.” This has all the levity of a sophist’s language! Hence we must infer that some of the most important subjects could not be understood and defended, but by Warburton’s “odd fortune!” It was this levity of ideas that raised a suspicion that he was not always sincere. He writes, in a letter, of “living in mere spite, to rub another volume of the ‘Divine Legation’ in the noses of bigots and zealots.” He employs the most ludicrous images, and the coarsest phrases, on the most solemn subjects. In one of his most unlucky paradoxes with Lowth, on the age and style of the writings of Job, he accuses that elegant scholar of deficient discernment; and, in respect to style, as not “distinguishing partridge from horseflesh;” and in quoting some of the poetical passages, of “paying with an old song,” and “giving rhyme for reason.” Alluding to some one of his adversaries, whom he calls “the weakest, as well as the wickedest of all mankind,” he employs a striking image—“I shall hang him and his fellows, as they do vermin in a warren, and leave them to posterity, to stink and blacken in the wind.”

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Warburton, in this work (the “Doctrine of Grace,”) has a curious passage, too long to quote, where he observes, that “The Indian and Asiatic eloquence was esteemed hyperbolic and puerile by the more phlegmatic inhabitants of Rome and Athens: and the Western eloquence, in its turn, frigid or insipid, to the hardy and inflamed imaginations of the East. The same expression, which in one place had the utmost simplicity, had in another the utmost sublime.” The jackal, too, echoes the roar of the lion; for the polished Hurd, whose taste was far more decided than Warburton’s, was bold enough to add, in his Letter to Leland, “That which is thought supremely elegant in one country, passes in another for finical; while what in this country is accepted under the idea of sublimity, is derided in that other as no better than bombast.” So unsettled were the no-taste of Warburton, and the prim-taste of Hurd!

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The Letter to Leland is characterised in the “Critical Review” for April, 1765, as the work of “a preferment-hunting toad-eater, who, while his patron happened to go out of his depth, tells him that he is treading good ground; but at the same time offers him the use of a cork-jacket to keep him above water.”

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Dr. Thomas Leland was born in Dublin in 1722, and was educated in Trinity College, in that city. Having obtained a Fellowship there, he depended on that alone, and devoted a long life to study, and the production of various historical and theological works; as well as a “History of Ireland,” published in 1773. He died in 1785.—Ed.

[171]

In a rough attack on Warburton, respecting Pope’s privately printing 1500 copies of the “Patriot King” of Bolingbroke, which I conceive to have been written by Mallet, I find a particular account of the manner in which the “Essay on Man” was written, over which Johnson seems to throw great doubts.

The writer of this angry epistle, in addressing Warburton, says: “If you were as intimate with Mr. Pope as you pretend, you must know the truth of a fact which several others, as well as I, who never had the honour of a personal acquaintance with Lord Bolingbroke or Mr. Pope, have heard. The fact was related to me by a certain Senior Fellow of one of our Universities, who was very intimate with Mr. Pope. He started some objections, one day, at Mr. Pope’s house, to the doctrine contained in the Ethic Epistles: upon which Mr. Pope told him that he would soon convince him of the truth of it, by laying the argument at large before him; for which purpose he gave him a large prose manuscript to peruse, telling him, at the same time, the author’s name. From this perusal, whatever other conviction the doctor might receive, he collected at least this: that Mr. Pope had from his friend not only the doctrine, but even the finest and strongest ornaments of his Ethics. Now, if this fact be true (as I question not but you know it to be so), I believe no man of candour will attribute such merit to Mr. Pope as you would insinuate, for acknowledging the wisdom and the friendship of the man who was his instructor in philosophy; nor consequently that this acknowledgment, and the dedication of his own system, put into a poetical dress by Mr. Pope, laid his lordship under the necessity of never resenting any injury done to him by the poet afterwards. Mr. Pope told no more than literal truth, in calling Lord Bolingbroke his guide, philosopher, and friend.” The existence of this very manuscript volume was authenticated by Lord Bathurst, in a conversation with Dr. Blair and others, where he said, “he had read the MS. in Lord Bolingbroke’s handwriting, and was at a loss whether most to admire the elegance of Lord Bolingbroke’s prose, or the beauty of Mr. Pope’s verse.”—See the letter of Dr. Blair in “Boswell’s Life of Johnson.”

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Of many instances, the following one is the most curious. When Jarvis published his “Don Quixote,” Warburton, who was prompt on whatever subject was started, presented him with “A Dissertation on the Origin of the Books of Chivalry.” When it appeared, it threw Pope, their common friend, into raptures. He writes, “I knew you as certainly as the ancients did the gods, by the first pace and the very gait.” True enough! Warburton’s strong genius stamped itself on all his works. But neither the translating painter, nor the simple poet, could imagine the heap of absurdities they were admiring! Whatever Warburton here asserted was false, and whatever he conjectured was erroneous; but his blunders were quite original.—The good sense and knowledge of Tyrwhitt have demolished the whole edifice, without leaving a single brick standing. The absurd rhapsody has been worth preserving, for the sake of the masterly confutation: no uncommon result of Warburton’s literary labours!

It forms the concluding note in Shakspeare’s Love’s Labour Lost.

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Of Theobald he was once the companion, and to Sir Thomas Hanmer he offered his notes for his edition. [Hanmer’s Shakspeare was given in 1742 to the University of Oxford, for its benefit, and was printed at the University Press, under the management of Dr. Smith and Dr. Shippon. Sir Thomas paid the expenses of the engravings by Gravelot prefixed to each play. The edition was published in 4to. in 1744, it was printed on the “finest royal paper,” and does not warrant the severity of Pope, whose editing was equally faulty.] Sir Thomas says he found Warburton’s notes “sometimes just, but mostly wild and out of the way.” Warburton paid a visit to Sir Thomas for a week, which he conceived was to assist him in perfecting his darling text; but hints were now dropped by Warburton, that he might publish the work corrected, by which a greater sum of money might be got than could be by that plaything of Sir Thomas, which shines in all its splendour in the Dunciad; but this project did not suit Hanmer, whose life seemed greatly to depend on the magnificent Oxford edition, which “was not to go into the hands of booksellers.” On this, Warburton, we are told by Hanmer, “flew into a great rage, and there is an end of the story.” With what haughtiness he treats these two friends, for once they were such! Had the Dey of Algiers been the editor of Shakspeare, he could not have issued his orders more peremptorily for the decapitation of his rivals. Of Theobald and Hanmer he says, “the one was recommended to me as a poor man, the other as a poor critic: and to each of them at different times I communicated a great number of observations, which they managed, as they saw fit, to the relief of their several distresses. Mr. Theobald was naturally turned to industry and labour. What he read he could transcribe; but as to what he thought, if ever he did think, he could but ill express, so he read on: and by that means got a character of learning, without risking to every observer the imputation of wanting a better talent.”—See what it is to enjoy too close an intimacy with a man of wit! “As for the Oxford Editor, he wanted nothing (alluding to Theobald’s want of money) but what he might very well be without, the reputation of a critic,” &c. &c.—Warburton’s Preface to Shakspeare.

His conduct to Dr. Grey, the editor of Hudibras, cannot be accounted for by any known fact. I have already noticed their quarrels in the “Calamities of Authors.” Warburton cheerfully supplied Grey with various notes on Hudibras, though he said he had thought of an edition himself, and they were gratefully acknowledged in Grey’s Preface; but behold! shortly afterwards they are saluted by Warburton as “an execrable heap of nonsense;” further, he insulted Dr. Grey for the number of his publications! Poor Dr. Grey and his “Coadjutors,” as Warburton sneeringly called others of his friends, resented this by “A Free and Familiar Letter to that Great Preserver of Pope and Shakspeare, the Rev. Mr. William Warburton.” The doctor insisted that Warburton had had sufficient share in those very notes to be considered as one of the “Coadjutors.” “I may venture to say, that whoever was the fool of the company before he entered (or the fool of the piece, in his own diction) he was certainly so after he engaged in that work; for, as Ben Jonson observes, ‘he that thinks himself the Master-Wit is commonly the Master-Fool.’”

[174]

Warburton certainly used little intrigues: he trafficked with the obscure Reviews of the times. He was a correspondent in “The Works of the Learned,” where the account of his first volume of the Divine Legation, he says, is “a nonsensical piece of stuff;” and when Dr. Doddridge offered to draw up an article for his second, the favour was accepted, and it was sent to the miserable journal, though acknowledged “to be too good for it.” In the same journal were published all his specimens of Shakspeare, some years after they had appeared in the “General Dictionary,” with a high character of these wonderful discoveries.—“The Alliance,” when first published, was announced in “The Present State of the Republic of Letters,” to be the work of a gentleman whose capacity, judgment, and learning deserve some eminent dignity in the Church of England, of which he is “now an inferior minister.”—One may presume to guess at “the gentleman,” a little impatient for promotion, who so much cared whether Warburton was only “now an inferior minister.”

These are little arts. Another was, that Warburton sometimes acted Falstaff’s part, and ran his sword through the dead! In more instances than one this occurred. Sir Thomas Hanmer was dead when Warburton, then a bishop, ventured to assert that Sir Thomas’s letter concerning their intercourse about Shakspeare was “one continued falsehood from beginning to end.” The honour and veracity of Hanmer must prevail over the “liveliness” of Warburton, for Hurd lauds his “lively preface to his Shakspeare.” But the “Biographia Britannica” bears marks of Warburton’s violence, in a cancelled sheet. See the Index, art. Hanmer; [where we are told “the sheet being castrated at the instance of Mr., now Dr. Warburton, Bishop of Gloucester, it has been reprinted as an appendix to the work,” it consisted in the suppression of one of Hanmer’s letters.] He did not choose to attack Dr. Middleton in form, during his lifetime, but reserved his blow when his antagonist was no more. I find in Cole’s MSS. this curious passage:—“It was thought, at Cambridge, that Dr. Middleton and Dr. Warburton did not cordially esteem one another; yet both being keen and thorough sportsmen, they were mutually afraid to engage to each other, for fear of a fall. If that was the case, the bishop judged prudently, however fairly it may be looked upon, to stay till it was out of the power of his adversary to make any reply, before he gave his answer.” Warburton only replied to Middleton’s “Letter from Rome,” in his fourth edition of the “Divine Legation,” 1765.—When Dyson firmly defended his friend Akenside from the rude attacks of Warburton, it is observed, that he bore them with “prudent patience:” he never replied!

[175]

These critical extravaganzas are scarcely to be paralleled by “Bentley’s Notes on Milton.” How Warburton turned “an allegorical mermaid” into “the Queen of Scots;”—showed how Shakspeare, in one word, and with one epithet “the majestic world,” described the Orbis Romanus, alluded to the Olympic Games, &c.; yet, after all this discovery, seems rather to allude to a story about Alexander, which Warburton happened to recollect at that moment;—and how he illustrated Octavia’s idea of the fatal consequences of a civil war between Cæsar and Antony, who said it would “cleave the world,” by the story of Curtius leaping into the chasm;—how he rejected “allowed, with absolute power,” as not English, and read “hallowed,” on the authority of the Roman Tribuneship being called Sacro-sancta Potestas; how his emendations often rose from puns; as for instance, when, in Romeo and Juliet, it is said of the Friar, that “the city is much obliged to him,” our new critic consents to the sound of the word, but not to the spelling, and reads hymn; that is, to laud, to praise! These, and more extraordinary instances of perverting ingenuity and abused erudition, would form an uncommon specimen of criticism, which may be justly ridiculed, but which none, except an exuberant genius, could have produced. The most amusing work possible would be a real Warburton’s Shakspeare, which would contain not a single thought, and scarcely an expression, of Shakspeare’s!

[176]

Had Johnson known as much as we do of Warburton’s opinion of his critical powers, it would have gone far to have cured his amiable prejudice in favour of Warburton, who really was a critic without taste, and who considered literature as some do politics, merely as a party business. I shall give a remarkable instance. When Johnson published his first critical attempt on Macbeth, he commended the critical talents of Warburton; and Warburton returned the compliment in the preface to his Shakspeare, and distinguishes Johnson as “a man of parts and genius.” But, unluckily, Johnson afterwards published his own edition; and, in his editorial capacity, his public duty prevailed over his personal feelings: all this went against Warburton; and the opinions he now formed of Johnson were suddenly those of insolent contempt. In a letter to Hurd, he writes: “Of this Johnson, you and I, I believe, think alike!” And to another friend: “The remarks he makes, in every page, on my Commentaries, are full of insolence and malignant reflections, which, had they not in them as much folly as malignity, I should have reason to be offended with.” He consoles himself, however, that Johnson’s notes, accompanying his own, will enable even “the trifling part of the public” not to mistake in the comparison.—Nichols’s “Literary Anecdotes,” vol. v. p. 595.

And what became of Johnson’s noble Preface to Shakspeare? Not a word on that!—Warburton, who himself had written so many spirited ones, perhaps did not like to read one finer than his own,—so he passed it by! He travelled through Egypt, but held his hands before his eyes at a pyramid!

[177]

Thomas Edwards chiefly led the life of a literary student, though he studied for the Bar at Lincoln’s-Inn, and was fully admitted a member thereof. He died unmarried at the age of 58. He descended from a family of lawyers; possessed a sufficient private property to ensure independence, and died on his own estate of Turrick, in Buckinghamshire. Dr. Warton observes, “This attack on Mr. Edwards is not of weight sufficient to weaken the effects of his excellent ‘Canons of Criticism,’ all impartial critics allow these remarks to have been decisive and judicious, and his book remains unrefuted and unanswerable.”—Ed.

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Some grave dull men, who did not relish the jests, doubtless the booksellers, who, to buy the name of Warburton, had paid down 500l. for the edition, loudly complained that Edwards had injured both him and them, by stopping the sale! On this Edwards expresses his surprise, how “a little twelvepenny pamphlet could stop the progress of eight large octavo volumes;” and apologises, by applying a humorous story to Warburton, for “puffing himself off in the world for what he is not, and now being discovered.”—“I am just in the case of a friend of mine, who, going to visit an acquaintance, upon entering his room, met a person going out of it:—‘Prythee, Jack,’ says he, ‘what do you do with that fellow?’ ‘Why, ’tis Don Pedro di Mondongo, my Spanish master.’—‘Spanish master!’ replies my friend; ‘why, he’s an errant Teague; I know the fellow well enough: ’tis Rory Gehagan. He may possibly have been in Spain; but, depend on’t, he will sell you the Tipperary brogue for pure Castilian.’ Now honest Rory has just the same reason of complaint against this gentleman as Mr. Warburton has against me, and I suppose abused him as heartily for it; but nevertheless the gentleman did both parties justice.”

Some secret history is attached to this publication, so fatal to Warburton’s critical character in English literature. This satire, like too many which have sprung out of literary quarrels, arose from personal motives! When Edwards, in early life, after quitting college, entered the army, he was on a visit at Mr. Allen’s, at Bath, whose niece Warburton afterwards married. Literary subjects formed the usual conversation. Warburton, not suspecting the red coat of covering any Greek, showed his accustomed dogmatical superiority. Once, when the controversy was running high, Edwards taking down a Greek author, explained a passage in a manner quite contrary to Warburton. He did unluckily something more—he showed that Warburton’s mistake had arisen from having used a French translation!—and all this before Ralph Allen and his niece! The doughty critic was at once silenced, in sullen indignation and mortal hatred. To this circumstance is attributed Edwards’s “Canons of Criticism,” which were followed up by Warburton with incessant attacks; in every new edition of Pope, in the “Essay on Criticism,” and the Dunciad. Warburton asserts that Edwards is a very dull writer (witness the pleasantry that carries one through a volume of no small size), that he is a libeller (because he ruined the critical character of Warburton)—and “a libeller (says Warburton, with poignancy), is nothing but a Grub-street critic run to seed.”—He compares Edwards’s wit and learning to his ancestor Tom Thimble’s, in the Rehearsal (because Edwards read Greek authors in their original), and his air of good-nature and politeness, to Caliban’s in the Tempest (because he had so keenly written the “Canons of Criticism”).—I once saw a great literary curiosity: some proof-sheets of the Dunciad of Warburton’s edition. I observed that some of the bitterest notes were after-thoughts, written on those proof-sheets after he had prepared the book for the press—one of these additions was his note on Edwards. Thus Pope’s book afforded renewed opportunities for all the personal hostilities of this singular genius!

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In the “Richardsoniana,” p. 264, the younger Richardson, who was admitted to the intimacy of Pope, and collated the press for him, gives some curious information about Warburton’s Commentary, both upon the “Essay on Man” and the “Essay on Criticism.” “Warburton’s discovery of the ‘regularity’ of Pope’s ‘Essay on Criticism,’ and ‘the whole scheme’ of his ‘Essay on Man,’ I happen to know to be mere absurd refinement in creating conformities; and this from Pope himself, though he thought fit to adopt them afterwards.” The genius of Warburton might not have found an invincible difficulty in proving that the “Essay on Criticism” was in fact an Essay on Man, and the reverse. Pope, before he knew Warburton, always spoke of his “Essay on Criticism” as “an irregular collection of thoughts thrown together as Horace’s ‘Art of Poetry’ was.” “As for the ‘Essay on Man,’” says Richardson, “I know that he never dreamed of the scheme he afterwards adopted; but he had taken terror about the clergy, and Warburton himself, at the general alarm of its fatalism and deistical tendency, of which my father and I talked with him frequently at Twickenham, without his appearing to understand it, or ever thinking to alter those passages which we suggested.”—This extract is to be valued, for the information is authentic; and it assists us in throwing some light on the subtilty of Warburton’s critical impositions.

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The postscript to Warburton’s “Dedication to the Freethinkers,” is entirely devoted to Akenside; with this bitter opening, “The Poet was too full of the subject and of himself.”

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“An Epistle to the Rev. Mr. Warburton, occasioned by his Treatment of the Author of ‘The Pleasures of the Imagination,’” 1744. While Dyson repels Warburton’s accusations against “the Poet,” he retorts some against the critic himself. Warburton often perplexed a controversy by a subtile change of a word; or by breaking up a sentence; or by contriving some absurdity in the shape of an inference, to get rid of it in a mock triumph. These little weapons against the laws of war are insidiously practised in the war of words. Warburton never replied.

[182]

The paradoxical title of his great work was evidently designed to attract the unwary. “The Divine Legation of Moses demonstrated—from the omission of a future state!” It was long uncertain whether it was “a covert attack on Christianity, instead of a defence of it.” I have here no concern with Warburton’s character as a polemical theologist; this has been the business of that polished and elegant scholar, Bishop Lowth, who has shown what it is to be in Hebrew literature “a Quack in Commentatorship, and a Mountebank in Criticism.” He has fully entered into all the absurdity of Warburton’s “ill-starred Dissertation on Job.” It is curious to observe that Warburton in the wild chase of originality, often too boldly took the bull by the horns, for he often adopted the very reasonings and objections of infidels!—for instance, in arguing on the truth of the Hebrew text, because the words had no points when a living language, he absolutely prefers the Koran for correctness! On this Lowth observes: “You have been urging the same argument that Spinoza employed, in order to destroy the authority of the Hebrew Scriptures, and to introduce infidelity and atheism.” Lowth shows further, that “this was also done by ‘a society of gentlemen,’ in their ‘Sacerdotism Displayed,’ said to be written by ‘a select committee of the Deists and Freethinkers of Great Britain,’ whose author Warburton himself had represented to be ‘the forwardest devil of the whole legion.’” Lowth, however, concludes that all the mischief has arisen only from “your lordship’s undertaking to treat of a subject with which you appear to be very much unacquainted.”—Lowth’s Letter, p. 91.

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Lowth remonstrated with Warburton on his “supreme authority:”—“I did not care to protest against the authoritative manner in which you proceeded, or to question your investiture in the high office of Inquisitor General and Supreme Judge of the Opinions of the Learned, which you had long before assumed, and had exercised with a ferocity and a despotism without example in the Republic of Letters, and hardly to be paralleled among the disciples of Dominic; exacting their opinions to the standard of your infallibility, and prosecuting with implacable hatred every one that presumed to differ from you.”—Lowth’s Letter to W., p. 9.

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Warburton had the most cutting way of designating his adversaries, either by the most vehement abuse or the light petulance that expressed his ineffable contempt. He says to one, “Though your teeth are short, what you want in teeth you have in venom, and know, as all other creatures do, where your strength lies.” He thus announces in one of the prefaces to the “Divine Legation” the name of the author of a work on “A Future State of Rewards and Punishments,” in which were some objections to Warburton’s theory:—“I shall, therefore, but do what indeed would be justly reckoned the cruellest of all things, tell my reader the name of this miserable; which we find to be J. Tillard.” “Mr. Tillard was first condemned (says the author of ‘Confusion Worse Confounded,’) as a ruffian that stabs a man in the dark, because he did not put his name to his book against the ‘Divine Legation;’ and afterwards condemned as lost to shame, both as a man and a writer, because he did put his name to it.” Would not one imagine this person to be one of the lowest of miscreants? He was a man of fortune and literature. Of this person Warburton says in a letter, “This is a man of fortune, and it is well he is so, for I have spoiled his trade as a writer; and as he was very abusive, free-thinking, and anonymous, I have not spared to expose his ignorance and ill faith.” But afterwards, having discovered that he was a particular friend to Dr. Oliver, he makes awkward apologies, and declares he would not have gone so far had he known this! He was often so vehement in his abuse that I find he confessed it himself, for, in preparing a new edition of the “Divine Legation,” he tells Dr. Birch that he has made “several omissions of passages which were thought vain, insolent, and ill-natured.”

It is amusing enough to observe how he designates men as great as himself. When he mentions the learned Hyde, he places him “at the head of a rabble of lying orientalists.” When he alludes to Peters, a very learned and ingenious clergyman, he passes by him as “The Cornish Critic.” A friend of Peters observed that “he had given Warburton ‘a Cornish hug,’ of which he might be sore as long as he lived.” Dr. Taylor, the learned editor of Demosthenes, he selects from “his fellows,” that is, other dunces: a delicacy of expression which offended scholars. He threatens Dr. Stebbing, who had preserved an anonymous character, “to catch this Eel of Controversy, since he hides his head by the tail, the only part that sticks out of the mud, more dirty indeed than slippery, and still more weak than dirty, as passing through a trap where he was forced at every step to leave part of his skin—that is, his system.” Warburton has often true wit. With what provoking contempt he calls Sir Thomas Hanmer always “The Oxford Editor!” and in his attack on Akenside, never fails to nickname him, in derision, “The Poet!” I refer the reader to a postscript of his “Dedication to the Freethinkers,” for a curious specimen of supercilious causticity in his description of Lord Kaimes as a critic, and Akenside as “The Poet!” Of this pair he tells us, in bitter derision, “they are both men of taste.” Hurd imitated his master successfully, by using some qualifying epithet, or giving an adversary some odd nickname, or discreetly dispensing a little mortifying praise. The antagonists he encounters were men sometimes his superiors, and these he calls “sizeable men.” Some are styled “insect blasphemers!” The learned Lardner is reduced to “the laborious Dr. Lardner;” and “Hume’s History” is treated with the discreet praise of being “the most readable history we have.” He carefully hints to Leland that “he had never read his works, nor looked into his translations; but what he has heard of his writings makes him think favourably of him.” Thus he teases the rhetorical professor by mentioning the “elegant translation which, they say, you have made of Demosthenes!” And he understands that he is “a scholar, who, they say, employs himself in works of learning and taste.”

Lowth seems to have discovered this secret art of Warburton; for he says, “You have a set of names always at hand, a kind of infamous list, or black calendar, where every offender is sure to find a niche ready to receive him; nothing so easy as the application, and slight provocation is sufficient.”

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Sometimes Warburton left his battles to be fought by subaltern genius; a circumstance to which Lowth, with keen pleasantry, thus alludes:—“Indeed, my lord, I was afterwards much surprised, when, having been with great civility dismissed from your presence, I found your footman at your door, armed with his master’s cane, and falling upon me without mercy, yourself looking on and approving, and having probably put the weapon with proper orders into his hands. You think, it seems, that I ought to have taken my beating quietly and patiently, in respect to the livery which he wore. I was not of so tame a disposition: I wrested the weapon from him, and broke it. Your lordship, it seems, by an oblique blow, got an unlucky rap on the knuckles; though you may thank yourself for it, you lay the blame on me.”—Lowth’s Letter to W., p. 11.

Warburton and Hurd frequently concerted together on the manner of attack and defence. In one of these letters of Hurd’s it is very amusing to read—“Taylor is a more creditable dunce than Webster. What do you think to do with the Appendix against Tillard and Sykes? Why might not Taylor rank with them,” &c. The Warburtonians had also a system of espionage. When Dr. Taylor was accused by one of them of having said that Warburton was no scholar, the learned Grecian replied that he did not recollect ever saying that Dr. Warburton was no scholar, but that indeed he had always thought so. Hence a tremendous quarrel! Hurd, the Mercury of our Jupiter, cast the first light shaft against the doctor, then Chancellor of Lincoln, by alluding to the Preface of his work on Civil Law as “a certain thing prefatory to a learned work, intituled ‘The Elements of Civil Law:’” but at length Jove himself rolled his thunder on the hapless chancellor. The doctor had said in his work, that “the Roman emperors persecuted the first Christians, not so much from a dislike of their tenets as from a jealousy of their nocturnal assemblies.” Warburton’s doctrine was, that “they held nocturnal assemblies because of the persecution of their enemies.” One was the fact, and the other the consequence. But the Chancellor of Lincoln was to be outrageously degraded among the dunces! that was the real motive; the “nocturnal assemblies” only the ostensible one. A pamphleteer, in defence of the chancellor, in reply, thought that in “this literary persecution” it might be dangerous “if Dr. Taylor should be provoked to prove in print what he only dropped in conversation.” How innocent was this gentleman of the arts and stratagems of logomachy, or book-wars! The proof would not have altered the cause: Hurd would have disputed it tooth and nail; Warburton was running greater risks, every day of his life, than any he was likely to receive from this flourish in the air. The great purpose was to make the Chancellor of Lincoln the butt of his sarcastic pleasantry; and this object was secured by Warburton’s forty pages of preface, in which the chancellor stands to be buffeted like an ancient quintain, “a mere lifeless block.” All this came upon him for only thinking that Warburton was no scholar!

[186]

See what I have said at the close of the note, pp. 262-3. In a collection entitled “Verses occasioned by Mr. Warburton’s late Edition of Mr. Pope’s Works,” 1751, are numerous epigrams, parodies, and similes on it. I give one:—

“As on the margin of Thames’ silver flood
Stand little necessary piles of wood,
So Pope’s fair page appears with notes disgraced:
Put down the nuisances, ye men of taste!”

Lowth has noticed the use Warburton made of his patent for vending Pope. “I thought you might possibly whip me at the cart’s-tail in a note to the ‘Divine Legation,’ the ordinary place of your literary executions; or pillory me in the Dunciad, another engine which, as legal proprietor, you have very ingeniously and judiciously applied to the same purpose; or, perhaps, have ordered me a kind of Bridewell correction, by one of your beadles, in a pamphlet.”—Lowth’s “Letter to Warburton,” p. 4.

Warburton carried the licentiousness of the pen in all these notes to the Dunciad to a height which can only be paralleled in the gross logomachies of Schioppius, Gronovius, and Scaliger, and the rest of that snarling crew. But his wit exceeded even his grossness. He was accused of not sparing—

“Round-house wit and Wapping choler.”
[Verses occasioned by Mr. W.’s late Edition of Pope.]

And one of his most furious assailants thus salutes him:—“Whether you are a wrangling Wapping attorney, a pedantic pretender to criticism, an impudent paradoxical priest, or an animal yet stranger, an heterogeneous medley of all three, as your farraginous style seems to confess.”—An Epistle to the Author of a Libel entitled “A Letter to the Editor of Bolingbroke’s Works,” &c.—See Nichols, vol. v. p. 651.

I have ascertained that Mallet was the author of this furious epistle. He would not acknowledge what he dared not deny. Warburton treated Mallet, in this instance, as he often did his superiors—he never replied! The silence seems to have stung this irascible and evil spirit: he returned again to the charge, with another poisoned weapon. His rage produced “A Familiar Epistle to the Most Impudent Man Living,” 1749. The style of this second letter has been characterised as “bad enough to disgrace even gaols and garrets.” Its virulence could not well exceed its predecessor. The oddness of its title has made this worthless thing often inquired after. It is merely personal. It is curious to observe Mallet, in this pamphlet, treat Pope as an object of pity, and call him “this poor man.” [David Mallet was the son of an innkeeper, who, by means of the party he wrote for, obtained lucrative appointments under Government, and died rich. He was unscrupulous in his career, and ready as a writer to do the most unworthy things. The death of Admiral Byng was hastened by the unscrupulous denunciations of Mallet, who was pensioned in consequence.] Orator Henley took some pains, on the first appearance of this catching title, to assure his friends that it did not refer to him. The title proved contagious; which shows the abuse of Warburton was very agreeable. Dr. Z. Grey, under the title of “A Country Curate,” published “A Free and Familiar Letter to the Great Refiner of Pope and Shakspeare,” 1750; and in 1753, young Cibber tried also at “A Familiar Epistle to Mr. William Warburton, from Mr. Theophilus Cibber,” prefixed to the “Life of Barton Booth.” Dr. Z. Grey’s “freedom and familiarity” are designed to show Warburton that he has no wit; but unluckily, the doctor having none himself, his arguments against Warburton’s are not decisive. “The familiarity” of Mallet is that of a scoundrel, and the younger Cibber’s that of an idiot: the genius of Warburton was secure. Mallet overcharged his gun with the fellest intentions, but found his piece, in bursting, annihilated himself. The popgun of the little Theophilus could never have been heard!

[Warburton never lost a chance of giving a strong opinion against Mallet; and Dr. Johnson says, “When Mallet undertook to write the ‘Life of Marlborough,’ Warburton remarked that he might perhaps forget that Marlborough was a general, as he had forgotten that Bacon was a philosopher.”]

But Warburton’s rage was only a part of his secret principle; for can anything be more witty than his attack on poor Cooper, the author of “The Life of Socrates?” Having called his book “a late worthless and now forgotten thing, called ‘The Life of Socrates,’” he adds, “where the head of the author has just made a shift to do the office of a camera obscura, and represent things in an inverted order, himself above, and Rollin, Voltaire, and every other author of reputation, below.” When Cooper complained of this, and of some severer language, to Warburton, through a friend, Warburton replied that Cooper had attacked him, and that he had only taken his revenge “with a slight joke.” Cooper was weak and vain enough to print a pamphlet, to prove that this was a serious accusation, and no joke; and if it was a joke, he shows it was not a correct one. In fact, Cooper could never comprehend how his head was like a camera obscura! Cooper was of the Shaftesburian school—philosophers who pride themselves on “the harmony” of their passions, but are too often in discords at a slight disturbance. He equalled the virulence of Warburton, but could not attain to the wit. “I found,” says Cooper, “previous to his pretended witticism about the camera obscura, such miserable spawn of wretched malice, as nothing but the inflamed brain of a rank monk could conceive, or the oyster-selling maids near London Bridge could utter.” One would not suppose all this came from the school of Plato, but rather from the tub of Diogenes. Something must be allowed for poor Cooper, whose “Life of Socrates” had been so positively asserted to be “a late worthless and forgotten thing.” It is curious enough to observe Cooper declaring, after this sally, that Warburton “has very unfortunately used the word impudent (which epithet Warburton had applied to him), as it naturally reminds every reader that the pamphlet published about two years ago, addressed ‘to the most impudent man living,’ was universally acknowledged to be dedicated to our commentator.” Warburton had always the Dunciad in his head when a new quarrel was rising, which produced an odd blunder on the side of Edwards, and provoked that wit to be as dull as Cooper. Warburton said, in one of his notes on Edwards, who had entitled himself “a gentleman of Lincoln’s Inn,”—“This gentleman, as he is pleased to call himself, is in reality a gentleman only of the Dunciad, or, to speak him better, in the plain language of our honest ancestors to such mushrooms, a gentleman of the last edition.” Edwards misunderstood the allusion, and sore at the personal attack which followed, of his having “eluded the solicitude of his careful father,” considered himself “degraded of his gentility,” that it was “a reflection on his birth,” and threatened to apply to “Mr. Warburton’s Masters of the Bench, for degrading a ‘barrister of their house.’” This afforded a new triumph to Warburton, in a new note, where he explains his meaning of these “mushrooms,” whom he meant merely as literary ones; and assures “Fungoso and his friends, who are all gentlemen, that he meant no more than that Edwards had become a gentleman of the last edition of the Dunciad!” Edwards and his fungous friends had understood the phrase as applied to new-fangled gentry. One of these wits, in the collection of verses cited above, says to Warburton:—

“This mushroom has made sauce for you.
He’s meat; thou’rt poison—plain enough—
If he’s a mushroom, thou’rt a puff!”

Warburton had the full command over the Dunciad, even when Pope was alive, for it was in consequence of Warburton’s being refused a degree at Oxford, that the poet, though one had been offered to himself, produced the celebrated lines of “Apollo’s Mayor and Aldermen,” in the fourth Dunciad. Thus it is that the personal likes and dislikes of witty men come down to posterity, and are often mistaken as just satire, when, after all, they are nothing but Literary Quarrels, seldom founded on truth, and very often complete falsehoods!

[187]

Dr. Thomas Balguy was the son of a learned father, at whose rectory of Northallerton he was born; he was appointed Archdeacon of Salisbury in 1759, and afterwards Archdeacon of Winchester. He died at the prebendal house of the latter city in 1795, at the age of 74. His writings are few—chiefly on church government and authority, which brought him into antagonism with Dr. Priestley and others, who objected to the high view he took of its position. With Hurd and Warburton he was always intimate; his sermon on the consecration of the former was one of the sources of adverse attack; the latter notes his death as that of “an old and esteemed friend.”—Ed.

[188]

Dr. Brown was patronised and “pitied” by Warburton for years. He used him, but spoke of him disparagingly, as “a helpless creature in the ways of the world.” Nichols speaks of him as an “elegant, ingenious, and unhappy author.” His father was a native of Scotland; his son was born at Rothbury, in Northumberland, educated at Cambridge, made minor canon at Carlisle, but resigned it in disgust, living in obscurity in that city several years, till the Rebellion of 1745, when he acted as a volunteer at the siege of the Castle, and behaved with great intrepidity. His publication of an “Essay on Satire,” on the death of Pope, led to his acquaintance with Warburton, who helped him to the rectory of Horksley, near Colchester; but he quarrelled with his patron, as he afterwards quarrelled with others. He then settled down to the vicarage of St. Nicholas, Newcastle, but not for long, as an educational scheme of the Empress of Russia offered him inducements to leave England; but his health failed him before he could carry out his intentions, irritability succeeded, and his disappointments, real and imaginary, led him to commit suicide in the fifty-first year of his age. He seems to have been a continual trouble to Warburton, who often alludes to his unsettled habits—and schooled him occasionally after his own fashion. Thus he writes in 1777:—“Brown is here; I think rather faster than ordinary, but no wiser. You cannot imagine the tenderness they all have of his tender places, and with how unfeeling a hand I probe them.”—Ed.

[189]

Towne is so far “unknown to fame” that his career is unrecorded by our biographers; he was content to work for, and under the guidance of Warburton, as a literary drudge.—Ed.

[190]

Warburton, indeed, was always looking about for fresh recruits: a circumstance which appears in the curious Memoirs of the late Dr. Heathcote, written by himself. Heathcote, when young, published anonymously a pamphlet in the Middletonian controversy. By the desire of Warburton, the bookseller transmitted his compliments to the anonymous author. “I was greatly surprised,” says Heathcote, “but soon after perceived that Warburton’s state of authorship being a state of war, it was his custom to be particularly attentive to all young authors, in hopes of enlisting them into his service. Warburton was more than civil, when necessary, on these occasions, and would procure such adventurers some slight patronage.”—Nichols’s “Literary Anecdotes,” vol. v. p. 536.

[191]

We are astonished at the boldness of the minor critic, when, even after the fatal edition of Warburton’s Shakspeare, he should still venture, in the life of his great friend, to assert that “this fine edition must ever be highly valued by men of sense and taste; a spirit congenial to that of the author breathing throughout!”

Is it possible that the man who wrote this should ever have read the “Canons of Criticism?” Yet is it to be supposed that he who took so lively an interest in the literary fortunes of his friend should not have read them? The Warburtonians appear to have adopted one of the principles of the Jesuits in their controversies, which was to repeat arguments which had been confuted over and over again; to insinuate that they had not been so! But this was not too much to risk by him who, in his dedication of “Horace’s Epistle to Augustus,” with a Commentary, had hardily and solemnly declared that “Warburton, in his enlarged view of things, had not only revived the two models of Aristotle and Longinus, but had rather struck out a new original plan of criticism, which should unite the virtues of each of them. This experiment was made on the two greatest of our own poets—Shakspeare and Pope. Still (he adds, addressing Warburton) you went farther, by joining to those powers a perfect insight into human nature; and so ennobling the exercise of literary by the justest moral censure, you have now, at length, advanced criticism to its full glory.”

A perpetual intercourse of mutual adulation animated the sovereign and his viceroy, and, by mutual support, each obtained the same reward: two mitres crowned the greater and the minor critic. This intercourse was humorously detected by the lively author of “Confusion Worse Confounded.”—“When the late Duke of R.,” says he, “kept wild beasts, it was a common diversion to make two of his bears drunk (not metaphorically with flattery, but literally with strong ale), and then daub them over with honey. It was excellent sport to see how lovingly (like a couple of critics) they would lick and claw one another.” It is almost amazing to observe how Hurd, who naturally was of the most frigid temperament, and the most subdued feelings, warmed, heated, and blazed in the progressive stages “of that pageantry of praise spread over the Rev. Mr. Warburton, when the latter was advancing fast towards a bishoprick,” to use the words of Dr. Parr, a sagacious observer of man. However, notwithstanding the despotic mandates of our Pichrocole and his dapper minister, there were who did not fear to meet the greater bear of the two so facetiously described above. And the author of “Confusion Worse Confounded” tells a familiar story, which will enliven the history of our great critic. “One of the bears mentioned above happened to get loose, and was running along the street in which a tinker was gravely walking. The people all cried, ‘Tinker! tinker! beware of the bear!’ Upon this Magnano faced about with great composure; and raising his staff, knocked down Bruin, then setting his arms a-kimbo, walked off very sedately; only saying, ‘Let the bear beware of the tinker,’ which is now become a proverb in those parts.”—“Confusion Worse Confounded,” p. 75.

[192]

Pope collected these numerous literary libels with extraordinary care. He had them bound in volumes of all sizes; and a range of twelves, octavos, quartos, and folios were marshalled in portentous order on his shelves. He wrote the names of the writers, with remarks on these Anonymiana. He prefixed to them this motto, from Job: “Behold, my desire is, that mine adversary had written a book: surely I would take it upon my shoulder, and bind it as a crown to me.” xxxi. 35. Ruffhead, who wrote Pope’s Life under the eye of Warburton, who revised every sheet of the volume, and suffered this mere lawyer and singularly wretched critic to write on, with far inferior taste to his own—offered “the entire collection to any public library or museum, whose search is after curiosities, and may be desirous of enriching their common treasure with it: it will be freely at the service of that which asks first.” Did no one accept the invitation? As this was written in 1769, it is evidently pointed towards the British Museum; but there I have not heard of it. This collection must have contained much of the Secret Memoirs of Grub-street: it was always a fountain whence those “waters of bitterness,” the notes in the Dunciad, were readily supplied. It would be curious to discover by what stratagem Pope obtained all that secret intelligence about his Dunces, with which he has burthened posterity, for his own particular gratification. Arbuthnot, it is said, wrote some notes merely literary; but Savage, and still humbler agents, served him as his Espions de Police. He pensioned Savage to his last day, and never deserted him. In the account of “the phantom Moore,” Scriblerus appeals to Savage to authenticate some story. One curious instance of the fruits of Savage’s researches in this way he has himself preserved, in his memoirs of “An Author to be Let, by Iscariot Hackney.” This portrait of “a perfect Town-Author” is not deficient in spirit: the hero was one Roome, a man only celebrated in the Dunciad for his “funereal frown.” But it is uncertain whether this fellow had really so dismal a countenance; for the epithet was borrowed from his profession, being the son of an undertaker! Such is the nature of some satire! Dr. Warton is astonished, or mortified, for he knew not which, to see the pains and patience of Pope and his friends in compiling the Notes to the Dunciad, to trace out the lives and works of such paltry and forgotten scribblers. “It is like walking through the darkest alleys in the dirtiest part of St. Giles’s.” Very true! But may we not be allowed to detect the vanities of human nature at St. Giles’s as well as St. James’s? Authors, however obscure, are always an amusing race to authors. The greatest find their own passions in the least, though distorted, or cramped in too small a compass.

It is doubtless from Pope’s great anxiety for his own literary celebrity that we have been furnished with so complete a knowledge of the grotesque groups in the Dunciad. “Give me a shilling,” said Swift, facetiously, “and I will insure you that posterity shall never know one single enemy, excepting those whose memory you have preserved.” A very useful hint for a man of genius to leave his wretched assailants to dissolve away in their own weakness. But Pope, having written a Dunciad, by accompanying it with a commentary, took the only method to interest posterity. He felt that Boileau’s satires on bad authors are liked only in the degree the objects alluded to are known. But he loved too much the subject for its own sake. He abused the powers genius had conferred on him, as other imperial sovereigns have done. It is said that he kept the whole kingdom in awe of him. In “the frenzy and prodigality of vanity,” he exclaimed—

“————Yes, I am proud to see
Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me!”

Tacitus Gordon said of him, that Pope seemed to persuade the nation that all genius and ability were confined to him and his friends.

[193]

Pope, in his energetic Letter to Lord Hervey, that “masterpiece of invective,” says Warton, which Tyers tells us he kept long back from publishing, at the desire of Queen Caroline, who was fearful her counsellor would become insignificant in the public esteem, and at last in her own, such was the power his genius exercised;—has pointed out one of these causes. It describes himself as “a private person under penal laws, and many other disadvantages, not for want of honesty or conscience; yet it is by these alone I have hitherto lived excluded from all posts of profit or trust. I can interfere with the views of no man.”

[194]

The first publisher of the “Essay on Criticism” must have been a Mr. Lewis, a Catholic bookseller in Covent-garden; for, from a descendant of this Lewis, I heard that Pope, after publication, came every day, persecuting with anxious inquiries the cold impenetrable bookseller, who, as the poem lay uncalled for, saw nothing but vexatious importunities in a troublesome youth. One day, Pope, after nearly a month’s publication, entered, and in despair tied up a number of the poems, which he addressed to several who had a reputation in town, as judges of poetry. The scheme succeeded, and the poem, having reached its proper circle, soon got into request.

[195]

He was the author of “The Key to the Lock,” written to show that “The Rape of the Lock” was a political poem, designed to ridicule the Barrier Treaty; [so called from the arrangement made at the Peace of Utrecht between the ministers of Great Britain and the States General, as to the towns on the frontiers of the Dutch, which were to be permanently strengthened as barrier fortresses. Pope, in the mask of Esdras Barnivelt, apothecary, thus makes out his poem to be a political satire. “Having said that by the lock is meant the Barrier Treaty—first then I shall discover, that Belinda represents Great Britain, or (which is the same thing) her late Majesty. This is plainly seen in the description of her,

“On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore.”

Alluding to the ancient name of Albion, from her white cliffs, and to the cross which is the ensign of England. The baron who cuts off the lock, or Barrier Treaty, is the Earl of Oxford. Clarissa, who lent the scissors, my Lady Masham. Thalestris, who provokes Belinda to resent the loss of the lock or treaty, the Duchess of Marlborough; and Sir Plume, who is moved by Thalestris to re-demand it of Great Britain, Prince Eugene, “who came hither for that purpose.” He concludes 32 pages of similar argument by saying, “I doubt not if the persons most concerned would but order Mr. Bernard Lintott, the printer and publisher of this dangerous piece, to be taken into custody and examined, many further discoveries might be made both of this poet’s and his abettors secret designs, which are doubtless of the utmost importance to Government.” Such is a specimen of Pope’s chicanery.] Its innocent extravagance could only have been designed to increase attention to a work, which hardly required any such artifice. [In the preface to this production, “the uncommon sale of this book” is stated as one reason for the publication; “above six thousand of them have been already vended.”] In the same spirit he composed the “Guardian,” in which Phillips’s Pastorals were insidiously preferred to his own. Pope sent this ironical, panegyrical criticism on Phillips anonymously to the “Guardian,” and Steele not perceiving the drift, hesitated to publish it, till Pope advised it. Addison detected it. I doubt whether we have discovered all the supercheries of this kind. After writing the finest works of genius, he was busily employed in attracting the public attention to them. In the antithesis of his character, he was so great and so little! But he knew mankind! and present fame was the great business of his life.

[196]

Cleland was the son of Colonel Cleland, an old friend of Pope; he and his son had served in the East Indian army; but the latter returned to London, and became a sort of literary jackal to Pope, and a hack author for the booksellers. He wrote several moral and useful works; but as they did not pay well, he wrote an immoral one, for which he obtained a better price, and a pension of 100l. a-year, on condition that he never wrote in that manner again. This was obtained for him by Lord Granville, after Cleland had been cited before the Privy Council, and pleaded poverty as the reason for such authorship.—Ed.

[197]

The narrative of this dark transaction, which seems to have been imperfectly known to Johnson, being too copious for a note, will be found at the close of this article.

[198]

A list of all the pamphlets which resulted from the Dunciad would occupy a large space. Many of them were as grossly personal as the celebrated poem. The poet was frequently ridiculed under the names of “Pope Alexander” (from his dictatorial style), and “Sawney.” In “an heroic poem occasioned by the Dunciad,” published in 1728, the poet’s snug retreat at Twickenham is thus alluded to:—

“Sawney! a mimic sage of huge renown,
To Twick’nam bow’rs retir’d, enjoys his wealth,
His malice and his muse: in grottoes cool,
And cover’d arbours, dreams his hours away.”

A fragment of Pope’s celebrated grotto still remains; the house is destroyed. Pope spent all his spare cash over his Twickenham villa. “I never save anything,” he said once to Spence; and the latter has left a detailed account of what he meant to do in the further decoration of his garden if he had lived. As he gained a sum of money, he regularly spent it in this way.—Ed.

[199]

Pope is, perhaps, the finest character-painter of all satirists. Atterbury, after reading the portrait of Atticus, advised him to proceed in a way which his genius had pointed out; but Arbuthnot, with his dying breath, conjured him “to reform, and not to chastise;” that is, not to spare the vice, but the person. It is said, Pope answered, that, to correct the world with due effect, they become inseparable; and that, deciding by his own experience, he was justified in his opinion. Perhaps, at first, he himself wavered; but he strikes bolder as he gathers strength. The two first editions of the Dunciad, now before me, could hardly be intelligible: they exhibit lines after lines gaping with an hiatus, or obscured with initial letters: in subsequent editions, the names stole into their places. We are told, that the personalities in his satires quickened the sale: the portraits of Sporus, Bufo, Clodius, Timon, and Atossa, were purchased by everybody; but when he once declared, respecting the characters of one of his best satires, that no real persons were intended, it checked public curiosity, which was felt in the sale of that edition. Personality in his satires, no doubt, accorded with the temper and the talent of Pope; and the malice of mankind afforded him all the conviction necessary to indulge it. Yet Young could depend solely on abstract characters and pure wit; and I believe that his “Love of Fame” was a series of admirable satires, which did not obtain less popularity than Pope’s. Cartwright, one of the poetical sons of Ben Jonson, describes, by a beautiful and original image, the office of the satirist, though he praises Jonson for exercising a virtue he did not always practise; as Swift celebrates Pope with the same truth, when he sings:—

“Yet malice never was his aim;
He lash’d the vice, but spared the name.”

Cartwright’s lines are:—

“————’tis thy skill

To strike the vice, and spare the person still;
As he who, when he saw the serpent wreath’d
About his sleeping son, and as he breathed,
Drink in his soul, did so the shot contrive,
To kill the beast, but keep the child alive.”

[200]

Cooke, the translator of Hesiod, published a letter in Mist’s Journal, insisting that Pope had mistaken the whole character of Thersites, from ignorance of the language. I regret I have not drawn some notes from that essay. The subject might be made curious by a good Greek scholar, if Pope has really erred in the degree Cooke asserts. Theobald, who seems to have been a more classical scholar than has been allowed, besides some versions from the Greek tragic bards, commenced a translation of the Odyssey as soon as Pope’s Iliad appeared.

[201]

In one of these situations, Pope issued a very grave, but very ludicrous, advertisement. They had the impudence to publish an account of Pope having been flagellated by two gentlemen in Ham Walks, during his evening promenade. This was avenging Dennis for what he had undergone from the narrative of his madness. In “The Memoirs of Grub-street,” vol. i. p. 96, this tingling narrative appears to have been the ingenious forgery of Lady Mary! On this occasion, Pope thought it necessary to publish the following advertisement in the Daily Post, June 14, 1728:—

“Whereas, there has been a scandalous paper cried aloud about the streets, under the title of ‘A Pop upon Pope,’ insinuating that I was whipped in Ham Walks on Thursday last:—This is to give notice, that I did not stir out of my house at Twickenham on that day; and the same is a malicious and ill-founded report.—A. P.”

[Spence, on the authority of Pope’s half-sister, says: “When some of the people that he had put into the Dunciad were so enraged against him, and threatened him so highly, he loved to walk alone to Richmond, only he would take a large faithful dog with him, and pistols in his pocket. He used to say to us when we talked to him about it, that ‘with pistols the least man in England was above a match for the largest.’”]

It seems that Phillips hung up a birchen-rod at Button’s. Pope, in one of his letters, congratulates himself that he never attempted to use it. [His half-sister, Mrs. Rackett, testifies to Pope’s courage; she says, “My brother never knew what fear was.”]

[202]

According to the scandalous chronicle of the day, Pope, shortly after the publication of the Dunciad, had a tall Irishman to attend him. Colonel Duckett threatened to cane him, for a licentious stroke aimed at him, which Pope recanted. Thomas Bentley, nephew to the doctor, for the treatment his uncle had received, sent Pope a challenge. The modern, like the ancient Horace, was of a nature liable to panic at such critical moments. Pope consulted some military friends, who declared that his person ought to protect him from any such redundance of valour as was thus formally required; however, one of them accepted the challenge for him, and gave Bentley the option either of fighting or apologising; who, on this occasion, proved, what is usual, that the easiest of the two was the quickest done.

[203]

I shall preserve one specimen, so classically elegant, that Pope himself might have composed it. It is from the pen of that Leonard Welsted whose “Aganippe” Pope has so shamefully characterised—

“Flow, Welsted, flow, like thine inspirer, beer!”

Can the reader credit, after this, that Welsted, who was clerk in ordinary at the Ordnance Office, was a man of family and independence, of elegant manners and a fine fancy, but who considered poetry only as a passing amusement? He has, however, left behind, amid the careless productions of his muse, some passages wrought up with equal felicity and power. There are several original poetical views of nature scattered in his works, which have been collected by Mr. Nichols, that would admit of a comparison with some of established fame.

Welsted imagined that the spirit of English poetry was on its decline in the age of Pope, and allegorises the state of our poetry in a most ingenious comparison. The picture is exquisitely wrought, like an ancient gem: one might imagine Anacreon was turned critic:—

“A flask I rear’d whose sluice began to fail,
And told, from Phærus, this facetious tale:—
Sabina, very old and very dry,
Chanced, on a time, an EMPTY FLASK to spy:
The flask but lately had been thrown aside,
With the rich grape of Tuscan vineyards dyed;
But lately, gushing from the slender spout,
Its life, in purple streams, had issued out.
The costly flavour still to sense remain’d,
And still its sides the violet colour stain’d:
A sight so sweet taught wrinkled age to smile;
Pleased, she imbibes the generous fumes awhile,
Then, downwards turn’d, the vessel gently props,
And drains with patient care the lucid drops:
O balmy spirit of Etruria’s vine!
O fragrant flask, she said, too lately mine!
If such delights, THOUGH EMPTY, thou canst yield,
What wondrous raptures hadst thou given if filled!”

Palœmon to Cœlia at Bath, or the Triumvirate.

“The empty flask” only retaining “the costly flavour,” was the verse of Pope.

[204]

Pope was made to appear as ridiculous as possible, and often nicknamed “Poet Pug,” from the frontispiece to an attack in reply to his own, termed “Pope Alexander’s Supremacy and Infallibility examined.” It represents Pope as a misshapen monkey leaning on a pile of books, in the attitude adopted by Jervas in his portrait of the poet.—Ed.

[205]

Dennis tells the whole story. “At his first coming to town he was importunate with Mr. Cromwell to introduce him to me. The recommendation engaged me to be about thrice in company with him; after which I went to the country, till I found myself most insolently attacked in his very superficial ‘Essay on Criticism,’ by which he endeavoured to destroy the reputation of a man who had published pieces of criticism, and to set up his own. I was moved with indignation to that degree, that I immediately writ remarks on that essay. I also writ upon part of his translation of ‘Homer,’ his ‘Windsor Forest,’ and his infamous ‘Temple of Fame.’” In the same pamphlet he says:—“Pope writ his ‘Windsor Forest’ in envy of Sir John Denham’s ‘Cooper’s Hill;’ his infamous ‘Temple of Fame’ in envy of Chaucer’s poem upon the same subject; his ‘Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day,’ in envy of Dryden’s ‘Feast of Alexander.’” In reproaching Pope with his peculiar rhythm, that monotonous excellence, which soon became mechanical, he has an odd attempt at a pun:—“Boileau’s Pegasus has all his paces; the Pegasus of Pope, like a Kentish post-horse, is always upon the Canterbury.”—“Remarks upon several Passages in the Preliminaries to the Dunciad,” 1729.

[206]

Two parties arose in the literary republic, the Theobaldians and the Popeians. The “Grub-street Journal,” a kind of literary gazette of some campaigns of the time, records the skirmishes with tolerable neutrality, though with a strong leaning in favour of the prevailing genius.

The Popeians did not always do honour to their great leader; and the Theobaldians proved themselves, at times, worthy of being engaged, had fate so ordered it, in the army of their renowned enemy. When Young published his “Two Epistles to Pope, on the Authors of the Age,” there appeared “One Epistle to Mr. A. Pope, in Answer to two of Dr. Young’s.” On this, a Popeian defends his master from some extravagant accusations in “The Grub-street Memoirs.” He insists, as his first principle, that all accusations against a man’s character without an attestor are presumed to be slanders and lies, and in this case every gentleman, though “Knight of the Bathos,” is merely a liar and scoundrel.

“You assure us he is not only a bad poet, but a stealer from bad poets: if so, you have just cause to complain of invasion of property. You assure us he is not even a versifier, but steals the sound of his verses; now, to steal a sound is as ingenious as to paint an echo. You cannot bear gentlemen should be treated as vermin and reptiles; now, to be impartial, you were compared to flying-fishes, didappers, tortoises, and parrots, &c., not vermin, but curious and beautiful creatures”—alluding to the abuse, in this “Epistle,” on such authors as Atterbury, Arbuthnot, Swift, the Duke of Buckingham, &c. The Popeian concludes:—

“After all, your poem, to comfort you, is more innocent than the Dunciad; for in the one there’s no man abused but is very well pleased to be abused in such company; whereas in the other there’s no man so much as named, but is extremely affronted to be ranked with such people as style each other the dullest of men.”

The publication of the Dunciad, however, drove the Theobaldians out of the field. Guerillas, such as the “One Epistle,” sometimes appeared, but their heroes struck and skulked away. A Theobaldian, in an epigram, compared the Dunciad of Pope to the offspring of the celebrated Pope Joan. The neatness of his wit is hardly blunted by a pun. He who talks of Pope’s “stealing a sound,” seems to have practised that invisible art himself, for the verse is musical as Pope’s.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE DUNCIAD.

“With rueful eyes thou view’st thy wretched race,
The child of guilt, and destined to disgrace.
Thus when famed Joan usurp’d the Pontiff’s chair,
With terror she beheld her new-born heir:
Ill-starr’d, ill-favour’d into birth it came;
In vice begotten, and brought forth with shame!
In vain it breathes, a lewd abandon’d hope!
And calls in vain, the unhallow’d father—Pope!”

The answers to this epigram by the Popeians are too gross. The “One Epistle” is attributed to James Moore Smyth, in alliance with Welsted and other unfortunate heroes.

[207]

The six Letters are preserved in Ruffhead’s Appendix, No. 1.

[208]

Curll was a bookseller, from whose shop issued many works of an immoral class, yet he chose for his sign “The Bible and Dial,” which were displayed over his shop in Fleet-street. The satire of Pope’s Dunciad seems fairly to have been earned, as we may judge from the class of books still seen in the libraries of curious collectors, and which are certainly unfitted for more general circulation. For these publications he was fined by the Court of King’s Bench, and on one occasion stood in the pillory as a punishment. Yet himself and Lintot were the chief booksellers of the era, until Tonson arose, and by taking a more enlarged view of the trade, laid the foundation of the great publishing houses of modern times.—Ed.

[209]

Cromwell was one of the gay young men who frequented coffee-houses and clubs when Pope, also a young man, did the same, and corresponded freely with him for a few years, when the intimacy almost entirely ceased. The lady was a Mrs. Thomas, who became a sort of literary hack to Curll, and is celebrated in the Dunciad under the name of Corinna. Roscoe, in his edition of Pope, says, “Of Henry Cromwell little is known, further than what is learnt from this correspondence, from which he appears to have been a man of respectable connections, talents, and education, and to have intermingled pretty freely in the gallantries of fashionable life.” He seems to have been somewhat eccentric, and the correspondence of Pope only lasted from 1708 to 1711.—Ed.

[210]

Pope, in his conversations with Spence, says, “My letters to Cromwell were written with a design that does not generally appear: they were not written in sober sadness.”—Ed.

[211]

Pope’s victory over Curll is represented by Hogarth in a print ostentatiously hung in the garret of his “Distressed Poet.”—Ed.

[212]

Johnson says, that though “Pope attacked Cibber with acrimony, the provocation is not easily discoverable.” But the statements of Cibber, which have never been contradicted, show sufficient motives to excite the poetic irascibility. It was Cibber’s “fling” at the unowned and condemned comedy of the triumvirate of wits, Pope, Gay, and Arbuthnot, Three Hours after Marriage, when he performed Bayes in the Rehearsal, that incurred the immortal odium. There was no malice on Cibber’s side; for it was then the custom to restore the zest of that obsolete dramatic satire, by introducing allusions to any recent theatrical event. The plot of this ridiculous comedy hinging on the deep contrivance of two lovers getting access to the wife of a virtuoso, “one curiously swathed up like an Egyptian mummy, and the other slily covered in the pasteboard skin of a crocodile,” was an incident so extremely natural, that it seemed congenial with the high imagination and the deep plot of a Bayes! Poor Cibber, in the gaiety of his impromptu, made the “fling;” and, unluckily, it was applauded by the audience! The irascibility of Pope too strongly authenticated one of the three authors. “In the swelling of his heart, after the play was over, he came behind the scenes with his lips pale and his voice trembling, to call me to account for the insult; and accordingly fell upon me with all the foul language that a wit out of his senses would be capable of, choked with the foam of his passion.” Cibber replied with dignity, insisted on the privilege of the character, and that he would repeat the same jest as long as the public approved of it. Pope would have certainly approved of Cibber’s manly conduct, had he not been the author himself. To this circumstance may be added the reception which the town and the court bestowed on Cibber’s “Nonjuror,” a satire on the politics of the jacobite faction; Pope appears, under the assumed name of Barnevelt, to have published “an odd piece of wit, proving that the Nonjuror, in its design, its characters, and almost every scene of it, was a closely-couched jacobite libel against the Government.” Cibber says that “this was so shrewdly maintained, that I almost liked the jest myself.” Pope seems to have been fond of this new species of irony; for, in the Pastorals of Phillips, he showed the same sort of ingenuity, and he repeated the same charge of political mystery against his own finest poem; for he proved by many “merry inuendoes,” that “The Rape of the Lock” was as audacious a libel as the pretended Barnevelt had made out the Nonjuror to be. See note, p. 280.

[213]

Cibber did not obtrude himself in this contest. Had he been merely a poor vain creature, he had not preserved so long a silence. His good-temper was without anger, but he remonstrates with no little dignity, when he chooses to be solemn; though to be playful was more natural to him. “If I have lain so long stoically silent, or unmindful of your satirical favours, it was not so much for want of a proper reply, as that I thought there never needed a public one; for all people of sense would know what truth or falsehood there was in what you said of me, without my wisely pointing it out to them. Nor did I choose to follow your example, of being so much a self-tormentor, as to be concerned at whatever opinion of me any published invective might infuse into people unknown to me. Even the malicious, though they may like the libel, don’t always believe it.” His reason for reply is, that his silence should not be farther reproached “as a plain confession of my being a bankrupt in wit, if I don’t immediately answer those bills of discredit you have drawn upon me.” There is no doubt that Cibber perpetually found instigators to encourage these attacks; and one forcible argument he says was, that “a disgrace, from such a pen, would stick upon me to posterity.” He seems to be aware that his acquaintance cheer him to the lists “for their particular amusement.”

[214]

“His edition of Shakspeare proved no better than a foil to set off the superiority of Theobald’s; and Cibber bore away the palm from him in the drama. We have an account of two attempts of Pope’s, one in each of the two principal branches of this species of poetry, and both unsuccessful. The fate of the comedy has been already mentioned (in page 300), and the tragedy was saved from the like fate by one not less ignominious, being condemned and burnt by his own hands. It was called Cleone, and formed upon the same story as a late one wrote and published by Mr. Dodsley with the same title in 1759. See Dodsley’s Preface.”—Biographia Britannica, 1760.

[215]

Armstrong, who was a keen observer of man, has expressed his uncommon delight in the company of Cibber. “Beside his abilities as a writer (as a writer of comedies, Armstrong means), and the singular variety of his powers as an actor, he was to the last one of the most agreeable, cheerful, and best-humoured men you would ever wish to converse with.”—Warton’s Pope, vol. iv. 160.

Cibber was one of those rare beings whose dispositions Hume describes “as preferable to an inheritance of 10,000l. a year.”

[216]

Dr. Aikin, in his Biographical Dictionary, has thus written on Cibber: “It cannot be doubted, that, at the time, the contest was more painful to Pope than to Cibber. But Pope’s satire is immortal, whereas Cibber’s sarcasms are no longer read. Cibber may therefore be represented to future times with less credit for abilities than he really deserves; for he was certainly no dunce, though not, in the higher sense of the word, a man of genius. His effrontery and vanity could not be easily overcharged, even by a foe. Indeed, they are striking features in the portrait drawn by himself.” Dr. Aikin’s political morality often vented its indignation at the successful injustice of great power! Why should not the same spirit conduct him in the Literary Republic? With the just sentiments he has given on Cibber, it was the duty of an intrepid critic to raise a moral feeling against the despotism of genius, and to have protested against the arbitrary power of Pope. It is participating in the injustice to pass it by, without even a regret at its effect.

As for Cibber himself, he declares he was not impudent, and I am disposed to take his own word, for he modestly asserts this, in a remark on Pope’s expression,

“‘Cibberian forehead,’

“by which I find you modestly mean Cibberian impudence, as a sample of the strongest.—Sir, your humble servant—but pray, sir, in your ‘Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot’ (where, by the way, in your ample description of a great Poet, you slily hook in a whole hat-full of virtues to your own character) have not you this particular line?

‘And thought a Lie, in verse or prose, the same—’”

Cibber laments it is not so, for “any accusation in smooth verse will always sound well, though it is not tied down to have a tittle of truth in it, when the strongest defence in poor humble prose, not having that harmonious advantage, takes nobody by the ear—very hard upon an innocent man! For suppose in prose, now, I were as confidently to insist that you were an honest, good-natured, inoffensive creature, would my barely saying so be any proof of it? No sure. Why then, might it not be supposed an equal truth, that both our assertions were equally false? Yours, when you call me impudent; mine, when I call you modest, &c. While my superiors suffer me occasionally to sit down with them, I hope it will be thought that rather the Papal than the Cibberian forehead ought to be out of countenance.” I give this as a specimen of Cibber’s serious reasonings—they are poor; and they had been so from a greater genius; for ridicule and satire, being only a mere abuse of eloquence, can never be effectually opposed by truisms. Satire must be repelled by satire; and Cibber’s sarcasms obtained what Cibber’s reasonings failed in.

[217]

Vain as Cibber has been called, and vain as he affects to be, he has spoken of his own merits as a comic writer,—and he was a very great one,—with a manly moderation, very surprising indeed in a vain man. Pope has sung in his Dunciad, most harmoniously inhuman,

“How, with less reading than makes felons scape,
Less human genius than God gives an ape,
Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece,
A patch’d, vamp’d, future, old, revived new piece;
’Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Congreve, and Corneille,
Can make a Cibber, Johnson, and Ozell.”

Blasting as was this criticism, it could not raise the anger of the gay and careless Cibber. Yet what could have put it to a sharper test? Johnson and Ozell are names which have long disappeared from the dramatic annals, and could only have been coupled with Cibber to give an idea of what the satirist meant by “the human genius of an ape.” But listen to the mild, yet the firm tone of Cibber—he talks like injured innocence, and he triumphs over Pope, in all the dignity of truth.—I appeal to Cibber’s posterity!

“And pray, sir, why my name under this scurvy picture? I flatter myself, that if you had not put it there, nobody else would have thought it like me; nor can I easily believe that you yourself do: but perhaps you imagined it would be a laughing ornament to your verse, and had a mind to divert other people’s spleen with it as well as your own. Now let me hold up my head a little, and then we shall see how the features hit me.” He proceeds to relate, how “many of those plays have lived the longer for my meddling with them.” He mentions several, which “had been dead to the stage out of all memory, which have since been in a constant course of acting above these thirty or forty years.” And then he adds: “Do those altered plays at all take from the merit of those more successful pieces, which were entirely my own?—When a man is abused, he has a right to speak even laudable truths of himself, to confront his slanderer. Let me therefore add, that my first Comedy of The Fool in Fashion was as much (though not so valuable) an original, as any work Mr. Pope himself has produced. It is now forty-seven years since its first appearance on the stage, where it has kept its station, to this very day, without ever lying one winter dormant. Nine years after this, I brought on The Careless Husband, with still greater success; and was that too

‘A patch’d, vamp’d, future, old, revived new piece?’

Let the many living spectators of these plays, then, judge between us, whether the above verses came from the honesty of a satirist, who would be thought, like you, the upright censor of mankind. Sir, this libel was below you! Satire, without truth, recoils upon its author, and must, at other times, render him suspected of prejudice, even where he may be just; as frauds, in religion, make more atheists than converts; and the bad heart, Mr. Pope, that points an injury with verse, makes it the more unpardonable, as it is not the result of sudden passion, but of an indulged and slowly-meditating ill-nature. What a merry mixed mortal has nature made you, that can debase that strength and excellence of genius to the lowest human weakness, that of offering unprovoked injuries, at the hazard of your being ridiculous too, when the venom you spit falls short of your aim!” I have quoted largely, to show that Cibber was capable of exerting a dignified remonstrance, as well as pointing the lightest, yet keenest, shafts of sarcastic wit.

[218]

Ayre’s “Memoirs of Pope,” vol. ii. p. 82.

[219]

Even the “Grub-street Journal” had its jest on his appointment to the laureateship. In No. 52 was the following epigram:—

“Well, said Apollo, still ’tis mine
To give the real laurel:
For that my Pope, my son divine,
Of rivals ends the quarrel.
But guessing who would have the luck
To be the birth-day fibber,
I thought of Dennis, Tibbald, Duck,
But never dreamt of Cibber!”—Ed.

[220]

It may be reasonably doubted, however, if vanity had not something to do with this—the vanity of appearing as a philosophical writer, and astonishing the friends who had considered him only as a good comedian. The volume was magnificently printed in quarto on fine paper, “for the author,” in 1747. It is entitled, “The Character and Conduct of Cicero Considered, from the History of his Life by the Rev. Dr. Middleton; with occasional Essays and Observations upon the most Memorable Facts and Persons during that Period.” The entire work is a series of somewhat too-familiar notes on the various passages of “Cicero’s Life and Times,” as narrated by Middleton. He terms the unsettled state after the death of Sylla “an uncomfortable time for those sober citizens who had a mind and a right to be quiet.” His professional character breaks forth when he speaks of Roscius instructing Cicero in acting; and in the very commencement of his grave labour he rambles back to the theatre to quote a scene from Vanbrugh’s Relapse, as a proof how little fashionable readers think while they read. Colley’s well-meaning but free-and-easy reflections on the gravities of Roman history, in the progress of his work, are remarkable, and have all the author’s coarse common sense, but very little depth or refinement—Ed.

[221]

With what good-humour he retorts a piece of sly malice of Pope’s; who, in the notes to the Dunciad, after quoting Jacob’s account of Cibber’s talents, adds—“Mr. Jacob omitted to remark that he is particularly admirable in tragedy.” To which Cibber rejoins—“Ay, sir, and your remark has omitted, too, that (with all his commendations) I can’t dance upon the rope, or make a saddle, nor play upon the organ. My dear, dear Mr. Pope, how could a man of your stinging capacity let so tame, so low a reflection escape him? Why, this hardly rises above the petty malice of Miss Molly. ‘Ay, ay, you may think my sister as handsome as you please, but if you were to see her legs!’ If I have made so many crowded theatres laugh, and in the right place, too, for above forty years together, am I to make up the number of your dunces, because I have not the equal talent of making them cry too? Make it your own case. Is what you have excelled in at all the worse for your having so dismally dabbled in the farce of Three Hours after Marriage? What mighty reason will the world have to laugh at my weakness in tragedy, more than at yours in comedy?”

I will preserve one anecdote of that felicity of temper—that undisturbed good-humour which never abandoned Cibber in his most distressful moments. When he brought out, in 1724, his Cæsar in Egypt, at a great expense, and “a beggarly account of empty boxes” was the result, it raised some altercations between the poet and his brother managers, the bard still struggling for another and another night. At length he closed the quarrel with a pun, which confessed the misfortune, with his own good-humour. In a periodical publication of the times I find the circumstance recorded in this neat epigram:—

On the Sixth Night of Cibber’s “Cæsar in Egypt.”

When the pack’d audience from their posts retired,
And Julius in a general hiss expired;
Sage Booth to Cibber cried, “Compute our gains!
These dogs of Egypt, and their dowdy queans,
But ill requite these habits and these scenes,
To rob Corneille for such a motley piece:
His geese were swans; but zounds! thy swans are geese!”
Rubbing his firm invulnerable brow,
The bard replied—“The critics must allow
’Twas ne’er in Cæsar’s destiny TO RUN!”
Wilks bow’d, and bless’d the gay pacific pun.

[222]

A wicked wag of a lord had enticed Pope into a tavern, and laid a love-plot against his health. Cibber describes his resolute interference by snatching “our little Homer by the heels. This was done for the honour of our nation. Homer would have been too serious a sacrifice to our evening’s amusement.” He has metamorphosed our Apollo into a “Tom-tit;” but the Ovidian warmth, however ludicrous, will not now admit of a narrative. This story, by our comic writer, was accompanied by a print, that was seen by more persons, probably, than read the Dunciad. In his second letter, Cibber, alluding to the vexation of Pope on this ridiculous story, observes—“To have been exposed as a bad man, ought to have given thee thrice the concern of being shown a ridiculous lover.” And now that he had discovered that he could touch the nerves of Pope, he throws out one of the most ludicrous analogies to the figure of our bard:—“When crawling in thy dangerous deed of darkness, I gently, with a finger and a thumb, picked off thy small round body by thy long legs, like a spider making love in a cobweb.”

[223]

“The Egotist, or Colley upon Cibber; being his own picture retouched to so plain a likeness that no one now would have the face to own it BUT HIMSELF.

‘But one stroke more, and that shall be my last.’

London, 1743.
Dryden.”

[224]

How many good authors might pursue their studies in quiet, would they never reply to their critics but on matters of fact, in which their honour may be involved. I have seen very tremendous criticisms on some works of real genius, like serpents on marble columns, wind and dart about, and spit their froth, but they die away on the pillars that enabled them to erect their malignant forms to the public eye. They fall in due time; and weak must be the substance of that pillar which does not stand, and look as beautiful, when the serpents have crawled over it, as before. Dr. Brown, in his “Letter to Bishop Lowth,” has laid down an axiom in literary criticism:—“A mere literary attack, however well or ill-founded, would not easily have drawn me into a public expostulation; for every man’s true literary character is best seen in his own writings. Critics may rail, disguise, insinuate, or pervert; yet still the object of their censures lies equally open to all the world. Thus the world becomes a competent judge of the merits of the work animadverted on. Hence, the mere author hath a fair chance for a fair decision, at least among the judicious; and it is of no mighty consequence what opinions the injudicious form concerning mental abilities. For this reason, I have never replied to any of those numerous critics who have on different occasions honoured me with their regard.”

[225]

Sir William Blackstone’s Discussion on the Quarrel between Addison and Pope was communicated by Dr. Kippis in his “Biographia Britannica,” vol. i. p. 56. Blackstone is there designated as “a gentleman of considerable rank, to whom the public is obliged for works of much higher importance.”

[226]

Dennis asserts in one of his pamphlets that Pope, fermenting with envy at the success of Addison’s Cato, went to Lintot, and persuaded him to engage this redoubted critic to write the remarks on Cato—that Pope’s gratitude to Dennis for having complied with his request was the well-known narrative of Dennis “being placed as a lunatic in the hands of Dr. Norris, a curer of mad people, at his house in Hatton-garden, though at the same time I appeared publicly every day, both in the park and in the town.” Can we suppose that Dennis tells a falsehood respecting Pope’s desiring Lintot to engage Dennis to write down Cato? If true, did Pope wish to see Addison degraded, and at the same time take an opportunity of ridiculing the critic, without, however, answering his arguments? The secret history of literature is like that of politics?

[Dennis took a strong dislike to Addison’s Cato, and his style of criticism is thus alluded to in the humorous account of his frenzy written by Pope: “On all sides of his room were pinned a great many sheets of a tragedy called Cato, with notes on the margin by his own hand. The words absurd, monstrous, execrable, were everywhere written in such large characters, that I could read them without my spectacles.” Warton says that “Addison highly disapproved of this bitter satire on Dennis, and Pope was not a little chagrined at this disapprobation; for the narrative was intended to court the favour of Addison, by defending his Cato: in which seeming defence Addison was far from thinking our author sincere.”]

[227]

In the notes to the Prologue to the Satires.

[228]

Pope’s conjecture was perfectly correct. Dr. Warton confirms it from a variety of indisputable authorities.—Warton’s “Pope,” vol. iv. p. 34.

[229]

In the “Freeholder,” May, 1716.

[230]

Pope himself thus related the matter to Spence: “Phillips seemed to have been encouraged to abuse me in coffee-houses and conversations; and Gildon wrote a thing about Wycherly, in which he had abused both me and my relations very grossly. Lord Warwick himself told me one day that it was in vain for me to endeavour to be well with Mr. Addison; that his jealous temper would never admit of a settled friendship between us, and to convince me of what he had said, assured me that Addison had encouraged Gildon to publish those scandals, and had given him ten guineas after they were published.”—Ed.

[231]

The strongest parts of Sir William Blackstone’s discussion turn on certain inaccurate dates of Ruffhead, in his statements, which show them to be inconsistent with the times when they are alleged to have happened. These erroneous dates had been detected in an able article in the Monthly Review on that work, April, 1769. Ruffhead is a tasteless, confused, and unskilful writer—Sir William has laid great stress on the incredible story of Addison paying Gildon to write against Pope, “a man so amiable in his moral character.” It is possible that the Earl of Warwick, who conveyed the information, might have been a malicious, lying youth; but then Pope had some knowledge of mankind—he believed the story, for he wrote instantly, with honest though heated feelings, to Addison, and sent him, at that moment, the first sketch of the character of Atticus. Addison used him very civilly ever after—but it does not appear that Addison ever contradicted the tale of the officious Earl. All these facts, which Pope repeated many years after to Spence, Sir William was not acquainted with, for they were transcribed from Spence’s papers by Johnson, after Blackstone had written. [This is fully in accordance with his previous conduct, as he described it to Spence; on the first notification of the Earl of Warwick’s news, “the next day when I was heated with what I had heard, I wrote a letter to Mr. Addison, to let him know that I was not unacquainted with this behaviour of his; that if I was to speak severely of him, in return for it, it should not be in such a dirty way; and that I should rather tell himself freely of his faults, and allow his good qualities; and that it should be something in the following manner: I then adjoined the first sketch of what has since been called my Satire on Addison. Mr. Addison used me very civilly ever after, and never did me any injustice that I know of from that time to his death, which was about three years after.”]

[232]

That Addison did occasionally divert Pope’s friends from him, appears from the advice which Lady Mary Wortley Montague says he gave to her—“Leave him as soon as you can, he will certainly play you some devilish trick else: he has an appetite to satire.” Malone thinks this may have been said under the irritation produced by the verses on Addison, which Pope sent to him, as described above. Pope’s love of satire, and unflinching use of it, was as conspicuous as Addison’s nervous dislike to it.—Ed.

[233]

From Lord Egmont’s MS. Collections.—See the “Addenda Kippis’s Biographia Britannica.”

[234]

The earliest and most particular narrative of this remarkable interview I have hitherto only traced to “Memoirs of the Life and Writings of A. Pope, Esq., by William Ayre, Esq.,” 1745, vol. i. p. 100. This work comes in a very suspicious form; it is a huddled compilation, yet contains some curious matters; and pretends, in the title-page, to be occasionally drawn from “original MSS. and the testimonies of persons of honour.” He declares, in the preface, that he and his friends “had means and some helps which were never public.” He sometimes appeals to several noble friends of Pope as his authorities. But the mode of its publication, and that of its execution, are not in its favour. These volumes were written within six months of the decease of our poet; have no publisher’s name; and yet the author, whoever he was, took out “a patent, under his majesty’s royal signet,” for securing the copyright. This Ayre is so obscure an author, though a translator of Tasso’s “Aminta,” that he seems to have escaped even the minor chronicles of literature. At the time of its publication there appeared “Remarks on Squire Ayre’s Memoirs of Pope.” The writer pretends he has discovered him to be only one of the renowned Edmund Curll’s “squires,” who, about that time, had created an order of literary squires, ready to tramp at the funeral of every great personage with his life. The “Remarker” then addresses Curll, and insinuates he speaks from personal knowledge of the man:—“You have an adversaria of title-pages of your own contrivance, and which your authors are to write books to. Among what you call the occasional, or black list, I have seen Memoirs of Dean Swift, Pope, &c.” Curll, indeed, was then sending forth many pseudo squires, with lives of “Congreve,” “Mrs. Oldfield,” &c.; all which contained some curious particulars, picked up in coffee-houses, conversations, or pamphlets of the day. This William Ayre I accept as “a squire of low degree,” but a real personage. As for this interview, Ayre was certainly incompetent to the invention of a single stroke of the conversations detailed: where he obtained all these interesting particulars, I have not discovered. Johnson alludes to this interview, states some of its results, but refers to no other authority than floating rumours.

[235]

The line stood originally, and nearly literally copied from Isaiah—

“He wipes the tears for ever from our eyes;”

which Steele retouched, as it now stands—

“From every face he wipes off every tear.”

Dr. Warton prefers the rejected verse. The latter, he thinks, has too much of modern quaintness. The difficulty of choice lies between that naked simplicity which scarcely affects, and those strokes of art which are too apparent.

[236]

The last line of Addison’s tragedy read originally—

“And oh! ’twas this that ended Cato’s life.”

A very weak line, which was altered at the suggestion of Pope as it stands at present:—

“And robs the guilty world of Cato’s life.”—Ed.

[237]

At the time, to season the tale for the babble of Literary Tattlers, it was propagated that Pope intended, on the death of Bolingbroke, to sell this eighteenpenny pamphlet at a guinea a copy; which would have produced an addition of as many hundreds to the thousands which the poet had honourably reaped from his Homer. This was the ridiculous lie of the day, which lasted long enough to obtain its purpose, and to cast an odium on the shade of Pope. Pope must have been a miserable calculator of survivorships, if ever he had reckoned on this.

[238]

Splendid as was the genius of Bolingbroke, the gigantic force of Warburton obtained the superiority. Had the contest solely depended on the effusions of genius, Bolingbroke might have prevailed; but an object more important than human interests induced the poet to throw himself into the arms of Warburton.

The “Essay on Man” had been reformed by the subtle aid of Warburton, in opposition to the objectionable principles which Bolingbroke had infused into his system of philosophy: this, no doubt, had vexed Bolingbroke. But another circumstance occurred of a more mortifying nature. When Pope one day showed Warburton Bolingbroke’s “Letters on the Study and Use of History,” printed, but not published, and concealing the name of the author, Warburton not only made several very free strictures on that work, but particularly attacked a digression concerning the authenticity of the Old Testament. Pope requested him to write his remarks down as they had occurred, which he instantly did; and Pope was so satisfied with them, that he crossed out the digression in the printed book, and sent the animadversions to Lord Bolingbroke, then at Paris. The style of the great dogmatist, thrown out in heat, must no doubt have contained many fiery particles, all which fell into the most inflammable of minds. Pope soon discovered his officiousness was received with indignation. Yet when Bolingbroke afterwards met Warburton he dissimulated: he used the language of compliment, but in a tone which claimed homage. The two most arrogant geniuses who ever lived, in vain exacted submission from each other: they could allow of no divided empire, and they were born to hate each other. Bolingbroke suppressed his sore feelings, for at that very time he was employed in collecting matter to refute the objections; treasuring up his secret vengeance against Pope and Warburton, which he threw out immediately on the death of Pope. I collect these particulars from Ruffhead, p. 527, and whenever, in that volume, Warburton’s name is introduced, it must be considered as coming from himself.

The reasonings of Bolingbroke appear at times to have disturbed the religious faith of our poet, and he owed much to Warburton in having that faith confirmed. But Pope rejected, with his characteristic good sense, Warburton’s tampering with him to abjure the Catholic religion. On the belief of a future state, Pope seems often to have meditated with great anxiety; and an anecdote is recorded of his latest hours, which shows how strongly that important belief affected him. A day or two before his death he was at times delirious, and about four o’clock in the morning he rose from bed and went to the library, where a friend who was watching him found him busily writing. He persuaded him to desist, and withdrew the paper he had written. The subject of the thoughts of the delirious poet was a new theory on the “Immortality of the Soul,” in which he distinguished between those material objects which tended to strengthen his conviction, and those which weakened it. The paper which contained these disordered thoughts was shown to Warburton, and surely has been preserved.

[239]

“A letter to the Lord Viscount B——ke, occasioned by his treatment of a deceased friend.” Printed for A. Moore, without date. This pamphlet either came from Warburton himself, or from one of his intimates. The writer, too, calls Pope his friend.

[240]

We find also the name of Mallet closely connected with another person of eminence, the Patriot-Poet, Leonidas Glover. I take this opportunity of correcting a surmise of Johnson’s in his Life of Mallet, respecting Glover, and which also places Mallet’s character in a true light.

A minute life of Mallet might exhibit a curious example of mediocrity of talent, with but suspicious virtues, brought forward by the accident of great connexions, placing a bustling intriguer much higher in the scale of society than “our philosophy ever dreamt of.” Johnson says of Mallet, that “It was remarkable of him, that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend.” From having been accidentally chosen as private tutor to the Duke of Montrose, he wound himself into the favour of the party at Leicester House; he wrote tragedies conjointly with Thomson, and was appointed, with Glover, to write the Life of the Duke of Marlborough. Yet he had already shown to the world his scanty talent for biography in his “Life of Lord Bacon,” on which Warburton so acutely animadverted.

According to Johnson’s account, the Duchess of Marlborough assigned the task of writing the Life of the Duke to Glover and to Mallet, with a remuneration of a thousand pounds. She must, however, have mortified the poets by subjoining the sarcastic prohibition that “no verses should be inserted.” Johnson adds, “Glover, I suppose, rejected with disdain the legacy, and devolved the whole work upon Mallet.”

The cause why Glover declined this work could not, indeed, be known to Johnson: it arose from a far more dignified motive than the petty disdain of the legacy, which our great literary biographer has surmised. It can now be told in his own words, which I derive from a very interesting extract communicated to me by my friend Mr. Duppa, from that portion of the MS. Memoirs of Glover not yet published.

I shall first quote the remarkable codicil from the original will of her Grace, which Mr. Duppa took the pains to consult. She assigns her reasons for the choice of her historians, and discriminates between the two authors. After bequeathing the thousand pounds for them, she adds: “I believe Mr. Glover is a very honest man, who wishes, as I do, all the good that can happen, to preserve the liberties and laws of England. Mr. Mallet was recommended to me by the late Duke of Montrose, whom I admired extremely for his great steadiness and behaviour in all things that related to the preservation of our laws and the public good.”—Thus her Grace has expressed a personal knowledge and confidence in Glover, distinctly marked from her “recommended” acquaintance Mallet.

Glover refused the office of historian, not from “disdain of the legacy,” nor for any deficient zeal for the hero whom he admired. He refused it with sorrowful disappointment; for, besides the fantastical restrictions of “not writing any verses;” and the cruel one of yoking such a patriot with the servile Mallet, there was one which placed the revision of the work in the hands of the Earl of Chesterfield: this was the circumstance at which the dignified genius of Glover revolted. Chesterfield’s mean political character had excited his indignation; and he has drawn a lively picture of this polished nobleman’s “eager prostitution,” in his printed Memoirs, recently published under the title of “Memoirs of a celebrated Literary and Political Character,” p. 24.

In the following passage, this great-minded man, for such he was, “unburthens his heart in a melancholy digression from his plain narrative.”

“Composing such a narrative (alluding to his own Memoirs) and endeavouring to establish such a temper of mind, I cannot at intervals refrain from regret that the capricious restrictions in the Duchess of Marlborough’s will, appointing me to write the life of her illustrious husband, compelled me to reject the undertaking. There, conduct, valour, and success abroad; prudence, perseverance, learning, and science, at home; would have shed some portion of their graces on their historian’s page: a mediocrity of talent would have felt an unwonted elevation in the bare attempt of transmitting so splendid a period to succeeding ages.” Such was the dignified regret of Glover!

Doubtless, he disdained, too, his colleague; but Mallet reaped the whole legacy, and still more, a pension: pretending to be always occupied on the Life of Marlborough, and every day talking of the great discoveries he had made, he contrived to make this nonentity serve his own purposes. Once hinting to Garrick, that, in spite of chronology, by some secret device of anticipation, he had reserved a niche in this great work for the Roscius of his own times, the gratitude of Garrick was instant. He recollected that Mallet was a tragedy-writer; and it also appeared that our dramatic bardling had one ready. As for the pretended Life of Marlborough, not a line appears ever to have been written!

Such was the end of the ardent solicitude and caprice of the Duchess of Marlborough, exemplified in the last solemn act of life, where she betrayed the same warmth of passion, and the same arrogant caprice she had always indulged, at the cost of her judgment, in what Pope emphatically terms “the trade of the world.” She was

“The wisest fool much time has ever made.”

Even in this darling project of her last ambition, to immortalise her name, she had incumbered it with such arrogant injunctions, mixed up such contrary elements, that they were certain to undo their own purpose. Such was the barren harvest she gathered through a life of passion, regulated by no principle of conduct. One of the most finished portraits of Pope is the Atossa, in his “Epistle on Woman.” How admirably he shows what the present instant proves, that she was one who, always possessing the means, was sure to lose the ends.

[241]

“Miscellaneous Poems and Translations, by several Hands,” 1712.—The second edition appeared in 1714; and in the title-page are enumerated the poems mentioned in this account, and Pope’s name affixed, as if he were the actual editor—an idea which Mr. Nichols thought he affected to discountenance. It is probable that Pope was the editor. We see, by this account, that he was paid for his contributions.

[242]

This was a new edition, published conjointly by Lintot and Lewis, the Catholic bookseller and early friend of Pope, of whom, and of the first edition, 1711, I have preserved an anecdote, p. 280.

[243]

The late Isaac Reed, in the Biog. Dramatica, was uncertain whether Gay was the author of this unacted drama. It is a satire on the inhuman frolics of the bucks and bloods of those days, who imitated the savageness of the Indians whose name they assumed.[244] Why Gay repurchased “The Mohocks,” remains to be discovered. Was it another joint production with Pope?—The literary co-partnership between Pope and Gay has never been opened to the curious. It is probable that Pope was consulted, if not concerned, in writing “The What d’ye call it?” which, Jacob says in his “Poetical Register,” “exposes several of our eminent poets.” Jacob published while Gay was living, and seems to allude to this literary co-partnership; for, speaking of Gay, he says: “that having an inclination to poetry, by the strength of his own genius, and the conversation of Mr. Pope, he has made some progress in poetical writings.”

This tragi-comical farce of “The Mohocks” is satirically dedicated to Dennis, “as a horrid and tremendous piece, formed on the model of his own ‘Appius and Virginia.’” This touch seems to come from the finger of Pope. It is a mock-tragedy, for the Mohocks themselves rant in blank verse; a feeble performance, far inferior to its happier predecessor, “The What d’ye call it?”

[244]

The brutal amusements of these “Mohocks,” and the helpless terror of London, is scarcely credible in modern days. Wild bands of drunken men nightly infested the streets, attacking and ill-using every passer-by. A favourite pastime was to surround their victim with drawn swords, pricking him on every side as he endeavoured to escape. Many persons were maimed and dangerously wounded. Gay, in his Trivia, has noted some of their more innocent practical jokes; and asks—

“Who has not trembled at the Mohock’s name?
Was there a watchman took his hourly rounds,
Safe from their blows or new invented wounds?”

Swift, in his notes to Stella, has expressed his dread, while in London, of being maimed, or perhaps killed, by them.—Ed.

[245]

Bought of Mr. George Strahan, bookseller.

[246]

For an account of these humorous pieces, see the following article on “The Royal Society.”

[247]

The fullest account we have of Settle, a busy scribe in his day, is in Mr. Nichols’s “Literary Anecdotes,” vol. i. p. 41.

[248]

It was the custom when party feeling ran high on the subject of papacy, towards the close of the reign of Charles the Second, to get up these solemn mock-processions of the Pope and Cardinals, accompanied with figures to represent Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, and other subjects well adapted to heat popular feelings, and parade them through the streets of London. The day chosen for this was the anniversary of the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth (Nov. 17), and when the procession reached Temple-bar, the figure of the Pope was tossed from his chair by one dressed as the Devil into a great bonfire made opposite the statue of Queen Elizabeth, on the city side of Temple-bar. Two rare tracts describe these “solemn mock-processions,” as they are termed, in 1679 and 1680. Prints were also published depicting the whole proceedings, and descriptive pamphlets from the pen of Settle, who arranged these shows.—Ed.

[249]

Thus altered in the Dunciad, book i., ver. 183—

“As clocks to weight their nimble motions owe,
The wheels above urged by the load below.”

[250]

This original image a late caustic wit (Horne Tooke), who probably had never read this poem, employed on a certain occasion. Godwin, who had then distinguished himself by his genius and by some hardy paradoxes, was pleading for them as hardily, by showing that they did not originate in him—that they were to be found in Helvetius, in Rousseau, and in other modern philosophers. “Ay,” retorted the cynical wit; “so you eat at my table venison and turtle, but from you the same things come quite changed!” The original, after all, is in Donne, long afterwards versified by our poet. See Warton’s edition, vol. iv. p. 257. Pope must have been an early reader of Donne.

[251]

Thus altered in the Dunciad, book i. ver. 181—

“As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly,
And pond’rous slugs cut swiftly through the sky.”

[252]

Perhaps, by Chærilus, the juvenile satirist designated Flecknoe, or Shadwell, who had received their immortality of dulness from his master, catholic in poetry and opinions, Dryden.

[253]

Some may be curious to have these monkish terms defined. Causes are distinguished by Aristotle into four kinds:—The material cause, ex qua, out of which things are made; the formal cause, per quam, by which a thing is that which it is, and nothing else; the efficient cause, a qua, by the agency of which anything is produced; and the final cause, propter quam, the end for which it is produced. Such are his notions in his Phys. 1. ii. c. iii., referred to by Brucker and Formey in their Histories of Philosophy. Of the Scholastic Metaphysics, Sprat, the historian of the Royal Society, observes, “that the lovers of that cloudy knowledge boast that it is an excellent instrument to refine and make subtle the minds of men. But there may be a greater excess in the subtlety of men’s wits than in their thickness; as we see those threads, which are of too fine a spinning, are found to be more useless than those which are homespun and gross.”—History of the Royal Society, p. 326.

In the history of human folly, often so closely connected with that of human knowledge, some of the schoolmen (the commentators on Aquinas and others) prided themselves, and were even admired for their impenetrable obscurity! One of them, and our countryman, is singularly commended by Cardan, for that “only one of his arguments was enough to puzzle all posterity; and that, when he had grown old, he wept because he could not understand his own books.” Baker, in his Reflections upon Learning, who had examined this schoolman, declares that his obscurity is such, as if he never meant to be understood. The extravagances of the schoolmen are, however, not always those of Aristotle. Pope, and the wits of that day, like these early members of the Royal Society, decried Aristotle, who did not probably fall in the way of their studies. His great imperfections are in natural philosophy; but he still preserves his eminence for his noble treatises of Ethics, and Politics, and Poetics, notwithstanding the imperfect state in which these have reached us. Dr. Copleston and Dr. Gillies have given an energetic testimony to their perpetual value. Pope, in satirising the University as a nest of dunces, considered the followers of Aristotle as so many stalled oxen, “fat bulls of Basan.”

“A hundred head of Aristotle’s friends.”

Dunciad.

Swift has drawn an allegorical personage of Aristotle, by which he describes the nature of his works. “He stooped much, and made use of a staff; his visage was meagre, his hair lank and thin, and his voice hollow;” descriptive of his abrupt conciseness, his harsh style, the obscurities of his dilapidated text, and the deficiency of feeling, which his studied compression, his deep sagacity, and his analytical genius, so frequently exhibit.

[254]

Sprat makes an ingenious observation on the notion of those who declared that “the most learned ages are still the most atheistical, and the ignorant the most devout.” He says this had become almost proverbial, but he shows that piety is little beholden to those who make this distinction. “The Jewish law forbids us to offer up to God a sacrifice that has a blemish; but these men bestow the most excellent of men on the devil, and only assign to religion those men and those times which have the greatest blemish of human nature, even a defect in their knowledge and understanding.”—History of the Royal Society, p. 356.

[255]

Science, at its birth, is as much the child of imagination as curiosity; and, in rapture at the new instrument it has discovered, it impatiently magnifies its power. To the infant, all improvements are wonders; it chronicles even its dreams, and has often described what it never has seen, delightfully deceived; the cold insults of the cynics, the wits, the dull, and the idle, maliciously mortify the infant in its sports, till it returns to slow labour and patient observation. It is rather curious, however, that when science obtains a certain state of maturity, it is liable to be attacked by the same fits of the marvellous which affected its infancy;—and the following extract from one of the enthusiastic Virtuosi in the infancy of science, rivals the visions of “the perfectibility of man” of which we hear so much at this late period. Some, perhaps, may consider these strong tendencies of the imagination, breaking out at these different periods in the history of science, to indicate results, of which the mind feels a consciousness, which the philosopher should neither indulge nor check.

“Should these heroes go on (the Royal Society) as they have happily begun, they will fill the world with wonders; and posterity will find many things that are now but rumours, verified into practical realities. It may be, some ages hence, a voyage to the southern unknown tracts, yea, possibly the Moon, will not be more strange than one to America. To them that come after us, it may be as ordinary to buy a pair of wings to fly into remotest regions, as now a pair of boots to ride a journey. And to confer at the distance of the Indies, by sympathetic conveyances, may be as usual to future times, as to us in a literary correspondence. The restoration of grey hairs to juvenility, and renewing the exhausted marrow, may at length, be effected without a miracle; and the turning the now-comparative desert world into a paradise, may not improbably be expected from late agriculture.

“Those that judge by the narrowness of former principles and successes, will smile at these paradoxical expectations. But the great inventions of latter ages, which altered the face of all things, in their naked proposals and mere suppositions, were to former times as ridiculous. To have talked of a new earth to have been discovered, had been a romance to antiquity; and to sail without sight of stars or shores, by the guidance of a mineral, a story more absurd than the flight of Dædalus. That men should speak after their tongues were ashes, or communicate with each other in differing hemispheres, before the invention of letters, could not but have been thought a fiction. Antiquity would not have believed the almost incredible force of our cannons, and would as coldly have entertained the wonders of the telescope.”—Glanvill, Scepsis Scientifica, p. 133.

[256]

Evelyn, whose elegant mind, one would have imagined, had been little susceptible of such vehement anger, in the preface to his “Sylva,” scolds at no common rate: “Well-meaning people are led away by the noise of a few ignorant and comical buffoons, who, with an insolence suitable to their understanding, are still crying out, What have the Society done?” He attributes all the opposition and ridicule the Society encountered to a personage not usual to be introduced into a philosophical controversy—“The Enemy of Mankind.” But it was well to denounce the devil himself, as the Society had nearly lost the credit of fearing him. Evelyn insists that “next to the propagation of our most holy faith,” that of the new philosophy was desirable both for the king and the nation; “for,” he adds, “it will survive the triumphs of the proudest conquerors; since, when all their pomp and noise is ended, they are those little things in black, whom now in scorn they term philosophers and fops, to whom they must be obliged for making their names outlast the pyramids, whose founders are as unknown as the heads of the Nile.” Why Evelyn designates the philosophers as little things in black, requires explanation. Did they affect a dress of this colour in the reign of Charles II., or does he allude to the dingy appearance of the chemists?

[257]

It is not easy to credit the simplicity of these early inquirers. In a Memorial in Sprat’s History, entitled, “Answers returned by Sir Philliberto Vernatti to certain Inquiries sent by order of the Royal Society;” among some of the most extraordinary questions and descriptions of nonentities, which must have fatigued Sir Philliberto, who then resided in Batavia, I find the present:—“Qy. 8. What ground there may be for that relation concerning horns taking root, and growing about Goa?” It seems the question might as well have been asked at London, and answered by some of the members themselves; for Sir Philliberto gravely replied—“Inquiring about this, a friend laughed, and told me it was a jeer put upon the Portuguese, because the women of Goa are counted none of the chastest.” Inquiries of this nature, and often the most trivial objects set off with a singular minuteness of description, tempted the laugh of the scoffers. Their great adversary, Stubbe, ridiculing their mode of giving instructions for inquiries, regrets that the paper he received from them had been lost, otherwise he would have published it. “The great Mr. Boyle, when he brought it, tendered it with blushing and disorder,” at the simplicity of the Royal Society! And indeed the royal founder himself, who, if he was something of a philosopher, was much more of a wit, set the example. The Royal Society, on the day of its creation, was the whetstone of the wit of their patron. When Charles II. dined with the members on the occasion of constituting them a Royal Society, towards the close of the evening he expressed his satisfaction in being the first English monarch who had laid a foundation for a society who proposed that their sole studies should be directed to the investigation of the arcana of nature; and added with that peculiar gravity of countenance he usually wore on such occasions, that among such learned men he now hoped for a solution to a question which had long perplexed him. The case he thus stated:—“Suppose two pails of water were fixed in two different scales that were equally poised, and which weighed equally alike, and that two live bream, or small fish, were put into either of these pails, he wanted to know the reason why that pail, with such addition, should not weigh more than the other pail which stood against it.” Every one was ready to set at quiet the royal curiosity; but it appeared that every one was giving a different opinion. One, at length, offered so ridiculous a solution, that another of the members could not refrain from a loud laugh; when the King, turning to him, insisted that he should give his sentiments as well as the rest. This he did without hesitation, and told his majesty, in plain terms, that he denied the fact! On which the King, in high mirth, exclaimed—“Odds fish, brother, you are in the right!” The jest was not ill designed. The story was often useful, to cool the enthusiasm of the scientific visionary, who is apt often to account for what never has existed.

[258]

Pope was severe in his last book of the Dunciad on the students of insects, flowers, &c.; and R.O. Cambridge followed out the idea of a mad virtuoso in his “Scribleriad,” which he has made up from the absurd or trifling parts of natural history and philosophy. His hero is—

“A much-enduring man, whose curious soul
Bore him with ceaseless toil from pole to pole;
Insatiate endless knowledge to obtain,
Thro’ woes by land, thro’ dangers on the main.”

He collects curiosities from all parts of the world; studies occult and natural sciences; and is at last beatified by electrical glories at a meeting of hermetical philosophers. This poem is elucidated by notes, which point the allusions to the works or doings of the old philosophers.—Ed.

[259]

Evelyn, who could himself be a wit occasionally, was, however, much annoyed by the scorners. He applies to these wits a passage in Nehemiah ii. 19, which describes those who laughed at the builders of Jerusalem. “These are the Sanballats, the Horonites, who disturb our men upon the wall; but let us rise up and build!” He describes these Horonites of wit as “magnificent fops, whose talents reach but to the adjusting of their perukes.” But the Royal Society was attacked from other quarters, which ought to have assisted them. Evelyn, in his valuable treatise on forest-trees, had inserted a new project for making cider; and Stubbe insisted, that in consequence “much cider had been spoiled within these three years, by following the directions published by the commands of the Royal Society.” They afterwards announced that they never considered themselves as answerable for their own memoirs, which gave Stubbe occasion to boast that he had forced them to deny what they had written. A passage in Hobbes’s “Considerations upon his Reputation, &c.,” is as remarkable for the force of its style as for that of sense, and may be applicable to some at this day, notwithstanding the progress of science, and the importance attached to their busy idleness.

“Every man that hath spare money can get furnaces, and buy coals. Every man that hath spare money can be at the charge of making great moulds, &c., and so may have the best and greatest telescopes. They can get engines made, recipients made, and try conclusions; but they are never the more philosophers for all this. ’Tis laudable to bestow money on curious or useful delights, but that is none of the praises of a philosopher.” p. 53.

[260]

Glanvill was a learned man, but evidently superstitious, particularly in all that related to witchcraft and apparitions; the reality of both being insisted on by him in a series of books which he published at various periods of his life, and which he continually worked upon with new arguments and instances, in spite of all criticism or opposition. He was a member of the Royal Society, prebend of Worcester, and rector of Bath, where he died, October 4, 1680.—Ed.

[261]

The ninth chapter in the “Plus Ultra,” entitled “The Credit of Optic Glasses vindicated against a disputing man, who is afraid to believe his eyes against Aristotle,” gives one of the ludicrous incidents of this philosophical visit. The disputer raised a whimsical objection against the science of optics, insisting that the newly-invented glasses, the telescope, the microscope, &c., were all deceitful and fallacious; for, said the Aristotelian, “take two spectacles, use them at the same time, and you will not see so well as with one singly—ergo, your microscopes and telescopes are impostors.” How this was forced into a syllogism does not appear; but still the conclusion ran, “We can see better through one pair than two, therefore all perspectives are fallacious!”

One proposition for sense,
And t’other for convenience,

will make a tolerable syllogism for a logician in despair. The Aristotelian was, however, somewhat puzzled by a problem which he had himself raised—“Why we cannot see with two pair of spectacles better than with one singly?” for the man of axioms observed, “Vis unita fortior,” “United strength is stronger.” It is curious enough, in the present day, to observe the sturdy Aristotelian denying these discoveries, and the praises of optics, and “the new glasses,” by Glanvill. “If this philosopher,” says the member of the Royal Society, “had spared some of those thoughts to the profitable doctrine of optics which he hath spent upon genus and species, we had never heard of this objection.” And he replies to the paradox which the Aristotelian had raised by “Why cannot he write better with two pens than with a single one, since Vis unita fortior? When he hath answered this Quære, he hath resolved his own. The reason he gave why it should be so, is the reason why ’tis not.” Such are the squabbles of infantine science, which cannot as yet discover causes, although it has ascertained effects.

[262]

This appears in chap. xviii. of the “Plus Ultra.” With great simplicity Glanvill relates:—“At this period of the conference, the disputer lost all patience, and with sufficient spite and rage told me ‘that I was an atheist!—that he had indeed desired my acquaintance, but would have no more on’t,’ and so turned his back and went away, giving me time only to answer that ‘I had no great reason to lament the loss of an acquaintance that could be so easily forfeited.’” The following chapter vindicates the Royal Society from the charge of atheism! to assure the world they were not to be ranked “among the black conspirators against Heaven!” We see the same objections again occurring in the modern system of geology.

[263]

This book was so scarce in 1757, that the writer in the “Biographia Britannica” observes that this “small but elegant treatise is still very much esteemed by the curious, being become so scarce as not to be met with in other hands.” Oldys, in 1738, had, in his “British Librarian,” selected this work among the scarce and valuable books of which he has presented us with so many useful analyses.

The history of books is often curious. At one period a book is scarce and valuable, and at another is neither one nor the other. This does not always depend on the caprice of the public, or what may be called literary fashions. Glanvill’s “Plus Ultra” is probably now of easy occurrence; like a prophecy fully completed, the uncertain event being verified, the prophet has ceased to be remembered.

[264]

His early history is given by Wood in his usual style. His father had been a Lincolnshire parson, who was obliged to leave his poor curacy because “anabaptistically inclined,” and fled to Ireland, whence his mother and her children were obliged to return on the breaking out of the rebellion of 1641, and landed at Liverpool; afterward, says Wood, “they all beated it on the hoof thence to London, where she, gaining a comfortable subsistence by her needle, sent her son Henry, being then ten years of age, to the collegiate school at Westminster. At that time Mr. Richard Busbie was the chief master, who finding the boy have pregnant parts to a miracle, did much favour and encourage him. At length Sir Henry Vane, junior (the same who was beheaded on Tower Hill, 1662), coming casually into the school with Dr. Lambert Osbaldiston, he did, at the master’s motion, take a kindness to the said boy, and gave him the liberty to resort to his house, and to fill that belly which otherwise had no sustenance but what one penny could purchase for his dinner: and as for his breakfast, he had none, except he got it by making somebody’s exercise. Soon after, Sir Henry got him to be a king’s scholar; and his master perceiving him to be beyond his years in proficiency, he gave him money to buy books, clothes, and his teaching for nothing.” Such was the humble beginning of a learned man, who lived to be a formidable opponent to the whole body of the Royal Society.—Ed.

[265]

When Sprat and Glanvill, and others, had threatened to write his life, Stubbe draws this apology for it, while he shows how much, in a time of revolutions, the Royal Society might want one for themselves.

“I was so far from being daunted at those rumours and threats, that I enlarged much this book thereupon, and resolved to charge the enemy home when I saw how weak a resistance I should meet with. I knew that recriminations were no answers. I understood well that the passages of a life like mine, spent in different places with much privacy and obscurity, was unknown to them; that even those actions they would fix their greatest calumnies upon, were such as that they understood not the grounds, nor had they learning enough and skill to condemn. I was at Westminster School when the late king was beheaded. I never took covenant nor engagement. In sum, I served my patron. I endeavoured to express my gratitude to him who had relieved me, being a child, and in great poverty (the rebellion in Ireland having deprived my parents of all means wherewith to educate me); who made me a king’s scholar; preferred me to Christchurch College, Oxon.; and who often supplied me with money when my tender years gave him little hopes of any return; and who protected me amidst the Presbyterians, and Independents, and other sects. With none thereof did I contract any relation or acquaintance; my familiarity never engaged me with ten of that party; and my genius and humour inclined me to fewer. I neither enriched, nor otherwise advanced myself, during the late troubles; and shared the common odium and dangers, not prosperity, with my benefactor. I believe no generous man, who hath the least sense of bravery, will condemn me; and I profess I am ashamed rather to have done so little, than that I have done so much, for him that so frankly obliged a stranger and a child. When Gracchus was put to death for sedition, that faithful friend and accomplice of his was dismissed, and mentioned with honour by all posterity, who, when he was impeached, justified his treason by the avowing a friendship so great that, whatever Gracchus had commanded him, he would not have declined it. And being further questioned, whether he would have burned the capitol at his bidding? he replied again, that he should have done it; but Gracchus would not bid such a thing. They that knew me heretofore, know I have a thousand times thus apologised for myself; adding, that in vassals and slaves, and persons transcendently obliged, their fidelity exempted them from all ignominy, though the principal lords, masters, and patrons, might be accounted traitors. My youth and other circumstances incapacitated me from rendering him any great services; but all that I did, and all that I writ, had no other aim than his interest; nor do I care how much any man can inodiate my former writings, as long as they were subservient to him.

“Having made this declaration, let them (or more able men than they) write the life of a man who hath some virtues of the most celebrated times, and hath preserved himself free from the vices of these. My reply shall be a scornful silence.”—Preface to Stubbe’s “Legends no Histories,” 1670.

[266]

His reasons for conformity on these important objects are given with his usual simplicity. “I have at length removed all the umbrages I ever lay under. I have joined myself to the Church of England, not only upon account of its being publicly imposed (which in things indifferent is no small consideration, as I learned from the Scottish transactions at Perth), but because it is the least defining, and consequently the most comprehensive and fitting to be national.”

[267]

He died at Bath in 1676, where he had gone in attendance upon several of his patients from the neighbourhood of Warwick, where he for a long time practised as a physician. His old antagonist Glanvill was at that time rector of the Abbey Church in which he was buried, and so became the preacher of his funeral sermon. Wood says he “said no great matter of him.”—Ed.

[268]

Pope said to Spence, “It was Dryden who made Will’s coffee-house the great resort for the wits of his time. After his death Addison transferred it to Button’s, who had been a servant of his.” Will’s coffee-house was at the corner of Bow-street, Covent-garden, and Button’s close by in Russell-street.—Ed.

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“Some years after the king’s restoration he took pet against the Royal Society, (for which before he had a great veneration,) and being encouraged by Dr. Jo. Fell, no admirer of that society, became in his writings an inveterate enemy against it for several pretended reasons: among which were, first, that the members thereof intended to bring a contempt upon ancient and solid learning, upon Aristotle, to undermine the universities, and reduce them to nothing, or at least to be very inconsiderable. Secondly, that at long running to destroy the established religion, and involve the nation in popery, and I know not what, &c. So dexterous was his pen, whether pro or con, that few or none could equal, answer, or come near him. He was a person of most admirable parts, had a most prodigious memory, though his enemies would not acknowledge it, but said he read indexes; was the most noted Latinist and Grecian of his age; and after he had been put upon it, was so great an enemy to the virtuosi of his time, I mean those of the Royal Society, that, as he saith, they alarmed him with dangers and troubles even to the hazard of his life and fortunes.”—Wood.

[270]

The aspersed passage in Glanvill is this: “The philosophers of elder times, though their wits were excellent, yet the way they took was not like to bring much advantage to knowledge, or any of the uses of human life, being, for the most part, that of Notion and Dispute, which still runs round in a labyrinth of talk, but advanceth nothing. These methods, in so many centuries, never brought the world so much practical beneficial knowledge as could help towards the cure of a cut finger.” Plus Ultra, p. 7.—Stubbe, with all the malice of a wit, drew his inference, and turned the point unfairly against his adversary!

I shall here observe how much some have to answer, in a literary court of conscience, when they unfairly depreciate the works of a contemporary; and how idly the literary historian performs his task, whenever he adopts the character of a writer from another who is his adversary. This may be particularly shown in the present instance.

Morhoff, in his Polyhistor Litteraria, censures the Plus Ultra of Glanvill, conceiving that he had treated with contempt all ages and nations but his own. The German bibliographer had never seen the book, but took its character from Stubbe and Meric Casaubon. The design of the Plus Ultra, however, differs little from the other works of Glanvill, which Morhoff had seen, and has highly commended.

[271]

The political reverie of Campanella was even suspected to cover very opposite designs to those he seemed to be proposing to the world. He attempted to turn men’s minds from all inquiries into politics and religion, to mere philosophical ones. He wished that the passions of mankind might be so directed, as to spend their force in philosophical discussions, and in improvements in science. He therefore insisted on a uniformity on those great subjects which have so long agitated modern Europe; for the ancients seem to have had no wars merely for religion, and perhaps none for modes of government. One may discover an enlightened principle in the project; but the character of Campanella was a jumble of sense, subtlety, and wildness. He probably masked his real intentions. He appears an advocate for the firm establishment of the papal despotism; yet he aims to give an enlightened principle to regulate the actions of mankind. The intentions of a visionary are difficult to define. If he were really an advocate for despotism, what occasioned an imprisonment for the greater part of his days? Did he lay his project much deeper than the surface of things? Did Campanella imagine that, if men were allowed to philosophise with the utmost freedom, the despotism of religion and politics would dissolve away in the weakness of its quiescent state?

The project is a chimera—but, according to the projector, the political and religious freedom of England formed its greatest obstacle. Part of his plan, therefore, includes the means of weakening the Insular heretics by intestine divisions—a mode not seldom practised by the continental powers of France and Spain.

The political project of this fervid genius was, that his “Prince,” the Spanish king, should be the mightiest sovereign in Europe. For this, he was first to prohibit all theological controversies from the Transalpine schools, those of Germany, &c. “A controversy,” he observes, “always shows a kind of victory, and may serve as an authority to a bad cause.” He would therefore admit of no commentaries on the Bible, to prevent all diversity of opinion. He would have revived the ancient philosophical sects, instead of the modern religious sects.

The Greek and the Hebrew languages were not to be taught! for the republican freedom of the ancient Jews and Grecians had often proved destructive of monarchy. Hobbes, in the bold scheme of his Leviathan, seems to have been aware of this fatality. Campanella would substitute for these ancient languages the study of the Arabic tongue! The troublesome Transalpine wits might then employ themselves in confuting the Turks, rather than in vexing the Catholics; so closely did sagacity and extravagance associate in the mind of this wild genius. But Mathematical and Astronomical schools, and other institutions for the encouragement of the mechanical arts, and particularly those to which the northern genius is most apt, as navigation, &c., were to occupy the studies of the people, divert them from exciting fresh troubles, and withdraw them from theological factions. Campanella thus would make men great in science, having first made them slaves in politics; a philosophical people were to be the subjects of despots—not an impossible event!

His plan, remarkable enough, of weakening the English, I give in his words:—“No better way can possibly be found than by causing divisions and dissensions among them, and by continually keeping up the same; which will furnish the Spaniard and the French with advantageous opportunities. As for their religion, which is a moderated Calvinism, that cannot be so easily extinguished and rooted out there, unless there were some schools set up in Flanders, where the English have great commerce, by means of which there may be scattered abroad the seeds of schism and division. These people being of a nature which is still desirous of novelties and change, they are easily wrought over to anything.” These schools were tried at Douay in Flanders, and at Valladolid in Spain, and other places. They became nests of rebellion for the English Catholics; or for any one, who, being discontented with government, was easily converted to any religion which aimed to overturn the British Constitution. The secret history of the Roman Catholics in England remains yet to be told: they indeed had their martyrs and their heroes; but the public effects appear in the frequent executions which occurred in the reigns of Elizabeth and James.

Stubbe appears to have imagined that the Royal Society was really formed on the principle of Campanella; to withdraw the people from intermeddling with politics and religion, by engaging them merely in philosophical pursuits.—The reaction of the public mind is an object not always sufficiently indicated by historians. The vile hypocrisy and mutual persecutions of the numerous fanatics occasioned very relaxed and tolerant principles of religion at the Restoration; as, the democratic fury having spent itself, too great an indulgence was now allowed to monarchy. Stubbe was alarmed that, should Popery be established, the crown of England would become feudatory to foreign power, and embroil the nation in the restitution of all the abbey lands, of which, at the Reformation, the Church had so zealously been plundered. He was still further alarmed that the virtuosi would influence the education of our youth to these purposes; “an evil,” says he, “which has been guarded against by our ancestors in founding free-schools, by uniformity of instruction cementing men’s minds.” We now smile at these terrors; perhaps they were sometimes real. The absolute necessity of strict conformity to the prevalent religion of Europe was avowed in that unrivalled scheme of despotism, which menaced to efface every trace of popular freedom, and the independence of nations, under the dominion of Napoleon.

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To this threat of writing his life, we have already noticed the noble apology he has drawn up for the versatility of his opinions. See p. 347. At the moment of the Restoration it was unwise for any of the parties to reproach another for their opinions or their actions. In a national revolution, most men are implicated in the general reproach; and Stubbe said, on this occasion, that “he had observed worse faces in the society than his own.” Waller, and Sprat, and Cowley had equally commemorated the protectorship of Cromwell and the restoration of Charles. Our satirist insidiously congratulates himself that “he had never compared Oliver the regicide to Moses, or his son to Joshua;” nor that he had ever written any Pindaric ode, “dedicated to the happy memory of the most renowned Prince Oliver, Lord Protector:” nothing to recommend “the sacred urn” of that blessed spirit to the veneration of posterity; as if

“His fame, like men, the elder it doth grow,
Will of itself turn whiter too,
Without what needless art can do.”

These lines were, I think, taken from Sprat himself! Stubbe adds, it would be “imprudent in them to look beyond the act of indemnity and oblivion, which was more necessary to the Royal Society than to me, who joined with no party, &c.”—Preface to “Legends no Histories.”

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He has described this intercourse of his enemies at court with the king, where, when this punishment was suggested, “a generous personage, altogether unknown to me, being present, bravely and frankly interposed, saying, that ‘whatever I was, I was a Roman; that Englishmen were not so precipitously to be condemned to so exemplary a punishment; that representing that book to be a libel against the king was too remote a consequence to be admitted of in a nation free-born, and governed by laws, and tender of ill precedents.’” It was a noble speech, in the relaxed politics of the court of Charles II. He who made it deserved to have had his name more explicitly told: he is designated as “that excellent Englishman, the great ornament of this age, nation, and House of Commons; he whose single worth balanceth much of the debaucheries, follies, and impertinences of the kingdom.”—A Reply unto the Letter written to Mr. Henry Stubbe, Oxford, 1671, p. 20.

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Stubbe gives some curious information on this subject. Harvey published his Treatise at Frankfort, 1628, but Cæsalpinus’s work had appeared in 1593. Harvey adopted the notion, and more fully and perspicuously proved it. I shall give what Stubbe says. “Harvey, in his two Answers to Riolan, nowhere asserts the invention so to himself, as to deny that he had the intimation or notion from Cæsalpinus; and his silence I take for a tacit confession. His ambition of glory made him willing to be thought the author of a paradox he had so illustrated, and brought upon the stage, where it lay unregarded, and in all probability buried in oblivion; yet such was his modesty, as not to vindicate it to himself by telling a lie.”—Stubbe’s Censure, &c., p. 112.

I give this literary anecdote, as it enters into the history of most discoveries, of which the improvers, rather than the inventors, are usually the most known to the world. Bayle, who wrote much later than Stubbe, asserts the same, and has preserved the entire passage, art. Cæsalpinus. It is said Harvey is more expressly indebted to a passage in Servetus, which Wotton has given in the preface to his “Reflections on Ancient and Modern Learning,” edition 1725. The notion was probably then afloat, and each alike contributed to its development. Thus it was disputed with Copernicus, whether his great discovery of a fixed sun, and the earth wheeling round that star, was his own; others had certainly observed it; yet the invention was still Copernican: for that great genius alone corrected, extended, and gave perfection to a hint, till it expanded to a system.

So gradual have often been the great inventions of genius. What others conjectured, and some discovered, Harvey demonstrated. The fate of Harvey’s discovery is a curious instance of that patience and fortitude which genius must too often exert in respect to itself. Though Harvey lived to his eightieth year, he hardly witnessed his great discovery established before he died; and it has been said, that he was the only one of his contemporaries who lived to see it in some repute. No physician adopted it; and when it got into vogue, they then disputed whether he was the inventor! Sir William Temple denied not only the discovery, but the doctrine of the Circulation of the Blood. “Sense can hardly allow it; which,” says he, “in this dispute must be satisfied as well as reason, before mankind will concur.”

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Stubbe has an eloquent passage, which describes the philosophy of science. The new Experimental School had perhaps too wholly rejected some virtues of the old one; the cultivation of the human understanding, as well as the mere observation on the facts that they collected; an error which has not been entirely removed.

“That art of reasoning by which the prudent are discriminated from fools, which methodiseth and facilitates our discourses, which informs us of the validity of consequences and the probability of arguments, and manifests the fallacies of impostors; that art which gives life to solid eloquence, and which renders Statesmen, Divines, Physicians, and Lawyers accomplished; how is this cried down and vilified by the ignoramuses of these days! What contempt is there raised upon the disputative Ethics of Aristotle and the Stoics; and those moral instructions, which have produced the Alexanders and the Ptolemies, the Pompeys and the Ciceroes, are now slighted in comparison of day-labouring! Did we live at Sparta, where the daily employments were the exercises of substantial virtue and gallantry, and men, like setting dogs, were rather bred up unto, than taught reason and worth, it were a more tolerable proposal (though the different policy of these times would not admit of it); but this working, so recommended, is but the feeding of carp in the air, &c. As for the study of Politics, and all critical learning, these are either pedantical, or tedious, to those who have a shorter way of studying men.”—Preface to “Legends no Histories.”

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“Legends no Histories,” p. 5.

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Dr. King was allied to the families of Clarendon and Rochester; he took a degree as Doctor of Civil Law, and soon got into great practice. “He afterwards went with the Earl of Pembroke, Lord-Lieutenant, to Ireland, where he became Judge Advocate, Sole Commissioner of the Prizes, Keeper of the Records, Vicar-General to the Lord Primate of Ireland; was countenanced by persons of the highest rank, and might have made a fortune. But so far was he from heaping up riches, that he returned to England with no other treasure than a few merry poems and humorous essays, and returned to his student’s place in Christ Church.”—Enc. Brit. He was assisted by Bolingbroke; but when his patronage failed, Swift procured him the situation of editor to “Barber’s Gazette.” He ultimately took to drinking; Lintot the bookseller, told Pope, “I remember Dr. King could write verses in a tavern three hours after he could not speak.” His last patron was Lord Clarendon, and he died in apartments he had provided for him in London, Dec. 25, 1712, and was buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey at the expense of his lordship.—Ed.

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Sloane describes Clark, the famous posture-master, “Phil. Trans.” No. 242, certainly with the wildest grammar, but with many curious particulars; the gentleman in one of Dr. King’s Dialogues inquires the secretary’s opinion of the causes of this man’s wonderful pliability of limbs; a question which Sloane had thus solved, with colloquial ease: it depended upon “bringing the body to it, by using himself to it.”

In giving an account of “a child born without a brain”—“Had it lived long enough,” said King, “it would have made an excellent publisher of Philosophical Transactions!”

Sloane presented the Royal Society with “a figure of a Chinese, representing one of that nation using an ear-picker, and expressing great satisfaction therein.”—“Whatever pleasure,” said that learned physician, “the Chinese may take in thus picking their ears, I am certain most people in these parts, who have had their hearing impaired, have had such misfortune first come to them by picking their ears too much.”—He is so curious, says King, that the secretary took as much satisfaction in looking upon the ear-picker, as the Chinese could do in picking their ears!

But “What drowning is”—that “Hanging is only apoplexy!” that “Men cannot swallow when they are dead!” that “No fish die of fevers!” that “Hogs s—t soap, and cows s—t fire!” that the secretary had “Shells, called Blackmoor’s-teeth, I suppose from their whiteness!” and the learned Ray’s, that grave naturalist, incredible description of “a very curious little instrument!” I leave to the reader and Dr. King.

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Sir Hans Sloane was unhappily not insensible to these ludicrous assaults, and in the preface to his “History of Jamaica,” 1707, a work so highly prized for its botanical researches, absolutely anticipated this fatal facetiousness, for thus he delivers himself:—“Those who strive to make ridiculous anything of this kind, and think themselves great wits, but are very ignorant, and understand nothing of the argument, these, if one were afraid of them, and consulted his own ease, might possibly hinder the publication of any such work, the efforts to be expected from them, making possibly some impression upon persons of equal dispositions; but considering that I have the approbation of others, whose judgment, knowledge, &c., I have great reason to value; and considering that these sorts of men have been in all ages ready to do the like, not only to ordinary persons and their equals, but even to abuse their prince and blaspheme their Maker, I shall, as I have ever since I seriously considered this matter, think of and treat them with the greatest contempt.”

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Dr. King’s dispersed works have fortunately been collected by Mr. Nichols, with ample illustrations, in three vols. 8vo, 1776. The “Useful Transactions in Philosophy and other sorts of Learning,” form a collection of ludicrous dissertations of Antiquarianism, Natural Philosophy, Criticism, &c., where his own peculiar humour combines with his curious reading. [In this he burlesqued the proceedings of the Royal and Antiquarian Societies with some degree of spirit and humour. By turning vulgar lines into Greek, Latin, and Anglo-Saxon, a learned air is given to some papers on childish subjects. One learned doctor communicates to another “an Essay proving, by arguments philosophical, that millers, falsely so reputed, are not thieves, with an interesting argument that taylors likewise are not so.” A Welsh schoolmaster sends some “natural observations” made in Wales, in direct imitation of the “Philosophical Transactions” for 1707, and with humorous love for genealogy, reckons that in his school, “since the flood, there have been 466, and I am the 467th master: before the flood, they living long, there were but two—Rice ap Evan Dha the good, and Davie ap Shones Gonnah the naught, in whose time the flood came.” The first paper of the collection is an evident jest on John Bagford and his gatherings for the history of printing, now preserved among the manuscripts of the British Museum. It purports to be “an Essay on the invention of samplers, communicated by Mrs. Judith Bagford, with an account of her collections for the same:” and written in burlesque of a paper in the “Philosophical Transactions” for April, 1697. It is a most elaborate performance, deducing with mock-seriousness the origin of samplers from the ancient tales of Arachne, who “set forth the whole story of her wrongs in needlework, and sent it to her sister;” and our author adds, with much humour, “it is very remarkable that the memory of this story does at present continue, for there are no samplers, which proceed in any measure beyond the first rudiments, but have a tree and a nightingale sitting on it.” Such were the jests of the day against the Royal philosophers.] He also invented satirical and humorous indexes, not the least facetious parts of his volumes. King had made notes on more than 20,000 books and MSS., and his Adversaria, of which a portion has been preserved, is not inferior in curiosity to the literary journals of Gibbon, though it wants the investigating spirit of the modern philosopher.

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The moral and literary character of Henley has been developed in “Calamities of Authors.”

[282]

The twenty-six folios of his “Vegetable System,” with many others, testify his love and his labour. It contains 1600 plates, representing 26,000 different figures of plants from nature only. This publication ruined the author, whose widow (the sister of Lord Ranelagh) published “An Address to the Public, by the Hon. Lady Hill, setting forth the consequences of the late Sir John Hill’s acquaintance with the Earl of Bute,” 1787. I should have noticed it in the “Calamities of Authors.” It offers a sad and mortifying lesson to the votary of science who aspires to a noble enterprise. Lady Hill complains of the patron; but a patron, however great, cannot always raise the public taste to the degree required to afford the only true patronage which can animate and reward an author. Her detail is impressive:—

“Sir John Hill had just wrote a book of great elegance—I think it was called ‘Exotic Botany’—which he wished to have presented to the king, and therefore named it to Lord Bute. His lordship waived that, saying that ‘he had a greater object to propose;’ and shortly after laid before him a plan of the most voluminous, magnificent, and costly work that ever man attempted. I tremble when I name its title—because I think the severe application which it required killed him; and I am sure the expense ruined his fortune—‘The Vegetable System.’ This work was to consist of twenty-six volumes folio, containing sixteen hundred copper-plates, the engraving of each cost four guineas; the paper was of the most expensive kind; the drawings by the first hands. The printing was also a very weighty concern; and many other articles, with which I am unacquainted. Lord Bute said that ‘the expense had been considered, and that Sir John Hill might rest assured his circumstances should not be injured.’ Thus he entered upon and finished his destruction. The sale bore no proportion to the expense. After ‘The Vegetable System’ was completed, Lord Bute proposed another volume to be added, which Sir John strenuously opposed; but his lordship repeating his desire, Sir John complied, lest his lordship should find a pretext to cast aside repeated promises of ample provision for himself and family. But this was the crisis of his fate—he died.” Lady Hill adds:—“He was a character on which every virtue was impressed.” The domestic partiality of the widow cannot alter the truth of the narrative of “The Vegetable System,” and its twenty-six tomes.

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His apologist forms this excuse for one then affecting to be a student and a rake:—“Though engaged in works which required the attention of a whole life, he was so exact an economist of his time that he scarcely ever missed a public amusement for many years; and this, as he somewhere observes, was of no small service to him; as, without indulging in these respects, he could not have undergone the fatigue and study inseparable from the execution of his vast designs.”—Short Account of the “Life, Writings, and Character of the late Sir John Hill, M.D.” Edinburgh: 1779.

[284]

Hogarth has painted a portrait of Folkes, which is still hanging in the rooms of the Royal Society. He was nominated vice-president by the great Sir Isaac Newton, and succeeded him as president. He wrote a work on the “English Silver Coinage,” and died at the age of sixty-four, 1754.—Ed.

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Hill planned his Review with good sense. He says:—“If I am merry in some places, it ought to be considered that the subjects are too ridiculous for serious criticism. That the work, however, might not be without its real use, an Error is nowhere exposed without establishing a Truth in its place.” He has incidentally thrown out much curious knowledge—such as his plan for forming a Hortus Siccus, &c. The Review itself may still be considered both as curious and entertaining.

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In exposing their deficiencies, as well as their redundancies, Hill only wishes, as he tells us, that the Society may by this means become ashamed of what it has been, and that the world may know that he is NOT a member of it till it is an honour to a man to be so! This was telling the world, with some ingenuity, and with no little impudence, that the Royal Society would not admit him as a member. He pretends to give a secret anecdote to explain the cause of this rejection. Hill, in every critical conjuncture of his affairs, and they were frequent ones, had always a story to tell, or an evasion, which served its momentary purpose. When caned by an Irish gentleman at Ranelagh, and his personal courage, rather than his stoicism, was suspected, he published a story of his having once caned a person whom he called Mario; on which a wag, considering Hill as a Prometheus, wrote—

“To beat one man great Hill was fated.
What man?—a man whom he created!”

We shall see the story he turned to his purpose, when pressed hard by Fielding. In the present instance, in a letter to a foreign correspondent, who had observed his name on the list of the Correspondents of the Royal Society, Hill said—“You are to know that I have the honour NOT to be a member of the Royal Society of London.”—This letter lay open on his table when a member, upon his accustomed visit, came in, and in his absence read it. “And we are not to wonder,” says Hill, “that he who could obtain intelligence in this manner could also divulge it. Hinc illæ lachrymæ! Hence all the animosities that have since disturbed this philosophic world.” While Hill insolently congratulates himself that he is not a member of the Royal Society, he has most evidently shown that he had no objection to be the member of any society which would enrol his name among them. He obtained his medical degree from no honourable source; and another title, which he affected, he mysteriously contracted into barbaric dissonance. Hill entitled himself—

Acad. Reg. Scient. Burd. &c. Soc.

To which Smart, in the “Hilliad,” alludes—

“While Jargon gave his titles on a block,
And styled him M.D. Acad. Budig. Soc.”

His personal attacks on Martin Folkes, the president, are caustic, but they may not be true; and on Baker, celebrated for his microscopical discoveries, are keen. He reproaches Folkes, in his severe dedication of the work, in all the dignity of solemn invective.—“The manner in which you represented me to a noble friend, while to myself you made me much more than I deserved; the ease with which you had excused yourself, and the solemnity with which, in the face of Almighty God, you excused yourself again; when we remember that the whole was done within the compass of a day; these are surely virtues in a patron that I, of all men, ought not to pass over in silence.” Baker, in his early days, had unluckily published a volume of lusory poems. Some imitations of Prior’s loose tales Hill makes use of to illustrate his “Philosophical Transactions.” All is food for the malicious digestion of Wit!

His anecdote of Mr. Baker’s Louse is a piece of secret scientific history sufficiently ludicrous.

“The Duke of Montague was famous for his love to the whole animal creation, and for his being able to keep a very grave face when not in the most serious earnest. Mr. Baker, a distinguished member of the Royal Society, had one day entertained this nobleman and several other persons with the sight of the peristaltic motion of the bowels in a louse, by the microscope. When the observation was over, he was going to throw the creature away; but the Duke, with a face that made him believe he was perfectly in earnest, told him it would be not only cruel, but ungrateful, in return for the entertainment that creature had given them, to destroy it. He ordered the boy to be brought in from whom it was procured, and after praising the smallness and delicacy of Mr. Baker’s fingers, persuaded him carefully to replace the animal in its former territories, and to give the boy a shilling not to disturb it for a fortnight.”—“A Review of the Works of the Royal Society,” by John Hill, M.D., p. 5.

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These papers had appeared in the London Daily Advertiser, 1754. At their close he gleaned the best, and has preserved them in two volumes. But as Hill will never rank as a classic, the original nonsense will be considered as most proper for the purposes of a true collector. Woodward, the comedian, in his lively attack on Hill, has given “a mock Inspector,” an exquisite piece of literary ridicule, in which he has hit off the egotisms and slovenly ease of the real ones. Never, like “The Inspector,” flamed such a provoking prodigy in the cloudy skies of Grub-street; and Hill seems studiously to have mortified his luckless rivals by a perpetual embroidery of his adventures in the “Walks at Marybone,” the “Rotunda at Ranelagh,” spangled over with “my domestics,” and “my equipage.” [One of his adventures at Ranelagh was sufficiently unfortunate to obtain for him the unenviable notoriety of a caricature print representing him enduring a castigation at the Rotunda gate from an Irish gentleman named Brown, with whose character he had made far too free in one of his “Inspectors.” Hill showed much pusillanimity in the affair, took to his bed, and gave out that the whole thing was a conspiracy to murder him. This occasioned the publication of another print, in which he is represented in bed, surrounded by medical men, who treat him with very little respect. One insists on his fee, because Hill has never been acknowledged as one of themselves; and another, to his plea of want of money, responds, “Sell your sword, it is only an encumbrance.”]

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It is useful to remind the public that they are often played upon in this manner by the artifices of political writers. We have observed symptoms of this deception practised at present. It is an old trick of the craft, and was greatly used at a time when the nation seemed maddened with political factions. In a pamphlet of “A View of London and Westminster, or the Town-spy,” 1725, I find this account:—“The seeming quarrel, formerly, between Mist’s Journal and the Flying Post was secretly concerted between themselves, in order to decoy the eyes of all the parties on both their papers; and the project succeeded beyond all expectation; for I have been told that the former narrowly missed getting an estate by it.”—p. 32.

[289]

Isaac Reed, in his “Repository of Fugitive Pieces of Wit and Humour,” vol. iv., in republishing “The Hilliad,” has judiciously preserved the offending “Impertinent” and the abjuring “Inspector.” The style of “The Impertinent” is volatile and poignant. His four classes of authors are not without humour. “There are men who write because they have wit; there are those who write because they are hungry; there are some of the modern authors who have a constant fund of both these causes; and there are who will write, although they are not instigated either by the one or by the other. The first are all spirit; the second are all earth; the third disclose more life, or more vapidity, as the one or the other cause prevails; and for the last, having neither the one nor the other principle for the cause, they show neither the one nor the other character in the effect; but begin, continue, and end, as if they had neither begun, continued, nor ended at all.” The first class he instances by Fielding; the second by Smart. Of the third he says:—“The mingled wreath belongs to Hill,” that is himself; and the fourth he illustrates by the absurd Sir William Browne.

“Those of the first rank are the most capricious and lazy of all animals. The monkey genius would rarely exert itself, if even idleness innate did not give way to the superior love of mischief. The ass (that is Smart), which characters the second, is as laborious as he is empty; he wears a ridiculous comicalness of aspect (which was, indeed, the physiognomy of the poor poet), that makes people smile when they see him at a distance. His mouth opens, because he must be fed, while we laugh at the insensibility and obstinacy that make him prick his lips with thistles.”

[290]

Woodward humorously attributes Hill’s attack on him to his jealousy of his successful performance of Harlequin, and opens some of the secret history of Hill, by which it appears that early in life he trod the theatrical boards. He tells us of the extraordinary pains the prompter had taken with Hill, in the part of Oroonoko; though, “if he had not quite forgotten it, to very little purpose.” He reminds Hill of a dramatic anecdote, which he no doubt had forgotten. It seems he once belonged to a strolling company at May-fair, where, in the scene between Altamont and Lothario, the polite audience of that place all chorused, and agreed with him, when dying he exclaimed, “Oh, Altamont, thy genius is the stronger.” He then shows him off as the starved apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, in one of his botanic peregrinations to Chelsea Garden; from whence, it is said, he was expelled for “culling too many rare plants”—

“I do remember an apothecary,
Culling of simples——.”

Hill, who was often so brisk in his attack on the wits, had no power of retort; so that he was always buffeting and always buffeted.

[291]

He was also satirised in a poem termed “The Pasquinade,” published in 1752, in which the goddesses of Pertness and Dulness join to praise him as their favourite reflex.

“Pertness saw her form distinctly shine
In none, immortal Hill! so full as thine.”

Dulness speaks of him thus rapturously:—

“See where my son, who gratefully repays
Whate’er I lavish’d on his younger days;
Whom still my arm protects to brave the town
Secure from Fielding, Machiavel, or Brown;
Whom rage nor sword e’er mortally shall hurt,
Chief of a hundred chiefs o’er all the pert!
Rescued an orphan babe from common sense,
I gave his mother’s milk to Confidence;
She with her own ambrosia bronz’d his face,
And changed his skin to monumental brass.
Whom rage nor sword e’er mortally shall hurt,
Chief of a hundred chiefs o’er all the pert!
Rescued an orphan babe from common sense,
I gave his mother’s milk to Confidence;
She with her own ambrosia bronz’d his face,
And changed his skin to monumental brass.”

[292]

Hill addresses the Lord Chancellor, Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Speaker, on Sir Hans Sloane’s Collection of Natural History, proposing himself as a candidate for nomination in the principal office, by whatever name that shall be called:—“I deliver myself with humility; but conscious also that I possess the liberties of a British subject, I shall speak with freedom.” He says that the only means left for a Briton is to address his sovereign and the public. “That foreigners will resort to this collection is certain, for it is the most considerable in the world; and that our own people will often visit it is as sure, because it may be made the means of much useful as well as curious knowledge. One and the other will expect a person in that office who has sufficient knowledge: he must be able to give account of every article, freely and fluently, not only in his own, but in the Latin and French languages.

“This the world, and none in it better than your lordship, sees is not a place that any one can execute: it requires knowledge in a peculiar and uncommon kind of study—knowledge which very few possess; and in which, my lord, the bitterest of my enemies (and I have thousands, although neither myself nor they know why) will not say I am deficient——.

“My lord, the eyes of all Europe are upon this transaction. What title I have to your lordship’s favour, those books which I have published, and with which (pardon the necessary boast) all Europe is acquainted, declare. Many may dispute by interest with me; but if there be one who would prefer himself, by his abilities, I beg the matter may be brought to trial. The collection is at hand; and I request, my lord, such person and myself may be examined by that test, together. It is an amazing store of knowledge; and he has most, in this way, who shall show himself most acquainted with it.

“What are my own abilities it very ill becomes me thus to boast; but did they not qualify me for the trust, my lord, I would not ask it. As to those of any other, unless a man be conjured from the dead, I shall not fear to say there is not any one whoever that is able so much as to call the parts of the collection by their names.

“I know I shall be accused of ostentation in giving to myself this preference; and I am sorry for it: but those who have candour will know it could not be avoided.

“Many excel, my lord, in other studies: it is my chance to have bestowed the labour of my life on this: those labours may be of some use to others. This appears the only instance in which it is possible that they should be rewarded——.”

In a subsequent Inspector, he treated on the improvement of botany by raising plants, and reading lectures on them at the British Museum, with the living plants before the lecturer and his auditors. Poor Sir John! he was born half a century too early!—He would, in this day, have made his lectures fashionable; and might have secured at the opera every night an elegant audience for the next morning in the gardens of the Museum.

[293]

It would be difficult to form a list of his anonymous works or compilations, among which many are curious. Tradition has preserved his name as the writer of Mrs. Glasse’s Cookery, and of several novels. There is a very curious work, entitled “Travels in the East,” 2 vols. 8vo, of which the author has been frequently and in vain inquired after. These travels are attributed to a noble lord; but it now appears that they are a very entertaining narrative manufactured by Hill. Whiston, the bookseller, had placed this work in his MS. catalogue of Hill’s books.

There is still another production of considerable merit, entitled “Observations on the Greek and Roman Classics,” 1753. A learned friend recollects, when young, that this critical work was said to be written by Hill. It excels Blackwell and Fenton; and aspires to the numerous composition of prose. The sentimental critic enters into the feelings of the great authors whom he describes with spirit, delicacy of taste, and sometimes with beautiful illustration. It only wants a chastening hand to become a manual for the young classical student, by which he might acquire those vivid emotions, which many college tutors may not be capable of communicating.

I suspect, too, he is the author of this work, from a passage which Smart quotes, as a specimen of Hill’s puffing himself, and of those smart short periods which look like wit, without being witty. In a letter to himself, as we are told, Hill writes:—“You have discovered many of the beauties of the ancients—they are obliged to you; we are obliged to you: were they alive, they would thank you; we who are alive do thank you.” If Hill could discriminate the most hidden beauties of the ancients, the tact must have been formed at his leisure—in his busy hours he never copied them; but when had he leisure?

Two other works, of the most contrasted character, display the versatility and dispositions of this singular genius, at different eras. When “The Inspector” was rolling in his chariot about the town, appeared “Letters from the Inspector to a Lady,” 1752. It is a pamphlet, containing the amorous correspondence of Hill with a reigning beauty, whom he first saw at Ranelagh. On his first ardent professions he is contemptuously rejected; he perseveres in high passion, and is coldly encouraged; at length he triumphs; and this proud and sullen beauty, in her turn, presents a horrid picture of the passions. Hill then becomes the reverse of what he was; weary of her jealousy, sated with the intercourse, he studiously avoids, and at length rejects her; assigning for his final argument his approaching marriage. The work may produce a moral effect, while it exhibits a striking picture of all the misery of illicit connexions: but the scenes are coloured with Ovidian warmth. The original letters were shown at the bookseller’s: Hill’s were in his own handwriting, and the lady’s in a female hand. But whether Hill was the publisher, as an attempt at notoriety—or the lady admired her own correspondence, which is often exquisitely wrought, is not known.

Hill, in his serious hours, published a large quarto volume, entitled “Thoughts Concerning God and Nature,” 1755. This work, the result of his scientific knowledge and his moral reasoning, was never undertaken for the purpose of profit. He printed it with the certainty of a considerable loss, from its abstract topics, not obvious to general readers; at a time, too, when a guinea quarto was a very hazardous enterprise. He published it purely from conscientious and religious motives; a circumstance mentioned in that Apology of his Life which we have noticed. The more closely the character of Hill is scrutinised, the more extraordinary appears this man, so often justly contemned, and so often unjustly depreciated.

[294]

Through the influence of Lord Bute he became connected with the Royal Gardens at Kew; and his lordship also assisted him in publishing his botanical works. See note, p. 363.

[295]

It would occupy pages to transcribe epigrams on Hill. One of them alludes to his philosophical as well as his literary character:—

“Hill puffs himself; forbear to chide!
An insect vile and mean
Must first, he knows, be magnified
Before it can be seen.”

Garrick’s happy lines are well known on his farces:—

“For physic and farces his equal there scarce is—
His farces are physic, his physic a farce is.”

Another said—

“The worse that we wish thee, for all thy vile crimes,
Is to take thy own physic, and read thy own rhymes.”

The rejoinder would reverse the wish—

“For, if he takes his physic first,
He’ll never read his rhymes.”

[296]

Hill says, in his pamphlet on the “Virtues of British Herbs”:—“It will be happy if, by the same means, the knowledge of plants also becomes more general. The study of them is pleasant, and the exercise of it healthful. He who seeks the herb for its cure, will find it half effected by the walk; and when he is acquainted with the useful kinds, he may be more people’s, besides his own, physician.”

[297]

Haughtiness was the marking feature of Bentley’s literary character; and his Wolseyan style and air have been played on by the wits. Bentley happened to express himself on the King’s MS. of Phalaris in a manner their witty malice turned against him. “’Twas a surprise (he said) to find that OUR MS. was not perused.”—“Our MS. (they proceed) that is, his Majesty’s and mine! He speaks out now; ’tis no longer the King’s, but OUR MS., i.e. Dr. Bentley’s and the King’s in common, Ego et Rex meus—much too familiar for a library-keeper!”—It has been said that Bentley used the same Wolseyan egotism on Pope’s publications:—“This man is always abusing me or the King!”

[298]

Bentley, in one place, having to give a positive contradiction to the statement of the bookseller, rising in all his dignity and energy, exclaims, “What can be done in this case? Here are two contrary affirmations; and the matter being done in private, neither of us have any witness. I might plead, as Æmilius Scaurus did against one Varius, of Sucro. Varius Sucronensis ait, Æmilius Scaurus negat. Utri creditis Quirites?” p. 21.—The story is told by Valerius Maximus, lib. iii. c. 7. Scaurus was insolently accused by one Varius, a Sucronian, that he had taken bribes from Mithridates: Scaurus addressed the Roman people. “He did not think it just that a man of his age should defend himself against accusations, and before those who were not born when he filled the offices of the republic, nor witnessed the actions he had performed. Varius, the Sucronian, says that Scaurus, corrupted by gold, would have betrayed the republic; Scaurus replies, It is not true. Whom will you believe, fellow-Romans?”—This appeal to the people produced all the effect imaginable, and the ridiculous accuser was silenced.

Bentley points the same application, with even more self-consciousness of his worth, in another part of his preface. It became necessary to praise himself, to remove the odium Boyle and his friends had raised on him—it was a difficulty overcome. “I will once more borrow the form of argument that Æmilius Scaurus used against Varius Sucronensis. Mr. Spanheim and Mr. Grævius give a high character of Dr. B.’s learning: Mr. Boyle gives the meanest that malice can furnish himself with. Utri creditis, Quirites? Whether of the characters will the present age or posterity believe?”—p. 82. It was only a truly great mind which could bring itself so close to posterity.

[299]

It was the fashion then to appear very unconcerned about one’s literary reputation; but then to be so tenacious about it when once obtained as not to suffer, with common patience, even the little finger of criticism to touch it. Boyle, after defending what he calls his “honesty,” adds, “the rest only touches my learning. This will give me no concern, though it may put me to some little trouble. I shall enter upon this with the indifference of a gamester who plays but for a trifle.” On this affected indifference, Bentley keenly observes:—“This was entering on his work a little ominously; for a gamester who plays with indifference never plays his game well. Besides that, by this odd comparison, he seems to give warning, and is as good as his word, that he will put the dice upon his readers as often as he can. But what is worse than all, this comparison puts one in mind of a general rumour, that there’s another set of gamesters who play him in his dispute while themselves are safe behind the curtain.”—Bentley’s Dissertation on Phalaris, p. 2.

[300]

Rumours and conjectures are the lot of contemporaries; truth seems reserved only for posterity; and, like the fabled Minerva, she is born of age at once. The secret history of this volume, which partially appeared, has been more particularly opened in one of Warburton’s letters, who received it from Pope, who had been “let into the secret.” Boyle wrote the Narrative, “which, too, was corrected for him.” Freind, who wrote the entire Dissertation on Æsop in that volume, wrote also, with Atterbury, the body of the Criticisms; King, the droll argument, proving that Bentley was not the author of his own Dissertation, and the extraordinary index which I shall shortly notice. In Atterbury’s “Epistolary Correspondence” is a letter, where, with equal anger and dignity, Atterbury avows his having written about half, and planned the whole of Boyle’s attack upon Bentley! With these facts before us, can we read without surprise, if not without indignation, the passage I shall now quote from the book to which the name of Boyle is prefixed. In raising an artful charge against Bentley, of appropriating to himself some MS. notes of Sir Edward Sherburn, Boyle, replying to the argument of Bentley, that “Phalaris” was the work of some sophist, says:—“The sophists are everywhere pelted by Dr. Bentley, for putting out what they wrote in other men’s names; but I did not expect to hear so loudly of it from one that has so far outdone them; for I think ’tis much worse to take the honour of another man’s book to one’s self, than to entitle one’s own book to another man.”—p. 16.

I am surprised Bentley did not turn the point of his antagonist’s sword on himself, for this flourish was a most unguarded one. But Bentley could not then know so much of the book, “made up by contributions,” as ourselves.

Partial truths flew about in rumours at the time; but the friends of a young nobleman, and even his fellow-workmen, seemed concerned that his glory should not be diminished by a ruinous division. Rymer, in his “Essay concerning Curious and Critical Learning,” judiciously surmised its true origin. “I fancy this book was written (as most public compositions in that college are) by a select club. Every one seems to have thrown in a repartee or so in his turn; and the most ingenious Dr. Aldrich (he does not deserve the epithet in its most friendly sense) no doubt at their head, smoked and punned plentifully on this occasion.” The arrogance of Aldrich exceeded even that of Bentley. Rymer tells further, that Aldrich was notorious for thus employing his “young inexperienced students;” that he “betrayed Mr. Boyle into the controversy, and is still involving others in the quarrel.” Thus he points at the rival chieftains; one of whom never appeared in public, but was the great mover behind the curtain. These lively wits, so deeply busied among the obscurest writers of antiquity, so much against their will, making up a show of learning against the formidable array of Bentley, exhilarated themselves in their dusty labours by a perpetual stimulus of keen humour, playful wit, and angry invective. No doubt they were often enraged at bearing the yoke about their luxuriant manes, ploughing the darkest and heaviest soil of antiquity. They had been reared—

“Insultare solo, et gressus glomerare superbos.”

“Georg.” Lib. iii. 117.

“To insult the ground, and proudly pace the plain.”

Trapp.

Swift, in “The Battle of the Books,” who, under his patron, Sir William Temple, was naturally in alliance with “the Bees,” with ingenious ambiguity alludes to the glorious manufacture. “Boyle, clad in a suit of armour, which had been given him by all the Gods.” Still the truth was only floating in rumours and surmises; and the little that Boyle had done was not yet known. Lord Orrery, his son, had a difficulty to overcome to pass lightly over this allusion. The literary honour of the family was at stake, and his filial piety was exemplary to a father, who had unfortunately, in passion, deprived his lordship of the family library—a stroke from which his sensibility never recovered, and which his enemies ungenerously pointed against him. Lord Orrery, with all the tenderness of a son, and the caution of a politician, observes on “the armour given by the Gods”—“I shall not dispute about the gift of the armour. The Gods never bestowed celestial armour except upon heroes, whose courage and superior strength distinguished them from the rest of mankind.” Most ingeniously he would seem to convert into a classical fable what was designed as a plain matter of fact!

It does credit to the discernment of Bentley, whose taste was not very lively in English composition, that he pronounced Boyle was not the author of the “Examination,” from the variety of styles in it.—p. 107.

[301]

This short and pointed satire of Horace is merely a pleasant story about a low wretch of the name of King; and Brutus, under whose command he was, is entreated to get rid of him, from his hereditary hatred to all kings. I suppose this pun must be considered legitimate, otherwise Horace was an indifferent punster.

[302]

A keen repartee! Yet King could read this mighty volume as “a vain confused performance,” but the learned Dodwell declared to “the Bees of Christchurch,” who looked up to him, that “he had never learned so much from any book of the size in his life.” King was as unjust to Bentley, as Bentley to King. Men of genius are more subject to “unnatural civil war” than even the blockheads whom Pope sarcastically reproaches with it. The great critic’s own notion of his volume seems equally modest and just. “To undervalue this dispute about ‘Phalaris,’ because it does not suit one’s own studies, is to quarrel with a circle because it is not a square. If the question be not of vulgar use, it was writ therefore for a few; for even the greatest performances, upon the most important subjects, are no entertainment at all to the many of the world.”—p. 107.

[303]

This index, a very original morsel of literary pleasantry, is at once a satirical character of the great critic, and what it professes to be. I preserve a specimen among the curiosities I am collecting. It is entitled—

“A Short Account of Dr. Bentley, by way of Index.

“Dr. Bentley’s true story proved false, by the testimonies of, &c., p. —

“His civil language, p. —

“His nice taste,
in wit, p. —
in style, p. —
in Greek, p. —
in Latin, p. —
in English, p. —

“His modesty and decency in contradicting great men”—a very long list of authors, concluding with ‘Everybody,’ p. —

“His familiar acquaintance with books he never saw,” p. —

And lastly, “his profound skill in criticism—from beginning to The End.”

Which thus terminates the volume.

[304]

Cicero ad Atticum, Lib. vii., Epist. xii.

[305]

No doubt this idea was the origin of that satirical Capriccio, which closed in a most fortunate pun—a literary caricature, where the doctor is represented in the hands of Phalaris’s attendants, who are putting him into the tyrant’s bull, while Bentley exclaims, “I had rather be roasted than Boyled.”

[306]

Sir Richard Blackmore, in his bold attempt at writing “A Satire against Wit,” in utter defiance of it, without any, however, conveys some opinions of the times. He there paints the great critic, “crowned with applause,” seated amidst “the spoils of ruined wits:”

“Till his rude strokes had thresh’d the empty sheaf,
Methought there had been something else than chaff.”

Boyle, not satisfied with the undeserved celebrity conceded to his volume, ventured to write poetry, in which no one appears to have suspected the aid of “The Bees”—

“See a fine scholar sunk by wit in Boyle!
After his foolish rhymes, both friends and foes
Conclude they know who did not write his prose.”

A Satire against Wit.

[307]

Randolph’s Muses’ Looking-glass. Act 1, Scene 4.

[308]

Swift certainly admired, if he did not imitate Marvell: for in his “Tale of a Tub” he says, “We still read Marvell’s answer to Parker with pleasure, though the book it answers be sunk long ago.”

[309]

This is a curious remark of Wood’s: How came raillery and satire to be considered as “a newly-refined art?” Has it not, at all periods, been prevalent among every literary people? The remark is, however, more founded on truth than it appears, and arose from Wood’s own feelings. Wit and Raillery had been so strange to us during the gloomy period of the fanatic Commonwealth, that honest Anthony, whose prejudices did not run in favour of Marvell, not only considers him as the “restorer of this newly-refined art,” but as one “hugely versed in it,” and acknowledges all its efficacy in the complete discomfiture of his haughty rival. Besides this, a small book of controversy, such as Marvell’s usually are, was another novelty—the “aureoli libelli,” as one fondly calls his precious books, were in the wretched taste of the times, rhapsodies in folio. The reader has doubtless heard of Caryll’s endless “Commentary on Job,” consisting of 2400 folio pages! in small type. Of that monument of human perseverance, which commenting on Job’s patience, inspired what few works do to whoever read them, the exercise of the virtue it inculcated, the publisher, in his advertisement in Clavel’s Catalogue of Books, 1681, announces the two folios in 600 sheets each! these were a republication of the first edition, in twelve volumes quarto! he apologises “that it hath been so long a doing, to the great vexation and loss of the proposer.” He adds, “indeed, some few lines, no more than what may be contained in a quarto page, are expunged, they not relating to the Exposition, which nevertheless some, by malicious prejudice, have so unjustly aggravated, as if the whole work had been disordered.” He apologises for curtailing a few lines from 2400 folio pages! and he considered that these few lines were the only ones that did not relate to the Exposition! At such a time, the little books of Marvell must have been considered as relishing morsels after such indigestible surfeits.

[310]

The severity of his satire on Charles’s court may be well understood by the following lines:—

“A colony of French possess the court,
Pimps, priests, buffoons, in privy-chamber sport;
Such slimy monsters ne’er approached a throne
Since Pharaoh’s days, nor so defil’d a crown;
In sacred ear tyrannick arts they croak,
Pervert his mind, and good intentions choak.”

“The Historical Poem,” given in the poems on State affairs, is so personal in its attacks on the vices of Charles, that it is marvellous how its author escaped punishment. “Hodge’s Vision from the Monument” is equally strong, while the “Dialogue between two Horses” (that of the statue of Charles I. at Charing-cross, and Charles II., then in the city), has these two strong lines of regret:—

“——to see Deo Gratias writ on the throne,
And the king’s wicked life say God there is none.”

The satire ends with the question:—

“But canst thou devise when things will be mended?”

Which is thus answered:—

“When the reign of the line of the Stuarts is ended!”.—Ed.

[311]

So Burnet tells us.

[312]

See “The Rehearsal Transprosed, the second part,” p. 76.

[313]

One of the canting terms used by the saints of those days, and not obsolete in the dialect of those who still give themselves out to be saints in the present.

[314]

Marvell admirably describes Parker’s journey to London at the Restoration, where “he spent a considerable time in creeping into all corners and companies, horoscoping up and down concerning the duration of the government.” This term, so expressive of his political doubts, is from “Judicial Astrology,” then a prevalent study. “Not considering anything as best, but as most lasting and most profitable; and after having many times cast a figure, he at last satisfied himself that the episcopal government would endure as long as this king lived, and from thenceforwards cast about to find the highway to preferment. To do this, he daily enlarged not only his conversation but his conscience, and was made free of some of the town vices; imagining, like Muleasses, King of Tunis (for I take witness that on all occasions I treat him rather above his quality than otherwise), that by hiding himself among the onions he should escape being traced by his perfumes.” The narrative proceeds with a curious detail of all his sycophantic attempts at seducing useful patrons, among whom was the Archbishop of Canterbury. Then began “those pernicious books,” says Marvell, “in which he first makes all that he will to be law, and then whatsoever is law, to be divinity.” Parker, in his “Ecclesiastical Polity,” came at length to promulgate such violent principles as these, “He openly declares his submission to the government of a Nero and a Caligula, rather than suffer a dissolution of it.” He says, “it is absolutely necessary to set up a more severe government over men’s consciences and religious persuasions than over their vices and immoralities;” and that “men’s vices and debaucheries may lie more safely indulged than their consciences.” Is it not difficult to imagine that this man had once been an Independent, the advocate for every congregation being independent of a bishop or a synod?

[315]

Parker’s father was a lawyer, and one of Oliver’s most submissive sub-committee men, who so long pillaged the nation and spilled its blood, “not in the hot and military way (which diminishes always the offence), but in the cooler blood and sedentary execution of an high court of justice.” He wrote a very remarkable book (after he had been petitioned against for a misdemeanour) in defence of that usurped irregular state called “The Government of the People of England.” It had “a most hieroglyphical title” of several emblems: two hands joined, and beneath a sheaf of arrows, stuffed about with half-a-dozen mottoes, “enough,” says Marvell, “to have supplied the mantlings and achievement of this (godly) family.” An anecdote in this secret history of Parker is probably true. “He shortly afterwards did inveigh against his father’s memory, and in his mother’s presence, before witnesses, for a couple of whining fanatics.”—Rehearsal Transprosed, second part, p. 75.

[316]

This preface was prefixed to Bishop Bramball’s “Vindication of the Bishops from the Presbyterian Charge of Popery.”

[317]

As a specimen of what old Anthony calls “a jerking flirting way of writing,” I transcribe the titles of these answers which Marvell received. As Marvell had nicknamed Parker, Bayes, the quaint humour of one entitled his reply, “Rosemary and Bayes;” another, “The Transproser Rehearsed, or the Fifth Act of Mr. Bayes’s Play;” another, “Gregory Father Greybeard, with his Vizard off;” another formed “a Commonplace Book out of the Rehearsal, digested under heads;” and lastly, “Stoo him Bayes, or some Animadversions on the Humour of writing Rehearsals.”—Biog. Brit. p. 3055.

This was the very Bartlemy-fair of wit!

[318]

The title will convey some notion of its intolerant principles: “A Discourse of Ecclesiastical Polity, wherein the authority of the Civil Magistrate over the Consciences of Subjects, in matters of external Religion, is asserted.”

[319]

Milton had become acquainted with Marvell when travelling in Italy, where he had gone to perfect his studies. He returned to England in 1653, and was connected with the Cromwellian party, through the introduction of Milton, in 1657. The great poet was at that time secretary to Cromwell, and he became his assistant-secretary. He afterwards represented his native town of Hull in Parliament.—Ed.

[320]

Vanus, pannosus, et famelicus poetaster œnopolis quovis vapulans, fuste et calce indies petulantiæ pœnas tulit—are the words in Parker’s “De Rebus sui Temporis Commentariorum,” p. 275.

[321]

D’Avenant commenced his poem during his exile at Paris. The preface is dated from the Louvre; the postscript from Cowes Castle, in the Isle of Wight, where he was then confined, expecting his immediate execution. The poem, in the first edition, 1651, is therefore abruptly concluded. There is something very affecting and great in his style on this occasion. “I am here arrived at the middle of the third book. But it is high time to strike sail and cast anchor, though I have run but half my course, when at the helm I am threatened with death; who, though he can visit us but once, seems troublesome; and even in the innocent may beget such a gravity, as diverts the music of verse. Even in a worthy design, I shall ask leave to desist, when I am interrupted by so great an experiment as dying;—and ’tis an experiment to the most experienced; for no man (though his mortifications may be much greater than mine) can say he has already died.”—D’Avenant is said to have written a letter to Hobbes about this time, giving some account of his progress in the third book. “But why (said he) should I trouble you or myself with these thoughts, when I am pretty certain I shall be hanged next week?”—A stroke of the gaiety of temper of a very thoughtful mind; for D’Avenant, with all his wit and fancy, has made the profoundest reflections on human life.

The reader may be interested to know, that after D’Avenant’s removal from Cowes to the Tower, to be tried, his life was saved by the gratitude of two aldermen of York, whom he had obliged. It is delightful to believe the story told by Bishop Newton, that D’Avenant owed his life to Milton; Wood, indeed, attributes our poet’s escape to both; at the Restoration D’Avenant interposed, and saved Milton. Poets, after all, envious as they are to a brother, are the most generously-tempered of men: they libel, but they never hang; they will indeed throw out a sarcasm on the man whom they saved from being hanged. “Please your Majesty,” said Sir John Denham, “do not hang George Withers—that it may not be said I am the worst poet alive.”

[322]

It would form a very curious piece of comparative criticism, were the opinions and the arguments of all the critics—those of the time and of the present day—thrown into the smelting-pot. The massiness of some opinions of great authority would be reduced to a thread of wire; and even what is accepted as standard ore might shrink into “a gilt sixpence.” On one side, the condemners of D’Avenant would be Rymer, Blackwall, Granger, Knox, Hurd, and Hayley; and the advocates would be Hobbes, Waller, Cowley, Dr. Aikin, Headley, &c. Rymer opened his Aristotelian text-book. He discovers that the poet’s first lines do not give any light into his design (it is probable D’Avenant would have found it hard to have told it to Mr. Rymer); that it has neither proposition nor invocation—(Rymer might have filled these up himself); so that “he chooses to enter into the top of the house, because the mortals of mean and satisfied minds go in at the door;” and then “he has no hero or action so illustrious that the name of the poem prepared the reader for its reception.” D’Avenant had rejected the marvellous from his poem—that is, the machinery of the epic: he had resolved to compose a tale of human beings for men. “This was,” says Blackwall, another of the classical flock, “like lopping off a man’s limb, and then putting him upon running races.” Our formal critics are quite lively in their dulness on our “adventurer.” But poets, in the crisis of a poetical revolution, are more legitimate judges than all such critics. Waller and Cowley applaud D’Avenant for this very omission of the epical machinery in this new vein of invention:—

“Here no bold tales of gods or monsters swell,
But human passions such as with us dwell;
Man is thy theme, his virtue or his rage,
Drawn to the life in each elaborate page.”

Waller.

“Methinks heroic poesy, till now,
Like some fantastic fairy-land did show,
And all but man, in man’s best work had place.”

Cowley.

Hurd’s discussion on “Gondibert,” in his “Commentaries,” is the most important piece of criticism; subtle, ingenious, and exquisitely analytical. But he holds out the fetter of authority, and he decides as a judge who expounds laws; not the best decision, when new laws are required to abrogate obsolete ones. And what laws invented by man can be immutable? D’Avenant was thus tried by the laws of a country, that of Greece or Rome, of which, it is said, he was not even a denizen.

It is remarkable that all the critics who condemn D’Avenant could not but be struck by his excellences, and are very particular in expressing their admiration of his genius. I mean all the critics who have read the poem: some assuredly have criticised with little trouble.

[323]

It is written in the long four-lined stanzas, which Dryden adopted for his Annus Mirabilis; nearly 2000 of such stanzas are severe trials for the critical reader.—Ed.

[324]

I select some of these lines as examples.

Of Care, who only “seals her eyes in cloisters,” he says,

“She visits cities, but she dwells in thrones.”

Of learned Curiosity, eager, but not to be hurried—the student is

“Hasty to know, though not by haste beguiled.”

He calls a library, with sublime energy,

“The monument of vanish’d minds.”

Never has a politician conveyed with such force a most important precept:

——————“The laws,
Men from themselves, but not from power, secure.”

Of the Court he says,

“There prosperous power sleeps long, though suitors wake.”

“Be bold, for number cancels bashfulness;
Extremes, from which a King would blushing shrink,
Unblushing senates act as no excess.”

And these lines, taken as they occur:

“Truth’s a discovery made by travelling minds.”
“Honour’s the moral conscience of the great.”
“They grow so certain as to need no hope.”
“Praise is devotion fit for mighty minds.”

I conclude with one complete stanza, of the same cast of reflection. It may be inscribed in the library of the student, in the studio of the artist, in every place where excellence can only be obtained by knowledge.

“Rich are the diligent, who can command
Time, nature’s stock! and, could his hour-glass fall,
Would, as for seed of stars, stoop for the sand,
And by incessant labour gather all!”

[325]

Can one read such passages as these without catching some of the sympathies of a great genius that knows itself?

“He who writes an heroic poem leaves an estate entailed, and he gives a greater gift to posterity than to the present age; for a public benefit is best measured in the number of receivers; and our contemporaries are but few when reckoned with those who shall succeed.

“If thou art a malicious reader, thou wilt remember my preface boldly confessed, that a main motive to the undertaking was a desire of fame; and thou mayest likewise say, I may very possibly not live to enjoy it. Truly, I have some years ago considered that Fame, like Time, only gets a reverence by long running; and that, like a river, ’tis narrowest where ’tis bred, and broadest afar off.

“If thou, reader, art one of those who have been warmed with poetic fire, I reverence thee as my judge; and whilst others tax me with vanity, I appeal to thy conscience whether it be more than such a necessary assurance as thou hast made to thyself in like undertakings? For when I observe that writers have many enemies, such inward assurance, methinks, resembles that forward confidence in men of arms, which makes them proceed in great enterprise; since the right examination of abilities begins with inquiring whether we doubt ourselves.”

Such a composition is injured by mutilation. He here also alludes to his military character: “Nor could I sit idle and sigh with such as mourn to hear the drum; for if the age be not quiet enough to be taught virtue a pleasant way, the next may be at leisure; nor could I (like men that have civilly slept till they are old in dark cities) think war a novelty.” Shakspeare could not have expressed his feelings, in his own style, more eloquently touching than D’Avenant.

[326]

It is said there were four writers. The Clinias and Dametas were probably Sir John Denham and Jo. Donne; Sir Allan Broderick and Will Crofts, who is mentioned by the clubs as one of their fellows, appear to be the Sancho and Jack Pudding. Will Crofts was a favourite with Charles II: he had been a skilful agent, as appears in Clarendon. [In the accounts of moneys disbursed for secret services in the reign of Charles II., published by the Camden Society, his name appears for 200l., but that of his wife repeatedly figures for large sums, “as of free guift.” In this way she receives 700l. with great regularity for a series of years, until the death of Charles II.] Howell has a poem “On some who, blending their brains together, plotted how to bespatter one of the Muses’ choicest sons, Sir William D’Avenant.”

[327]

The story was current in D’Avenant’s time, and it is certain he encouraged the believers in its truth. Anthony Wood speaks of the lady as “a very beautiful woman, of a good wit and conversation, in which she was imitated by none of her children but by this William.” He also notes Shakspeare’s custom to lodge at the Crown Inn, Oxford, kept by her husband, “in his journies between Warwickshire and London.” Aubrey tells the same tale, adding that D’Avenant “would sometimes, when he was pleasant over a glass of wine with his most intimate friends, e.g. Sam. Butler (author of ‘Hudibras,’ &c.,) say, that it seemed to him that he writ with the very same spirit that Shakspeare did, and was contented enough to be thought his son;” he adds that “his mother had a very light report.” It was Pope who told Oldys the jesting story he had obtained from Betterton, of little Will running from school to meet Shakspeare, in one of his visits to Oxford, and being asked where he was running, by an old townsman, replied, to “see my godfather Shakspeare.” “There’s a good boy,” said the old gentleman, “but have a care that you don’t take God’s name in vain.”—Ed.

[328]

The scene where the story of “Gondibert” is placed, which the wits sometimes pronounced Lumber and Lumbery.

[329]

“Curiosities of Literature,” vol. i. p. 158 (last edition).

[330]

There is a small poem, published in 1643, entitled “The Great Assizes holden in Parnassus,” in the manner of a later work, “The Sessions of the Poets,” in which all the Diurnals and Mercuries are arraigned and tried. An impartial satire on them all; and by its good sense and heavy versification, is so much in the manner of George Wither, that some have conjectured it to be that singular author’s. Its rarity gives it a kind of value. Of such verses as Wither’s, who has been of late extolled too highly, the chief merit is their sense and truth; which, if he were not tedious, might be an excellence in prose. Antiquaries, when they find a poet adapted for their purposes, conjecture that he is an excellent one. This prosing satirist, strange to say, in some pastoral poetry, has opened the right vein.

Aulicus is well characterized:—

———————“hee, for wicked ends,
Had the Castalian spring defiled with gall,
And changed by Witchcraft most satyricall,
The bayes of Helicon and myrtles mild,
To pricking hawthornes and to hollies wild.
———————with slanders false,
With forged fictitious calumnies and tales—
He added fewel to the direful flame
Of civil discord; and domestic blowes,
By the incentives of malicious prose.
For whereas he should have composed his inke
Of liquors that make flames expire, and shrink
Into their cinders—
—He laboured hard for to bring in
The exploded doctrines of the Florentine,
And taught that to dissemble and to lie
Were vital parts of human policie.”

[331]

Alluding to a ridiculous rumour, that the King was to receive foreign troops by a Danish fleet.

[332]

Col. Urrey, alias Hurrey, deserted the Parliament, and went over to the King; afterwards deserted the King, and discovered to the Parliament all he knew of the King’s forces.—See Clarendon.

[333]

This Sir William Brereton, or, as Clarendon writes the name, Bruerton, was the famous Cheshire knight, whom Cleveland characterizes as one of those heroes whose courage lies in their teeth. “Was Brereton,” says the loyal satirist, “to fight with his teeth, as he in all other things resembles the beast, he would have odds of any man at this weapon. He’s a terrible slaughterman at a Thanksgiving dinner. Had he been cannibal enough to have eaten those he vanquished, his gut would have made him valiant.” And in “Loyal Songs” his valiant appetite is noticed:

“But, oh! take heed lest he do eat
The Rump all at one dinner!”

And Aulicus, we see, accuses him of concealing his bravery in a hayrick. It is always curious and useful to confer the writers of intemperate times one with another. Lord Clarendon, whose great mind was incapable of descending to scurrility, gives a very different character to this pot-valiant and hayrick runaway; for he says, “It cannot be denied but Sir William Brereton, and the other gentlemen of that party, albeit their educations and course of life had been very different from their present engagements, and for the most part very unpromising in matters of war, and therefore were too much contemned enemies, executed their commands with notable sobriety and indefatigable industry (virtues not so well practised in the King’s quarters), insomuch as the best soldiers who encountered with them had no cause to despise them.”—Clarendon, vol. ii. p. 147.

[334]

“The Scotch Dove” seems never to have recovered from this metamorphosis, but ever after, among the newsmen, was known to be only a Widgeon. His character is not very high in “The Great Assizes.”

“The innocent Scotch Dove did then advance,
Full sober in his wit and countenance:
And, though his book contain’d not mickle scence,
Yet his endictment shew’d no great offence.
Great wits to perils great, themselves expose
Oft-times; but the Scotch Dove was none of those.
In many words he little matter drest,
And did laconick brevity detest.
But while his readers did expect some Newes,
They found a Sermon—”

The Scotch Dove desires to meet the classical Aulicus in the duel of the pen:—

——————“to turn me loose,
A Scottish Dove against a Roman Goose.”

“The Scotch Dove” is condemned “to cross the seas, or to repasse the Tweede.” They all envy him his “easy mulet,” but he wofully exclaims at the hard sentence,

“For if they knew that home as well as he,
They’d rather die than there imprison’d be!”

[335]

This stroke alludes to a rumour of the times, noticed also by Clarendon, that Pym died of the morbus pediculosus.

[336]

“Peard, a bold lawyer of little note.”—Clarendon.

[337]

These divines were as ready with the sword as the pen; thus, we are told in “The Impartial Scout” for July, 1650—“The ministers are now as active in the military discipline as formerly they were in the gospel profession, Parson Ennis, Parson Brown, and about thirty other ministers having received commissions to be majors and captains, who now hold forth the Bible in one hand, and the sword in the other, telling the soldiery that they need not fear what man can do against them—that God is on their side—and that He hath prepared an engine in heaven to break and blast the designs of all covenant-breakers.”—Ed.

[338]

A forcible description of Locke may be found in the curious “Life of Wood,” written by himself. I shall give the passage where Wood acknowledges his after celebrity, at the very moment the bigotry of his feelings is attempting to degrade him.

Wood belonged to a club with Locke and others, for the purpose of hearing chemical lectures. “John Locke of Christchurch was afterwards a noted writer. This John Locke was a man of a turbulent spirit, clamorous, and never contented. The club wrote and took notes from the mouth of their master, who sat at the upper end of a table, but the said John Locke scorned to do it; so that while every man besides of the club were writing, he would be prating and troublesome.”

[339]

This anecdote deserves preservation. I have drawn it from the MSS. of Bishop Kennet.

“In the Epitaph on John Philips occurs this line on his metre, that

‘Uni in hoc laudis genere Miltono secundus,

Primoque pene par.’

These lines were ordered to be razed out of the monument by Dr. Sprat, Bishop of Rochester. The word Miltono being, as he said, not fit to be in a Christian church; but they have since been restored by Dr. Atterbury, who succeeded him as Bishop of Rochester, and who wrote the epitaph jointly with Dr. Freind.”—Lansdowne MSS., No. 908, p. 162.

The anecdote has appeared, but without any authority. Dr. Symmons, in his “Life of Milton,” observing on what he calls Dr. Johnson’s “biographical libel on Milton,” that Dr. Johnson has mentioned this fact, seems to suspect its authenticity; for, if true, “it would cover the respectable name of Sprat with eternal dishonour.” Of its truth the above gives sufficient authority; but at all events the prejudices of Sprat must be pardoned, while I am showing that minds far greater than his have shared in the same unhappy feeling. Dr. Symmons himself bears no light stain for his slanderous criticism on the genius of Thomas Warton, from the motive we are discussing; though Warton, as my text shows, was too a sinner! I recollect in my youth a more extraordinary instance than any other which relates to Milton. A woman of no education, who had retired from the business of life, became a very extraordinary reader; accident had thrown into her way a large library composed of authors who wrote in the reigns of the two Charleses. She turned out one of the malignant party, and an abhorrer of the Commonwealth’s men. Her opinion of Cromwell and Milton may be given. She told me it was no wonder that the rebel who had been secretary to the usurper should have been able to have drawn so finished a character of Satan, and that the Pandæmonium, with all the oratorical devils, was only such as he had himself viewed at Oliver’s council-board.

[340]

I throw into this note several curious notices respecting Burnet, and chiefly from contemporaries.

Burnet has been accused, after a warm discussion, of returning home in a passion, and then writing the character of a person. But as his feelings were warm, it is probable he might have often practised the reverse. An anecdote of the times is preserved in “The Memoirs of Grub-street,” vol. ii. p. 291. “A noble peer now living declares he stood with a very ill grace in the history, till he had an opportunity put into his hands of obliging the bishop, by granting a favour at court, upon which the bishop told a friend, within an hour, that he was mistaken in such a lord, and must go and alter his whole character; and so he happens to have a pretty good one.” In this place I also find this curious extract from the MS. “Memoirs of the M—— of H——.” “Such a day Dr. B——t told me King William was an obstinate, conceited man, that would take no advice; and on this day King William told me that Dr. B——t was a troublesome, impertinent man, whose company he could not endure.” These anecdotes are very probable, and lead one to reflect. Some political tergiversation has been laid to his charge; Swift accused him of having once been an advocate for passive obedience and absolute power. He has been reproached with the deepest ingratitude, for the purpose of gratifying his darling passion of popularity, in his conduct respecting the Duke of Lauderdale, his former patron. If the following piece of secret history be true, he showed too much of a compliant humour, at the cost of his honour. I find it in Bishop Kennet’s MSS. “Dr. Burnet having over night given in some important depositions against the Earl of Lauderdale to the House of Commons, was, before morning, by the intercession of the D——, made king’s chaplain and preacher at the Rolls; so he was bribed to hold the peace.”—Lansdowne MSS., 990. This was quite a politician’s short way to preferment! An honest man cannot leap up the ascent, however he may try to climb. There was something morally wrong in this transaction, because Burnet notices it, and acknowledges—“I was much blamed for what I had done.” The story is by no means refuted by the naïve apology.

Burnet’s character has been vigorously attacked, with all the nerve of satire, in “Faction Displayed,” attributed to Shippen, whom Pope celebrates—

——“And pour myself as plain
As honest Shippen or as old Montaigne.”

Shippen was a Tory. In “Faction Displayed,” Burnet is represented with his Cabal (so some party nicknames the other), on the accession of Queen Anne, plotting the disturbance of her government. “Black Aris’s fierceness,” that is Burnet, is thus described:—

“A Scotch, seditious, unbelieving priest,
The brawny chaplain of the calves’-head feast,
Who first his patron, then his prince betray’d,
And does that church he’s sworn to guard, invade,
Warm with rebellious rage, he thus began,” &c.

One hardly suspects the hermit Parnell capable of writing rather harsh verses, yet stinging satire; they are not in his works; but he wrote the following lines on a report of a fire breaking out in Burnet’s library, which had like to have answered the purpose some wished—of condemning the author and his works to the flames—

“He talks, and writes, that Popery will return,
And we, and he, and all his works will burn;
And as of late he meant to bless the age
With flagrant prefaces of party rage,
O’ercome with passion and the subject’s weight,
Lolling he nodded in his elbow-seat;
Down fell the candle! Grease and zeal conspire,
Heat meets with heat, and pamphlets burn their sire;
Here crawls a preface on its half-burn’d maggots,
And there an introduction brings its fagots;
Then roars the prophet of the northern nation,
Scorch’d by a flaming speech on moderation.”

Thomas Warton smiles at Burnet for the horrors of Popery which perpetually haunted him, in his “Life of Sir T. Pope,” p. 53. But if we substitute the term arbitrary power for popery, no Briton will join in the abuse Burnet has received on this account. A man of Burnet’s fervid temper, whose foible was strong vanity and a passion for popularity, would often rush headlong into improprieties of conduct and language; his enemies have taken ample advantage of his errors; but many virtues his friends have recorded; and the elaborate and spirited character which the Marquis of Halifax has drawn of Burnet may soothe his manes, and secure its repose amid all these disturbances around his tomb. This fine character is preserved in the “Biographia Britannica.” Burnet is not the only instance of the motives of a man being honourable, while his actions are frequently the reverse, from his impetuous nature. He has been reproached for a want of that truth which he solemnly protests he scrupulously adhered to; yet, of many circumstances which were at the time condemned as “lies,” when Time drew aside the mighty veil, Truth was discovered beneath. Tovey, with his visual good humour, in his “Anglia Judaica,” p. 277, notices “that pleasant copious imagination which will for ever rank our English Burnet with the Grecian Heliodorus.” Roger North, in his “Examen,” p. 413, calls him “a busy Scotch parson.” Lord Orford sneers at his hasty epithets, and the colloquial carelessness of his style, in his “Historic Doubts,” where, in a note, he mentions “one Burnet” tells a ridiculous story, mimicking Burnet’s chit-chat, and concludes surprisingly with, “So the Prince of Orange mounted the throne.”

After reading this note, how would that learned foreigner proceed, who I have supposed might be projecting the “Judgments of the Learned” on our English authors? Were he to condemn Burnet as an historian void of all honour and authority, he would not want for documents. It would require a few minutes to explain to the foreigner the nature of political criticism.

[341]

Dryden was very coarsely satirised in the political poems of his own day; and among the rest, in “The Session of the Poets,”—a general onslaught directed against the writers of the time, which furnishes us with many examples of unjust criticism on these literary men, entirely originating in political feeling. One example may suffice;

“Then in came Denham, that limping old bard,
Whose fame on the Sophy and Cooper’s-hill stands,
And brought many stationers, who swore very hard
That nothing sold better except ’twere his lands.
But Apollo advised him to write something more,
To clear a suspicion which possessed the Court,
That Cooper’s-hill, so much bragg’d on before,
Was writ by a vicar, who had forty pounds for’t.”

[342]

Dr. Wagstaffe, in his “Character of Steele,” alludes to the rumour which Pope has sent down to posterity in a single verse: “I should have thought Mr. Steele might have the example of his friend before his eyes, who had the reputation of being the author of The Dispensary, till, by two or three unlucky after-claps, he proved himself incapable of writing it.”—Wagstaffe’s Misc. Works, p. 136.

[343]

I know not how to ascertain the degree of political skill which Steele reached in his new career—he was at least a spirited Whig, but the ministry was then under the malignant influence of the concealed adherents to the Stuarts, particularly of Bolingbroke, and such as Atterbury, whose secret history is now much better known than in their own day. The terrors of the Whigs were not unfounded. Steele in the House disappointed his friends; from his popular Essays, it was expected he would have been a fluent orator; this was no more the case with him than Addison. On this De Foe said he had better have continued the Spectator than the Tatler.—Lansdowne’s MSS. 1097.

[344]

Wagstaffe’s “Miscellaneous Works,” 1726, have been collected into a volume. They contain satirical pieces of humour, accompanied by some Hogarthian prints. His “Comment upon the History of Tom Thumb,” ridicules Addison’s on the old ballad of “Chevy Chase,” who had declared “it was full of the majestic simplicity which we admire in the greatest of the ancient poets,” and quoted passages which he paralleled with several in the Æneid. Wagstaffe tells us he has found “in the library of a schoolboy, among other undiscovered valuable authors, one more proper to adorn the shelves of Bodley or the Vatican than to be confined to the obscurity of a private study.” This little Homer is the chanter of Tom Thumb. He performs his office of “a true commentator,” proving the congenial spirit of the poet of Thumb with that of the poet of Æneas. Addison got himself ridiculed for that fine natural taste, which felt all the witchery of our ballad-Enniuses, whose beauties, had Virgil lived with Addison, he would have inlaid into his mosaic. The bigotry of classical taste, which is not always accompanied by a natural one, and rests securely on prescribed opinions and traditional excellence, long contemned our vernacular genius, spurning at the minstrelsy of the nation; Johnson’s ridicule of “Percy’s Reliques” had its hour, but the more poetical mind of Scott has brought us back to home feelings, to domestic manners, and eternal nature.

[345]

I shall content myself with referring to “The Character of Richard St—le, Esq.,” in Dr. Wagstaffe’s Miscellaneous Works, 1726. Considering that he had no personal knowledge of his victim, one may be well surprised at his entering so deeply into his private history; but of such a character as Steele, the private history is usually too public—a mass of scandal for the select curious. Poor Steele, we are told, was “arrested for the maintenance of his bastards, and afterwards printed a proposal that the public should take care of them;” got into the House “not to be arrested;”—“his set speeches there, which he designs to get extempore to speak in the House.” For his literary character we are told that “Steele was a jay who borrowed a feather from the peacock, another from the bullfinch, and another from the magpye; so that Dick is made up of borrowed colours; he borrowed his humour from Estcourt, criticism of Addison, his poetry of Pope, and his politics of Ridpath; so that his qualifications as a man of genius, like Mr. T——s, as a member of Parliament, lie in thirteen parishes.” Such are the pillows made up for genius to rest its head on!

Wagstaffe has sometimes delicate humour; Steele, who often wrote in haste, necessarily wrote incorrectly. Steele had this sentence: “And ALL, as one man, will join in a common indignation against ALL who would perplex our obedience:” on which our pleasant critic remarks—“Whatever contradiction there is, as some suppose, in all joining against all, our author has good authority for what he says; and it may be proved, in spite of Euclid or Sir Isaac, that everything consists of two alls, that these alls are capable of being divided and subdivided into as many alls as you please, and so ad infinitum. The following lines may serve for an illustration:—

‘Three children sliding on the ice
Upon a summer’s day;
As it fell out, they all fell in;
The rest they ran away.’

“Though this polite author does not directly say there are two alls, yet he implies as much; for I would ask any reasonable man what can be understood by the rest they ran away, but the other all we have been speaking of? The world may see that I can exhibit the beauties, as well as quarrel with the faults, of his composition, but I hope he will not value himself on his hasty productions.”

Poor Steele, with the best humour, bore these perpetual attacks, not, however, without an occasional groan, just enough to record his feelings. In one of his wild, yet well-meant projects, of the invention of “a Fish-pool, or Vessel for Importing Fish Alive,” 1718, he complains of calumnies and impertinent observations on him, and seems to lay some to the account of his knighthood:—“While he was pursuing what he believed might conduce to the common good, he gave the syllables Richard Steele to the publick, to be used and treated as they should think fit; he must go on in the same indifference, and allow the Town their usual liberty with his name, which I find they think they have much more room to sport with than formerly, as it is lengthened with the monosyllable Sir.”

[346]

“Rehearsal Transprosed,” p. 45.

[347]

The late Gilbert Wakefield is an instance where the political and theological opinions of a recluse student tainted his pure literary works. Condemned as an enraged Jacobin by those who were Unitarians in politics, and rejected because he was a Unitarian in religion by the orthodox, poor Wakefield’s literary labours were usually reduced to the value of waste-paper. We smile, but half in sorrow, in reading a letter, where he says, “I meditate a beginning, during the winter, of my criticisms on all the ancient Greek and Latin authors, by small piecemeals, on the cheapest possible paper, and at the least possible expense of printing. As I can never do more than barely indemnify myself, I shall print only 250 copies.” He half-ruined himself by his splendid edition of Lucretius, which could never obtain even common patronage from the opulent friends of classical literature. Since his death it has been reprinted, and is no doubt now a marketable article for the bookseller; so that if some authors are not successful for themselves, it is a comfort to think how useful, in a variety of shapes, they are made so to others. Even Gilbert’s “contracted scheme of publication” he was compelled to abandon! Yet the classic erudition of Wakefield was confessed, and is still remembered. No one will doubt that we have lost a valuable addition to our critical stores by this literary persecution, were it only in the present instance; but examples are too numerous!

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Shaftesbury has thrown out, on this head, some important truths:—“If men are forbid to speak their minds seriously, they will do it ironically. If they find it dangerous to do so, they will then redouble their disguise, invoke themselves into mysteriousness, and talk so as hardly to be understood. The persecuting spirit has raised the bantering one. The higher the slavery, the more exquisite the buffoonery.”—Vol. i. p. 71. The subject of our present inquiry is a very remarkable instance of “involving himself into mysteriousness.” To this cause we owe the strong raillery of Marvell; the cloudy “Oracles of Reason” of Blount; and the formidable, though gross burlesque, of Hickeringill, the rector of All-Saints, in Colchester. “Of him (says the editor of his collected works, 1716), the greatest writers of our times trembled at his pen; and as great a genius as Sir Roger L’Estrange’s was, it submitted to his superior way of reasoning”—that is, to a most extraordinary burlesque spirit in politics and religion. But even he who made others tremble felt the terrors he inflicted; for he complains that “some who have thought his pen too sharp and smart, those who have been galled, sore men where the skin’s off, have long lain to catch for somewhat to accuse me—upon such touchy subjects, a man had need have the dexterity to split a hair, to handle them pertinently, usefully, and yet safely and warily.”—Such men, however, cannot avoid their fate: they will be persecuted, however they succeed in “splitting a hair;” and it is then they have recourse to the most absurd subterfuges, to which our Hobbes was compelled. Thus also it happened to Woolston, who wrote in a ludicrous way “Blasphemies” against the miracles of Christ; calling them “tales and rodomontados.” He rested his defence on this subterfuge, that “it was meant to place the Christian religion on a better footing,” &c. But the Court answered, that “if the author of a treasonable libel should write at the conclusion, God save the king! it would not excuse him.”

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The moral axiom of Solon “Know thyself” (Nosce teipsum), applied by the ancient sage as a corrective for our own pride and vanity, Hobbes contracts into a narrow principle, when, in his introduction to “The Leviathan,” he would infer that, by this self-inspection, we are enabled to determine on the thoughts and passions of other men; and thus he would make the taste, the feelings, the experience of the individual decide for all mankind. This simple error has produced all the dogmas of cynicism; for the cynic is one whose insulated feelings, being all of the selfish kind, can imagine no other stirrer of even our best affections, and strains even our loftiest virtues into pitiful motives. Two noble authors, men of the most dignified feelings, have protested against this principle. Lord Shaftesbury keenly touches the characters of Hobbes and Rochester:—“Sudden courage, says our modern philosopher (Hobbes), is anger. If so, courage, considered as constant, and belonging to a character, must, in his account, be defined constant anger, or anger constantly recurring. All men, says a witty poet (Rochester), would be cowards, if they durst: that the poet and the philosopher both were cowards, may be yielded, perhaps, without dispute! they may have spoken the best of their knowledge.”—Shaftesbury, vol. i. p. 119.

With an heroic spirit, that virtuous statesman, Lord Clarendon, rejects the degrading notion of Hobbes. When he looked into his own breast, he found that courage was a real virtue, which had induced him, had it been necessary, to have shed his blood as a patriot. But death, in the judgment of Hobbes, was the most terrible event, and to be avoided by any means. Lord Clarendon draws a parallel between a “man of courage” and one of the disciples of Hobbes, “brought to die together, by a judgment they cannot avoid.” “How comes it to pass, that one of these undergoes death, with no other concernment than as if he were going any other journey; and the other with such confusion and trembling, that he is even without life before he dies; if it were true that all men fear alike upon the like occasion?”—Survey of the Leviathan, p. 14.

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They were distinguished as Hobbists, and the opinions as Hobbianism. Their chief happened to be born on a Good Friday; and in the metrical history of his own life he seems to have considered it as a remarkable event. An atom had its weight in the scales by which his mighty egotism weighed itself. He thus marks the day of his birth, innocently enough:—

“Natus erat noster Servator Homo-Deus annos
Mille et quingentos, octo quoque undecies.”

But the Hobbists declared more openly (as Wood tells us), that “as our Saviour Christ went out of the world on that day to save the men of the world, so another saviour came into the world on that day to save them!”

That the sect spread abroad, as well as at home, is told us by Lord Clarendon, in the preface to his “Survey of the Leviathan.” The qualities of the author, as well as the book, were well adapted for proselytism; for Clarendon, who was intimately acquainted with him, notices his confidence in conversation—his never allowing himself to be contradicted—his bold inferences—the novelty of his expressions—and his probity, and a life free from scandal. “The humour and inclination of the time to all kind of paradoxes,” was indulged by a pleasant clear style, an appearance of order and method, hardy paradoxes, and accommodating principles to existing circumstances.

Who were the sect composed of? The monstrous court of Charles II.—the grossest materialists! The secret history of that court could scarcely find a Suetonius among us. But our author was frequently in the hands of those who could never have comprehended what they pretended to admire; this appears by a publication of the times, intituled, “Twelve Ingenious Characters, &c.” 1686, where, in that of a town-fop, who, “for genteel breeding, posts to town, by his mother’s indulgence, three or four wild companions, half-a-dozen bottles of Burgundy, two leaves of Leviathan,” and some few other obvious matters, shortly make this young philosopher nearly lose his moral and physical existence. “He will not confess himself an Atheist, yet he boasts aloud that he holds his gospel from the Apostle of Malmesbury, though it is more than probable he never read, at least understood, ten leaves of that unlucky author.” If such were his wretched disciples, Hobbes was indeed “an unlucky author,” for their morals and habits were quite opposite to those of their master. Eachard, in the preface to his Second Dialogue, 1673, exhibits a very Lucianic arrangement of his disciples—Hobbes’ “Pit, Box, and Gallery Friends.” The Pit-friends were sturdy practicants who, when they hear that “Ill-nature, Debauchery, and Irreligion were Mathematics and Demonstration, clap and shout, and swear by all that comes from Malmesbury.” The Gallery are “a sort of small, soft, little, pretty, fine gentlemen, who having some little wit, some little modesty, some little remain of conscience and country religion, could not hector it as the former, but quickly learnt to chirp and giggle when t’other clapt and shouted.” But “the Don-admirers, and Box-friends of Mr. Hobbes are men of gravity and reputation, who will scarce simper in favour of the philosopher, but can make shift to nod and nod again.” Even amid this wild satire we find a piece of truth in a dark corner; for the satirist confesses that “his Gallery-friends, who were such resolved practicants in Hobbianism (by which the satirist means all kinds of licentiousness) would most certainly have been so, had there never been any such man as Mr. Hobbes in the world.” Why then place to the account of the philosopher those gross immoralities which he never sanctioned? The life of Hobbes is without a stain! He had other friends besides these “Box, Pit, and Gallery” gentry—the learned of Europe, and many of the great and good men of his own country.

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Hobbes, in defending Thucydides, whom he has so admirably translated, from the charge of some obscurity in his design, observes that “Marcellinus saith he was obscure, on purpose that the common people might not understand him; and not unlikely, for a wise man should so write (though in words understood by all men), that wise men only should be able to commend him.” Thus early in life Hobbes had determined on a principle which produced all his studied ambiguity, involved him in so much controversy, and, in some respects, preserved him in an inglorious security.

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Hobbes explains the image in his Introduction. He does not disguise his opinion that Men may be converted into Automatons; and if he were not very ingenious we might lose our patience. He was so delighted with this whimsical fancy of his “artificial man,” that he carried it on to government itself, and employed the engraver to impress the monstrous personification on our minds, even clearer than by his reasonings. The curious design forms the frontispiece of “The Leviathan.” He borrowed the name from that sea-monster, that mightiest of powers, which Job has told is not to be compared with any on earth. The sea-monster is here, however, changed into a colossal man, entirely made up of little men from all the classes of society, bearing in the right hand the sword, and in the left the crosier. The compartments are full of political allegories. An expression of Lord Clarendon’s in the preface to his “Survey of the Leviathan,” shows our philosopher’s infatuation to this “idol of the Den,” as Lord Bacon might have called the intellectual illusion of the philosopher. Hobbes, when at Paris, showed a proof-sheet or two of his work to Clarendon, who, he soon discovered, could not approve of the hardy tenets. “He frequently came to me,” says his lordship, “and told me his book (which he would call Leviathan) was then printing in England. He said, that he knew when I read his book I would not like it, and mentioned some of his conclusions: upon which I asked him, why he would publish such doctrine: to which, after a discourse, between jest and earnest, he said, The truth is, I have a mind to go home!” Some philosophical systems have, probably, been raised “between jest and earnest;” yet here was a text-book for the despot, as it is usually accepted, deliberately given to the world, for no other purpose than that the philosopher was desirous of changing his lodgings at Paris for his old apartments in London!

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The duplicity of the system is strikingly revealed by Burnet, who tells of Hobbes, that “he put all the law in the will of the prince or the people; for he writ his book at first in favour of absolute monarchy, but turned it afterwards to gratify the republican party. These were his true principles, though he had disguised them for deceiving unwary readers.” It is certain Hobbes became a suspected person among the royalists. They were startled at the open extravagance of some of his political paradoxes; such as his notion of the necessity of extirpating all the Greek and Latin authors, “by reading of which men from their childhood have gotten a habit of licentious controuling the actions of their sovereigns.”—p. 111. But the doctrines of liberty were not found only among the Greeks and Romans; the Hebrews were stern republicans; and liberty seems to have had a nobler birth in the North among our German ancestors, than perhaps in any other part of the globe. It is certain that the Puritans, who warmed over the Bible more than the classic historians, had their heads full of Pharaoh and his host in the Red Sea; the hanging of the five kings of Joshua; and the fat king of the Moabites, who in his summer-room received a present, and then a dagger, from the left-handed Jewish Jacobin. Hobbes curiously compares “The tyrannophobia, or fear of being strongly governed,” to the hydrophobia. “When a monarchy is once bitten to the quick by those democratical writers, and, by their poison, men seem to be converted into dogs,” his remedy is, “a strong monarch,” or “the exercise of entire sovereignty,” p. 171; and that the authority he would establish should be immutable, he hardily asserts that “the ruling power cannot be punished for mal-administration.” Yet in this elaborate system of despotism are interspersed some strong republican axioms, as The safety of the people is the supreme law,—The public good to be preferred to that of the individual:—and that God made the one for the many, and not the many for the one. The effect the Leviathan produced on the royal party was quite unexpected by the author. His hardy principles were considered as a satire on arbitrary power, and Hobbes himself as a concealed favourer of democracy. This has happened more than once with such vehement advocates. Our philosopher must have been thunderstruck at the insinuation, for he had presented the royal exile, as Clarendon in his “Survey” informs us, with a magnificent copy of “The Leviathan,” written on vellum; this beautiful specimen of calligraphy may still be seen, as we learn from the Gentleman’s Magazine for January, 1813, where the curiosity is fully described. The suspicion of Hobbes’s principles was so strong, that it produced his sudden dismissal from the presence of Charles II. when at Paris. The king, indeed, said he believed Hobbes intended him no hurt; and Hobbes said of the king, “that his majesty understood his writings better than his accusers.” However, happy was Hobbes to escape from France, where the officers were in pursuit of him, amid snowy roads and nipping blasts. The lines in his metrical life open a dismal winter scene for an old man on a stumbling horse:—

“Frigus erat, nix alta, senex ego, ventus acerbus,
Vexat equus sternax, et salebrosa via—”

A curious spectacle! to observe, under a despotic government, its vehement advocate in flight!

The ambiguity of “The Leviathan” seemed still more striking, when Hobbes came, at length, to place the right of government merely in what he terms “the Seat of Power,”—a wonderful principle of expediency; for this was equally commodious to the republicans and to the royalists. By this principle, the republicans maintained the right of Cromwell, since his authority was established, while it absolved the royalists from their burdensome allegiance; for, according to “The Leviathan,” Charles was the English monarch only when in a condition to force obedience; and, to calm tender consciences, the philosopher further fixed on that precise point of time, “when a subject may obey an unjust conqueror.” After the Restoration, it was subtilely urged by the Hobbists, that this very principle had greatly served the royal cause; for it afforded a plea for the emigrants to return, by compounding for their estates, and joining with those royalists who had remained at home in an open submission to the established government; and thus they were enabled to concert their measures in common, for reinstating the old monarchy. Had the Restoration never taken place, Hobbes would have equally insisted on the soundness of his doctrine; he would have asserted the title of Richard Cromwell to the Protectorate, if Richard had had the means to support it, as zealously as he afterwards did that of Charles II. to the throne, when the king had firmly re-established it. The philosophy of Hobbes, therefore, is not dangerous in any government; its sole aim is to preserve it from intestine divisions; but for this purpose, he was for reducing men to mere machines. With such little respect he treated the species, and with such tenderness the individual!

I will give Hobbes’s own justification, after the Restoration of Charles II., when accused by the great mathematician, Dr. Wallis, a republican under Cromwell, of having written his work in defence of Oliver’s government. Hobbes does not deny that “he placed the right of government wheresoever should be the strength.” Most subtilely he argues, how this very principle “was designed in behalf of the faithful subjects of the king,” after they had done their utmost to defend his rights and person. The government of Cromwell being established, these found themselves without the protection of a government of their own, and therefore might lawfully promise obedience to their victor for the saving of their lives and fortunes; and more, they ought even to protect that authority in war by which they were themselves protected in peace. But this plea, which he so ably urged in favour of the royalists, will not, however, justify those who, like Wallis, voluntarily submitted to Cromwell, because they were always the enemies of the king; so that this submission to Oliver is allowed only to the royalists—a most admirable political paradox! The whole of the argument is managed with infinite dexterity, and is thus unexpectedly turned against his accusers themselves. The principle of “self-preservation” is carried on through the entire system of Hobbes.—Considerations upon the Reputation, Loyalty, &c., of Mr. Hobbes.

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The passage in Hobbes to which I allude is in “The Leviathan,” c. 32. He there says, sarcastically, “It is with the mysteries of religion as with wholesome pills for the sick, which, swallowed whole, have the virtue to cure; but, chewed, are for the most part cast up again without effect.” Hobbes is often a wit: he was much pleased with this thought, for he had it in his De Cive; which, in the English translation, bears the title of “Philosophical Rudiments Concerning Government and Society,” 1651. There he calls “the wholesome pills,” “bitter.” He translated the De Cive himself; a circumstance which was not known till the recent appearance of Aubrey’s papers.

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Warburton has most acutely distinguished between the intention of Hobbes and that of some of his successors. The bishop does not consider Hobbes as an enemy to religion, not even to the Christian; and even doubts whether he has attacked it in “The Leviathan.” At all events, he has “taken direct contrary measures from those of Bayle, Collins, Tindal, Bolingbroke, and all that school. They maliciously endeavoured to show the Gospel was unreasonable; Hobbes, as reasonable as his admirable wit could represent it: they contended for the most unbounded toleration, Hobbes for the most rigorous conformity.” See the “Alliance between Church and State,” book i. c. v. It is curious to observe the noble disciple of Hobbes, Lord Bolingbroke, a strenuous advocate for his political and moral opinions, enraged at what he calls his “High Church notions.” Trenchard and Gordon, in their Independent Whig, No. 44, that libel on the clergy, accuse them of Atheism and Hobbism; while some divines as earnestly reject Hobbes as an Atheist! Our temperate sage, though angried at that spirit of contradiction which he had raised, must, however, have sometimes smiled both on his advocates and his adversaries!

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The odious term of Atheist has been too often applied to many great men of our nation by the hardy malignity of party. Were I to present a catalogue, the very names would refute the charge. Let us examine the religious sentiments of Hobbes. The materials for its investigation are not common, but it will prove a dissertation of facts. I warn some of my readers to escape from the tediousness, if they cannot value the curiosity.

Hobbes has himself thrown out an observation in his “Life of Thucydides” respecting Anaxagoras, that “his opinions, being of a strain above the apprehension of the vulgar, procured him the estimation of an Atheist, which name they bestowed upon all men that thought not as they did of their ridiculous religion, and in the end cost him his life.” This was a parallel case with Hobbes himself, except its close, which, however, seems always to have been in the mind of our philosopher.

Bayle, who is for throwing all things into doubt, acknowledging that the life of Hobbes was blameless, adds, One might, however, have been tempted to ask him this question:

Heus age responde; minimum est quod scire laboro;
De Jove quid sentis?—Persius, Sat. ii. v. 17.

Hark, now! resolve this one short question, friend!
What are thy thoughts of Jove?

But Bayle, who compared himself to the Jupiter of Homer, powerful in gathering and then dispersing the clouds, dissipates the one he had just raised, by showing how “Hobbes might have answered the question with sincerity and belief, according to the writers of his life.”—But had Bayle known that Hobbes was the author of all the lives of himself, so partial an evidence might have raised another doubt with the great sceptic. It appears, by Aubrey’s papers, that Hobbes did not wish his biography should appear when he was living, that he might not seem the author of it.

Baxter, who knew Hobbes intimately, ranks him with Spinosa, by a strong epithet for materialists—“The Brutists, Hobbes, and Spinosa.” He tells us that Selden would not have him in his chamber while dying, calling out, “No Atheists!” But by Aubrey’s papers it appears that Hobbes stood by the side of his dying friend. It is certain his enemies raised stories against him, and told them as suited their purpose. In the Lansdowne MSS. I find Dr. Grenville, in a letter, relates how “Hobbes, when in France, and like to die, betrayed such expressions of repentance to a great prelate, from whose mouth I had this relation, that he admitted him to the sacrament. But Hobbes afterwards made this a subject of ridicule in companies.”—Lansdowne MSS. 990—73.

Here is a strong accusation, and a fact too; yet, when fully developed, the result will turn out greatly in favour of Hobbes.

Hobbes had a severe illness at Paris, which lasted six months, thus noticed in his metrical life:

Dein per sex menses morbo decumbo propinque
Accinctus morti; nec fugio, illa fugit.

It happened that the famous Guy Patin was his physician; and in one of these amusing letters, where he puts down the events of the day, like a newspaper of the times, in No. 61, has given an account of his intercourse with the philosopher, in which he says that Hobbes endured such pain, that he would have destroyed himself—“Qu’il avoit voulu se tuer.”—Patin is a vivacious writer: we are not to take him au pied de la lettre. Hobbes was systematically tenacious of life: and, so far from attempting suicide, that he wanted even the courage to allow Patin to bleed him! It was during this illness that the Catholic party, who like to attack a Protestant in a state of unresisting debility, got his learned and intimate friend, Father Mersenne, to hold out all the benefits a philosopher might derive from their Church. When Hobbes was acquainted with this proposed interview (says a French contemporary, whose work exists in MS., but is quoted in Joly’s folio volume of Remarks on Bayle), the sick man answered, “Don’t let him come for this; I shall laugh at him; and perhaps I may convert him myself.” Father Mersenne did come; and when this missionary was opening on the powers of Rome to grant a plenary pardon, he was interrupted by Hobbes—“Father, I have examined, a long time ago, all these points; I should be sorry to dispute now; you can entertain me in a more agreeable manner. When did you see Mr. Gassendi?” The monk, who was a philosopher, perfectly understood Hobbes, and this interview never interrupted their friendship. A few days after, Dr. Cosin (afterwards Bishop of Durham), the great prelate whom Dr. Grenville alludes to, prayed with Hobbes, who first stipulated that the prayers should be those authorised by the Church of England; and he also received the sacrament with reverence. Hobbes says:—“Magnum hoc erga disciplinam Episcopalem signum erat reverentiæ.”—It is evident that the conversion of Father Mersenne, to which Hobbes facetiously alluded, could never be to Atheism, but to Protestantism: and had Hobbes been an Atheist, he would not have risked his safety, when he arrived in England, by his strict attendance to the Church of England, resolutely refusing to unite with any of the sects. His views of the national religion were not only enlightened, but in this respect he showed a boldness in his actions very unusual with him.

But the religion of Hobbes was “of a strain beyond the apprehension of the vulgar,” and not very agreeable to some of the Church. A man may have peculiar notions respecting the Deity, and yet be far removed from Atheism; and in his political system the Church may hold that subordinate place which some Bishops will not like. When Dr. Grenville tells us “Hobbes ridiculed in companies” certain matters which the Doctor held sacred, this is not sufficient to accuse a man of Atheism, though it may prove him not to have held orthodox opinions. From the MS. collections of the French contemporary, who well knew Hobbes at Paris, I transcribe a remarkable observation:—“Hobbes said, that he was not surprised that the Independents, who were enemies of monarchy, could not bear it in heaven, and that therefore they placed there three Gods instead of one; but he was astonished that the English bishops, and those Presbyterians who were favourers of monarchy, should persist in the same opinion concerning the Trinity. He added, that the Episcopalians ridiculed the Puritans, and the Puritans the Episcopalians; but that the wise ridiculed both alike.”—Lantiniana MS. quoted by Joly, p. 434.

The religion of Hobbes was in conformity to State and Church. He had, however, the most awful notions of the Divinity. He confesses he is unacquainted with “the nature of God, but not with the necessity of the existence of the Power of all powers, and First Cause of all causes; so that we know that God is, though not what he is.” See his “Human Nature,” chap. xi. But was the God of Hobbes the inactive deity of Epicurus, who takes no interest in the happiness or misery of his created beings; or, as Madame de Staël has expressed it, with the point and felicity of French antithesis, was this “an Atheism with a God?” This consequence some of his adversaries would draw from his principles, which Hobbes indignantly denies. He has done more; for in his De Corpore Politico, he declares his belief of all the fundamental points of Christianity, part i. c. 4, p. 116. Ed. 1652. But he was an open enemy to those “who presume, out of Scripture, by their own interpretation, to raise any doctrine to the understanding, concerning those things which are incomprehensible;” and he refers to St. Paul, who gives a good rule “to think soberly, according as God hath dealt to every man the measure of faith.”—Rom. xii. 3.

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This he pictures in a strange engraving prefixed to his book, and representing a crowned figure, whose description will be found in the note, p. 440. It is remarkable that when Hobbes adopted the principle that the ecclesiastical should be united with the sovereign power, he was then actually producing that portentous change which had terrified Luther and Calvin; who, even in their day, were alarmed by a new kind of political Antichrist; that “Cæsarean Popery” which Stubbe so much dreaded, and which I have here noticed, p. 358. Luther predicted that as the pope had at times seized on the political sword, so this “Cæsarean Popery,” under the pretence of policy, would grasp the ecclesiastical crosier, to form a political church. The curious reader is referred to Wolfius Lectionum Memorabilium et reconditarum, vol. ii. cent. x. p. 987. Calvin, in his commentary on Amos, has also a remarkable passage on this political church, animadverting on Amaziah, the priest, who would have proved the Bethel worship warrantable, because settled by the royal authority: “It is the king’s chapel.” Amos, vii. 13. Thus Amaziah, adds Calvin, assigns the king a double function, and maintains it is in his power to transform religion into what shape he pleases, while he charges Amos with disturbing the public repose, and encroaching on the royal prerogative. Calvin zealously reprobates the conduct of those inconsiderate persons, “who give the civil magistrate a sovereignty in religion, and dissolve the Church into the State.” The supremacy in Church and State, conferred on Henry VIII., was the real cause of these alarms; but the passage of domination raged not less fiercely in Calvin than in Henry VIII.; in the enemy of kings than in kings themselves. Were the forms of religion more celestial from the sanguinary hands of that tyrannical reformer than from those of the reforming tyrant? The system of our philosopher was, to lay all the wild spirits which have haunted us in the chimerical shapes of nonconformity. I have often thought, after much observation on our Church history since the Reformation, that the devotional feelings have not been so much concerned in this bitter opposition to the National Church as the rage of dominion, the spirit of vanity, the sullen pride of sectarism, and the delusions of madness.

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Hobbes himself tells us that “some bishops are content to hold their authority from the king’s letters patents; others will needs have somewhat more they know not what of divine rights, &c., not acknowledging the power of the king. It is a relic still remaining of the venom of popish ambition, lurking in that seditious distinction and division between the power spiritual and civil. The safety of the State does not depend on the safety of the clergy, but on the entireness of the sovereign power.”—Considerations upon the Reputation, &c., of Mr. Hobbes, p. 44.

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This royal observation is recorded in the “Sorberiana.” Sorbiere gleaned the anecdote during his residence in England. By the “Aubrey Papers,” which have been published since I composed this article, I find that Charles II. was greatly delighted by the wit and repartees of Hobbes, who was at once bold and happy in making his stand amidst the court wits. The king, whenever he saw Hobbes, who had the privilege of being admitted into the royal presence, would exclaim, “Here comes the bear to be baited.” This did not allude to his native roughness, but the force of his resistance when attacked.

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See “Mr. Hobbes’s State of Nature considered, in a Dialogue between Philautus and Timothy.” The second dialogue is not contained in the eleventh edition of Eachard’s Works, 1705, which, however, was long after his death, so careless were the publishers of those days of their authors’ works. The literary bookseller, Tom Davies, who ruined himself by giving good editions of our old authors, has preserved it in his own.

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“A Discourse Concerning Irony,” 1729, p. 13.

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Men of very opposite principles, but aiming at the same purpose, are reduced to a dilemma, by the spirit of party in controversy. Sir Robert Filmer, who wrote against “The Anarchy of a Limited Monarchy,” and “Patriarcha,” to re-establish absolute power, derived it from the scriptural accounts of the patriarchal state. But Sir Robert and Hobbes, though alike the advocates for supremacy of power, were as opposite as possible on theological points. Filmer had the same work to perform, but he did not like the instruments of his fellow-labourer. His manner of proceeding with Hobbes shows his dilemma: he refutes the doctrine of the “Leviathan,” while he confesses that Hobbes is right in the main. The philosopher’s reasonings stand on quite another foundation than the scriptural authorities deduced by Filmer. The result therefore is, that Sir Robert had the trouble to confute the very thing he afterwards had to establish!

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It may be curious to some of my readers to preserve that part of Hobbes’s Letter to Anthony Wood, in the rare tract of his “Latin Life,” in which, with great calmness, the philosopher has painfully collated the odious interpolations. All that was written in favour of the morals of Hobbes—of the esteem in which foreigners held him—of the royal patronage, &c., were maliciously erased. Hobbes thus notices the amendments of Bishop Fell:—

“Nimirum ubi mihi tu ingenium attribuis Sobrium, ille, deleto Sobrio, substituit Acri.

“Ubi tu scripseras Libellum scripsit de Cive, interposuit ille inter Libellum et de Cive, rebus permiscendis natum, de Cive, quod ita manifestè falsum est, &c.

“Quod, ubi tu de libro meo Leviathan scripsisti, primò, quod esset, Vicinis gentibus notissimus interposuit ille, publico damno. Ubi tu scripseras, scripsit librum, interposuit ille monstrosissimum.”

A noble confidence in his own genius and celebrity breaks out in this Epistle to Wood. “In leaving out all that you have said of my character and reputation, the dean has injured you, but cannot injure me; for long since has my fame winged its way to a station from which it can never descend.” One is surprised to find such a Miltonic spirit in the contracted soul of Hobbes, who in his own system might have cynically ridiculed the passion for fame, which, however, no man felt more than himself. In his controversy with Bishop Bramhall (whose book he was cautious not to answer till ten years after it was published, and his adversary was no more, pretending he had never heard of it till then!) he breaks out with the same feeling:—“What my works are, he was no fit judge; but now he has provoked me, I will say thus much of them, that neither he, if he had lived, could—nor I, if I would, can—extinguish the light which is set up in the world by the greatest part of them.”

It is curious to observe that an idea occurred to Hobbes, which some authors have attempted lately to put into practice against their critics—to prosecute them in a court of law; but the knowledge of mankind was one of the liveliest faculties of Hobbes’s mind; he knew well to what account common minds place the injured feelings of authorship; yet were a jury of literary men to sit in judgment, we might have a good deal of business in the court for a long time; the critics and the authors would finally have a very useful body of reports and pleadings to appeal to; and the public would be highly entertained and greatly instructed. On this attack of Bishop Fell, Hobbes says—“I might perhaps have an action on the case against him, if it were worth my while; but juries seldom consider the Quarrels of Authors as of much moment.”

[364]

Bayle has conjured up an amusing theory of apparitions, to show that Hobbes might fear that a certain combination of atoms agitating his brain might so disorder his mind that it would expose him to spectral visions; and being very timorous, and distrusting his imagination, he was averse to be left alone. Apparitions happen frequently in dreams, and they may happen, even to an incredulous man, when awake, for reading and hearing of them would revive their images—these images, adds Bayle, might play him some unlucky trick! We are here astonished at the ingenuity of a disciple of Pyrrho, who in his inquiries, after having exhausted all human evidence, seems to have demonstrated what he hesitates to believe! Perhaps the truth was, that the sceptical Bayle had not entirely freed himself from the traditions which were then still floating from the fireside to the philosopher’s closet: he points his pen, as Æneas brandished his sword at the Gorgons and Chimeras that darkened the entrance of Hell; wanting the admonitions of the sibyl, he would have rushed in—

Et frustra ferro diverberet umbras.

[365]

The papers of Aubrey confirm my suggestion. I shall give the words—“There was a report, and surely true, that in parliament, not long after the king was settled, some of the bishops made a motion to have the good old gentleman burned for a heretique; which he hearing, feared that his papers might be searched by their order, and he told me he had burned part of them.”—p. 612. When Aubrey requested Waller to write verses on Hobbes, the poet said that he was afraid of the Churchmen. Aubrey tells us—“I have often heard him say that he was not afraid of Sprights, but afraid of being knocked on the head for five or ten pounds which rogues might think he had in his chamber.” This reason given by Hobbes for his frequent alarms was an evasive reply for too curious and talkative an inquirer. Hobbes has not concealed the cause of his terror in his metrical life—

“Tunc venit in mentem mihi Dorislaus et Ascham,
Tanquam proscripto terror ubique aderat.”

Dr. Dorislaus and Ascham had fallen under the daggers of proscription. [The former was assassinated in Holland, whither he had fled for safety.]

[366]

It is said that Hobbes completely recanted all his opinions; and proceeded so far as to declare that the opinions he had published in his “Leviathan,” were not his real sentiments, and that he neither maintained them in public nor in private. Wood gives this title to a work of his—“An Apology for Himself and his Writings,” but without date. Some have suspected that this Apology, if it ever existed, was not his own composition. Yet why not? Hobbes, no doubt, thought that “The Leviathan” would outlast any recantation; and, after all, that a recantation is by no means a refutation!—recantations usually prove the force of authority, rather than the force of conviction. I am much pleased with a Dr. Pocklington, who hit the etymology of the word recantation with the spirit. Accused and censured, for a penance he was to make a recantation, which he began thus:—“If canto be to sing, recanto is to sing again:” so that he re-chanted his offensive principles by his recantation!

I suspect that the apology Wood alludes to was only a republication of Hobbes’s Address to the King, prefixed to the “Seven Philosophical Problems,” 1662, where he openly disavows his opinions, and makes an apology for the “Leviathan.” It is curious enough to observe how he acts in this dilemma. It was necessary to give up his opinions to the clergy, but still to prove they were of an innocent nature. He therefore acknowledges that “his theological notions are not his opinions, but propounded with submission to the power ecclesiastical, never afterwards having maintained them in writing or discourse.” Yet, to show the king that the regal power incurred no great risk in them, he laid down one principle, which could not have been unpleasing to Charles II. He asserts, truly, that he never wrote against episcopacy; “yet he is called an Atheist, or man of no religion, because he has made the authority of the Church depend wholly upon the regal power, which, I hope, your majesty will think is neither Atheism nor Heresy.” Hobbes considered the religion of his country as a subject of law, and not philosophy. He was not for separating the Church from the State; but, on the contrary, for joining them more closely. The bishops ought not to have been his enemies; and many were not.

[367]

In the MS. collection of the French contemporary, who personally knew him, we find a remarkable confession of Hobbes. He said of himself that “he sometimes made openings to let in light, but that he could not discover his thoughts but by half-views: like those who throw open the window for a short time, but soon closing it, from the dread of the storm.” “Il disoit qu’il faisoit quelquefois des ouvertures, mais qu’il ne pouvoit découvrir ses pensées qu’à-demi; qu’il imitoit ceux qui ouvrent la fenêtre pendant quelques momens, mais qui la referment promptement de peur de l’orage.”—Lantiniana MSS., quoted by Joly in his volume of “Remarques sur Bayle.”

[368]

Could one imagine that the very head and foot of the stupendous “Leviathan” bear the marks of the little artifices practised for self by its author? This grave work is dedicated to Francis Godolphin, a person whom its author had never seen, merely to remind him of a certain legacy which that person’s brother had left to our philosopher. If read with this fact before us, we may detect the concealed claim to the legacy, which it seems was necessary to conceal from the Parliament, as Francis Godolphin resided in England. It must be confessed this was a miserable motive for dedicating a system of philosophy which was addressed to all mankind. It discovers little dignity. This secret history we owe to Lord Clarendon, in his “Survey of the Leviathan,” who adds another. The postscript to the “Leviathan,” which is only in the English edition, was designed as an easy summary of the principles: and his lordship adds, as a sly address to Cromwell, that he might be induced to be master of them at once, and “as a pawn of his new subject’s allegiance.” It is possible that Hobbes might have anticipated the sovereign power which the general was on the point of assuming in the protectorship. It was natural enough, that Hobbes should deny this suggestion.

[369]

The story his antagonist (Dr. Wallis) relates is perfectly in character. Hobbes, to show the Countess of Devonshire his attachment to life, declared that “were he master of all the world to dispose of, he would give it to live one day.” “But you have so many friends to oblige, had you the world to dispose of!” “Shall I be the better for that when I am dead?” “No,” repeated the sublime cynic, “I would give the whole world to live one day.” He asserted that “it was lawful to make use of ill instruments to do ourselves good,” and illustrated it thus:—“Were I cast into a deep pit, and the devil should put down his cloven foot, I would take hold of it to be drawn out by it.” It must be allowed this is a philosophy which has a chance of being long popular; but it is not that of another order of human beings! Hobbes would not, like Curtius, have leaped into a “deep pit” for his country; or, to drop the fable, have died for it in the field or on the scaffold, like the Falklands, the Sidneys, the Montroses—all the heroic brotherhood of genius! One of his last expressions, when informed of the approaches of death, was—“I shall be glad to find a hole to creep out of the world at.” Everything was seen in a little way by this great man, who, having reasoned himself into an abject being, “licked the dust” through life.

[370]

In our country, Mandeville, Swift, and Chesterfield have trod in the track of Hobbes; and in France, Helvetius, Rochefoucault in his “Maxims,” and L’Esprit more openly in his “Fausetté des Vertus Humaines.” They only degrade us—they are polished cynics! But what are we to think of the tremendous cynicism of Machiavel? That great genius eyed human nature with the ferocity of an enraged savage. Machiavel is a vindictive assassin, who delights even to turn his dagger within the mortal wound he has struck; but our Hobbes, said his friend Sorbiere, “is a gentle and skilful surgeon, who, with regret, cuts into the living flesh, to get rid of the corrupted.” It is equally to be regretted that the same system of degrading man has been adopted by some, under the mask of religion.

Yet Hobbes, perhaps, never suspected the arms he was placing in the hands of wretched men, when he furnished them with such fundamental positions as, that “Man is naturally an evil being; that he does not love his equal; and only seeks the aid of society for his own particular purposes.” He would at least have disowned some of his diabolical disciples. One of them, so late as in 1774, vented his furious philosophy in “An Essay on the Depravity and Corruption of Human Nature, wherein the Opinions of Hobbes, Mandeville, Helvetius, &c. are supported against Shaftesbury, Hume, Sterne, &c. by Thomas O’Brien M’Mahon.” This gentleman, once informed that he was born wicked, appears to have considered that wickedness was his paternal estate, to be turned to as profitable an account as he could. The titles of his chapters, serving as a string of the most extraordinary propositions, have been preserved in the “Monthly Review,” vol. lii. 77. The demonstrations in the work itself must be still more curious. In these axioms we find that “Man has an enmity to all beings; that had he power, the first victims of his revenge would be his wife, children, &c.—a sovereign, if he could reign with the unbounded authority every man longs for, free from apprehension of punishment for misrule, would slaughter all his subjects; perhaps he would not leave one of them alive at the end of his reign.” It was perfectly in character with this wretched being, after having quarrelled with human nature, that he should be still more inveterate against a small part of her family, with whom he was suffered to live on too intimate terms; for he afterwards published another extraordinary piece—“The Conduct and Good-Nature of Englishmen Exemplified in their charitable way of Characterising the Customs, Manners, &c. of Neighbouring Nations; their Equitable and Humane Mode of Governing States, &c.; their Elevated and Courteous Deportment, &c. of which their own Authors are everywhere produced as Vouchers,” 1777. One is tempted to think that this O’Brien M’Mahon, after all, is only a wag, and has copied the horrid pictures of his masters, as Hogarth did the School of Rembrandt by his “Paul before Felix, designed and scratched in the true Dutch taste.” These works seem, however, to have their use. To have carried the conclusions of the Anti-social Philosophy to as great lengths as this writer has, is to display their absurdity. But, as every rational Englishman will appeal to his own heart, in declaring the one work to be nothing but a libel on the nation; so every man, not destitute of virtuous emotions, will feel the other to be a libel on human nature itself.

[371]

“Human Nature,” c. ix.

[372]

Hobbes did not exaggerate the truth. Aubrey says of Cooper’s portrait of Hobbes, that “he intends to borrow the picture of his majesty, for Mr. Loggan to engrave an accurate piece by, which will sell well at home and abroad.” We have only the rare print of Hobbes by Faithorne, prefixed to a quarto edition of his Latin Life, 1682, remarkable for its expression and character. Sorbiere, returning from England, brought home a portrait of the sage, which he placed in his collection; and strangers, far and near, came to look on the physiognomy of a great and original thinker. One of the honours which men of genius receive is the homage the public pay to their images: either, like the fat monk, one of the heroes of the Epistolæ obscurorum Virorum, who, standing before a portrait of Erasmus, spit on it in utter malice; or when they are looked on in silent reverence. It is alike a tribute paid to the masters of intellect. They have had their shrines and pilgrimages.

None of our authors have been better known, nor more highly considered, than our Hobbes, abroad. I find many curious particulars of him and his conversations recorded in French works, which are not known to the English biographers or critics. His residence at Paris occasioned this. See Ancillon’s Mélange Critique, Basle, 1698; Patin’s Letters, 61; Sorberiana; Niceron, tome iv.; Joly’s Additions to Bayle.—All these contain original notices on Hobbes.

[373]

To his Life are additions, which nothing but the self-love of the author could have imagined.

“Amicorum Elenchus.”—He might be proud of the list of foreigners and natives.

“Tractuum contra Hobbium editorum Syllabus.”

“Eorum qui in Scriptis suis Hobbio contradixerunt Indiculus.”

“Qui Hobbii meminerunt seu in bonam seu in sequiorem partem.”

“In Hobbii Defensionem.”—Hobbes died 1679, aged 91. These two editions are, 1681, 1682.

[374]

This fact has been recorded in one of the pamphlets of Richard Baxter, who, however, was no well-wisher to our philosopher. “Additional Notes on the life and Death of Sir Matthew Hale,” 1682, p. 40.

[375]

“Athen. Oxon.,” vol. ii. p. 665, ed. 1721. No one, however, knew better than Hobbes the vanity and uselessness of words: in one place he compares them to “a spider’s web; for, by contexture of words, tender and delicate wits are insnared and stopped, but strong wits break easily through them.” The pointed sentence with which Warburton closes his preface to Shakspeare, is Hobbes’s—that “words are the counters of the wise, and the money of fools.”

[376]

Aubrey has minutely preserved for us the manner in which Hobbes composed his “Leviathan:” it is very curious for literary students. “He walked much, and contemplated; and he had in the head of his cane a pen and inkhorn, and carried always a note-book in his pocket; and as soon as a thought darted, he presently entered it into his book, or otherwise might have lost it. He had drawn the design of the book into chapters, &c., and he knew whereabouts it would come in. Thus that book was made.”—Vol. ii. p. 607. Aubrey, the little Boswell of his day, has recorded another literary peculiarity, which some authors do not assuredly sufficiently use. Hobbes said that he sometimes would set his thoughts upon researching and contemplating, always with this proviso: “that he very much and deeply considered one thing at a time—for a week, or sometimes a fortnight.”

[377]

A small annuity from the Devonshire family, and a small pension from Charles II., exceeded the wants of his philosophic life. If he chose to compute his income, Hobbes says facetiously of himself, in French sols or Spanish maravedis, he could persuade himself that Crœsus or Crassus were by no means richer than himself; and when he alludes to his property, he considers wisdom to be his real wealth:—

“An quàm dives, id est, quàm sapiens fuerim?”

He gave up his patrimonial estate to his brother, not wanting it himself; but he tells the tale himself, and adds, that though small in extent, it was rich in its crops. Anthony Wood, with unusual delight, opens the character of Hobbes: “Though he hath an ill name from some, and good from others, yet he was a person endowed with an excellent philosophical soul, was a contemner of riches, money, envy, the world, &c.; a severe lover of justice, and endowed with great morals; cheerful, open, and free of his discourse, yet without offence to any, which he endeavoured always to avoid.” What an enchanting picture of the old man in the green vigour of his age has Cowley sent down to us!

“Nor can the snow which now cold age does shed
Upon thy reverend head,
Quench or allay the noble fires within;
But all which thou hast been,
And all that youth can be, thou’rt yet:
So fully still dost thou
Enjoy the manhood and the bloom of wit,
And all the natural heat, but not the fever too.
So contraries on Ætna’s top conspire:
Th’ embolden’d snow next to the flame does sleep.—
To things immortal time can do no wrong;
And that which never is to die, for ever must be young.”

[378]

“Ipse meos nôsti, Verdusi candide, mores,
Et tecum cuncti qui mea scripta legunt:
Nam mea vita meis non est incongrua scriptis;
Justitiam doceo, Justitiamque colo.
Improbus esse potest nemo qui non sit avarus,
Nec pulchrum quisquam fecit avarus opus.
Octoginta ego jam complevi et quatuor annos;
Pene acta est vitæ fabula longa meæ.”

[379]

Hobbes, in his metrical (by no means his poetical) life, says, the more the “Leviathan” was written against, the more it was read; and adds,

“Firmiùs inde stetit, spero stabitque per omne
Ævum, defensus viribus ipse suis.
Justitiæ mensura, atque ambitionis elenchus,
Regum arx, pax populo, si doceatur, erit.”

The term arx is here peculiarly fortunate, according to the system of the author—it means a citadel or fortified place on an eminence, to which the people might fly for their common safety.

His works were much read; as appears by “The Court Burlesqued,” a satire attributed to Butler.

“So those who wear the holy robes
That rail so much at Father Hobbs,
Because he has exposed of late
The nakedness of Church and State;
Yet tho’ they do his books condemn,
They love to buy and read the same.”

Our author, so late as in 1750, was still so commanding a genius, that his works were collected in a handsome folio; but that collection is not complete. When he could not get his works printed at home, he published them in Latin, including his mathematical works, at Amsterdam, by Blaew, 1668, 4to. His treatises, “De Cive,” and “On Human Nature,” are of perpetual value. Gassendi recommends these admirable works, and Puffendorff acknowledges the depth of his obligations. The Life of Hobbes in the “Biographia Britannica,” by Dr. Campbell, is a work of curious research.

[380]

The origin of his taste for mathematics was purely accidental: begun in love, it continued to dotage. According to Aubrey, he was forty years old when, “being in a gentleman’s library, Euclid’s Elements lay open at the 47th Propos. lib. i., which, having read, he swore ‘This is impossible!’ He read the demonstration, which referred him back to another—at length he was convinced of that truth. This made him in love with geometry. I have heard Mr. Hobbes say that he was wont to draw lines on his thighs and on the sheets a-bed.”

[381]

The author of the excellent Latin grammar of the English language, so useful to every student in Europe, of which work that singular patriot, Thomas Hollis, printed an edition, to present to all the learned Institutions of Europe. Henry Stubbe, the celebrated physician of Warwick, to whom the reader has been introduced, joined, for he loved a quarrel, in the present controversy, when it involved philosophical matters, siding with Hobbes, because he hated Wallis. In his “Oneirocritica, or an Exact Account of the Grammatical Parts of this Controversy,” he draws a strong character of Wallis, who was indeed a great mathematician, and one of the most extraordinary decypherers of letters; for perhaps no new system of character could be invented for which he could not make a key; by which means he had rendered the most important services to the Parliament. Stubbe quaintly describes him as “the sub-scribe to the tribe of Adoniram” (i.e. Adoniram Byfield, who, with this cant name, was scribe to the fanatical Assembly of Divines), and “as the glory and pride of the Presbyterian faction.”

[382]

Dr. Seth Ward, after the Restoration made Bishop of Salisbury, said, some years before this event was expected, that “he had rather be the author of one of Hobbes’s books than be king of England.” But afterwards he seemed not a little inclined to cry out Crucifige! He who, to one of these books, the admirable treatise on “Human Nature,” had prefixed one of the highest panegyrics Hobbes could receive!—Athen. Oxon. vol. ii. p. 647.

[383]

It is mortifying to read such language between two mathematicians, in the calm inquiries of square roots, and the finding of mean proportionals between two straight lines. I wish the example may prove a warning. Wallis thus opens on Hobbes:—“It seems, Mr. Hobbs, that you have a mind to say your lesson, and that the mathematic professors of Oxford should hear you. You are too old to learn, though you have as much need as those that be younger, and yet will think much to be whipped.

“What moved you to say your lessons in English, when the books against which you do chiefly intend them were written in Latin? Was it chiefly for the perfecting your natural rhetoric whenever you thought it convenient to repair to Billingsgate?—You found that the oyster-women could not teach you to rail in Latin. Now you can, upon all occasion, or without occasion, give the titles of fool, beast, ass, dog, &c., which I take to be but barking; and they are no better than a man might have at Billingsgate for a box o’ the ear.

“You tell us, ‘though the beasts that think our railing to be roaring have for a time admired us; yet now you have showed them our ears, they will be less affrighted.’ Sir, those persons (the professors themselves) needed not the sight of your ears, but could tell by the voice what kind of creature brayed in your books: you dared not have said this to their faces.”—He bitterly says of Hobbes, that “he is a man who is always writing what was answered before he had written.”

[384]

Dr. Campbell’s art. on Hobbes, in “Biog. Brit.” p. 2619.

[385]

Found in the king’s tent at Naseby, and which were written to the queen on important political subjects, in a cypher of which they only had the key. They were afterwards published in a quarto pamphlet, and did much mischief to the royal cause.—Ed.

[386]

The strange conclusions some mathematicians have deduced from their principles concerning the real quantity of matter, and the reality of space, have been noticed by Pope, in the Dunciad:—

“Mad Mathésis alone was unconfined,
Too mad for mere material chains to bind:
Now to pure space lifts her ecstatic stare;
Now running round the circle, finds its square.”

Dunciad, Book iv. ver. 31.

[387]

When all animosities had ceased, after the death of Hobbes, I find Dr. Wallis, in a very temperate letter to Tenison, exposing the errors of Hobbes in mathematical studies; Wallis acknowledges that philology had never entered into his pursuits,—in this he had never designed to oppose his superior genius: but it was Hobbes who had too often turned his mathematical into a philological controversy. Wallis has made a just observation on the nature of mathematical truths:—“Hobbes’s argumentations are destructive in one part of what is said in another. This is more convincingly evident, and more unpardonable, in mathematics than in other discourses, which are things capable of cogent demonstration, and so evident, that though a good mathematician may be subject to commit an error, yet one who understands but little of it cannot but see a fault when it is showed him.”

Wallis was an eminent genius in scientific pursuits. His art of decyphering letters was carried to amazing perfection; and among other phenomena he discovered was that of teaching a young man, born deaf and dumb, to speak plainly. He humorously observes, in one of his letters:—“I am now employed upon another work, as hard almost as to make Mr. Hobbes understand mathematics. It is to teach a person dumb and deaf to speak, and to understand a language.”

[388]

The gross convivialities of the times, from the age of Elizabeth, were remarkable for several circumstances. Hard-drinking was a foreign vice, imported by our military men on their return from the Netherlands: and the practice, of whose prevalence Camden complains, was even brought to a kind of science. They had a dialect peculiar to their orgies. See “Curiosities of Literature,” vol. ii. p. 294 (last edition).

Jonson’s inclinations were too well suited to the prevalent taste, and he gave as largely into it as any of his contemporaries. Tavern-habits were then those of our poets and actors. Ben’s Humours, at “the Mermaid,” and at a later period, his Leges Convivales at “the Apollo,” the club-room of “the Devil,” were doubtless one great cause of a small personal unhappiness, of which he complains, and which had a very unlucky effect in rendering a mistress so obdurate, who “through her eyes had stopt her ears.” This was, as his own verse tells us,

“His mountain-belly and his rocky face.”

He weighed near twenty stone, according to his own avowal—an Elephant-Cupid! One of his “Sons,” at the “Devil,” seems to think that his Catiline could not fail to be a miracle, by a certain sort of inspiration which Ben used on the occasion.

“With strenuous sinewy words that Catiline swells,
I reckon it not among men-miracles.
How could that poem heat and vigour lack,
When each line oft cost Ben a cup of sack?”

R. Baron’s Pocula Castalia, p. 113, 1650.

Jonson, in the Bacchic phraseology of the day, was “a Canary-bird.” “He would (says Aubrey) many times exceed in drink; canary was his beloved liquor; then he would tumble home to bed; and when he had thoroughly perspired, then to study.”

Tradition, too, has sent down to us several tavern-tales of “Rare Ben.” A good-humoured one has been preserved of the first interview between Bishop Corbet, when a young man, and our great bard. It occurred at a tavern, where Corbet was sitting alone. Ben, who had probably just drank up to the pitch of good fellowship, desired the waiter to take to the gentleman “a quart of raw wine; and tell him,” he added, “I sacrifice my service to him.”—“Friend,” replied Corbet, “I thank him for his love; but tell him, from me, that he is mistaken; for sacrifices are always burned.” This pleasant allusion to the mulled wine of the time by the young wit could not fail to win the affection of the master-wit himself. Harl. MSS. 6395.

Ben is not viewed so advantageously, in an unlucky fit of ebriety recorded by Oldys, in his MS. notes on Langbaine; but his authority is not to me of a suspicious nature: he had drawn it from a MS. collection of Oldisworth’s, who appears to have been a curious collector of the history of his times. He was secretary to that strange character, Philip, Earl of Pembroke. It was the custom of those times to form collections of little traditional stories and other good things; we have had lately given to us by the Camden Society an amusing one, from the L’Estrange family, and the MS. already quoted is one of them. There could be no bad motive in recording a tale, quite innocent in itself, and which is further confirmed by Isaac Walton, who, without alluding to the tale, notices that Jonson parted from Sir Walter Raleigh and his son “not in cold blood.” Mr. Gifford, in a MS. note on this work, does not credit this story, it not being accordant with dates. Such stories may not accord with dates or persons, and yet may be founded on some substantial fact. I know of no injury to Ben’s poetical character, in showing that he was, like other men, quite incapable of taking care of himself, when he was sunk in the heavy sleep of drunkenness. It was an age when kings, as our James I. and his majesty of Denmark, were as often laid under the table as their subjects. My motive for preserving the story is the incident respecting carrying men in baskets: it was evidently a custom, which perhaps may have suggested the memorable adventure of Falstaff. It was a convenient mode of conveyance for those who were incapable of taking care of themselves before the invention of hackney coaches, which was of later date, in Charles the First’s reign.

Camden recommended Jonson to Sir Walter Raleigh as a tutor to his son, whose gay humours not brooking the severe studies of Jonson, took advantage of his foible, to degrade him in the eyes of his father, who, it seems, was remarkable for his abstinence from wine: though, if another tale be true, he was no common sinner in “the true Virginia.” Young Raleigh contrived to give Ben a surfeit, which threw the poet into a deep slumber; and then the pupil maliciously procured a buck-basket, and a couple of men, who carried our Ben to Sir Walter, with a message that “their young master had sent home his tutor.” There is nothing improbable in the story; for the circumstance of carrying drunken men in baskets was a usual practice. In the Harleian MS. quoted above, I find more than one instance; I will give one. An alderman, carried in a porter’s basket, at his own door, is thrown out of it in a qualmish state. The man, to frighten away the passengers, and enable the grave citizen to creep in unobserved, exclaims, that the man had the falling sickness!

[389]

These were Marston and Decker, but as is usual with these sort of caricatures, the originals sometimes mistook their likenesses. They were both town-wits, and cronies, of much the same stamp; by a careful perusal of their works, the editor of Jonson has decided that Marston was Crispinus. With him Jonson had once lived on the most friendly terms: afterwards the great poet quarrelled with both, or they with him.

Dryden, in the preface to his “Notes and Observations on the Empress of Morocco,” in his quarrel with Settle, which has been sufficiently narrated by Dr. Johnson, felt, when poised against this miserable rival, who had been merely set up by a party to mortify the superior genius, as Jonson had felt when pitched against Crispinus. It is thus that literary history is so interesting to authors. How often, in recording the fates of others, it reflects their own! “I knew indeed (says Dryden) that to write against him was to do him too great an honour; but I considered Ben Jonson had done it before to Decker, our author’s predecessor, whom he chastised in his Poetaster, under the character of Crispinus.” Langbaine tells us the subject of the “Satiromastix” of Decker, which I am to notice, was “the witty Ben Jonson;” and with this agree all the notices I have hitherto met with respecting “the Horace Junior” of Decker’s Satiromastix. Mr. Gilchrist has published two curious pamphlets on Jonson; and in the last, p. 56, he has shown that Decker was “the poet-ape of Jonson,” and that he avenged himself under the character of Crispinus in his “Satiromastix;” to which may be added, that the Fannius, in the same satirical comedy, is probably his friend Marston.

Jonson allowed himself great liberty in personal satire, by which, doubtless, he rung an alarum to a waspish host; he lampooned Inigo Jones, the great machinist and architect. The lampoons are printed in Jonson’s works [but not in their entirety. The great architect had sufficient court influence to procure them to be cancelled; and the character of In-and-in Medley, in “The Tale of a Tub,” has come down to us with no other satirical personal traits than a few fantastical expressions]; and I have in MS. an answer by Inigo Jones, in verse, so pitiful that I have not printed it. That he condescended to bring obscure individuals on the stage, appears by his character of Carlo Buffoon, in Every Man out of his Humour. He calls this “a second untruss,” and was censured for having drawn it from personal revenge. The Aubrey Papers, recently published have given us the character of this Carlo Buffoon, “one Charles Chester, a bold impertinent fellow; and they could never be at quiet for him; a perpetual talker, and made a noise like a drum in a room. So one time at a tavern Sir Walter Raleigh beats him, and seals up his mouth; i.e., his upper and nether beard, with hard wax.”—p. 514. Such a character was no unfitting object for dramatic satire. Mr. Gilchrist’s pamphlets defended Jonson from the frequent accusations raised against him for the freedom of his muse, in such portraits after the life. Yet even our poet himself does not deny their truth, while he excuses himself. In the dedication of “The Fox,” to the two Universities, he boldly asks, “Where have I been particular? Where personal?—Except to a mimic, cheater, bawd, buffoon, creatures (for their insolencies) worthy to be taxed.” The mere list he here furnishes us with would serve to crowd one of the “twopenny audiences” in the small theatres of that day.

[390]

Alluding, no doubt, to the price of seats at some of the minor theatres.

[391]

It was the fashion with the poets connected with the theatre to wear long hair. Nashe censures Greene “for his fond (foolish) disguising of a Master of Arts (which was Greene’s degree) with ruffianly hair.”—Ed.

[392]

Alluding to the trial of the Poetasters, which takes place before Augustus and his poetical jury of Virgil, Ovid, Tibullus, &c., in Ben’s play.

[393]

Decker alludes here to the bastard of Burgundy, who considered himself unmatchable, till he was overthrown in Smithfield by Woodville, Earl Rivers.

[394]

Horace acknowledges he played Zulziman at Paris-garden. “Sir Vaughan: Then, master Horace, you played the part of an honest man—”

Tucca exclaims: “Death of Hercules! he could never play that part well in ’s life!”

[395]

Among those arts of imitation which man has derived from the practice of animals, naturalists assure us that he owes the use of clysters to the Egyptian Ibis. There are some who pretend this medicinal invention comes from the stork. The French are more like Ibises than we are: ils se donnent des lavements eux-mêmes. But as it is rather uncertain what the Egyptian Ibis is; whether, as translated in Leviticus xi. 17, the cormorant, or a species of stork, or only “a great owl,” as we find in Calmet; it would be safest to attribute the invention to the unknown bird. I recollect, in Wickliffe’s version of the Pentateuch, which I once saw in MS. in the possession of my valued friend Mr. Douce, that that venerable translator interpolates a little, to tell us that the Ibis “giveth to herself a purge.”

[396]

This work was not given to the public till 1724, a small quarto, with a fine portrait of Brooke. More than a century had elapsed since its forcible suppression. Anstis printed it from the fair MS. which Brooke had left behind him. The author’s paternal affection seemed fondly to imagine its child might be worthy of posterity, though calumniated by its contemporaries.

[397]

“Verum enimverò de his et hoc genere hominum ne verbum amplius addam, tabellam tamen summi illius artificis Apellis, cùm colorum vivacitate depingere non possim, verbis leviter adumbrabo et proponam, ut Antiphilus noster, suique similes, et qui calumniis credunt, hanc, et in hac seipsos semel simulque intueantur.

“Ad dextram sedet quidam, quia credulus, auribus prælongis insignis, quales ferè illæ Midæ feruntur. Manum porrigit procul accedenti Calumniæ. Circumstant eum mulierculæ duæ, Ignorantia ac Suspicio. Adit aliunde propiùs Calumnia eximiè compta, vultu ipso et gestu corporis efferens rabiem, et iram æstuanti conceptam pectore præ se ferens: sinistra facem tenens flammantem, dextra secum adolescentem capillis arreptum, manus ad superos tendentem, obtestantemque immortalium deorum fidem, trahit. Anteit vir pallidus, in specium impurus, acie oculorum minimè hebeti, cæterùm planè iis símilis, qui gravi aliquo morbo contabuerunt. Hic livor est, ut facilè conjicias. Quin, et mulierculæ aliquot Insidiæ et Fallaciæ ut comites Calumniam comitantur. Harum est munus, dominam hortari, instruere, comere, et subornare. A tergo, habitu lugubri, pullato, laceroque Pœnitentia subsequitur, quæ capite in tergum deflexo, cum lachrymis, ac pudore procul venientem Veritatem agnoscit, et excipit.”

[398]

A Fletcher is a maker of bows and arrows.—Ash.

[399]

Brooke died at the old mansion opposite the Roman town of Reculver in Kent. The house is still known as Brooke-farm; and the original gateway of decorative brickwork still exists. He was buried in Reculver Church, now destroyed, where a mural monument was erected to his memory, having a rhyming inscription, which told the reader:—

“Fifteenth October he was last alive,
One thousand six hundred and twenty-five,
Seaventy-three years bore he fortune’s harms,
And forty-five an officer of armes.”

Brooke was originally a painter-stainer. His enmity to Camden appears to have originated in the appointment of the latter to the office of Clarencieux on the death of Richard Lee; he believing himself to be qualified for the place by greater knowledge, and by his long connexion with the College of Arms. His mode of righting himself lacked judgment, and he was twice suspended from his office, and was even attempted to be expelled therefrom.—Ed.

[400]

In Anstis’s edition of “A Second Discoverie of Errors in the Much-commended ‘Britannia,’ &c.,” 1724, the reader will find all the passages in the “Britannia” of the edition of 1594 to which Brooke made exceptions, placed column-wise with the following edition of it in 1600. It is, as Anstis observes, a debt to truth, without making any reflections.

[401]

There is a sensible observation in the old “Biographia Britannica” on Brooke. “From the splenetic attack originally made by Rafe Brooke upon the ‘Britannia’ arose very great advantages to the public, by the shifting and bringing to light as good, perhaps a better and more authentic account of our nobility, than had been given at that time of those in any other country of Europe.”—p. 1135.

[402]

The Church History by Dodd, a Catholic, fills three vols. folio: it is very rare and curious. Much of our own domestic history is interwoven in that of the fugitive papists, and the materials of this work are frequently drawn from their own archives, preserved in their seminaries at Douay, Valladolid, &c., which have not been accessible to Protestant writers. Here I discovered a copious nomenclature of eminent persons, and many literary men, with many unknown facts, both of a private and public nature. It is useful, at times, to know whether an English author was a Catholic.

[403]

I refer the reader to Selden’s “Table Talk” for many admirable ideas on “Bishops.” That enlightened genius, who was no friend to the ecclesiastical temporal power, acknowledges the absolute necessity of this order in a great government. The preservers of our literature and our morals they ought to be, and many have been. When the political reformers ejected the bishops out of the house, what did they gain? a more vulgar prating race, but even more lordly! Selden says—“The bishops being put out of the house, whom will they lay the fault upon now? When the dog is beat out of the room, where will they lay the stink?”

[404]

The freedom of the press hardly subsisted in Elizabeth’s reign; and yet libels abounded! A clear demonstration that nothing is really gained by those violent suppressions and expurgatory indexes which power in its usurpation may enforce. At a time when they did not dare even to publish the titles of such libels, yet were they spread about, and even hoarded. The most ancient catalogue of our vernacular literature is that by Andrew Maunsell, published in 1595. It consists of Divinity, Mathematics, Medicine, &c.; but the third part which he promised, and which to us would have been the most interesting, of “Rhetoric, History, Poetry, and Policy,” never appeared. In the Preface, such was the temper of the times, and of Elizabeth, we discover that he has deprived us of a catalogue of the works alluded to in our text, for he thus distinctly points at them:—“The books written by the fugitive papistes, as also those that are written against the present government (meaning those of the Puritans), I doe not think meete for me to meddle withall.” In one part of his catalogue, however, he contrived to insert the following passage; the burden of the song seems to have been chorused by the ear of our cautious Maunsell. He is noticing a Pierce Plowman in prose. “I did not see the beginning of this booke, but it ended thus:—

“God save the king, and speed the plough
And send the prelats care inough,
Inough, inough, inough.”—p. 80.

Few of our native productions are so rare as the Martin Mar-Prelate publications. I have not found them in the public repositories of our national literature. There they have been probably rejected with indignity, though their answerers have been preserved; yet even these are almost of equal rarity and price. They were rejected in times less enlightened than the present. In a national library every book deserves preservation. By the rejection of these satires, however absurd or infamous, we have lost a link in the great chain of our National Literature and History. [Since the above was written, many have been added to our library; and the Rev. William Maskell, M.A., has published his “History of the Martin Mar-Prelate Controversy.” It is a most careful summary of the writings and proceedings of all connected with this important event, and is worthy the attentive perusal of such as desire accurate information in this chapter of our Church history.]

[405]

We know them by the name of Puritans, a nickname obtained by their affecting superior sanctity; but I find them often distinguished by the more humble appellative of Precisians. As men do not leap up, but climb on rocks, it is probable they were only precise before they were pure. A satirist of their day, in “Rythmes against Martin Marre-Prelate,” melts their attributes into one verse:—

“The sacred sect, and perfect pure precise.”

A more laughing satirist, “Pasquill of England to Martin Junior,” persists in calling them Puritans, a pruritu! for their perpetual itching, or a desire to do something. Elizabeth herself only considered them as “a troublesome sort of people:” even that great politician could not detect the political monster in a mere chrysalis of reform. I find, however, in a poet of the Elizabethan age, an evident change in the public feeling respecting the Puritans, who being always most active when the government was most in trouble, their political views were discovered. Warner, in his “Albion’s England,” describes them:—

“If ever England will in aught prevent her own mishap,
Against these Skommes (no terme too gross) let England shut the gap;
With giddie heads—
Their countrie’s foes they helpt, and most their country harm’d.
If Hypocrites why Puritaines we term, be asked, in breefe,
’Tis but an ironised terme: good-fellow so spells theefe!”

The gentle-humoured Fuller, in his “Church History,” felt a tenderness for the name of Puritan, which, after the mad follies they had played during the Commonwealth, was then held in abhorrence. He could not venture to laud the good men of that party, without employing a new term to conceal the odium. In noticing, under the date of 1563, that the bishops urged the clergy of their dioceses to press uniformity, &c., he adds—“Such as refused were branded with the name of Puritans—a name which in this nation began in this year, subject to several senses, and various in the acceptions. Puritan was taken for the opposers of hierarchy and church service, as resenting of superstition. But the nickname was quickly improved by profane mouths to abuse pious persons. We will decline the word to prevent exceptions, which, if casually slipping from our pen, the reader knoweth that only nonconformists are intended,” lib. ix. p. 76. Fuller, however, divided them into classes—“the mild and moderate, and the fierce and fiery.” Heylin, in his “History of the Presbyterians,” blackens them as so many political devils; and Neale, in his “History of the Puritans,” blanches them into a sweet and almond whiteness.

Let us be thankful to these Puritans for a political lesson. They began their quarrels on the most indifferent matters. They raised disturbances about the “Romish Rags,” by which they described the decent surplice as well as the splendid scarlet chimere [407] thrown over the white linen rochet, with the square cap worn by the bishops. The scarlet robe, to please their sullen fancy, was changed into black satin; but these men soon resolved to deprive the bishops of more than a scarlet robe. The affected niceties of these Precisians, dismembering our images, and scratching at our paintings, disturbed the uniformity of the religious service. A clergyman in a surplice was turned out of the church. Some wore square caps, some round, some abhorred all caps. The communion-table placed in the East was considered as an idolatrous altar, and was now dragged into the middle of the church, where, to show their contempt, it was always made the filthiest seat in the church. They used to kneel at the sacrament; now they would sit, because that was a proper attitude for a supper; then they would not sit, but stand: at length they tossed the elements about, because the bread was wafers, and not from a loaf. Among their preciseness was a qualm at baptism: the water was to be taken from a basin, and not from a fount; then they would not name their children, or if they did, they would neither have Grecian, nor Roman, nor Saxon names, but Hebrew ones, which they ludicrously translated into English, and which, as Heylin observes, “many of them when they came of age were ashamed to own”—such as “Accepted, Ashes, Fight-the-good-Fight-of-Faith, Joy-again, Kill-sin, &c.”

Who could have foreseen that some pious men quarrelling about the square caps and the rochets of bishops should at length attack bishops themselves; and, by an easy transition, passing from bishops to kings, finally close in levellers!

[406]

The origin of the controversy may be fixed about 1588. “A far less easy task,” says the Rev. Mr. Maskell, “is it to guess at the authors. The tracts on the Mar-Prelate side have been usually attributed to Penry, Throgmorton, Udal, and Fenner. Very considerable information may be obtained about these writers in Wood’s ‘Athenæ,’ art. Penry; in Collier, Strype, and Herbert’s edition of ‘Arnes,’ to whom I would refer. After a careful examination of these and other authorities on the subject, the question remains, in my judgment, as obscure as before; and I think that it is very far from clear that either one of the three last-named was actually concerned in the authorship of any of the pamphlets.”—Ed.

[407]

So Heylin writes the word; but in the “Rythmes against Martin,” a contemporary production, the term is Chiver. It is not in Cotgrave.

[408]

In the “Just Censure and Reproof of Martin Junior” (circæ 1589), we are told: “There is Cartwright, too, at Warwick; he hath got him such a company of disciples, both of the worshipfull and other of the poorer sort, as wee have no cause to thank him. Never tell me that he is too grave to trouble himself with Martin’s conceits. Cartwright seeks the peace of the Church no otherwise than his platform may stand.” He was accused before the commissioners in 1590 of knowing who wrote and printed these squibs, which he did not deny.—Ed.

[409]

I give a remarkable extract from the writings of Cartwright. It will prove two points. First, that the religion of those men became a cover for a political design; which was to raise the ecclesiastical above the civil power. Just the reverse of Hobbes’s after scheme; but while theorists thus differ and seem to refute one another, they in reality work for an identical purpose. Secondly, it will show the not uncommon absurdity of man; while these nonconformists were affecting to annihilate the hierarchy of England as a remains of the Romish supremacy, they themselves were designing one according to their own fresher scheme. It was to be a state or republic of Presbyters, in which all Sovereigns were to hold themselves, to use their style, as “Nourisses, or servants under the Church; the Sovereigns were to be as subjects; they were to vail their sceptres and to offer their crowns as the prophet speaketh, to lick the dust of the feet of the Church.” These are Cartwright’s words, in his “Defence of the Admonition.” But he is still bolder, in a joint production with Travers. He insists that “the Monarchs of the World should give up their sceptres and crowns unto him (Jesus Christ) who is represented by the Officers of the Church.” See “A Full and Plain Declaration of Ecclesiastical Discipline,” p. 185. One would imagine he was a disguised Jesuit, and an advocate for the Pope’s supremacy. But observe how these saintly Republicans would govern the State. Cartwright is explicit, and very ingenious. “The world is now deceived that thinketh that the Church must be framed according to the Commonwealth, and the Church Government according to the Civil Government, which is as much as to say, as if a man should fashion his house according to his hangings; whereas, indeed, it is clean contrary. That as the hangings are made fit for the house, so the Commonwealth must be made to agree with the Church, and the government thereof with her government; for, as the house is before the hangings, therefore the hangings, which come after, must be framed to the house, which was before; so the Church being before there was a commonwealth, and the commonwealth coming after, must be fashioned and made suitable to the Church; otherwise, God is made to give place to men, heaven to earth.”—Cartwright’s Defence of the Admonition, p. 181.

Warburton’s “Alliance between Church and State,” which was in his time considered as a hardy paradox, is mawkish in its pretensions, compared with this sacerdotal republic. It is not wonderful that the wisest of our Sovereigns, that great politician Elizabeth, should have punished with death these democrats: but it is wonderful to discover that these inveterate enemies to the Church of Rome were only trying to transfer its absolute power into their own hands! They wanted to turn the Church into a democracy. They fascinated the people by telling them that there would be no beggars were there no bishops; that every man would be a governor by setting up a Presbytery. From the Church, I repeat, it is scarcely a single step to the Cabinet. Yet the early Puritans come down to us as persecuted saints. Doubtless, there were a few honest saints among them; but they were as mad politicians as their race afterwards proved to be, to whom they left so many fatal legacies. Cartwright uses the very language a certain cast of political reformers have recently done. He declares “An establishment may be made without the magistrate;” and told the people that “if every hair of their head was a life, it ought to be offered for such a cause.” Another of this faction is for “registering the names of the fittest and hottest brethren without lingering for Parliament;” and another exults that “there are a hundred thousand hands ready.” Another, that “we may overthrow the bishops and all the government in one day.” Such was the style, and such the confidence in the plans which the lowest orders of revolutionists promulgated during their transient exhibition in this country. More in this strain may be found in “Maddox’s Vindication Against Neale,” the advocate for the Puritans, p. 255; and in an admirable letter of that great politician, Sir Francis Walsingham, who, with many others of the ministers of Elizabeth, was a favourer of the Puritans, till he detected their secret object to subvert the government. This letter is preserved in “Collier’s Eccl. Hist.” vol. ii. 607. They had begun to divide the whole country into classes, provincial synods, &c. They kept registers, which recorded all the heads of their debates, to be finally transmitted to the secret head of the Classis of Warwick, where Cartwright governed as the perpetual moderator! Heylin’s Hist. of Presbyt. p. 277. These violent advocates for the freedom of the press had, however, an evident intention to monopolise it; for they decreed that “no book should be put in print but by consent of the Classes.”—Sir G. Paul’s Life of Whitgift, p. 65. The very Star-Chamber they justly protested against, they were for raising among themselves!

[410]

Under the denomination of Barrowists and Brownists. I find Sir Walter Raleigh declaring, in the House of Commons, on a motion for reducing disloyal subjects, that “they are worthy to be rooted out of a Commonwealth.” He is alarmed at the danger, “for it is to be feared that men not guilty will be included in the law about to be passed. I am sorry for it. I am afraid there is near twenty thousand of them in England; and when they be gone (that is, expelled) who shall maintain their wives and children?”—Sir Simonds D’Ewes’ Journal, p. 517.

[411]

The controversies of Whitgift and Cartwright were of a nature which could never close, for toleration was a notion which never occurred to either. These rivals from early days wrote with such bitterness against each other, that at length it produced mutual reproaches. Whitgift complains to Cartwright: “If you were writing against the veriest Papist, or the ignorantest dolt, you could not be more spiteful and malicious.” And Cartwright replies: “If peace had been so precious unto you as you pretend, you would not have brought so many hard words and bitter reproaches, as it were sticks and coals, to double and treble the heat of contention.”

After this it is curious, even to those accustomed to such speculations, to observe some men changing with the times, and furious rivals converted into brothers. Whitgift, whom Elizabeth, as a mark of her favour, called “her black husband,” soliciting Cartwright’s pardon from the Queen; and the proud Presbyter Cartwright styling Whitgift his Lord the Archbishop’s Grace of Canterbury, and visiting him!

[412]

Sir George Paul, a contemporary, attributes his wealth “to the benevolence and bounty of his followers.” Dr. Sutcliffe, one of his adversaries, sharply upbraids him, that “in the persecution he perpetually complained of, he was grown rich.” A Puritan advocate reproves Dr. Sutcliffe for always carping at Cartwright’s purchases:—“Why may not Cartwright sell the lands he had from his father, and buy others with the money, as well as some of the bishops, who by bribery, simony, extortion, racking of rents, wasting of woods, and such like stratagems, wax rich, and purchase great lordships for their posterity?”

To this Sutcliffe replied:

“I do not carpe alway, no, nor once, at Master Cartwright’s purchase. I hinder him not; I envy him not. Only thus much I must tell him, that Thomas Cartwright, a man that hath more landes of his own in possession than any bishop that I know, and that fareth daintily every day, and feedeth fayre and fatte, and lyeth as soft as any tenderling of that brood, and hath wonne much wealth in short time, and will leave more to his posterity than any bishop, should not cry out either of persecution or of excess of bishop’s livinges.”—Sutcliffe’s Answer to Certain Calumnious Petitions.

[413]

“The author of these libels,” says Bishop Cooper, in his “Admonition to the People of England,” 1589, “calleth himself by a feigned name, Martin Mar-Prelate, a very fit name undoubtedly. But if this outrageous spirit of boldness be not stopped speedily, I fear he will prove himself to be, not only Mar-Prelate, but Mar-Prince, Mar-State, Mar-Law, Mar-Magistrate, and altogether, until he bring it to an Anabaptistical equality and community.”—Ed.

[414]

Cartwright approved of them, and well knew the concealed writers, who frequently consulted him: this appears by Sir G. Paul’s “Life of Whitgift,” p. 65. Being asked his opinion of such books, he said, that “since the bishops, and others there touched, would not amend by grave books, it was therefore meet they should be dealt withal to their farther reproach; and that some books must be earnest, some more mild and temperate, whereby they may be both of the spirit of Elias and Eliseus;” the one the great mocker, the other the more solemn reprover. It must be confessed Cartwright here discovers a deep knowledge of human nature. He knew the power of ridicule and of invective. At a later day, a writer of the same stamp, in “The Second Wash, or the Moore Scoured once more,” (written against Dr. Henry More, the Platonist), in defence of that vocabulary of names which he has poured on More, asserts it is a practice allowed by the high authority of Christ himself. I transcribe the curious passage:—“It is the practice of Christ himself to character men by those things to which they assimilate. Thus hath he called Herod a fox; Judas a devil; false pastors he calls wolves; the buyers and sellers, theeves; and those Hebrew Puritans the Pharisees, hypocrites. This rule and justice of his Master St. Paul hath well observed, and he acts freely thereby; for when he reproves the Cretians, he makes use of that ignominious proverb, Evil beasts and slow bellies. When the high priest commanded the Jews to smite him on the face, he replied to him, not without some bitterness, God shall smite thee, thou white wall. I cite not these places to justify an injurious spleen, but to argue the liberty of the truth.”—The Second Wash, or the Moore Scoured once more. 1651. P. 8.

[415]

One of their works is “A Dialogue, wherein is laid open the tyrannical dealing of L. Bishopps against God’s children.” It is full of scurrilous stories, probably brought together by two active cobblers who were so useful to their junto. Yet the bishops of that day were not of dissolute manners; and the accusations are such, that it only proves their willingness to raise charges against them. Of one bishop they tell us, that after declaring he was poor, and what expenses he had been at, as Paul’s church could bear witness, shortly after hanged four of his servants for having robbed him of a considerable sum. Of another, who cut down all the woods at Hampstead, till the towns-women “fell a swaddling of his men,” and so saved Hampstead by their resolution. But when Martin would give a proof that the Bishop of London was one of the bishops of the devil, in his “Pistle to the terrible priests,” he tells this story:—“When the bishop throws his bowl (as he useth it commonly upon the Sabbath-day), he runnes after it; and if it be too hard, he cries Rub! rub! rub! the diuel goe with thee! and he goeth himself with it; so that by these words he names himself the Bishop of the Divel, and by his tirannical practice prooveth himselfe to be.” He tells, too, of a parson well known, who, being in the pulpit, and “hearing his dog cry, he out with this text: ‘Why, how now, hoe! can you not let my dog alone there? Come, Springe! come, Springe!’ and whistled the dog to the pulpit.” One of their chief objects of attack was Cooper, Bishop of Lincoln, a laborious student, but married to a dissolute woman, whom the University of Oxford offered to separate from him: but he said he knew his infirmity, and could not live without his wife, and was tender on the point of divorce. He had a greater misfortune than even this loose woman about him—his name could be punned on; and this bishop may be placed among that unlucky class of authors who have fallen victims to their names. Shenstone meant more than he expressed, when he thanked God that he could not be punned on. Mar-Prelate, besides many cruel hits at Bishop Cooper’s wife, was now always “making the Cooper’s hoops to flye off, and the bishop’s tubs to leake out.” In “The Protestatyon of Martin Marprelat,” where he tells of two bishops, “who so contended in throwing down elmes, as if the wager had bene whether of them should most have impoverished their bishopricks. Yet I blame not Mar-Elme so much as Cooper for this fact, because it is no less given him by his name to spoil elmes, than it is allowed him by the secret judgment of God to mar the Church. A man of Cooper’s age and occupation, so wel seene in that trade, might easily knowe that tubs made of green timber must needs leak out; and yet I do not so greatly marvel; for he that makes no conscience to be a deceiver in the building of the churche, will not stick for his game to be a deceitfull workeman in making of tubbs.”—p. 19. The author of the books against Bishop Cooper is said to have been Job Throckmorton, a learned man, affecting raillery and humour to court the mob.

Such was the strain of ribaldry and malice which Martin Mar-Prelate indulged, and by which he obtained full possession of the minds of the people for a considerable time. His libels were translated, and have been often quoted by the Roman Catholics abroad and at home for their particular purposes, just as the revolutionary publications in this country have been concluded abroad to be the general sentiments of the people of England; and thus our factions always will serve the interests of our enemies. Martin seems to have written little verse; but there is one epigram worth preserving for its bitterness.

Martin Senior, in his “Reproofe of Martin Junior,” complains that “his younger brother has not taken a little paines in ryming with Mar-Martin (one of their poetical antagonists), that the Cater-Caps may know how the meanest of my father’s sonnes is able to answeare them both at blunt and sharpe.” He then gives his younger brother a specimen of what he is hereafter to do. He attributes the satire of Mar-Martin to Dr. Bridges, Dean of Sarum, and John Whitgift, Archbishop of Canterbury.

“The first Rising, Generation, and Original of Mar-Martin.

“From Sarum came a goos’s egg,
With specks and spots bepatched;
A priest of Lambeth coucht thereon,
Thus was Mar-Martin hatched.

Whence hath Mar-Martin all his wit,
But from that egge of Sarum?
The rest comes all from great Sir John,
Who rings us all this ’larum.

What can the cockatrice hatch up
But serpents like himselfe?
What sees the ape within the glasse
But a deformed elfe?

Then must Mar-Martin have some smell
Of forge, or else of fire:
A sotte in wit, a beaste in minde,
For so was damme and sire.”

[416]

It would, however, appear that these revolutionary publications reached the universities, and probably fermented “the green heads” of our students, as the following grave admonition directed to them evidently proves:—

“Anti-Martinus sive monitio cujusdam Londinensis ad adolescentes vtrimque academiæ contra personatum quendam rabulam qui se Anglicè Martin Marprelat, &c. Londini, 1589, 4^o.”

A popular favourite as he was, yet even Martin, in propria persona, acknowledges that his manner was not approved of by either party. His “Theses Martinianæ” opens thus: “I see my doings and my course misliked of many, both the good and the bad; though also I have favourers of both sortes. The bishops and their traine, though they stumble at the cause, yet especially mislike my maner of writing. Those whom foolishly men call Puritanes, like of the matter I have handled, but the forme they cannot brooke. So that herein I have them both for mine adversaries. But now what if I should take the course in certain theses or conclusions, without inveighing against either person or cause.” This was probably written after Martin had swallowed some of his own sauce, or taken his “Pap (offered to him) with a Hatchet,” as one of the most celebrated government pamphlets is entitled. But these “Theses Martinianæ,” without either scurrility or invective are the dullest things imaginable; abstract propositions were not palatable to the multitude; and then it was, after the trial had been made, that Martin Junior and Senior attempted to revive the spirit of the old gentleman; but if sedition has its progress, it has also its decline; and if it could not strike its blow when strongest, it only puled and made grimaces, prognostics of weakness and dissolution. This is admirably touched in “Pappe with an Hatchet.” “Now Old Martin appeared, with a wit worn into the socket, twingling and pinking like the snuffe of a candle; quantum mutatus ab illo, how unlike the knave he was before, not for malice, but for sharpnesse! The hogshead was even come to the hauncing, and nothing could be drawne from him but dregs; yet the emptie caske sounds lowder than when it was full, and protests more in his waining than he could performe in his waxing. I drew neere the sillie soul, whom I found quivering in two sheets of protestation paper (alluding to the work mentioned here in the following note). O how meager and leane he looked, so crest falne that his combe hung downe to his bill; and had I not been sure it was the picture of Envie, I should have sworn it had been the image of Death: so like the verie anatomie of Mischief, that one might see through all the ribbes of his conscience.”

In another rare pamphlet from the same school, “Pasquill of England to Martin Junior, in a countercuffe given to Martin Junior,” he humorously threatens to write “The Owle’s Almanack, wherein your night labours be set down;” and “some fruitful volumes of ‘The Lives of the Saints,’ which, maugre your father’s five hundred sons, shall be printed,” with “hays, jiggs, and roundelays, and madrigals, serving for epitaphs for his father’s hearse.”

[417]

Some of these works still bear evident marks that the “pursuivants” were hunting the printers. “The Protestatyon of Martin Mar-Prelate, wherein, notwithstanding the surprising of the printer, he maketh it knowne vnto the world that he feareth neither proud priest, tirannous prelate, nor godlesse cater-cap; but defieth all the race of them,” including “a challenge” to meet them personally; was probably one of their latest efforts. The printing and the orthography show all the imperfections of that haste in which they were forced to print this work. As they lost their strength, they were getting more venomous. Among the little Martins disturbed in the hour of parturition, but already christened, there were: “Episto Mastix;” “The Lives and Doings of English Popes;” “Itinerarium, or Visitations;” “Lambethisms.” The “Itinerary” was a survey of every clergyman of England! and served as a model to a similar work, which appeared during the time of the Commonwealth. The “Lambethisms” were secrets divulged by Martin, who, it seems, had got into the palace itself! Their productions were, probably, often got up in haste, in utter scorn of the Horatian precept. [These pamphlets were printed with difficulty and danger, in secrecy and fear, for they were rigidly denounced by the government of Elizabeth. Sir George Paul, in his “Life of Archbishop Whitgift,” informs us that they were printed with a kind of wandering press, which was first set up at Moulsey, near Kingston-on-Thames, and from thence conveyed to Fauseley in Northamptonshire, and from thence to Norton, afterwards to Coventry, from thence to Welstone in Warwickshire, from which place the letters were sent to another press in or near Manchester; where by the means of Henry, Earl of Derby, the press was discovered in printing “More Work for a Cooper;” an answer to Bishop Cooper’s attack on the party, and a work so rare Mr. Maskell says, “I believe no copy of it, in any state, remains.”]

As a great curiosity, I preserve a fragment in the Scottish dialect, which well describes them and their views. The title is wanting in the only copy I have seen; but its extreme rarity is not its only value: there is something venerable in the criticism, and poignant in the political sarcasm.

“Weil lettred clarkis endite their warkes, quoth Horace, slow and geasoun,
Bot thou can wise forth buike by buike, at every spurt and seasoun;
For men of litrature t’endite so fast, them doth not fitte,
Enanter in them, as in thee, their pen outrun thair witte.
The shaftis of foolis are soone shot out, but fro the merke they stray;
So art thou glibbe to guibe and taunte, but rouest all the way,
Quhen thou hast parbrackt out thy gorge, and shot out all thy arrowes,
See that thou hold thy clacke, and hang thy quiver on the gallows.
Els Clarkis will soon all be Sir Johns, the priestis craft will empaire,
And Dickin, Jackin, Tom, and Hob, mon sit in Rabbies chaire.
Let Georg and Nichlas, cheek by jol, bothe still on cock-horse yode,
That dignitie of Pristis with thee may hau a long abode.
Els Litrature mon spredde her wings, and piercing welkin bright,
To Heaven, from whence she did first wend, retire and take her flight.”

[418]

“Pasquill of England to Martin Junior, in a countercuffe given to Martin Junior.”

[419]

“Most of the books under Martin’s name were composed by John Penry, John Udall, John Field, and Job Throckmorton, who all concurred in making Martin. See ‘Answer to Throgmorton’s Letter by Sutcliffe,’ p. 70; ‘More Work for a Cooper;’ and ‘Hay any Work for a Cooper;’ and ‘Some layd open in his Colours;’ were composed by Job Throckmorton.”—MS. Note by Thomas Baker. Udall, indeed, denied having any concern in these invectives, and professed to disapprove of them. We see Cartwright, however, of quite a different opinion. In Udall’s library some MS. notes had been seen by a person who considered them as materials for a Martin Mar-Prelate work in embryo, which Udall confessed were written “by a friend.” All the writers were silenced ministers; though it is not improbable that their scandalous tales, and much of the ribaldry, might have been contributed by their lowest retainers, those purveyors for the mob, of what they lately chose to call their “Pig’s-meat.”

[420]

The execution of Hacket, and condemnation of his party, who had declared him “King of Europe,” so that England was only a province to him, is noted in our “General History of England.” This was the first serious blow which alarmed the Puritanic party. Doubtless, this man was a mere maniac, and his ferocious passions broke out early in life; but, in that day, they permitted no lunacy as a plea for any politician. Cartwright held an intercourse with that party, as he had with Barrow, said to have been a debauched youth; yet we had a sect of Barrowists; and Robert Brown, the founder of another sect, named after him Brownists; which became very formidable. This Brown, for his relationship, was patronised by Cecil, Earl of Burleigh. He was a man of violent passions. He had a wife, with whom he never lived; and a church, wherein he never preached, observes the characterising Fuller, who knew him when Fuller was young. In one of the pamphlets of the time I have seen, it is mentioned that being reproached with beating his wife, he replied, “I do not beat Mrs. Brown as my wife, but as a curst cross old woman.” He closed his life in prison; not for his opinions, but for his brutality to a constable. The old women and the cobblers connected with these Martin Mar-Prelates are noticed in the burlesque epitaphs on Martin’s death, supposed to be made by his favourites; a humorous appendix to “Martin’s Monthminde.” Few political conspiracies, whenever religion forms a pretext, is without a woman. One Dame Lawson is distinguished, changing her “silke for sacke;” and other names might be added of ladies. Two cobblers are particularly noticed as some of the industrious purveyors of sedition through the kingdom—Cliffe, the cobbler, and one Newman. Cliffe’s epitaph on his friend Martin is not without humour:—

“Adieu, both naule and bristles now for euer;
The shoe and soale—ah, woe is me!—must sever.
Bewaile, mine awle, thy sharpest point is gone;
My bristle’s broke, and I am left alone.
Farewell old shoes, thumb-stall, and clouting-leather;
Martin is gone, and we undone together.”

Nor is Newman, the other cobbler, less mortified and pathetic. “The London Corresponding Society” had a more ancient origin than that sodality was aware.

“My hope once was, my old shoes should be sticht;
My thumbs ygilt, that were before bepicht:
Now Martin’s gone, and laid full deep in ground,
My gentry’s lost, before it could be found.”

Among the Martin Mar-Prelate books was one entitled “The Cobbler’s Book.” This I have not seen; but these cobblers probably picked up intelligence for these scandalous chronicles. The writers, too, condescended to intersperse the cant dialect of the populace, with which the cobblers doubtless assisted these learned men, when busied in their buffoonery. Hence all their vulgar gibberish; the Shibboleth of the numerous class of their admirers—such as, “O, whose tat?” John Kankerbury, for Canterbury; Paltri-politans, for Metropolitans; See Villains, for Civilians; and Doctor of Devility, for Divinity! and more of this stamp. Who could imagine that the writers of these scurrilities were learned men, and that their patrons were men of rank! We find two knights heavily fined for secreting these books in their cellars. But it is the nature of rebellion to unite the two extremes; for want stirs the populace to rise, and excess the higher orders. This idea is admirably expressed in one of our elder poets:—

“Want made them murmur; for the people, who
To get their bread, do wrestle with their fate,
Or those, who in superfluous riot flow,
Soonest rebel. Convulsions in a State,
Like those which natural bodies do oppress,
Rise from repletion, or from emptiness.”

Aleyne’s Henry VII.

[421]

The writer of Algernon Sidney’s Memoirs could not have known this fact, or he would not have said that “this was the first indictment of high treason upon which any man lost his life for writing anything without publishing it.”—Edit. 1751, p. 21. It is curious to have Sidney’s own opinion on this point. We discover this on his trial. He gives it, assuming one of his own noble principles, not likely to have been allowed by the wretched Tories of that day. Addressing the villanous Jeffries, the Lord Chief Justice:—“My Lord, I think it is a right of mankind, and ’tis exercised by all studious men, to write, in their own closets, what they please, for their own memory; and no man can be answerable for it, unless they publish it.” Jeffries replied:—“Pray don’t go away with that right of mankind, that it is lawful for me to write what I will in my own closet, so I do not publish it. We must not endure men to talk thus, that by the right of nature every man may contrive mischief in his own chamber, and is not to be punished till he thinks fit to be called to it.” Jeffries was a profligate sophist, but his talents were as great as his vices.

[422]

Penry’s unfinished petition, which he designed to have presented to the Queen before the trial, is a bold and energetic composition; his protestation, after the trial, a pathetic prayer! Neale has preserved both in his “History of the Puritans.” With what simplicity of eloquence he remonstrates on the temporising government of Elizabeth. He thus addresses the Queen, under the title of Madam!—“Your standing is, and has been, by the Gospel: it is little beholden to you for anything that appears. The practice of your government shows that if you could have ruled without the Gospel, it would have been doubtful whether the Gospel should be established or not; for now that you are established in your throne by the Gospel, you suffer it to reach no farther than the end of your sceptre limiteth unto it.” Of a milder, and more melancholy cast, is the touching language, when the hope of life, but not the firmness of his cause had deserted him. “I look not to live this week to an end. I never took myself for a rebuker, much less for a reformer of states and kingdoms. I never did anything in this cause for contention, vainglory, or to draw disciples after me. Great things, in this life, I never sought for: sufficiency I had, with great outward trouble; but most content I was with my lot, and content with my untimely death, though I leave behind me a friendless widow and four infants.”—Such is often the pathetic cry of the simple-hearted, who fall the victims to the political views of more designing heads.

We could hardly have imagined that this eloquent and serious young man was that Martin Mar-Prelate who so long played the political ape before the populace, with all the mummery of their low buffoonery, and even mimicking their own idioms. The populace, however, seems to have been divided in their opinions respecting the sanity of his politics, as appears by some ludicrous lines, made on Penry’s death, by a northern rhymer.

“The Welshman is hanged,
Who at our kirke flanged,
And at the state banged,
And brened are his buks.
And though he be hanged,
Yet he is not wranged;
The deil has him fanged
In his kruked kluks.”

Weever’s Funerall Monuments, p. 56. Edit. 1631.

[423]

Observe what different conclusions are drawn from the same fact by opposite writers. Heylin, arguing that Udall had been justly condemned, adds, “the man remained a living monument of the archbishop’s extraordinary goodness to him in the preserving of that life which by the law he had forfeited.” But Neale, on the same point, considers him as one who “died for his conscience, and stands upon record as a monument of the oppression and cruelty of the government.” All this opposition of feeling is of the nature of party-spirit; but what is more curious in the history of human nature, is the change of opinion in the same family in the course of the same generation. The son of this Udall was as great a zealot for Conformity, and as great a sufferer for it from his father’s party, when they possessed political power. This son would not submit to their oaths and covenants, but, with his bedridden wife, was left unmercifully to perish in the open streets,—Walker’s Sufferings of the Clergy, part ii. p. 178.

[424]

In Herbert’s “Typographical Antiquities,” p. 1689, this tract is intituled, “A Whip for an Ape, or Martin Displaied.” I have also seen the poem with this title. Readers were then often invited to an old book by a change of title: in some cases, I think the same work has been published with several titles.

[425]

Martin was a name for a bird, and a cant term for an Ass; and, as it appears here, an Ape. Our Martins, considered as birds, were often reminded that their proper food was “hempen seed,” which at length choked them. That it meant an Ass, appears from “Pappe with a Hatchet.” “Be thou Martin the bird or Martin the beast, a bird with the longest bill, or a beast with the longest ears, there’s a net spread for your neck.”—Sign. B. 5. There is an old French proverb, quoted by Cotgrave, voce Martin:—“Plus d’un ASNE à la foire, a nom Martin.”

[426]

Martin was a protégé of this Dame Lawson. There appear to have been few political conspiracies without a woman, whenever religion forms a part. This dame is thus noticed in the mock epitaphs on Martin’s funeral—

“Away with silk, for I will mourn in sacke;
Martin is dead, our new sect goes to wrack.
Come, gossips mine, put finger in the eie,
He made us laugh, but now must make us crie.”

Dame Lawson.

“Sir Jeffrie’s Ale-tub” alludes to two knights who were ruinously fined, and hardly escaped with life, for their patronage of Martin.

[427]

Chwere, i.e. “that I were,” alluding to their frequently adopting the corrupt phraseology of the populace, to catch the ears of the mob.

[428]

It is a singular coincidence that Arnauld, in his caustic retort on the Jesuits, said—“I do not fear your pen, but your penknife.” The play on the word, tells even better in our language than in the original—plume and canife.

[429]

I know of only one Laneham, who wrote “A Narrative of the Queen’s Visit at Kenilworth Castle,” 1575. He was probably a redoubtable satirist. I do not find his name in Ritson’s “Bibliographia Poetica.”

[430]

Alluding to the title of one of their most virulent libels against Bishop Cooper [“Hay any worke for Cooper,” which was a pun on the Bishop’s name, conveyed in the street cry of an itinerant trader, and was followed by another entitled] “More work for a Cooper.” Cooper, in his “Admonition to the People of England,” had justly observed that this Mar-Prelate ought to have many other names. See note, p. 510.

I will close this note with an extract from “Pappe with a Hatchet,” which illustrates the ill effects of all sudden reforms, by an apposite and original image.

“There was an aged man that lived in a well-ordered Commonwealth by the space of threescore years, and finding, at the length, that by the heate of some men’s braines, and the warmness of other men’s blood, that newe alterations were in hammering, and that it grewe to such an height, that all the desperate and discontented persons were readie to runne their heads against their head; comming into the midst of these mutiners, cried, as loude as his yeeres would allow:—‘Springalls, and vnripened youthes, whose wisedomes are yet in the blade, when this snowe shall be melted (laying his hand on his siluer haires) then shall you find store of dust, and rather wish for the continuance of a long frost, than the incomming of an vntimely thaw.’”—Sig. D. 3. verso.

[431]

Lansdowne MSS. 1042-1316.

[432]

Gibbon’s Miscellaneous Works, vol. i. 243.

[433]

Walpole’s Memoirs, vol. iii. 40.

[434]

The Life of Wood, by Gutch, vol. i.

[435]

Nichols’s Literary Anecdotes.

[436]

“Curiosities of Literature,” vol. iii. p. 303-4.

Addison, quarrels with Pope, 313
disapproves of his satire on Dennis, 315
aids a rival version of Homer, 316
satirized by Pope as Atticus, n. 317
his nervous fear of criticism, 317
his last interview with Pope, 318-320
quarrels with Steele on political grounds, 433
his disbelief in Rowe, 535

Akenside exhibited as a ludicrous personage by Smollett; his real character cast in the mould of antiquity, n. 114
severely criticised by Warburton, 264

Aldrich, Dean, secretly fosters the attacks on Bentley, 378, n. 383

Amhurst, a political author, his history, 11

Arnall, a great political scribe, 10

Ascham, Roger, the founder of English Prose, 19

Athenæ Britannicæ, one of the rarest works, account of, n. 31

Athenæ Oxonienses, an apology for, 89

Atterbury, Bp., on terrors of conscience, 451
severe remarks on Pope, 535

Aubrey, gives the real reason for the fears of Hobbes the philosopher, n. 452
minutely narrates the mode in which he composed his “Leviathan,” n. 459

Authors by profession, a phrase of modern origin, 8
original letter to a Minister from one, ib.
Fielding’s apology for them, 11

Authors, Horace Walpole affects to despise them, 43
their maladies, 78
case of, stated, 15
incompetent remuneration of, 21
who wrote above the genius of their own age, 84
ill reception from the public of their valuable works, 85
who have sacrificed their fortunes to their studies, ib.
who commenced their literary life with ardour, and found their genius obstructed by numerous causes, 87
who have never published their works, 90
provincial, liable to bad passions, 128

Ayre’s Memoirs of Pope, n. 318, 319

Baker and his microscopical discoveries, n. 366-367
Rev. Thomas, his collection, 93

Balguy, Dr. Thos., n. 273

Barnes, Joshua, wrote a poem to prove Solomon was the author of the “Iliad,” and why, 97
his pathetic letter descriptive of his literary calamities, ib.
hints at the vast number of his unpublished works, 98

Bayle, his use of paradox, 247
his theory of apparitions, n. 451

Bayne, Alexander, died of intense application, 72

Bentley, Dr., his controversy with Boyle, 378, 390
his haughtiness, n. 379
his dissertation on “Phalaris”, 380 542
satirized by Dr. Middleton, 531

Biographia Britannica in danger of being left unfinished, 84

Birkenhead, Sir J., a newspaper-writer, 416

Blackstone investigates the quarrel between Pope and Addison, 314

Bohun, his unjustifiable attack on William of Wykeham, 537

Bolingbroke, his share in Pope’s “Essay on Man,”, 256
quarrel with Pope, 321-328
his “Patriot King” secretly printed by Pope, 321
his hatred of Warburton, 323-328

Booksellers in the reign of Elizabeth, 23
why their interest is rarely combined with the advancement of literature, n. 87
why they prefer the crude to the matured fruit, 210

Boyle, his controversy with Bentley, 378-390
his edition of “Phalaris”, 378-381
his literary aids, n. 382

Bramhall opposes Hobbes’ philosophy, 449

Brereton, Sir W., characterised by Clarendon and Cleveland, n. 418

Brooke attacks errors in Camden’s “Britannia”, 492
his work unfairly suppressed, 495
his severe remarks on Camden, ib.
humorous rhymes on a horse, 497
his self-defence, 498
his real motives vindicated, 499
biographical note, ib.

Brown, Dr., his panegyric on Warburton, and his sorrow for writing it, n. 235
account of, n. 273

Brown, Robt., founder of a sect of Puritans, n. 518

Burnet, Bp., his character attacked, 426

Burton, his laborious work, 83
his constitutional melancholy, n. 182

Cæsalpinus, originally the propounder of a theory of the circulation of the blood, 335

Calvin’s opinions on government, n. 447

Calvin, his narrowed sectarianism, 502

Camden recommends Jonson to Raleigh, n. 476
his industry, and his great work the “Britannia”, 491
Brooke points out its errors, 492
his works suppressed through Camden’s interest, 495
his exasperation, ib.
his powerful picture of calumny, 496
his quiet adoption of Brooke’s corrections, 499

Campanella and his political works, 351-352

Carey, Henry, inventor of “Namby Pamby”, 101
“Carey’s Wish,” a patriotic song on the Freedom of Election, by the author of “God save the King,” n. 102
“Sally in our Alley,” a popular ballad, its curious origin, 103
author of several of our national poems, 104
his miserable end, ib.

Carte, Thomas, his valuable history, 110-111
the first proposer of public libraries, 111
its fate from his indiscretion, 112

Cartwright, Thomas, chief of the Puritan faction, 505
progress of his opinions, 506
his great popularity, ib.
forsakes his party, 508-509

Caryll’s voluminous commentary on Job, n. 392

Castell, Dr., ruined in health and fortune by the publication of his Polyglott, n. 189
543
Charles the Second’s jest at the Royal Society, n. 311
an admirer of Hobbes’s ability in disputation, n. 448

Chatterton, his balance-sheet on the Lord Mayor’s death, n. 25

Churchill’s satire on Warburton, 240, 242, 243, 246

Churchyard, Thomas, an unhappy poet, describes his patrons, 26
his pathetic description of his wretched old age, ib.

Cibber, his easy good-nature, 306
his reasonable defence of himself, n. 305-307
his “Essay on Cicero,” n. 306
apology for his Life, 307
attacks on himself, 305, 308
unjustly degraded, 312

Clarendon, Lord, his prejudice against May, 434
his opinion of Hobbes’s philosophy, n. 438

Clergy fight in the great civil wars, n. 422

Cleland, biographical note on, 282

Cleveland’s character of a journal-maker, 416

Cole, Rev. William, his character, 90
his melancholy confession on his lengthened literary labours, 92
his anxiety how best to dispose of his collections, 93

Collins, Arthur, historian of the Peerage, 85

Collins, Wm., the poet, quits the university suddenly with romantic hopes of becoming an author, 172
publishes his “Odes” without success, and afterwards indignantly burns the edition, 180
defended from some reproaches of irresolution, made by Johnson, 181
anecdote of his life in the metropolis, 182
anecdotes of, when under the influence of a disordered intellect, 183
his monument described, 184
two sonnets descriptive of Collins, 185
his poetical character defended, 186

Contemporaries, how they seek to level genius, 206

Cooper, author of “Life of Socrates,” attacked by Warburton, n. 272

Cooper, Bishop, attacked by Mar-Prelates, n. 513, 514

Copyrights, Lintot’s payments for, 328-333

Corbet, his humorous introduction to Ben Jonson, n. 475

Cotgrave, Randle, falls blind in the labour of his “Dictionary”, 73

Court of Charles II. satirised by Marvell, 393
its characteristics, 414

Cowel incurs by his curious work “The Interpreter” the censure of the King and the Commons on opposite principles, 193

Cowley, original letter from, n. 36
his essays form a part of his confessions, 37
describes his feelings at court, ib.
his melancholy attributed to his “Ode to Brutus,” by which he incurred the disgrace of the court, 40
his remarkable lamentation for having written poetry, 41
his Epitaph composed by himself, 42

Critic, poetical, without any taste, how he contrived to criticise poems, 143

Criticisms, illiberal, some of its consequences stated, 140

Cross attacks the Royal Society, 344-346

Crousaz dissects Pope’s “Essay on Man”, 256

Curll, and his publication of Pope’s letters, 292

D’Avenant, his poem of “Gondibert”, 404
history of its composition, n. 404 544
its merits and defects, 405-408
a club of wits satirize it, 409
and its author, 412
and occasion it to be left unfinished, 413

Davies, Myles, a mendicant author, his life, 30

Decker quarrels with Ben Jonson for his arrogance, 475-487
ridicules him in his “Satiromastix”, 482-487

Dedication, composed by a patron to himself, n. 30

Dedications, used in an extraordinary way, n. 30

De Lolme’s work on the Constitution could find no patronage, and the author’s bitter complaints, 200
relieved by the Literary Fund, n. 201

Denham falsely satirized, n. 429

Dennis, John, distinguished as “The Critic”, 52
his “Original Letters” and “Remarks on Prince Arthur,” his best productions, 52
anecdotes of his brutal vehemence, 53
curious caricature of his personal manners, 54
a specimen of his anti-poetical notions, n. 55
his frenzy on the Italian Opera, 57
acknowledges that he is considered as ill-natured, and complains of public neglect, ib.
more the victim of his criticisms than the genius he insulted, 58
his insatiable vengeance toward Pope, 286
his attack on Addison’s “Cato”, 315
his account with the bookseller Lintot, 331

Drake, Dr. John, a political writer, his miserable life, 11

Drayton’s national work, “The Polyolbion,” ill received, and the author greatly dejected, 210
angry preface addressed “To any that will read it”, 211

Drummond of Hawthornden, his love of poetry, 213
conversation with Jonson, 475

Dryden, in his old age, complains of dying of over-study, 204
his dramatic life a series of vexations, 205
regrets he was born among Englishmen, 206
remarkable confession of the poet, ib.
vilified by party spirit, 427
compares his quarrel with Settle to that of Jonson with Decker, n. 477

Dunciad, Pope’s collections for, 278
early editions of, n. 283
rage of persons satirized in, n. 284
satire on naturalists in, 342

Dunton the bookseller satirized by Swift, 430

Dyson defends Akenside, 265

Eachard’s satire on Hobbes and his sect, n. 439

Edwards, Thomas, author of “Canons of Criticism”, 261
biographical notice, n. 532
anecdotes of his critical sagacity, n. 262-263
origin of his “Canons of Criticism”, 532

Evans, Arise, a fanatical Welsh prophet, patronised by Warburton, n. 240

Evelyn defends the Royal Society, 340

Exercise, to be substituted for medicine by literary men, and which is the best, n. 68

False rumours in the great Civil War, 421

Farneworth’s Translation of Machiavel, 84

Fell, Dr., an opponent of the Royal Society, 350
ungenerous to Hobbes, 450
rhymes descriptive of his unpopularity, 451

Fielding attacks Sir John Hill, 368-369

Filmer, Sir R., writes to establish despotism, n. 449

Folkes, Martin, President of the Royal Society, n. 364 545
attacked by Sir John Hill, n. 366

Fuller’s “Medicina Gymnastica,” n. 71

Garth, Dr., and his Dispensary, 429

Gay acts as mediator with Pope and Addison, 320
his account with Lintot the bookseller, 330

Gibbon, Ed., price of his copyright, 87

Gildon supposed by Pope to have been employed by Addison to write against him, 316

Glanvill a defender of the Royal Society, 244

Glover, Leonidas, declines to write a Life of Marlborough, n. 325

Goldsmith’s remonstrance on illiberal criticism, from which the law gives no protection, 142

Granger’s complaint of not receiving half the pay of a scavenger, 85

Greene, Robert, a town-wit, his poverty and death, 23
awful satirical address to, n. 119

Grey, Dr. Zachary, the father of our commentators, ridiculed and abused, 104
the probable origin of his new mode of illustrating Hudibras, ib.
Warburton’s double-dealing with him, n. 259

Guthrie offers his services as a hackney-writer to a minister, 8

Hackett executed for attacks on the church, n. 518

Hanmer, Sir T., his edition of Shakespeare, n. 242, n. 258

Hardouin supposes the classics composed by monks in the Middle Ages, 249-252

Harrington and his “Oceana”, 449

Harvey, Dr., and his discovery of the circulation of the blood, 335

Harvey, Gabriel, his character, 117
his device against his antagonist, n. 119
his portrait, 121
severely satirised by Nash for his prolix periods, 122
cannot be endured to be considered as the son of a rope-maker, 123
his pretended sordid manners, 124
his affectation of Italian fashions, ib.
his friends ridiculed, 125
his pedantic taste for hexameter verses, &c., 127
his curious remonstrance with Nash, 126
his lamentation on invectives, 129
his books, and Nash’s, suppressed by order of the Archbishop of Canterbury for their mutual virulence, 120

Hawkesworth, Dr., letter on presenting his MS. of Cook’s Voyages for examination, the publication of which overwhelmed his fortitude and intellect, 199

Henley, Orator, this buffoon an indefatigable student, an elegant poet, and wit, 59
his poem of “Esther, Queen of Persia”, 60
sudden change in his character, 62
seems to have attempted to pull down the Church and the University, 63
some idea of his lectures, n. 64
his projects to supply a Universal School, ib.
specimens of his buffoonery on solemn occasions, 66
his “Defence of the Oratory,” n. ib.
once found his match in two disputants, 67
specimen of the diary of his “Oratory Transactions”, ib.
close of his career, n. 68
his character, 69
parallel between him and Sir John Hill, 363

Henry, Dr., the Historian, the sale of his work, on which he had expended most of his fortune and his life, stopped, and himself ridiculed, by a conspiracy raised against him, 136
546
Henry, Dr., caustic review of his history, n. ib.

Heron, Robert, draws up the distresses of a man of letters living by literary industry, in the confinement of a sponging-house, from his original letter, 81

Herrick, Robert, petulant invective against Devonshire, 215

Hill, Aaron, and his quarrel with Pope, 290

Hill, Sir John, 362-396
parallel between him and Orator Henley, 383
his great work on Botany, n. ib.
his personalities, 364
attacks the Royal Society, 365
his Inspector, 367
war of wit with Fielding, 368
and Smart, 370-372
attacks Woodward, who replies with some ridiculous anecdotes, n. 372
proposes himself as keeper of the Sloane collection, 374
manufactures Travels, n. 374
his death, 375

Hobbes contemns the Royal Society, 342
praises D’Avenant’s poem of “Gondibert”, 408-412
his quarrels, 436
peculiarities of his character, 437
his sect, 438
his real opinions, 439
his “Leviathan”, 440-448
feared and suspected by both parties, n. 442
no atheist, n. 445
his continual disputations, 448-450
his terror of death, 451
the real solution of his fears, 452
his disciples in literature, n. 455
his pride, 456
his mode of composition, n. 459
his contented poverty, and consistent conduct, ib.
characteristics of his writings, 461
his passion for mathematics, 464
leads to a quarrel with Dr. Wallis, 465-473

Home and his tragedy of “Douglas”, 79

Howel, nearly lost his life by excessive study, 74

Hume, his literary life mortified with disappointments, 202
wished to change his name and his country, 204
his letter to Des Maiseaux requesting his opinion of his philosophy, 202

Hurd, Bishop, biographical note on, 253
imitates Warburton’s style, n. 269

Icon Libellorum. See Athenæ Britannicæ.

Johnson, Dr., his aversion to Milton’s politics, 425

Jones, Inigo, ridiculed by Ben Jonson, n. 477

Jonson, Ben, his quarrel with Decker, 475
his conversation with Drummond of Hawthornden, 475, 535
his general conviviality, n. 475
his play “The Poetaster”, 476-481
his powerful satire on Decker, 482-487
his bitter allusions to his enemies, 487-488

Kennet’s, Bishop, Register and Chronicle, 87

Kenrick, Dr., a caustic critic, treats our great authors with the most amusing arrogance, 141
an epigram on himself, by himself, n. 142

King, Dr., his payments as an author, 332
biographical notice of, n. 358
ridicules the Transactions of the Royal Society, 358, 361 547
aids in attacking Bentley, 384
his satirical Index to Bentley’s Characteristics, n. 386

Lawson, Dame, a noted female Puritan, n. 519, 525

Lee, Nat., his love of praise, 213

Leland, the antiquary, an accomplished scholar, 172
his “Strena,” or New Year’s Gift to Henry VIII.; an account of his studies, and his magnificent projects, 174
doubts that his labours will reach posterity, 175
he values “the furniture” of his mind, ib.
his bust striking from its physiognomy, 177
the ruins of his mind discovered in his library, ib.
the inscription on his tomb probably had been composed by himself, before his insanity, 178
thoughts on Eloquence, 255

Libels abounded in the age of Elizabeth, 503

Lightfoot could not procure the printing of his work, 192

Lintot’s account-book, 328-333

Literary Property, difficulties to ascertain its nature, 16
history of, ib.
value of, n. ib.

Literary quarrels from personal motives, 529-539

Lloyd’s, Bishop, collections and their fate, 93

Logan, the history of his literary disappointments, 78
dies broken-hearted, ib.
his poetic genius, 80

Lowth, Bishop, attack on pretensions of Warburton, n. 235-246, n. 252-268

M’Donald, or Matthew Bramble, his tragical reply to an inquiry after his tragedy, 77

Macdiarmid, John, died of over-study and exhaustion, 74

Mallet, his knowledge of Pope and Warburton, n. 242
his attacks on Warburton, n. 271
employed by Bolingbroke to libel Pope, ib.
anecdote of his egotism, 324
employed by the Duchess of Marlborough on a Life of the Duke, n. 325

M’Mahon and his anti-social philosophy, n. 456

Marston, John, satirised by Ben Jonson, n. 477

Martin Mar-Prelate’s libels issuing from a moveable press carried about the country, 116
a party-name for satirists of the Church, 510
their popularity, 513-516
their secret printings, 515
opposed by other wits, 517
authors of these satires, n. 505, n. 518, 520, 523
curious rhymes against, 524-528

Marvell attacks the intolerant tenets of Bishop Parker, 392
severity of his satire on the Court of Charles II., n. 393
comments on the early career of Parker, 394-395
origin of quarrel, 396
his noble defence of Milton, 399
his rencontre with Parker in the streets, 401
his political honesty, 402
his generous criticism on Butler, 434

Maskell, Rev. W., history of the Mar-Prelate controversy, n. 503
date of its origin, and opinion on its authors, n. 505

Melancholy persons frequently the most delightful companions, n. 182

Menassah, Ben Israel, his treatise “De Resurrectione Mortuorum,” n. 252

Mickle’s pathetic address to his muse, 207
his disappointments after the publication of the “Lusiad” induce him to wish to abandon his native country, 208

Middleton, Dr. Conyers, quarrel with Bentley, 530
and with Warburton, 532
548
Milton’s works the favourite prey of booksellers, 17
vilified by party spirit, 424-425

Mortimer, Thomas, his complaint in old age of the preference given to young adventurers, 75

Motteux, Peter, and his patron, 30

Mughouse, political clubs, n. 32

Nash, Tom, the misery of his literary life, 23
threatens his patrons, 24
silences Mar-Prelate with his own weapons, 116
his character as a Lucianic satirist, 120
his “Have with you to Saffron Walden,” a singular literary invective against Gabriel Harvey, 120

Needham, Marchmont, a newspaper writer in the great Civil War, 420

Newspapers of the great Civil War, 415, 422

Newton, of a fearful temper in criticism, n. 140

Newton’s “Optics” first favourably noticed in France, 84

Ockley, Simon, among the first of our authors who exhibited a great nation in the East in his “History of the Saracens”, 163
his sufferings expressed in a remarkable preface dated from gaol, 187
dines with the Earl of Oxford; an original letter of apology for his uncourtly behaviour, 189
exults in prison for the leisure it affords for study, n. ib.
neglected, but employed by ministers, 196

Oldmixon asserts Lord Clarendon’s “History” to have been interpolated, while himself falsifies Daniel’s “Chronicle,” n. 10

Palermo, Prince of; and his Palace of Monsters, n. 243

Paper-wars of the Civil Wars, 415, 422

Parker, Bishop of Oxford, his early career, 394-395
the intolerance of his style, 397
attacks Milton, 399
and Marvell in the streets, 401
his posthumous portrait of Marvell, 402

Parr, Dr., his talent and his egotism, n. 236
his defence of Warburton, n. 239
in revenge for Bishop Hurd’s criticism, publishes his early works of irony, 531

Patin, Guy, his account of Hobbes, n. 445

Pattison, a young poet, his college career, 98
his despair in an address to Heaven, and a pathetic letter, 101

Penry, one of the writers of Mar-Prelate tracts, n. 505, n. 518
his career, 520
his execution, 521
his petition and protest, n. 521
rhymes on his death, ib.

Phalaris, Epistles of, 378

Phillips asperses Pope, 316

Pierce, Dr. T., his controversies, 537

Poets, mediocre Critics are the real origin of mediocre, 212
Nat. Lee describes their wonderful susceptibility of praise, 213
provincial, their situation at variance with their feelings, 214

Pope, Alex., his opinion of “the Dangerous Fate of Authors”, 214
the Poet Prior, 216

Pope, Alexander, his high estimation of Warburton, 257, 273
Warburton’s edition of his works, 263, 270
his miscellaneous quarrel, 278, 291
collects libels on himself, n. 273
literary stratagems, 280
early neglect of his “Essay on Criticism,” n. 280
the real author of the “Key to the Lock,” n. 280 549
hostilities between him and others, 282
the finest character-painter, n. 283
his personal sufferings on Cibber’s satire, 285
his first introduction to Dennis, n. 286
narrative of the publication of his letter to Curll, 292, 300
his attacks on Cibber, 301, 312
his condemned comedy, n. 301, 307
quarrels with Addison, 313
urges an attack on his Cato, n. 315
believes him to have employed adverse critics, n. 316-317
satirizes Addison as Atticus, n. 317
his last interview with Addison, 318, 320
surreptitiously prints Bolingbroke’s “Patriot King”, 321
his bookselling account with Lintot, 329
his earliest satire, 333-335
his satires and their effects, 535

Prideaux’s “Connection of Old and New Testament”, 84

Prince’s “Worthies of Devon”, ib.

Prior, curious character of, from a Whig satire, 216
felicitated himself that his natural inclination for poetry had been checked, 217
attacked for his political creed, 429

Proclamation issued by James I. against Cowel’s book, “The Interpreter,” a curious document in literary history, 195

Prynne, a voluminous author without judgment, but the character of the man not so ridiculous as the author, 146
his intrepid character, 147
his curious argument against being debarred from pen and ink, n. 148
his interview with Laud in the Tower, n. 149
had a good deal of cunning in his character, n. 150
grieved for the Revolution in which he himself had been so conspicuous a leader, 148
his speeches as voluminous as his writings, n. 151
seldom dined, n. 152
account of his famous “Histriomastix”, ib.
Milton admirably characterises Prynne’s absurd learning, n. ib.
how the “Histriomastix” was at once an elaborate work of many years, and yet a temporary satire—the secret history of the book being as extraordinary as the book itself, 153

Puritans, origin of their name, n. 504

Raleigh, Sir W., an opposer of Puritanism, n. 508

Reformation, the, under Elizabeth, 501

Ridicule described, 114
it creates a fictitious personage, ib.
a test of truth, 264, 267

Ritson, Joseph, the late poetical antiquary, carried criticism to insanity, 51

Ritson, Isaac, a young Scotch writer, perishes by attempting to exist by the efforts of his pen, 75
his extemporary rhapsody descriptive of his melancholy fate, 76

Royal Society, the, 335, 361
encounters much opposition when first established, ib.

Ruffhead’s Life of Pope, 290

Rushworth dies of a broken heart, having neglected his own affairs for his “Historical Collections”, 85

Rymer’s distress in forming his “Historical Collections”, 85

Ryves, Eliza, her extraordinary literary exertions and melancholy end, 107

550
Sale, the learned, often wanted a meal while translating the Koran, n. 189

Savage the Poet employed by Pope to collect materials for notes to the Dunciad, n. 279

Scot, Reginald, persecuted for his work against Witchcraft, 198

Scott, of Amwell, the Quaker and poet, offended at being compared to Capt. Macheath by the affected witticism of a Reviewer, 143
his extraordinary “Letter to the Critical Reviewers,” in which he enumerates his own poetical beauties, ib.

Selden compelled to recant his opinions, and not suffered to reply to his calumniators, 198
refuses James I. to publish his defence of the “Sovereignty of the Seas” till Grotius provoked his reply, ib.
opinions on bishops, n. 502

Settle, Elkanah, the ludicrous close of a scribbler’s life, 146
the hero of Pope’s earliest satire, 333
manages Pope burnings, 334

Shaftesbury, Lord, on the origin of irony, n. 436
his character of Hobbes, n. 437
his conversation with Hobbes in Paris on his work, “The Leviathan,” n. 441

Shuckford, “Sacred and Profane History Connected”, 85

Sloane, Sir Hans, his peculiarities of style, 358-360

Smart and his satire, “The Hilliad”, 371-372

Smollett confesses the incredible labour and chagrin he had endured as an author, 13

Socrates ridiculed by Aristophanes, 266

South’s poignant reflection on the Royal Society, 342

Sprat’s History of the Royal Society, 337-339
his aversion to Milton, 424

Steele, his paradoxical character, 168
satirized by Swift, 429-431
why he wrote a laughable comedy after his “Christian Hero”, 169
his ill choice in a wife of an uncongenial character, 170
specimens of his “Love Despatches,” n. ib.
finely contrasts his own character with that of Addison, n. 172
introduces Pope to Addison, 314
manages a friendly interview between them after a long disseverance, 319
his political creed loses him Addison’s friendship, 433

Steevens, G., satirizes Sir John Hawkins, 535

Stillingfleet, Bishop, his end supposed to have been hastened by Locke’s confutation of his metaphysical notions, n. 140

Stockdale, Perceval, his character an extraordinary instance of the illusions of writers in verse, 218
draws a parallel between Charles XII. and himself, 224

Stowe, the chronicler, petitions to be a licensed beggar, 29

Strutt, the antiquary, a man of genius and imagination, 86
his spirited letters on commencing his career of authorship, 88

Stuart, Dr. Gilbert, his envious character; desirous of destroying the literary works of his countrymen, 131
projects the “Edinburgh Magazine and Review;” its design, ib.
his horrid feelings excited by his disappointments, 132
raises a literary conspiracy against Dr. Henry, 135
dies miserably, 139

Stubbe and his attacks on the Royal Society, 346
his early history, 347
influenced by Dr. Fell in his attacks, n. 350
specimens of them, 356

Systems of Opinions, often fallacies in practice, 461
551
Subscriptions once inundated our literature with worthless works, 29

Temple, Sir W., Essay on Learning, 378

Theobald, his payments from, and literary arrangements with Lintot, 331-332

Tickell’s Homer, 316

Toland, a lover of study, 157
defends himself from the aspersion of atheism or deism, 150
accused of an intention to found a sect, 159
had the art of explaining away his own words, ib.
a great artificer of title-pages, 160
his “Pantheisticon”, 161
projects a new office of a private monitor to the minister, 163
of the books he read and his MSS. n. 166
his panegyrical epitaph composed by himself, 167
Locke’s admirable foresight of his character, 168
the miserable payment for his life of literary labour, 332

Tonson, Jacob, bickerings with Dryden, n. 171
his bookselling career, ib.

Udall, John, a writer in the Mar-Prelate controversy, n. 505, n. 518
his character and career, 521-523

Wagstaffe, Dr., his character of Steele, n. 429-432
his satirical works, n. 431

Wakefield, Gilbert, his works unsuccessful because of his politics, n. 435

Wallis, Dr., his curious narrative of a dialogue between Hobbes and the Countess of Devonshire, n. 455
his quarrel with Hobbes, 465-473
his power of deciphering secret writing, 472
his real opinion of Hobbes, n. 473

Walpole, Horace, his literary character, 43
instances of his pointed vivacity against authors, n. 43
why he attacked the fame of Sydney, and defended Richard III., 45
his literary mortifications, acknowledged by himself from his original letters, 47
how Gray treated him when invited to Strawberry-hill, n. 46
extraordinary letter of, expressing his contempt of his most celebrated contemporaries, 49

Walsingham, Sir Francis, originally favours the Puritans, n. 508

Warburton, dishonest criticism on Gray’s “Hudibras”, 105
and his quarrels, 233-277
his early career, 239
his traffic in dedications, 241
his contemptuous criticism on Pope and Addison, 244
his miscellaneous reading, 245, 246
his love of conjecture, 247
Divine Legation, n. 250, 267
unhappy in his labours, n. 252
his coarseness of invective, n. 224, 268
his contemptuous criticisms, 258, 269
conjectural criticism on Shakspeare, 260
his edition of Pope, 263, 270, 271
his literary recruits, 274
defends Pope against Bolingbroke, 321
influenced Pope through his religion, n. 323
his opinion of Hobbes, n. 444
offends Edwards in a contest, 532
552
Ward, Dr. Seth, his double opinion of Hobbes’ Works, n. 465

Ward, Dr., his quarrel with Dr. Pierce, 536

Wharton, Henry, sunk under his historical studies, 74

Whitgift, Archbishop, his controversies with Cartwright the Puritan, and ultimate friendship with him, n. 509

William of Wykeham attacked by Bohun, 537

Wood, Anthony, his character, 94
an apology for the “Athenæ Oxonienses”, 92
the writers of a party whom he abhorred frequently refer to him in their own favour, 99
defines Marvell’s style, 392
gives Bishop Parker’s early history, 394
his prejudice against Lake, 423

Woodward the actor attacked by Hill, 372, and note

Works, valuable, not completed from deficient encouragement, 84

Wotton’s reflections on learning, 378

Transcriber Notes

Typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are highlighted and listed below.

Archaic and variable spelling and hyphenation is preserved, including the author’s use of “wont” instead of “won’t”.

Author’s punctuation style is preserved, except where noted below.

Sections in Greek will yield a transliteration when the pointer is moved over each line, e.g. ΚΤΗΜΑ ΕΣ ΑΕΙ

Transcriber Changes

The following changes were made to the original text:

Page 11: Added missing word (He passed through a youth of iniquity, and was expelled from his college for his irregularities)

Page 21: Was ’ingratisude’ (it seems a national ingratitude to limit the existence of works for their authors)

Page 23: Was ’roya’ (passed off in currency their base metal stamped with a royal head)

Page 40: Was ’discontentd’ (he retired discontented into Surrey.”)

Page 62: Was smudged ’brothe’ (envied their Ciceronian brothers.)

Page 63: Added period (he then requested the Bishop of London.)

Page 89: Was ’prosspects’ (his imagination delighted to expatiate in its future prospects)

Page 105: Was ’Hubidras’ (might have served as the model of Grey’s Hudibras.)

Page 118: Added quote (“Harvey, the happy above happier men, I read)

Page 187: Was ’sorows’ (the oriental student pathetically counts over his sorrows)

Page 215: Removed quote (O people currish, churlish as their seas—)

Page 230: Changed comma to period (he gave a new turn to our studies.)

Page 281: Added quote (“and the weekly clubs held to consult of hostilities against the author;”)

Page 289: Was ’nor’ (Is not Word-catching more serviceable in splitting a cause, than explaining a fine poet?)

Page 327: Was ’damagogue’ (which such a political demagogue as Bolingbroke never forgave)

Page 328: Added quote (which I have noticed in the “Quarrels of Warburton.”)

Page 350: Was ’petulent’ (which closed this life of toil and hurry and petulant genius)

Page 399: Was ’ut’ (he was glad to make use of anything rather than sit out;)

Page 403: Was ’Philosoper’ (while the Philosopher keenly retorts on the Club)

Page 420: Added missing i (I give a short narrative of the political temper of the times, in their unparalleled gazettes.)

Page 434: Added quote (From age to age, &c.”)

Page 436: Was ’montrous’ (his monstrous egotism)

Page 469: Changed comma to period (than in his younger days.)

Page 471: Removed quote (you are older already than Methuselah.)

Page 481: Added quote (‘Barmy froth, inflate, turgidous, and ventosity are come up.’)

Page 483: Was ’searchin’ (Mine enemies, with sharp and searching eyes)

Page 487: Added period (Nor the Untrussers.)

Page 497: Removed quote (Now, to show himself as good a painter as he is a herald)

Footnote 20: Extra comma removed (his Bibliographia Poetica.)

Footnote 140: Was ’afterwardss’ (As City Poet afterwards Settle composed the pageants)

Footnote 140: Was ’Mayor’ (songs for the Lord Mayor’s Shows from 1691 to 1708)

Footnote 140: Original split across lines as ‘im,’ and ‘poverished,’ (Towards the close of his career he became impoverished)

Footnote 150: Changed period to comma (by Indignatio,” 1772)

Footnote 157: Added quote (“that last foible of superior genius.”)

Footnote 163: Was ’Manasseh’ (which Menasseh Ben Israel has written his treatise)

Footnote 183: Was ’infallibilty’ (to the standard of your infallibility)

Footnote 186: Added quote (“Letter to Warburton,” p. 4.)

Footnote 195: Added quote (Prince Eugene, “who came hither for that purpose.”)

Footnote 202: Was ’Irishmant o’ (had a tall Irishman to attend him)

Footnote 291: Added quote (And changed his skin to monumental brass.”)

Footnote 324: Added missing word (It may be inscribed in the library of the student)

Footnote 353: Was ’caligraphy’ (this beautiful specimen of calligraphy may still be seen)

Footnote 353: Was ’hi’ (it produced his sudden dismissal from the presence of Charles II. when at Paris)

Footnote 354: Added quote (but, chewed, are for the most part cast up again without effect.”)

Footnote 367: Added quote (“Il disoit qu’il faisoit quelquefois des ouvertures)

Footnote 369: Added period (The story his antagonist (Dr. Wallis) relates is perfectly in character.)

Footnote 418: Changed comma to period (in a countercuffe given to Martin Junior.”)

Index: Was ’Gilden’ (Gildon supposed by Pope to have been employed by Addison to write against him, 316)

Index: Added period (Johnson, Dr., his aversion to Milton’s politics, 425)

Index: Was ’132’ (Lightfoot could not procure the printing of his work, 192)

CALAMITIES OF AUTHORS.
PREFACE	3
AUTHORS BY PROFESSION:—GUTHRIE AND AMHURST—DRAKE—SMOLLETT	7
THE CASE OF AUTHORS STATED, INCLUDING THE HISTORY OF LITERARY PROPERTY	15
THE SUFFERINGS OF AUTHORS	22
A MENDICANT AUTHOR, AND THE PATRONS OF FORMER TIMES	25
COWLEY—OF HIS MELANCHOLY	35
THE PAINS OF FASTIDIOUS EGOTISM	42
INFLUENCE OF A BAD TEMPER IN CRITICISM	51
DISAPPOINTED GENIUS TAKES A FATAL DIRECTION BY ITS ABUSE	59
THE MALADIES OF AUTHORS	70
LITERARY SCOTCHMEN	75
LABORIOUS AUTHORS	83
THE DESPAIR OF YOUNG POETS	98
THE MISERIES OF THE FIRST ENGLISH COMMENTATOR	104
THE LIFE OF AN AUTHORESS	106
THE INDISCRETION OF AN HISTORIAN—CARTE	110
LITERARY RIDICULE, ILLUSTRATED BY SOME ACCOUNT OF A LITERARY SATIRE	114
LITERARY HATRED, EXHIBITING A CONSPIRACY AGAINST AN AUTHOR	130
UNDUE SEVERITY OF CRITICISM	139
A VOLUMINOUS AUTHOR WITHOUT JUDGMENT	146
GENIUS AND ERUDITION THE VICTIMS OF IMMODERATE VANITY	155
GENIUS, THE DUPE OF ITS PASSIONS	168
LITERARY DISAPPOINTMENTS DISORDERING THE INTELLECT	172
THE REWARDS OF ORIENTAL STUDENTS	186
DANGER INCURRED BY GIVING THE RESULT OF LITERARY INQUIRIES	193
A NATIONAL WORK WHICH COULD FIND NO PATRONAGE	200
THE MISERIES OF SUCCESSFUL AUTHORS	202
THE ILLUSIONS OF WRITERS IN VERSE	212


QUARRELS OF AUTHORS.
PREFACE	229
WARBURTON, AND HIS QUARRELS; INCLUDING AN ILLUSTRATION OF HIS LITERARY CHARACTER	233
POPE AND HIS MISCELLANEOUS QUARRELS	278
POPE AND CURLL; OR A NARRATIVE OF THE EXTRAORDINARY TRANSACTIONS RESPECTING THE PUBLICATION OF POPE’S LETTERS	292
POPE AND CIBBER; CONTAINING A VINDICATION OF THE COMIC WRITER	301
POPE AND ADDISON	313
BOLINGBROKE AND MALLET’S POSTHUMOUS QUARREL WITH POPE	321
LINTOT’S ACCOUNT-BOOK	328
POPE’S EARLIEST SATIRE	333
THE ROYAL SOCIETY	336
SIR JOHN HILL, WITH THE ROYAL SOCIETY, FIELDING, SMART, ETC.	362
BOYLE AND BENTLEY	377
PARKER AND MARVELL	391
D’AVENANT AND A CLUB OF WITS	403
THE PAPER-WARS OF THE CIVIL WARS	415
POLITICAL CRITICISM ON LITERARY COMPOSITIONS	423
HOBBES, AND HIS QUARRELS; INCLUDING AN ILLUSTRATION OF HIS CHARACTER	436
HOBBES’S QUARRELS WITH DR. WALLIS, THE MATHEMATICIAN.	463
JONSON AND DECKER	474
CAMDEN AND BROOKE	490
MARTIN MAR-PRELATE	501
SUPPLEMENT TO MARTIN MAR-PRELATE	523
LITERARY QUARRELS FROM PERSONAL MOTIVES	529


FOOTNOTES	539
INDEX	541

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Homer, vol. ii.		215	0	0
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650 royal paper		150	0	0
This article is repeated to the sixth volume of of Homer. To which is to be added another sum of 840l., paid for an assignment of all the copies. The whole of this part of the account amounting to		3203	4	0
Copy-moneys for the Odyssey, vols. i. ii. iii., and 750 of each vol. royal paper, 4to.		615	6	0
Ditto for the vols. iv. v. and 750 do.		425	18	7½
		£4244	8	7½

	£	s.	d.
23 May, 1713.
Plato’s Phædon	5	7	6
For Æsculus’s Trag.	1	1	6
being part of Ten Guineas.
12 June, 1714.
La Motte’s Homer	3	4	6

	£	s.	d.
18 Feb. 1707-8.
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16 Feb. 1708-9.
Paid for the First Part of Transactions	5	0	0
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23 June, 1709.
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11 Nov. 1714.
Letter to a Lady	5	7	6
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The What d’ye call it?	16	2	6
22 Dec. 1715.
Trivia	43	0	0
Epistle to the Earl of Burlington	10	15	0
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	£234	10	0

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Essay on Public Spirit	2	12	6
6 Jan. 1711.
Remarks on Pope’s Essay	2	12	6

CALAMITIES AND QUARRELS OF AUTHORS.

CONTENTS.

CALAMITIES OF AUTHORS:

INCLUDINGSOME INQUIRIES RESPECTING THEIR MORAL AND LITERARY CHARACTERS.

PREFACE.

AUTHORS BY PROFESSION.

GUTHRIE AND AMHURST—DRAKE—SMOLLETT.

THE CASE OF AUTHORS STATED,

INCLUDING THE HISTORY OF LITERARY PROPERTY.

THE SUFFERINGS OF AUTHORS.

A MENDICANT AUTHOR,

AND THE PATRONS OF FORMER TIMES.

COWLEY.

OF HIS MELANCHOLY.

THE PAINS OF FASTIDIOUS EGOTISM.

INFLUENCE OF A BAD TEMPER IN CRITICISM.

DISAPPOINTED GENIUS

TAKES A FATAL DIRECTION BY ITS ABUSE.

THE MALADIES OF AUTHORS.

LITERARY SCOTCHMEN.

“The Case of a Man of Letters, of regular education, living by honest literary industry.

LABORIOUS AUTHORS.

THE DESPAIR OF YOUNG POETS.

THE MISERIES OF THE FIRST ENGLISH COMMENTATOR.

THE LIFE OF AN AUTHORESS.

THE INDISCRETION OF AN HISTORIAN.

THOMAS CARTE.

LITERARY RIDICULE.

ILLUSTRATED BY SOME ACCOUNT OF A LITERARY SATIRE.

LITERARY HATRED.

EXHIBITING A CONSPIRACY AGAINST AN AUTHOR.

UNDUE SEVERITY OF CRITICISM.

DR. KENRICK.—SCOTT OF AMWELL.

A VOLUMINOUS AUTHOR WITHOUT JUDGMENT.

GENIUS AND ERUDITION THE VICTIMS OF IMMODERATE VANITY.

GENIUS THE DUPE OF ITS PASSIONS.

LITERARY DISAPPOINTMENTS DISORDERING THE INTELLECT.

LELAND AND COLLINS.

THE REWARDS OF ORIENTAL STUDENTS.

DANGER INCURRED BY GIVING THE RESULT OF LITERARY INQUIRIES.

A NATIONAL WORK WHICH COULD FIND NO PATRONAGE.

THE MISERIES OF SUCCESSFUL AUTHORS.

THE ILLUSIONS OF WRITERS IN VERSE.

QUARRELS OF AUTHORS;

OR,SOME MEMOIRS FOR OUR LITERARY HISTORY.

PREFACE.

WARBURTON, AND HIS QUARRELS;

INCLUDING AN ILLUSTRATION OFHIS LITERARY CHARACTER

POPE,

AND HIS MISCELLANEOUS QUARRELS.

A NARRATIVE

OF THE EXTRAORDINARY TRANSACTIONS RESPECTING THE PUBLICATION OF POPE’S LETTERS.

POPE AND CIBBER;

CONTAININGA VINDICATION OF THE COMIC WRITER.

POPE AND ADDISON.

BOLINGBROKE AND MALLET’S POSTHUMOUS QUARREL WITH POPE.

THE APOLLO VISION.

LINTOT’S ACCOUNT-BOOK.

MR. POPE.

MR. GAY.

MR. DENNIS.

MR. THEOBALD.

POPE’S EARLIEST SATIRE.

THE ROYAL SOCIETY.

SIR JOHN HILL,

WITHTHE ROYAL SOCIETY, FIELDING, SMART, &c.

BOYLE AND BENTLEY.

PARKER AND MARVELL.

D’AVENANT

AND A CLUB OF WITS.

THEPAPER-WARS OF THE CIVIL WARS.

POLITICAL CRITICISM

ON LITERARY COMPOSITIONS.

HOBBES, AND HIS QUARRELS;

INCLUDINGAN ILLUSTRATION OF HIS CHARACTER.

HOBBES’S QUARRELS

WITHDR. WALLIS THE MATHEMATICIAN.

JONSON AND DECKER.

CAMDEN AND BROOKE.

MARTIN MAR-PRELATE.

CALAMITIES AND QUARRELS
OF
AUTHORS.

INCLUDING

SOME INQUIRIES RESPECTING THEIR MORAL AND LITERARY CHARACTERS.

OR,

SOME MEMOIRS FOR OUR LITERARY HISTORY.

INCLUDING AN ILLUSTRATION OF
HIS LITERARY CHARACTER

CONTAINING
A VINDICATION OF THE COMIC WRITER.

WITH
THE ROYAL SOCIETY, FIELDING, SMART, &c.

THE
PAPER-WARS OF THE CIVIL WARS.

INCLUDING
AN ILLUSTRATION OF HIS CHARACTER.

WITH
DR. WALLIS THE MATHEMATICIAN.

FROM
PERSONAL MOTIVES