with a common portion of understanding, yet Mr. Rickerton was not so
blind to his genius; he distinguished our author's early propension to
poetry, and had once in his hands some of the first attempts Mr. Thomson
ever made in that province.
It is not to be doubted but our young poet greatly improved while he
continued to converse with Mr. Rickerton, who, as he was a philosophical
man, inspired his mind with a love of the Sciences, nor were the revd.
gentleman's endeavours in vain, for Mr. Thomson has shewn in his works
how well he was acquainted with natural and moral philosophy, a
circumstance which, perhaps, is owing to the early impressions he
received from Mr. Rickerton.
Nature, which delights in diversifying her gifts, does not bestow upon
every one a power of displaying the abilities she herself has granted to
the best advantage. Though Mr. Rickerton could discover that Mr.
Thomson, so far from being without parts, really possessed a very fine
genius, yet he never could have imagined, as he often declared, that
there existed in his mind such powers, as even by the best cultivation
could have raised him to so high a degree of eminence amongst the poets.
When Mr. Rickerton first saw Mr. Thomson's Winter, which was in a
Bookseller's shop at Edinburgh, he stood amazed, and after he had read
the lines quoted below, he dropt the poem from his hand in the extasy of
admiration. The lines are his induction to Winter, than which few poets
ever rose to a more sublime height[1].
After spending the usual time at a country school in the acquisition of
the dead languages, Mr. Thomson was removed to the university of
Edinburgh, in order to finish his education, and be fitted for the
ministry. Here, as at the country school, he made no great figure: his
companions thought contemptuously of him, and the masters under whom he
studied, had not a higher opinion of our poet's abilities, than their
pupils. His course of attendance upon the classes of philosophy being
finished, he was entered in the Divinity Hall, as one of the candidates
for the ministry, where the students, before they are permitted to enter
on their probation, must yield six years attendance.
It was in the second year of Mr. Thomson's attendance upon this school
of divinity, whose professor at that time was the revd. and learned Mr.
William Hamilton, a person whom he always mentioned with respect, that
our author was appointed by the professor to write a discourse on the
Power of the Supreme Being. When his companions heard their task
assigned him, they could not but arraign the professor's judgment, for
assigning so copious a theme to a young man, from whom nothing equal to
the subject could be expected. But when Mr. Thomson delivered the
discourse, they had then reason to reproach themselves for want of
discernment, and for indulging a contempt of one superior to the
brightest genius amongst them. This discourse was so sublimely elevated,
that both the professor and the students who heard it delivered, were
astonished. It was written in blank verse, for which Mr. Hamilton
rebuked him, as being improper upon that occasion. Such of his
fellow-students as envied him the success of this discourse, and the
admiration it procured him, employed their industry to trace him as a
plagiary; for they could not be persuaded that a youth seemingly so much
removed from the appearance of genius, could compose a declamation, in
which learning, genius, and judgment had a very great share. Their
search, however, proved fruitless, and Mr. Thomson continued, while he
remained at the university, to possess the honour of that discourse,
without any diminution.
We are not certain upon what account it was that Mr. Thomson dropt the
notion of going into the ministry; perhaps he imagined it a way of life
too severe for the freedom of his disposition: probably he declined
becoming a presbyterian minister, from a consciousness of his own
genius, which gave him a right to entertain more ambitious views; for it
seldom happens, that a man of great parts can be content with obscurity,
or the low income of sixty pounds a year, in some retired corner of a
neglected country; which must have been the lot of Thomson, if he had
not extended his views beyond the sphere of a minister of the
established church of Scotland.
After he had dropt all thoughts of the clerical profession, he began to
be more sollicitous of distinguishing his genius, as he placed some
dependence upon it, and hoped to acquire such patronage as would enable
him to appear in life with advantage. But the part of the world where he
then was, could not be very auspicious to such hopes; for which reason
he began to turn his eyes towards the grand metropolis.
The first poem of Mr. Thomson's, which procured him any reputation from
the public, was his Winter, of which mention is already made, and
further notice will be taken; but he had private approbation for several
of his pieces, long before his Winter was published, or before he
quitted his native country. He wrote a Paraphrase on the 104th Psalm,
which, after it had received the approbation of Mr. Rickerton, he
permitted his friends to copy. By some means or other this Paraphrase
fell into the hands of Mr. Auditor Benson, who, expressing his
admiration of it, said, that he doubted not if the author was in London,
but he would meet with encouragement equal to his merit. This
observation of Benson's was communicated to Thomson by a letter, and, no
doubt, had its natural influence in inflaming his heart, and hastening
his journey to the metropolis. He soon set out for Newcastle, where he
took shipping, and landed at Billinsgate. When he arrived, it was his
immediate care to wait on [2]Mr. Mallet, who then lived in
Hanover-Square in the character of tutor to his grace the duke of
Montrose, and his late brother lord G. Graham. Before Mr. Thomson
reached Hanover-Square, an accident happened to him, which, as it may
divert some of our readers, we shall here insert. He had received
letters of recommendation from a gentleman of rank in Scotland, to some
persons of distinction in London, which he had carefully tied up in his
pocket-handkerchief. As he sauntered along the streets, he could not
withhold his admiration of the magnitude, opulence, and various objects
this great metropolis continually presented to his view. These must
naturally have diverted the imagination of a man of less reflexion, and
it is not greatly to be wondered at, if Mr. Thomson's mind was so
ingrossed by these new presented scenes, as to be absent to the busy
crowds around him. He often stopped to gratify his curiosity, the
consequences of which he afterwards experienced. With an honest
simplicity of heart, unsuspecting, as unknowing of guilt, he was ten
times longer in reaching Hanover-Square, than one less sensible and
curious would have been. When he arrived, he found he had paid for his
curiosity; his pocket was picked of his handkerchief, and all the
letters that were wrapped up in it. This accident would have proved very
mortifying to a man less philosophical than Thomson; but he was of a
temper never to be agitated; he then smiled at it, and frequently made
his companions laugh at the relation.
It is natural to suppose, that as soon as Mr. Thomson arrived in town,
he shewed to some of his friends his poem on Winter[3]. The approbation
it might meet with from them, was not, however, a sufficient
recommendation to introduce it to the world. He had the mortification of
offering it to several Booksellers without success, who, perhaps, not
being qualified themselves to judge of the merit of the performance,
refused to risque the necessary expences, on the work of an obscure
stranger, whose name could be no recommendation to it. These were severe
repulses; but, at last, the difficulty was surmounted. Mr. Mallet,
offered it to Mr. Millan, now Bookseller at Charing-Cross, who without
making any scruples, printed it. For some time Mr. Millan had reason to
believe, that he should be a loser by his frankness; for the impression
lay like as paper on his hands, few copies being sold, 'till by an
accident its merit was discovered.[4] One Mr. Whatley, a man of some
taste in letters, but perfectly enthusiastic in the admiration of any
thing which pleased him, happened to cast his eye upon it, and finding
something which delighted him, perused the whole, not without growing
astonishment, that the poem should be unknown, and the author obscure.
He learned from the Bookseller the circumstances already mentioned, and,
in the extasy of his admiration of this poem, he went from Coffee-house
to Coffee house, pointing out its beauties, and calling upon all men of
taste, to exert themselves in rescuing one of the greatest geniuses that
ever appeared, from obscurity. This had a very happy effect, for, in a
short time, the impression was bought up, and they who read the poem,
had no reason to complain of Mr. Whatley's exaggeration; for they found
it so compleatly beautiful, that they could not but think themselves
happy in doing justice to a man of so much merit.
The poem of Winter is, perhaps, the most finished, as well as most
picturesque, of any of the Four Seasons. The scenes are grand and
lively. It is in that season that the creation appears in distress, and
nature assumes a melancholy air; and an imagination so poetical as
Thomson's, could not but furnish those awful and striking images, which
fill the soul with a solemn dread of _those Vapours, and Storms, and
Clouds_, he has so well painted. Description is the peculiar talent of
Thomson; we tremble at his thunder in summer, we shiver with his
winter's cold, and we rejoice at the renovation of nature, by the sweet
influence of spring. But the poem deserves a further illustration, and
we shall take an opportunity of pointing out some of its most striking
beauties; but before we speak of these, we beg leave to relate the
following anecdote.
As soon as Winter was published, Mr. Thomson sent a copy of it as a
present to Mr. Joseph Mitchell, his countryman, and brother poet, who,
not liking many parts of it, inclosed to him the following couplet;
Beauties and faults so thick lye scattered here,
Those I could read, if these were not so near.
To this Mr. Thomson answered extempore.
Why all not faults, injurious Mitchell; why
Appears one beauty to thy blasted eye;
Damnation worse than thine, if worse can be,
Is all I ask, and all I want from thee.
Upon a friend's remonstrating to Mr. Thomson, that the expression of
blasted eye would look like a personal reflexion, as Mr. Mitchell had
really that misfortune, he changed the epithet blasted, into blasting.
But to return:
After our poet has represented the influence of Winter upon the face of
nature, and particularly described the severities of the frost, he has
the following beautiful transition;
--Our infant winter sinks,
Divested of its grandeur; should our eye
Astonish'd shoot into the frigid zone;
Where, for relentless months, continual night
Holds o'er the glitt'ring waste her starry reign:
There thro' the prison of unbounded wilds
Barr'd by the hand of nature from escape,
Wide roams the Russian exile. Nought around
Strikes his sad eye, but desarts lost in snow;
And heavy loaded groves; and solid floods,
That stretch athwart the solitary waste,
Their icy horrors to the frozen main;
And chearless towns far distant, never bless'd
Save when its annual course, the caravan
Bends to the golden coast of rich Cathay[5]
With news of human-kind. Yet there life glows;
Yet cherished there, beneath the shining waste,
The furry nations harbour: tipt with jet
Fair ermines, spotless as the snows they press;
Sables of glossy black; and dark embrown'd
Or beauteous, streak'd with many a mingled hue,
Thousands besides, the costly pride of courts.
The description of a thaw is equally picturesque. The following lines
consequent upon it are excellent.
--Those sullen seas
That wash th'ungenial pole, will rest no more
Beneath the shackles of the mighty North;
But rousing all their waves resistless heave.--
And hark! the lengthen'd roar continuous runs
Athwart the rested deep: at once it bursts
And piles a thousand mountains to the clouds.
Ill fares the bark, with trembling wretches charg'd,
That tost amid the floating fragments, moors
Beneath the shelter of an icy isle,
While night o'erwhelms the sea, and horror looks
More horrible. Can human force endure
Th' assembled mischiefs that besiege 'em round!
Heart-gnawing hunger, fainting weariness,
The roar of winds and waves, the crush of ice,
Now ceasing, now renew'd with louder rage,
And in dire ecchoes bellowing round the main.
As the induction of Mr. Thomson's Winter has been celebrated for its
sublimity, so the conclusion has likewise a claim to praise, for the
tenderness of the sentiments, and the pathetic force of the expression.
'Tis done!--Dread winter spreads her latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year.
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!
How dumb the tuneful! horror wide extends
Her desolate domain. Behold, fond man!
See here thy pictur'd life; pass some few years,
Thy flow'ring spring, thy summer's ardent strength,
Thy sober autumn fading into age,
And page concluding winter comes at last,
And shuts the scene.--
He concludes the poem by enforcing a reliance on providence, which will
in proper compensate for all those seeming severities, with which good
men are often oppressed.
--Ye good distrest!
Ye noble few! who here unbending stand
Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile,
And what your bounded view which only saw
A little part, deemed evil, is no more:
The storms of Wintry time will quickly pass,
And one unbounded Spring encircle all.
The poem of Winter meeting with such general applause, Mr. Thomson was
induced to write the other three seasons, which he finished with equal
success. His Autumn was next given to the public, and is the most
unfinished of the four; it is not however without its beauties, of which
many have considered the story of Lavinia, naturally and artfully
introduced, as the most affecting. The story is in itself moving and
tender. It is perhaps no diminution to the merit of this beautiful tale,
that the hint of it is taken from the book of Ruth in the Old Testament.
The author next published the Spring, the induction to which is very
poetical and beautiful.
Come gentle Spring, etherial mildness come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a show'r
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
It is addressed to the countess of Hertford, with the following elegant
compliment,
O Hertford! fitted, or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plains,
With innocence and meditation joined,
In soft assemblage; listen to the song,
Which thy own season paints; while nature all
Is blooming, and benevolent like thee.--
The descriptions in this poems are mild, like the season they paint; but
towards the end of it, the poet takes occasion to warn his countrymen
against indulging the wild and irregular passion of love. This
digression is one of the most affecting in the whole piece, and while he
paints the language of a lover's breast agitated with the pangs of
strong desire, and jealous transports, he at the same time dissuades the
ladies from being too credulous in the affairs of gallantry. He
represents the natural influence of spring, in giving a new glow to the
beauties of the fair creation, and firing their hearts with the passion
of love.
The shining moisture swells into her eyes,
In brighter flow; her wishing bosom heaves,
With palpitations wild; kind tumults seize
Her veins; and all her yielding soul is love.
From the keen gaze her lover turns away,
Full of the dear extatic power, and sick
With sighing languishment. Ah then, ye fair!
Be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts:
Dare not th'infectious sigh; the pleading look,
Down-cast, and low, in meek submission drest,
But full of guile. Let not the fervent tongue,
Prompt to deceive, with adulation smooth,
Gain on your purpos'd will. Nor in the bower,
Where woodbines flaunt, and roses shed a couch,
While evening draws her crimson curtains round,
Trust your soft minutes with betraying man.
Summer has many manly and striking beauties, of which the Hymn to the
Sun, is one of the sublimest and most masterly efforts of genius we have
ever seen.--There are some hints taken from Cowley's beautiful Hymn to
Light.--Mr. Thomson has subjoined a Hymn to the Seasons, which is not
inferior to the foregoing in poetical merit.
The Four Seasons considered separately, each Season as a distinct poem
has been judged defective in point of plan. There appears no particular
design; the parts are not subservient to one another; nor is there any
dependance or connection throughout; but this perhaps is a fault almost
inseparable from a subject in itself so diversified, as not to admit of
such limitation. He has not indeed been guilty of any incongruity; the
scenes described in spring, are all peculiar to that season, and the
digressions, which make up a fourth part of the poem, flow naturally. He
has observed the same regard to the appearances of nature in the other
seasons; but then what he has described in the beginning of any of the
seasons, might as well be placed in the middle, and that in the middle,
as naturally towards the close. So that each season may rather be called
an assemblage of poetical ideas, than a poem, as it seems written
without a plan.
Mr. Thomson's poetical diction in the Seasons is very peculiar to him:
His manner of writing is entirely his own: He has introduced a number of
compound words; converted substantives into verbs, and in short has
created a kind of new language for himself. His stile has been blamed
for its singularity and stiffness; but with submission to superior
judges, we cannot but be of opinion, that though this observation is
true, yet is it admirably fitted for description. The object he paints
stands full before the eye, we admire it in all its lustre, and who
would not rather enjoy a perfect inspection into a natural curiosity
through a microscope capable of discovering all the minute beauties,
though its exterior form should not be comely, than perceive an object
but faintly, through a microscope ill adapted for the purpose, however
its outside may be decorated. Thomson has a stiffness in his manner, but
then his manner is new; and there never yet arose a distinguished
genius, who had not an air peculiarly his own. 'Tis true indeed, the
tow'ring sublimity of Mr. Thomson's stile is ill adapted for the tender
passions, which will appear more fully when we consider him as a
dramatic writer, a sphere in which he is not so excellent as in other
species of poetry.
The merit of these poems introduced our author to the acquaintance and
esteem of several persons, distinguished by their rank, or eminent for
their talents:--Among the latter Dr. Rundle, afterwards bishop of Derry,
was so pleased with the spirit of benevolence and piety, which breathes
throughout the Seasons, that he recommended him to the friendship of the
late lord chancellor Talbot, who committed to him the care of his eldest
son, then preparing to set out on his travels into France and Italy.
With this young nobleman, Mr. Thomson performed (what is commonly
called) The Tour of Europe, and stay'd abroad about three years, where
no doubt he inriched his mind with the noble monuments of antiquity, and
the conversation of ingenious foreigners. 'Twas by comparing modern
Italy with the idea he had of the antient Romans, which furnished him
with the hint of writing his Liberty, in three parts. The first is
Antient and Modern Italy compared. The second Greece, and the third
Britain. The whole is addressed to the eldest son of lord Talbot, who
died in the year 1734, upon his travels.
Amongst Mr. Thomson's poems, is one to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton,
of which we shall say no more than this, that if he had never wrote any
thing besides, he deserved to enjoy a distinguished reputation amongst
the poets. Speaking of the amazing genius of Newton, he says,
Th'aerial flow of sound was known to him,
From whence it first in wavy circles breaks.
Nor could the darting beam of speed immense,
Escape his swift pursuit, and measuring eye.
Ev'n light itself, which every thing displays,
Shone undiscover'd, till his brighter mind
Untwisted all the shining robe of day;
And from the whitening undistinguished blaze,
Collecting every separated ray,
To the charm'd eye educ'd the gorgeous train
Of parent colours. First, the flaming red,
Sprung vivid forth, the tawny orange next,
And next refulgent yellow; by whose side
Fell the kind beams of all-refreshing green.
Then the pure blue, that swells autumnal skies,
Ætherial play'd; and then of sadder hue,
Emerg'd the deepen'd indico, as when
The heavy skirted evening droops with frost,
While the last gleamings of refracted light,
Died in the fainting violet away.
These when the clouds distil the rosy shower,
Shine out distinct along the watr'y bow;
While o'er our heads the dewy vision bends,
Delightful melting in the fields beneath.
Myriads of mingling dyes from these result,
And myriads still remain--Infinite source
Of beauty ever-flushing, ever new.
About the year 1728 Mr. Thomson wrote a piece called Britannia, the
purport of which was to rouse the nation to arms, and excite in the
spirit of the people a generous disposition to revenge the injuries done
them by the Spaniards: This is far from being one of his best poems.
Upon the death of his generous patron, lord chancellor Talbot, for whom
the nation joined with Mr. Thomson in the most sincere inward sorrow, he
wrote an elegiac poem, which does honour to the author, and to the
memory of that great man he meant to celebrate. He enjoyed, during lord
Talbot's life, a very profitable place, which that worthy patriot had
conferred upon him, in recompence of the care he had taken in forming
the mind of his son. Upon his death, his lordship's successor reserved
the place for Mr. Thomson, and always expected when he should wait upon
him, and by performing some formalities enter into the possession of it.
This, however, by an unaccountable indolence he neglected, and at last
the place, which he might have enjoyed with so little trouble, was
bestowed upon another.
Amongst the latest of Mr. Thomson's productions is his Castle of
Indolence, a poem of so extraordinary merit, that perhaps we are not
extravagant, when we declare, that this single performance discovers
more genius and poetical judgment, than all his other works put
together. We cannot here complain of want of plan, for it is artfully
laid, naturally conducted, and the descriptions rise in a beautiful
succession: It is written in imitation of Spenser's stile; and the
obsolete words, with the simplicity of diction in some of the lines,
which borders on the ludicrous, have been thought necessary to make the
imitation more perfect.
'The stile (says Mr. Thomson) of that admirable poet, as well as the
measure in which he wrote, are, as it were, appropriated by custom to
all allegorical poems written in our language; just as in French, the
stile of Marot, who lived under Francis the 1st, has been used in Tales
and familiar Epistles, by the politest writers of the age of Louis the
XIVth.'
We shall not at present enquire how far Mr. Thomson is justifiable in
using the obsolete words of Spenser: As Sir Roger de Coverley observed
on another occasion, much may be said on both sides. One thing is
certain, Mr. Thomson's imitation is excellent, and he must have no
poetry in his imagination, who can read the picturesque descriptions in
his Castle of Indolence, without emotion. In his LXXXIst Stanza he has
the following picture of beauty:
Here languid beauty kept her pale-fac'd court,
Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree,
From every quarter hither made resort;
Where, from gross mortal care, and bus'ness free,
They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury:
Or should they a vain shew of work assume,
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be?
To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom;
But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel and loom.