Triumph, triumph, victorious Soul;
The world has not one pleasure more;
The rest does lye beyond the pole,
And is thine everlasting store.
We shall conclude the life of Mr. Marvel, by presenting the reader
with that epitaph, which was intended to be inscribed upon his tomb,
in which his character is drawn in a very masterly manner.
Near this place
Lieth the body of ANDREW MARVEL, Esq;
A man so endowed by nature,
So improved by education, study, and travel,
So consummated, by experience and learning;
That joining the most peculiar graces of wit
With a singular penetration and strength of judgment,
And exercising all these in the whole course of his life,
With unalterable steadiness in the ways of virtue,
He became the ornament and example of his age,
Beloved by good men, fear'd by bad, admired by all,
Tho' imitated, alas! by few;
And scarce paralleled by any.
But a tombstone can neither contain his character,
Nor is marble necessary to transmit it to posterity.
It is engraved in the minds of this generation,
And will be always legible in his inimitable writings.
Nevertheless
He having served near twenty-years successively in
parliament,
And that, with such wisdom, integrity, dexterity,
and courage,
As became a true patriot,
The town of Kingiton upon Hull,
From whence he was constantly deputed to that
Assembly,
Lamenting in his death the public loss,
Have erected this monument of their grief and
gratitude,
1688.
He died in the 58th year of his age
On the 16th day of August 1678.
Heu fragile humanum genus! heu terrestria vana!
Heu quem spectatum continet urna virum!
[Footnote A: A disappointment occasioned our throwing this life out
of the chronlogical order. But we hope the candid reader will pardon
a fault of this kind: we only wish he may find nothing of more
consequence to accuse us of.]
[Footnote B: Cook's Life of Andrew Marvel, Esq; prefixed to the first
volume of Mr. Marvel's Works, London 1726.]
[Footnote C: Life ubi supri.]
[Footnote D: Mr. John Oxenbridge, who was made fellow of Eton College
curing the civil war, but ejected at the Restoration; he died in New
England, and was a very enthusiastic person.]
* * * * *
Mrs. ELIZABETH THOMAS,
This lady, who is known in the world by the poetial name of Corinna,
seems to have been born for misfortunes; her very bitterest enemies
could never brand her with any real crime, and yet her whole life
has been one continued scene of misery[A]. The family from which she
sprung was of a rank in life beneath envy, and above contempt. She was
the child of an ancient, and infirm parent, who gave her life when
he was dying himself, and to whose unhappy constitution she was sole
heiress. From her very birth, which happened 1675, she was afflicted
with fevers and defluxions, and being over-nursed, her constitution
was so delicate and tender, that had she not been of a gay
disposition, and possessed a vigorous mind, she must have been more
unhappy than she actually was. Her father dying when she was scarce
two years old, and her mother not knowing his real circumstances, as
he was supposed from the splendour of his manner of life to be very
rich, some inconveniencies were incurred, in bestowing upon him a
pompous funeral, which in those times was fashionable. The mother of
our poetess, in the bloom of eighteen, was condemned to the arms of
this man, upwards of 60, upon the supposition of his being wealthy,
but in which she was soon miserably deceived. When the grief, which
so young a wife may be supposed to feel for an aged husband, had
subsided, she began to enquire into the state of his affairs, and
found to her unspeakable mortification, that he died not worth one
thousand pounds in the world. As Mrs. Thomas was a woman of good
sense, and a high spirit, she disposed of two houses her husband kept,
one in town, the other in the county of Essex, and retired into a
private, but decent country lodging. The chambers in the Temple her
husband possessed, she sold to her brother for 450 l. which, with her
husband's books of accounts, she lodged in her trustee's hands, who
being soon after burnt out by the fire in the paper buildings in the
temple (which broke out with such violence in the dead of night, that
he saved nothing but his life) she lost considerably. Not being
able to make out any bill, she could form no regular demand, and was
obliged to be determined by the honour of her husband's clients, who
though persons of the first fashion, behaved with very little honour
to her. The deceased had the reputation of a judicious lawyer, and
an accomplished gentleman, but who was too honest to thrive in his
profession, and had too much humanity ever to become rich. Of all
his clients, but one lady behaved with any appearance of honesty. The
countess dowager of Wentworth having then lost her only daughter the
lady Harriot (who was reputed the mistress of the duke of Monmouth)
told Mrs. Thomas, 'that she knew she had a large reckoning with the
deceased, but, says she, as you know not what to demand, so I know
not what to pay; come, madam, I will do better for you than a random
reckoning, I have now no child, and have taken a fancy to your
daughter; give me the girl, I will breed her as my own, and provide
for her as such when I die.' The widow thank'd her ladyship, but with
a little too much warmth replied, 'she would not part with her child
on any terms;' which the countess resented to such a degree, that she
would never see her more, and dying in a few years, left 1500 l. per
annum inheritance, at Stepney, to her chambermaid.
Thus were misfortunes early entailed upon this lady. A proposal which
would have made her opulent for life, was defeated by the unreasonable
fondness of her mother, who lived to suffer its dismal consequences,
by tasting the bitterest distresses. We have already observed, that
Mrs. Thomas thought proper to retire to the country with her daughter.
The house where she boarded was an eminent Cloth-worker's in the
county of Surry, but the people of the house proved very disagreeable.
The lady had no conversation to divert her; the landlord was an
illiterate man, and the rest of the family brutish, and unmannerly.
At last Mrs. Thomas attracted the notice of Dr. Glysson, who observing
her at church very splendidly dressed, sollicited her acquaintance. He
was a valuable piece of antiquity, being then, 1684, in the hundredth
year of his age. His person was tall, his bones very large, his hair
like snow, a venerable aspect, and a complexion, which might shame
the bloom of fifteen. He enjoyed a sound judgment, and a memory so
tenacious, and clear, that his company was very engaging. His visits
greatly alleviated the solitude of this lady. The last visit he
made to Mrs. Thomas, he drew on, with much attention, a pair of
rich Spanish leather gloves, embost on the backs, and tops with gold
embroidery, and fringed round with gold plate. The lady could not help
expressing her curiosity, to know the history of those gloves, which
he seemed to touch with so much respect. He answered, 'I do respect
them, for the last time I had the honour of approaching my mistress,
Queen Elizabeth, she pulled them from her own Royal hands, saying,
here Glysson, wear them for my sake. I have done so with veneration,
and never drew them on, but when I had a mind to honour those whom
I visit, as I now do you; and since you love the memory of my Royal
mistress, take them, and preserve them carefully when I am gone.' The
Dr. then went home, and died in a few days.
This gentleman's death left her again without a companion, and an
uneasiness hung upon her, visible to the people of the house; who
guessing the cause to proceed from solitude, recommended to her
acquaintance another Physician, of a different cast from the former.
He was denominated by them a conjurer, and was said to be capable
of raising the devil. This circumstance diverted Mrs. Thomas, who
imagined, that the man whom they called a conjurer, must have more
sense than they understood. The Dr. was invited to visit her, and
appeared in a greasy black Grogram, which he called his Scholar's
Coat, a long beard, and other marks of a philosophical negligence.
He brought all his little mathematical trinkets, and played over his
tricks for the diversion of the lady, whom, by a private whisper, he
let into the secrets as he performed them, that she might see there
was nothing of magic in the case. The two most remarkable articles of
his performance were, first lighting a candle at a glass of cold water
(performed by touching the brim before with phosphorus, a chymical
fire which is preserved in water and burns there) and next reading
the smallest print by a candle of six in the pound, at a hundred yards
distance in the open air, and darkest night. This was performed by a
large concave-glass, with a deep pointed focus, quick-silvered on the
backside and set in tin, with a socket for a candle, sconce fashion,
and hung up against a wall. While the flame of the candle was
diametrically opposite to the centre, the rays equally diverging, gave
so powerful a light as is scarce credible; but on the least variation
from the focus, the charm ceased. The lady discerning in this man a
genius which might be improved to better purposes than deceiving
the country people, desired him not to hide his talents, but to push
himself in the world by the abilities of which he seemed possessed.
'Madam, said he, I am now a fiddle to asses, but I am finishing a
great work which will make those asses fiddle to me.' She then asked
what that work might be? He replied, 'his life was at stake if it took
air, but he found her a lady of such uncommon candour, and good sense,
that he should make no difficulty in committing his life and hope
to her keeping.' All women are naturally fond of being trusted with
secrets; this was Mrs. Thomas's failing: the Dr. found it out, and
made her pay dear for her curiosity. 'I have been, continued he, many
years in search of the Philosopher's Stone, and long master of the
smaragdine-table of Hermes Trismegistus; the green and red dragons of
Raymond Lully have also been obedient to me, and the illustrious sages
themselves deign to visit me; yet is it but since I had the honour to
be known to your ladyship, that I have been so fortunate as to obtain
the grand secret of projection. I transmuted some lead I pulled off
my window last night into this bit of gold.' Pleased with the sight of
this, and having a natural propension to the study, the lady snatched
it out of the philosopher's hand, and asked him why he had not
made more? He replied, 'it was all the lead I could find.' She then
commanded her daughter to bring a parcel of lead which lay in the
closet, and giving it to the Chymist, desired him to transmute it into
gold on the morrow. He undertook it, and the next day brought her an
ingot which weighed two ounces, which with the utmost solemnity he
avowed was the very individual lead she gave him, transmuted to gold.
She began now to engage him in serious discourse; and finding by his
replies, that he wanted money to make more powder, she enquired how
much would make a stock that would maintain itself? He replied, one
fifty pounds after nine months would produce a million. She then
begged the ingot of him, which he protested had been transmuted
from lead, and flushed with the hopes of success, hurried to town to
examine whether the ingot was true gold, which proved fine beyond the
standard. The lady now fully convinced of the truth of the empyric's
declaration, took fifty pounds out of the hands of a Banker, and
entrusted him with it.
The only difficulty which remained, was, how to carry on the work
without suspicion, it being strictly prohibited at that time. He was
therefore resolved to take a little house in another county, at a few
miles distance from London, where he was to build a public laboratory,
as a professed Chymist, and deal in such medicines as were most
vendible, by the sale of which to the apothecaries, the expence of the
house was to be defrayed during the operation. The widow was accounted
the housekeeper, and the Dr. and his man boarded with her; to which
she added this precaution, that the laboratory, with the two lodging
rooms over it, in which the Dr. and his man lay, was a different
wing of the building from that where she and her little daughter, and
maid-servant resided; and as she knew some time must elapse before any
profit could be expected, she managed with the utmost frugality. The
Dr. mean time acted the part of a tutor to miss, in Arithmetic, Latin,
and Mathematics, to which she discovered the strongest propensity. All
things being properly disposed for the grand operation, the vitriol
furnace was set to work, which requiring the most intense heat
for several days, unhappily set fire to the house; the stairs were
consumed in an instant, and as it surprized them all in their first
sleep, it was a happy circumstance that no life perished. This unlucky
accident was 300 l. loss to Mrs. Thomas: yet still the grand project
was in a fair way of succeeding in the other wing of the building. But
one misfortune is often followed by another. The next Sunday evening,
while she was reading to, and instructing her little family, a sudden,
and a violent report, like a discharge of cannon was heard; the house
being timber, rocked like a cradle, and the family were all thrown
from their chairs on the ground. They looked with the greatest
amazement on each other, not guessing the cause, when the operator
pretending to revive, fell to stamping, tearing his hair, and raving
like a madman, crying out undone, undone, lost and undone for ever.
He ran directly to the Athanor, when unlocking the door, he found
the machine split quite in two, the eggs broke, and that precious
amalgamum which they contained was scattered like sand among the
ashes. Mrs. Thomas's eyes were now sufficiently opened to discern the
imposture, and, with a very serene countenance, told the empyric, that
accidents will happen, but means might be fallen upon to repair this
fatal disappointment. The Dr. observing her so serene, imagined
she would grant him more money to compleat his scheme, but she soon
disappointed his expectation, by ordering him to be gone, and made
him a present of five guineas, left his desperate circumstances should
induce him to take some violent means of providing for himself.
Whether deluded by a real hope of finding out the Philosopher's Stone,
or from an innate principle of villainy, cannot be determined, but he
did not yet cease his pursuit, and still indulged the golden delusion.
He now found means to work upon the credulity of an old miser,
who, upon the strength of his pretensions, gave him his daughter
in marriage, and embarked all his hoarded treasure, which was very
considerable, in the same chimerical adventure. In a word, the miser's
stock was also lost, the empyric himself, and the daughter reduced to
beggary. This unhappy affair broke the miser's heart, who did not many
weeks survive the loss of his cash. The Dr. also put a miserable
end to his life by drinking poison, and left his wife with two young
children in a state of beggary. But to return to Mrs. Thomas.
The poor lady suffered on this occasion a great deal of inward
anguish; she was ashamed of having reduced her fortune, and
impoverished her child by listening to the insinuations of a madman.
Time and patience at last overcame it; and when her health, which by
this accident had been impaired, was restored to her, she began
to stir amongst her husband's great clients. She took a house in
Bloomsbury, and by means of good economy, and an elegant appearance,
was supposed to be better in the world than she really was. Her
husband's clients received her like one risen from the dead: They came
to visit her, and promised to serve her. At last the duke of Montague
advised her to let lodgings, which way of life she declined, as her
talents were not suited for dealing with ordinary lodgers; but added
she, 'if I knew any family who desired such a conveniency, I would
readily accommodate them.' I take you at your word, replied the duke,
'I will become your sole tenant: Nay don't smile, for I am in earnest,
I love a little freedom more than I can enjoy at home, and I may come
sometimes and eat a bit of mutton, with four or five honest fellows,
whose company I delight in.' The bargain was bound, and proved matter
of fact, though on a deeper scheme than drinking a bottle: And his
lordship was to pass in the house for Mr. Freeman of Hertfordshire.
In a few days he ordered a dinner for his beloved friends, Jack and
Tom, Will and Ned, good honest country-fellows, as his grace called
them. They came at the time appointed; but how surprized was the
widow, when she saw the duke of Devonshire, the lords Buckingham, and
Dorset, and a certain viscount, with Sir William Dutton Colt, under
these feign'd names. After several times meeting at this lady's house,
the noble persons, who had a high opinion of her integrity, entrusted
her with the grand secret, which was nothing less than the project for
the Revolution.
Tho' these meetings were held as private as possible, yet suspicions
arose, and Mrs. Thomas's house was narrowly watched; but the
messengers, who were no enemies to the cause, betrayed their trust,
and suffered the noblemen to meet unmolested, or at least without any
dread of apprehension.
The Revolution being effected, and the state came more settled, that
place of rendezvous was quitted: The noblemen took leave of the lady,
with promises of obtaining a pension, or some place in the houshold
for her, as her zeal in that cause highly merited; besides she had a
very good claim to some appointment, having been ruined by shutting up
the Excheqner. But alas! court promises proved an aerial foundation,
and these noble peers never thought of her more. The duke of Montague
indeed made offers of service, and being captain of the band of
pensioners, she asked him to admit Mr. Gwynnet, a gentleman who had
made love to her daughter, into such a post. This he promised, but
upon these terms, that her daughter should ask him for it. The widow
thanked him, and not suspecting that any design was covered under this
offer, concluded herself sure of success: But how amazed was she to
find her daughter (whom she had bred in the most passive subjection)
and who had never discovered the least instance of disobedience,
absolutely refuse to ask any such favour of his grace. She could be
prevailed upon neither by flattery, nor threatning, and continuing
still obstinate in her resolution; her mother obliged her to explain
herself, upon the point of her refusal. She told her then, that the
duke of Montague had already made an attack upon her, that his designs
were dishonourable; and that if she submitted to ask his grace one
favour, he would reckon himself secure of another in return, which he
would endeavour to accomplish by the basest means. This explanation
was too satisfactory; Who does not see the meanness of such an
ungenerous conduct? He had made use of the mother as a tool, for
carrying on political designs; he found her in distress, and as a
recompence for her service, and under the pretence of mending her
fortune, attempted the virtue of her daughter, and would provide for
her, on no other terms, but at the price of her child's innocence.
In the mean time, the young Corinna, a poetical name given her by Mr.
Dryden, continued to improve her mind by reading the politest authors:
Such extraordinary advances had she made, that upon her sending some
poems to Mr. Dryden, entreating his perusal, and impartial sentiments
thereon, he was pleased to write her the following letter.
Fair CORINNA,
'I have sent your two poems back again, after
having kept them so long from you: They were
I thought too good to be a woman's; some of my
friends to whom I read them, were of the same
opinion. It is not very gallant I must confess to
say this of the fair sex; but, most certain it is,
they generally write with more softness than
strength. On the contrary, you want neither
vigour in your thoughts, nor force in your expression,
nor harmony in your numbers; and me-thinks,
I find much of Orinda in your manner,
(to whom I had the honour to be related, and
also to be known) but I am so taken up with my
own studies, that I have not leisure to descend to
particulars, being in the mean time, the fair
Corinna's