Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe.
They fit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhime;
Then rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tott'ring steps and slow:
This soon too rude an exercise they find;
Strait on the couch their limbs again they throw,
Where hours on hours they sighing lie reclin'd,
And court the vapoury God soft breathing in the wind.
In the two following Stanzas, the dropsy and hypochondria are
beautifully described.
Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Soft swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy:
Unwieldly man; with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply;
For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit,
Mother of spleen, in robes of various die,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit;
And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit.
A lady proud she was, of antient blood,
Yet oft her fear, her pride made crouchen low:
She felt, or fancy'd in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spitals know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow;
And still new leaches, and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering too and fro;
For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry,
And sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.
The speech of Sir Industry in the second Canto, when he enumerates the
various blessings which flow from action, is surely one of the highest
instances of genius which can be produced in poetry. In the second
stanza, before he enters upon the subject, the poet complains of the
decay of patronage, and the general depravity of taste; and in the third
breaks out into the following exclamation, which is so perfectly
beautiful, that it would be the greatest mortification not to transcribe
it,
I care not, fortune, what you me deny:
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shews her bright'ning face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream at eve:
Let health my nerves, and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave;
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
Before we quit this poem, permit us, reader, to give you two more
stanzas from it: the first shews Mr. Thomson's opinion of Mr. Quin as an
actor; of their friendship we may say more hereafter.
STANZA LXVII.
Of the CASTLE of INDOLENCE.
Here whilom ligg'd th'Aesopus[6] of the age;
But called by fame, in foul ypricked deep,
A noble pride restor'd him to the stage,
And rous'd him like a giant from his sleep.
Even from his slumbers we advantage reap:
With double force th'enliven'd scene he wakes,
Yet quits not nature's bounds. He knows to keep
Each due decorum: now the heart he shakes,
And now with well-urg'd sense th'enlighten'd judgment takes.
The next stanza (wrote by a friend of the author's, as the note
mentions) is a friendly, though familiar, compliment; it gives us an
image of our bard himself, at once entertaining, striking, and just.
STANZA LXVIII.
A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,
Who void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain:
The world forsaking with a calm disdain.
Here laugh'd he, careless in his easy seat;
Here quaff'd, encircl'd with the joyous train,
Oft moralizing sage: his ditty sweet
He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.
We shall now consider Mr. Thomson as a dramatic writer.
In the year 1730, about six years after he had been in London, he
brought a Tragedy upon the stage, called Sophonisba, built upon the
Carthaginian history of that princess, and upon which the famous
Nathaniel Lee has likewise written a Tragedy. This play met with a
favourable reception from the public. Mrs. Oldfield greatly
distinguished herself in the character of Sophonisba, which Mr. Thomson
acknowledges in his preface.--'I cannot conclude, says he, without
owning my obligations to those concerned in the representation. They
have indeed done me more than justice; Whatever was designed as amiable
and engageing in Masinessa shines out in Mr. Wilks's action. Mrs.
Oldfield, in the character of Sophonisba, has excelled what even in the
fondness of an author I could either wish or imagine. The grace, dignity
and happy variety of her action, have been universally applauded, and
are truly admirable.'
Before we quit this play, we must not omit two anecdotes which happened
the first night of the representation. Mr. Thomson makes one of his
characters address Sophonisba in a line, which some critics reckoned the
false pathetic.
O! Sophonisba, Sophonisba Oh!
Upon which a smart from the pit cried out,
Oh! Jamey Thomson, Jamey Thomson Oh!
However ill-natured this critic might be in interrupting the action of
the play for sake of a joke; yet it is certain that the line ridiculed
does partake of the false pathetic, and should be a warning to tragic
poets to guard against the swelling stile; for by aiming at the sublime,
they are often betrayed into the bombast.--Mr. Thomson who could not but
feel all the emotions and sollicitudes of a young author the first night
of his play, wanted to place himself in some obscure part of the house,
in order to see the representation to the best advantage, without being
known as the poet.--He accordingly placed himself in the upper gallery;
but such was the power of nature in him, that he could not help
repeating the parts along with the players, and would sometimes whisper
to himself, 'now such a scene is to open,' by which he was soon
discovered to be the author, by some gentlemen who could not, on account
of the great crowd, be situated in any other part of the house.
After an interval of four years, Mr. Thomson exhibited to the public his
second Tragedy called Agamemnon. Mr. Pope gave an instance of his great
affection to Mr. Thomson on this occasion: he wrote two letters in its
favour to the managers, and honoured the representation on the first
night with his presence. As he had not been for some time at a play,
this was considered as a very great instance of esteem. Mr. Thomson
submitted to have this play considerably shortened in the action, as
some parts were too long, other unnecessary, in which not the character
but the poet spoke; and though not brought on the stage till the month
of April, it continued to be acted with applause for several nights.
Many have remark'd that his characters in his plays are more frequently
descriptive, than expressive, of the passions; but they all abound with
uncommon beauties, with fire, and depth of thought, with noble
sentiments and nervous writing. His speeches are often too long,
especially for an English audience; perhaps sometimes they are
unnaturally lengthened: and 'tis certainly a greater relief to the ear
to have the dialogue more broken; yet our attention is well rewarded,
and in no passages, perhaps, in his tragedies, more so, than in the
affecting account Melisander [7] gives of his being betrayed, and left
on the desolate island.
--'Tis thus my friend.
Whilst sunk in unsuspecting sleep I lay,
Some midnight ruffians rush'd into my chamber,
Sent by Egisthus, who my presence deem'd
Obstructive (so I solve it) to his views,
Black views, I fear, as you perhaps may know,
Sudden they seiz'd, and muffled up in darkness,
Strait bore me to the sea, whose instant prey
I did conclude myself, when first around
The ship unmoor'd, I heard the chiding wave.
But these fel tools of cruel power, it seems,
Had orders in a desart isle to leave me;
There hopeless, helpless, comfortless, to prove
The utmost gall and bitterness of death.
Thus malice often overshoots itself,
And some unguarded accident betrays
The man of blood.--Next night--a dreary night!
Cast on the wildest of the Cyclad Isles,
Where never human foot had mark'd the shore,
These ruffians left me.--Yet believe me, Arcas,
Such is the rooted love we bear mankind,
All ruffians as they were, I never heard
A sound so dismal as their parting oars.--
Then horrid silence follow'd, broke alone
By the low murmurs of the restless deep,
Mixt with the doubtful breeze that now and then
Sigh'd thro' the mournful woods. Beneath a shade
I sat me down, more heavily oppress'd,
More desolate at heart, than e'er I felt
Before. When, Philomela, o'er my head
Began to tune her melancholy strain,
As piteous of my woes, 'till, by degrees,
Composing sleep on wounded nature shed
A kind but short relief. At early morn,
Wak'd by the chant of birds, I look'd around
For usual objects: objects found I none,
Except before me stretch'd the toiling main,
And rocks and woods in savage view behind.
Wrapt for a moment in amaz'd confusion,
My thought turn'd giddy round; when all at once,
To memory full my dire condition rush'd--
In the year 1736 Mr. Thomson offered to the stage a Tragedy called
Edward and Eleonora, which was forbid to be acted, for some political
reason, which it is not in our power to guess.
The play of Tancred and Sigismunda was acted in the year 1744; this
succeeded beyond any other of Thomson's plays, and is now in possesion
of the stage. The plot is borrowed from a story in the celebrated
romance of Gil Blas: The fable is very interesting, the characters are
few, but active; and the attention in this play is never suffered to
wander. The character of Seffredi has been justly censured as
inconsistent, forced, and unnatural.
By the command of his royal highness the prince of Wales, Mr. Thomson,
in conjunction with Mr. Mallet, wrote the Masque of Alfred, which was
performed twice in his royal highness's gardens at Cliffden. Since Mr.
Thomson's death, this piece has been almost entirely new modelled by Mr.
Mallet, and brought on the stage in the year 1751, its success being
fresh in the memory of its frequent auditors, 'tis needless to say more
concerning it.
Mr. Thomson's last Tragedy, called Coriolanus, was not acted till after
his death; the profits of it were given to his sisters in Scotland, one
of whom is married to a minister there, and the other to a man of low
circumstances in the city of Edinburgh. This play, which is certainly
the least excellent of any of Thomson's, was first offered to Mr.
Garrick, but he did not think proper to accept it. The prologue was
written by Sir George Lyttleton, and spoken by Mr. Quin, which had a
very happy effect upon the audience. Mr. Quin was the particular friend
of Thomson, and when he spoke the following lines, which are in
themselves very tender, all the endearments of a long acquaintance, rose
at once to his imagination, while the tears gushed from his eyes.
He lov'd his friends (forgive this gushing tear:
Alas! I feel I am no actor here)
He lov'd his friends with such a warmth of heart,
So clear of int'rest, so devoid of art,
Such generous freedom, such unshaken real,
No words can speak it, but our tears may tell.
The beautiful break in these lines had a fine effect in speaking. Mr.
Quin here excelled himself; he never appeared a greater actor than at
this instant, when he declared himself none: 'twas an exquisite stroke
to nature; art alone could hardly reach it. Pardon the digression,
reader, but, we feel a desire to say somewhat more on this head. The
poet and the actor were friends, it cannot then be quite foreign to the
purpose to proceed. A deep fetch'd sigh filled up the heart felt pause;
grief spread o'er all the countenance; the tear started to the eye, the
muscles fell, and,
'The whiteness of his cheek
Was apter than his tongue to speak his tale.'
They all expressed the tender feelings of a manly heart, becoming a
Thomson's friend. His pause, his recovery were masterly; and he
delivered the whole with an emphasis and pathos, worthy the excellent
lines he spoke; worthy the great poet and good man, whose merits they
painted, and whose loss they deplored.
The epilogue too, which was spoken by Mrs. Woffington, with an exquisite
humour, greatly pleased. These circumstances, added to the consideration
of the author's being no more, procured this play a run of nine nights,
which without these assistances 'tis likely it could not have had; for,
without playing the critic, it is not a piece of equal merit to many
other of his works. It was his misfortune as a dramatist, that he never
knew when to have done; he makes every character speak while there is
any thing to be said; and during these long interviews, the action too
stands still, and the story languishes. His Tancred and Sigismunda may
be excepted from this general censure: But his characters are too little
distinguished; they seldom vary from one another in their manner of
speaking. In short, Thomson was born a descriptive poet; he only wrote
for the stage, from a motive too obvious to be mentioned, and too strong
to be refilled. He is indeed the eldest born of Spenser, and he has
often confessed that if he had any thing excellent in poetry, he owed it
to the inspiration he first received from reading the Fairy Queen, in
the very early part of his life.
In August 1748 the world was deprived of this great ornament of poetry
and genius, by a violent fever, which carried him off in the 48th year
of his age. Before his death he was provided for by Sir George
Littleton, in the profitable place of comptroller of America, which he
lived not long to enjoy. Mr. Thomson was extremely beloved by his
acquaintance. He was of an open generous disposition; and was sometimes
tempted to an excessive indulgence of the social pleasures: A failing
too frequently inseparable from men of genius. His exterior appearance
was not very engaging, but he grew more and more agreeable, as he
entered into conversation: He had a grateful heart, ready to acknowledge
every favour he received, and he never forgot his old benefactors,
notwithstanding a long absence, new acquaintance, and additional
eminence; of which the following instance cannot be unacceptable to the
reader.
Some time before Mr. Thomson's fatal illness, a gentleman enquired for
him at his house in Kew-Lane, near Richmond, where he then lived. This
gentleman had been his acquaintance when very young, and proved to be
Dr. Gustard, the son of a revd. minister in the city of Edinburgh. Mr.
Gustard had been Mr. Thomson's patron in the early part of his life, and
contributed from his own purse (Mr. Thomson's father not being in very
affluent circumstances) to enable him to prosecute his studies. The
visitor sent not in his name, but only intimated to the servant that an
old acquaintance desired to see Mr. Thomson. Mr. Thomson came forward to
receive him, and looking stedfastly at him (for they had not seen one
another for many years) said, Troth Sir, I cannot say I ken your
countenance well--Let me therefore crave your name. Which the gentleman
no sooner mentioned but the tears gushed from Mr. Thomson's eyes. He
could only reply, good God! are you the son of my dear friend, my old
benefactor; and then rushing to his arms, he tenderly embraced him;
rejoicing at so unexpected a meeting.
It is a true observation, that whenever gratitude is absent from a
heart, it is generally capable of the most consummate baseness; and on
the other hand, where that generous virtue has a powerful prevalence in
the soul, the heart of such a man is fraught with all those other
endearing and tender qualities, which constitute goodness. Such was the
heart of this amiable poet, whose life was as inoffensive as his page
was moral: For of all our poets he is the farthest removed from whatever
has the appearance of indecency; and, as Sir George Lyttleton happily
expresses it, in the prologue to Mr. Thomson's Coriolanus,
--His chaste muse employ'd her heav'n-taught lyre
None but the noblest passions to inspire,
Not one immoral, one corrupted thought,
One line, which dying he could wish to blot.
FOOTNOTES:
[1]
See winter comes to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train!
Vapours, and storms, and clouds; be these my theme;
These that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
And heav'nly musing; welcome kindred glooms.
Congenial horrors hail!--with frequent foot
Oft have I in my pleasing calm of life,
When nurs'd by careless solitude I liv'd,
Oft have I wander'd thro' your rough domain;
Trod the pure virgin snows; my self as pure;
Heard the winds blow, or the big torrents burst,
Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew'd
In the red evening sky. Thus pass'd the time,
'Till from the lucid chambers of the south
Look'd out the joyous spring, look'd out and smil'd.
[2] Mr. Mallet was his quondam schoolfellow (but much his junior) they
contracted an early intimacy, which improved with their years, nor
was it ever once disturbed by any casual mistake, envy, or jealousy
on either side: a proof that two writers of merit may agree, in
spite of the common observation to the contrary.
[3] The Winter was first wrote in detached pieces, or occasional
descriptions; it was by the advice of Mr. Mallet they were collected
and made into one connected piece. This was finished the first of
all the seasons, and was the first poem he published. By the farther
advice, and at the earnest request, of Mr. Mallet, he wrote the
other three seasons.
[4] Though 'tis possible this piece might be offered to more Printers
who could read, than could taste, nor is it very surprizing, that an
unknown author might meet with a difficulty of this sort; since an
eager desire to peruse a new piece, with a fashionable name to it,
shall, in one day, occasion the sale of thousands of what may never
reach a second edition: while a work, that has only its intrinsic
merit to depend on, may lie long dormant in a Bookseller's shop,
'till some person, eminent for taste, points out its worth to the
many, declares the bullion sterling, stamps its value with his name,
and makes it pass current with the world. Such was the fate of
Thomson at this juncture: Such heretofore was Milton's, whose works
were only found in the libraries of the curious, or judicious few,
'till Addison's remarks spread a taste for them; and, at length, it
became even unfashionable not to have read them.
[5] The old name of China.
[6] Mr. Quin.
[7] The mention of this name reminds me of an obligation I had to Mr.
Thomson; and, at once, an opportunity offers, of gratefully
acknowledging the favour, and doing myself justice.
I had the pleasure of perusing the play of Agamemnon, before it was
introduced to the manager. Mr. Thomson was so thoroughly satisfied
(I might say more) with my reading of it; he said, he was confirmed
in his design of giving to me the part of Melisander. When I
expressed my sentiments of the favour, he told me, he thought it
none; that my old acquaintance Savage knew, he had not forgot my
taste in reading the poem of Winter some years before: he added,
that when (before this meeting) he had expressed his doubt, to which
of the actors he should give this part (as he had seen but few plays
since his return from abroad) Savage warmly urged, I was the fittest
person, and, with an oath affirmed, that Theo. Cibber would taste
it, feel it, and act it; perhaps he might extravagantly add, 'beyond
any one else.' 'Tis likely, Mr. Savage might be then more vehement
in this assertion, as some of his friends had been more used to see
me in a comic, than a serious light; and which was, indeed, more
frequently my choice. But to go on. When I read the play to the
manager, Mr. Quin, &c. (at which several gentlemen, intimate friends
of the author, were present) I was complimented by them all; Mr.
Quin particularly declared, he never heard a play done so much
justice to, in reading, through all its various parts, Mrs. Porter
also (who on this occasion was to appear in the character of
Clytemnestra) so much approved my entering into the taste, sense,
and spirit of the piece, that she was pleased to desire me to repeat
a reading of it, which, at her request, and that of other principal
performers, I often did; they all confessed their approbation, with
thanks.
When this play was to come forward into rehearsal, Mr. Thomson told
me, another actor had been recommended to him for this part in
private, by the manager (who, by the way) our author, or any one
else, never esteemed as the best judge, of either play, or player.
But money may purchase, and interest procure, a patent, though they
cannot purchase taste, or parts, the person proposed was, possibly,
some favoured flatterer, the partner of his private pleasures, or
humble admirer of his table talk: These little monarchs have their
little courtiers. Mr. Thomson insisted on my keeping the part. He
said, 'Twas his opinion, none but myself, or Mr. Quin, could do it
any justice; and, as that excellent actor could not be spared from
the part of Agamemnon (in the performance of which character he
added to his reputation, though before justly rated as the first
actor of that time) he was peremptory for my appearing in it; I did
so, and acquitted myself to the satisfaction of the author and his
friends (men eminent in rank, in taste, and knowledge) and received
testimonies of approbation from the audience, by their attention and
applause.
By this time the reader may be ready to cry out, 'to what purpose is
all this?' Have patience, sir. As I gained reputation in the
forementioned character, is there any crime in acknowledging my
obligation to Mr. Thomson? or, am I unpardonable, though I should
pride myself on his good opinion and friendship? may not gratitude,
as well as vanity, be concerned in this relation? but there is
another reason that may stand as an excuse, for my being led into
this long narrative; which, as it is only an annotation, not made
part of our author's life, the reader, at his option, may peruse, or
pass it over, without being interrupted in his attention to what
more immediately concerns Mr. Thomson. As what I have related is a
truth, which living men of worth can testify; and as it evidently
shows that Mr. Savage's opinion of me as an actor was, in this
latter part of his life, far from contemptible, of which, perhaps,
in his earlier days he had too lavishly spoke; I thought this no
improper (nor ill-timed) contradiction to a remark the writer of[7A]
Mr. Savage's Life has been pleased, in his Gaité de Coeur, to make,
which almost amounts to an unhandsome innuendo, that Mr. Savage, and
some of his friends, thought me no actor at all.
I accidentally met with the book some years ago, and dipt into that
part where the author says, 'The preface (to Sir Thomas Overbury)
contains a very liberal encomium on the blooming excellences of Mr.
Theophilus Cibber, which Mr. Savage could not, in the latter part of
his life, see his friends about to read, without snatching the play
out of their hands.' As poor Savage was well remembered to have been
as inconsiderate, inconsistent, and inconstant a mortal as ever
existed, what he might have said carried but little weight; and, as
he would blow both hot and cold, nay, too frequently, to gratify the
company present, would sacrifice the absent, though his best friend,
I disregarded this invidious hint, 'till I was lately informed, a
person of distinction in the learned world, had condescended to
become the biographer of this unhappy man's unimportant life: as the
sanction of such a name might prove of prejudice to me, I have since
thought it worth my notice.