The fame of virtue 'tis for which I found,
And heroes with immortal triumphs crown'd.
Fame built on solid virtue swifter flies,
Than morning light can spread my eastern skies.
The gath'ring air returns the doubling sound,
And long repeating thunders force it round:
Ecchoes return from caverns of the deep;
Old Chaos dreamt on't in eternal sleep,
Time helps it forward to its latest urn,
From whence it never, never shall return;
Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long;
'Tis heard by ev'ry ear, and spoke by ev'ry tongue.
My hero, with the sails of honour furl'd,
Rises like the great genius of the world.
By fate, and fame, wisely prepared to be
The soul of war, and life of victory.
He spreads the wings of virtue on the throne,
And every wind of glory fans them on.
Immortal trophies dwell upon his brow,
Fresh as the garlands he has won but now.
What provocation De Foe had given to Pope we cannot determine, but
he has not escaped the lash of that gentleman's pen. Mr. Pope in his
second book of his Dunciad thus speaks of him;
Earless on high flood unabash'd De Foe,
And Tutchin flagrant from the scourge below.
It may be remarked that he has joined him with Tutchin, a man, whom
judge Jeffries had ordered to be so inhumanly whipt through the
market-towns, that, as we have already observed, he petitioned the
King to be hanged. This severity soured his temper, and after the
deposition and death of King James, he indulged his resentment in
insulting his memory. This may be the reason why Pope has stigmatized
him, and perhaps no better a one can be given for his attacking De
Foe, whom the author of the Notes to the Dunciad owns to have been a
man of parts. De Foe can never, with any propriety, be ranked amongst
the dunces; for whoever reads his works with candour and impartiality,
must be convinced that he was a man of the strongest natural powers, a
lively imagination, and solid judgment, which, joined with an unshaken
probity in his moral conduit, and an invincible integrity in his
political sphere, ought not only to screen him from the petulant
attacks of satire, but transmit his name with some degree of applause
to posterity.
De Foe, who enjoyed always a competence, and was seldom subject to the
necessities of the poets, died at his house at Islington, in the
year 1731. He left behind him one son and one daughter. The latter
is married to Mr. Henry Baker, a gentleman well known in the
philosophical world.
[Footnote A: Jacob, vol. ii. p. 309.]
[Footnote B: See Preface to the True Born Englishman.]
[Footnote C: See Preface to vol. ii.]
* * * * *
Mrs. ELIZABETH ROWE,
This lady was born at Ilchester in Somersetshire September 11, 1674,
being the eldest of three daughters of Mr. Walter Singer, a gentleman
of good family, and Mrs. Elizabeth Portnel, both persons of great
worth and piety. Her father was not a native of Ilchester, nor an
inhabitant, before his imprisonment there for non-conformity in
the reign of King Charles II. Mrs. Portnel, from a principle of
tenderness, visited those who suffered on that account, and by this
accident an acquaintance Commenced, which terminated in the nuptial
union. They who were acquainted with the lady, who is the subject
of this article, in her early, years, perhaps observed an uncommon
display of genius as prophetic of that bright day which afterwards
ensued.
There is so great a similitude between painting and poetry, that it is
no ways surprising, a person, who possessed the latter of these graces
in so high a degree, should very easily discover an inclination to the
former, which has often the same admirers. Accordingly we find Mrs.
Rowe discover a taste for painting; she attempted to carry her taste
into execution, when she had hardly steadiness of hand sufficient to
guide the pencil. Her father perceiving her fondness for this art, was
at the expence of a matter to instruct her in it; and she never failed
to make it an amusement 'till her death. Every one acquainted with her
writings, and capable of relishing the melifluent flow of her numbers,
will naturally suppose, that she had a genius for music, particularly
that of a grave and solemn kind, as it was best suited to the grandeur
of her sentiments, and the sublimity of her devotion. But her most
prevailing propension was to poetry. This superior grace was indeed
the most favourite employment of her youth, and in her the most
distinguished excellence. So powerful was her genius in this way, that
her prose hath all the charms of verse without the fetters; the same
fire and elevation; the same richness of imagery, bold figures, and
flowing diction.
It appears by a life of Mrs. Rowe, prefixed to the first volume of
her miscellaneous works, that in the year 1696, the 22d of her age,
a Collection of her Poems on various Occasions was published at the
desire of two of her friends, which we suppose did not contain all she
had by her, since the ingenious author of the preface, Mrs. Elizabeth
Johnson, gives the reader room to hope, that Mrs. Rowe might, in a
little while, be prevailed upon to oblige the world with a second
part, no way inferior to the former.
Mrs. Rowe's Paraphrase on the 38th Chapter of Job was written at the
request of bishop Kenn, which gained her a great reputation. She
had no other tutor for the French and Italian languages, than the
honourable Mr. Thynne, son to the lord viscount Weymouth, and father
to the right honourable the countess of Hertford, who willingly took
the talk upon himself, and had the pleasure to see his fair scholar
improve so fast by his lessons, that in a few months she was able to
read Tasso's Jerusalem with ease. Her shining merit, with the charms
of her person and conversation, had procured her many admirers: among
others, the celebrated Mr. Prior made his addresses to her; so
that allowing for the double licence of the poet and the lover, the
concluding lines in his Answer to Mrs. Singer's Pastoral on Love and
Friendship, were not without foundation in truth; but Mr. Thomas Rowe,
a very ingenious and learned gentleman, was the person destined to
fill the arms of this amiable poetess.
As this gentleman was a poet of no inconsiderable rank, a man of
learning and genius, we shall here give some account of him, in place
of assigning him a particular Article, as the incidents of his life
will be more naturally blended with that of his wife.----He was born
at London, April the 25th, 1687, the eldest son of the revd. Mr. Rowe:
who with a very accurate judgment, and a considerable stock of useful
learning, joined the talents in preaching and a most lively and
engaging manner in conversation. He was of a genteel descent, both
on his father's and mother's side; but he thought too justly to value
himself on such extrinsic circumstances. His superior genius, and
insatiable thirst after knowledge were conspicuous in his earliest
years. He commenced his acquaintance with the Classics at Epsom, while
his father resided there, and by the swift advances in this part of
learning, quickly became the delight of his master, who treated him
with very particular indulgence, in spight of the natural ruggedness
and severity of his temper.
When his father removed to London, he accompanied him, and was placed
under the famous Dr. Walker, master of the Charter-House-School. His
exercises here never failed of being distinguished even among those
who had the approbation of that excellent master, who would fain have
persuaded his father to place him at one of our English universities;
but how honourably soever Mr. Rowe might think of the learning of
those noble feats of the Muses, yet not having the same advantageous
notions of their political principles, he chose to enter him in a
private academy in London, and some time before his death sent him to
Leyden: Here he studied Jeuriel's Antiquities, civil law, the Belles
Lettres, and experimental philosophy; and established a reputation
for capacity, application, and an obliging deportment, both among
the professors and students. He returned from that celebrated seat of
literature, with a great accession of knowledge, entirely incorrupt in
his morals, which he had preferred as inviolate, as he could have done
under the most vigilant eye, though left without any restraints but
those of his own virtue and prudence.
The love of liberty had always been one of Mr. Rowe's darling
passions. He was very much confirmed therein, by his familiar
acquaintance with the history and noble authors of Greece and Rome,
whose very spirit was transferred into him: By residing so long at
a Republic, he had continual examples of the inestimable value of
freedom, as the parent of industry, and the universal source of social
happiness. Tyranny of every kind he sincerely detested; but most of
all ecclesiastical tyranny, deeming the slavery of the mind the most
abject and ignominious, and in its consequences more pernicious than
any other.
He was a perfect matter of the Greek, Latin and French languages; and,
which is seldom known to happen, had at once such a prodigious memory,
and unexhaustible fund of wit, as would have singly been admired, and
much more united. These qualities, with an easy fluency of speech, a
frankness, and benevolence of disposition, and a communicative temper,
made his company much sollicited by all who knew him. He animated the
conversation, and instructed his companions by the acuteness of his
observations.
He had formed a design to compile the lives of all the illustrious
persons of antiquity, omitted by Plutarch; and for this purpose
read the antient historians with great care. This design he in part
executed. Eight lives were published since his decease, in octavo, by
way of Supplement to that admired Biographer; in which though so young
a guide, he strikes out a way like one well acquainted with the dark
and intricate paths of antiquity. The stile is perfectly easy, yet
concise, and nervous: The reflections just, and such as might be
expected from a lover of truth and of mankind.
Besides these Lives, he had finished for the press, the Life of
Thrasybulus, which being put into the hands of Sir Richard Steele, for
his revisal, was unhappily lost, and could never since be recovered.
The famous Mr. Dacier, having translated Plutarch's Lives into French,
with Remarks Historical and Critical, the Abbé Bellenger added in 1734
a ninth tome to the other eight, consisting of the Life of Hannibal,
and Mr. Rowe's Lives made French by that learned Abbé: In the Preface
to which version, he transcribes from, the Preface to the English
edition, the character of the author with visible approbation; and
observes, that the Lives were written with taste; though being a
posthumous work, the author had not put his last hand to it.
Such is the character of Mr. Rowe, the husband of this amiable lady;
and when so accomplished a pair meet in conjugal bonds, what great
expectations may not be formed upon them! A friend of Mr. Rowe's upon
that occasion wrote the following beautiful Epigram,
No more proud Gallia, bid the world revere
Thy learned pair, Le Fevre and Dacier:
Britain may boast, this happy day unites,
Two nobler minds, in Hymen's sacred rites.
What these have sung, while all th' inspiring nine,
Exalt the beauties of the verse divine,
Those (humble critics of th' immortal strain,)
Shall bound their fame to comment and explain.
Mr. Rowe being at Bath, in the year 1709, was introduced into the
company of Miss Singer, who lived in a retirement not far from the
city. The idea he had conceived of her from report and her writings,
charmed him; but when he had seen and conversed with her, he felt
another kind of impression, and the esteem of her accomplishments was
heightened into the rapture of a lover. During the courtship, he wrote
a poetical Epistle to a friend, who was a neighbour of Mrs. Singer,
and acquainted with the family, in which were the following lines.
Youth's liveliest bloom, a never-fading grace,
And more than beauty sparkles in her face.
How soon the willing heart, her empire feels?
Each look, each air, each melting action kills:
Yet the bright form creates no loose desires;
At once she gives and purifies our fires,
And passions chaste, as her own soul inspires.
Her soul, heav'n's noblest workmanship design'd,
To bless the ruined age, and succour lost mankind,
To prop abandon'd virtue's sinking cause,
And snatch from vice its undeserv'd applause.
He married her in the year 1710, and Mrs. Rowe's exalted merit, and
amiable qualities, could not fail to inspire the most generous and
lading passion. Mr. Rowe knew how to value that treasure of wit,
softness and virtue, with which heaven had blessed him; and made it
his study to repay the felicity with which she crowned his life. The
esteem and tenderness he had for her is inexpressible, and possession
seems never to have abated the fondness and admiration of the lover;
a circumstance which seldom happens, but to those who are capable
of enjoying mental intercourse, and have a relish for the ideal
transports, as well as those of a less elevated nature. It was some
considerable time after his marriage, that he wrote to her a very
tender Ode, under the name of Delia, full of the warmed sentiments
of connubial friendship and affection. The following lines in it may
appear remarkable, as it pleased Heaven to dispose events, in a manner
so agreeable to the wishes expressed in them,
----So long may thy inspiring page,
And bright example bless the rising age;
Long in thy charming prison mayst thou stay,
Late, very late, ascend the well-known way,
And add new glories to the realms of day!
At least Heav'n will not sure, this prayer deny!
Short be my life's uncertain date,
And earlier long than thine, the destin'd hour of fate!
When e'er it comes, may'st thou be by,
Support my sinking frame, and teach me how to die;
Banish desponding nature's gloom,
Make me to hope a gentle doom,
And fix me all on joys to come.
With swimming eyes I'll gaze upon thy charms,
And clasp thee dying in my fainting arms;
Then gently leaning on thy breast;
Sink in soft slumbers to eternal rest.
The ghastly form shall have a pleasing air,
And all things smile, while Heav'n and thou art there.
This part of the Ode which we have quoted, contains the most tender
breathings of affection, and has as much delicacy and softness in
it, as we remember ever to have seen in poetry. As Mr. Rowe had not a
robust constitution, so an intense application to study, beyond what
the delicacy of his frame could bear, might contribute to that ill
state of health which allayed the happiness of his married life,
during the greater part of it. In the latter end of the year 1714, his
weakness increased, and he seemed to labour under all the symptoms of
a consumption; which distemper, after it had confined him some months,
put a period to his most valuable life, at Hampstead, in 1715, when
he was but in the 28th year of his age. The exquisite grief and
affliction, which his amiable wife felt for the loss of so excellent a
husband, is not to be expressed.
She wrote a beautiful Elegy on his death, and continued to the last
moments of her life, to express the highest veneration and affection
for his memory, and a particular regard and esteem for his relations.
This Elegy of Mrs. Rowe, on the death of her much lamented husband, we
shall here insert.
An ELEGY, &c.
In what soft language shall my thoughts get free,
My dear Alexis, when I talk of thee?
Ye Muses, Graces, all ye gentle train,
Of weeping loves, O suit the pensive train!
But why should I implore your moving art?
'Tis but to speak the dictates of my heart;
And all that knew the charming youth will join,
Their friendly sighs, and pious tears to mine;
For all that knew his merit, must confess,
In grief for him, there can be no excess.
His soul was form'd to act each glorious part
Of life, unstained with vanity, or art,
No thought within his gen'rous mind had birth,
But what he might have own'd to Heav'n and Earth.
Practis'd by him, each virtue grew more bright,
And shone with more than its own native light.
Whatever noble warmth could recommend
The just, the active, and the constant friend,
Was all his own----But Oh! a dearer name,
And softer ties my endless sorrow claim.
Lost in despair, distracted, and forlorn,
The lover I, and tender husband mourn.
Whate'er to such superior worth was due,
Whate'er excess the fondest passion knew;
I felt for thee, dear youth; my joy, my care,
My pray'rs themselves were thine, and only where
Thou waft concern'd, my virtue was sincere.
When e'er I begg'd for blessings on thy head,
Nothing was cold or formal that I said;
My warmest vows to Heav'n were made for thee,
And love still mingled with my piety.
O thou wast all my glory, all my pride!
Thro' life's uncertain paths my constant guide;
Regardless of the world, to gain thy praise
Was all that could my just ambition raise.
Why has my heart this fond engagement known?
Or why has Heav'n dissolved the tye so soon?
Why was the charming youth so form'd to move?
Or why was all my soul so turn'd for love?
But virtue here a vain defence had made,
Where so much worth and eloquence could plead.
For he could talk----'Twas extacy to hear,
'Twas joy! 'twas harmony to every ear.
Eternal music dwelt upon his tongue,
Soft, and transporting as the Muses song;
List'ning to him my cares were charm'd to rest,
And love, and silent rapture fill'd my breast:
Unheeded the gay moments took their flight,
And time was only measur'd by delight.
I hear the lov'd, the melting accents still,
And still the kind, the tender transport feel.
Again I see the sprightly passions rise,
And life and pleasure sparkle in his eyes.
My fancy paints him now with ev'ry grace,
But ah! the dear delusion mocks my fond embrace;
The smiling vision takes its hasty flight,
And scenes of horror swim before my sight.
Grief and despair in all their terrors rise;
A dying lover pale and gasping lies,
Each dismal circumstance appears in view,
The fatal object is for ever new.
* * * * *
For thee all thoughts of pleasure I forego,
For thee my tears shall never cease to flow:
For thee at once I from the world retire,
To feed in silent shades a hopeless fire.
My bosom all thy image shall retain;
The full impression there shall still remain.
As thou hast taught my constant heart to prove;
The noblest height and elegance of love;
That sacred passion I to thee confine;
My spotless faith shall be for ever thine.
After Mr. Rowe's decease, and as soon as her affairs would permit,
our authoress indulged her inconquerable inclination to solitude, by
retiring to Froome in Somersetshire, in the neighbourhood of which
place the greatest part of her estate lay. When she forsook the town,
she determined to return no more but to spend the remainder of her
life in absolute retirement; yet upon some few occasions she thought
it her duty to violate this resolution. In compliance with the
importunate request of the honourable Mrs. Thynne, she passed some
months with her at London, after the death of her daughter the lady
Brooke, and upon the decease of Mrs. Thynne herself, she could not
dispute the commands of the countess of Hertford, who earnestly
desired her company, to soften the severe affliction of the loss of so
excellent a mother, and once or twice more, the power which this lady
had over Mrs. Rowe, drew her, with an obliging kind of violence,
to spend a few months with her in the country. Yet, even on these
occasions she never quitted her retreat without sincere regret, and
always returned to it, as soon as she could with decency disengage
herself from the importunity of her noble friends. It was in this
recess that she composed the most celebrated of her works, in twenty
Letters from the Dead to the Living; the design of which is to impress
the notion of the soul's immortality, without which all virtue and
religion, with their temporal and eternal good conferences must fall
to the ground.
* * * * *
Some who pretend to have no scruples about the being of a God, have
yet doubts about their own eternal existence, though many authors have
established it, both by christian and moral proofs, beyond reasonable
contradiction. But since no means should be left untried, in a point
of such awful importance, a virtuous endeavour to make the mind
familiar with the thoughts of immortality, and contract as it were
unawares, an habitual persuasion of it, by writings built on that
foundation, and addressed to the affections, and imagination, cannot
be thought improper, either as a doctrine or amusement: Amusement, for
which the world makes so large a demand, and which generally speaking
is nothing but an art of forgetting that immortality, the form,
belief, and advantageous contemplation, of which this higher amusement
would recommend.
In the year 1736, the importunity of some of Mrs. Rowe's acquaintance
who had seen the History of Joseph in MS. prevailed on her to print
it. The publication of this piece did not long precede the time of her
death, to prepare for which had been the great business of her life;
and it stole upon her according to her earnest wishes, in her
beloved recess. She was favoured with a very uncommon strength of
constitution, and had pass'd a long series of years with scarce any
indisposition, severe enough to confine her to bed.----But about half
a year before her decease, she was attacked with a distemper, which
seemed to herself as well as others, attended with danger. Tho' this
disorder found her mind not quite so serene and prepared to meet death
as usual; yet when by devout contemplation, she had fortified herself
against that fear and diffidence, from which the most exalted piety
does not always secure us in such an awful hour, she experienced such
divine satisfaction and transport, that she said with tears of joy,
she knew not that she ever felt the like in all her life, and she
repeated on this occasion Pope's beautiful soliloquy of the dying
Christian to his soul.
An ELEGY, &c.
The dying CHRISTIAN to his Soul.