Outstrip'd the winds, in speed upon the plain,
Flew o'er the fields, nor hurt the bearded grain:
She swept the seas, and as she skim'd along,
Her flying feet, unbath'd, on billows hung.
PITT.
She led the rapid race, and left behind,
The flagging floods, and pinions of the wind;
Lightly she flies along the level plain,
Nor hurts the tender grass, nor bends the golden grain;
Or o'er the swelling surge suspended sweeps,
And smoothly skims unbath'd along the deeps.
We shall produce one passage of a very different kind from the former,
that the reader may have the pleasure of making the comparison. This is
the celebrated simile in the XIth Book, when the fiery eagerness of
Turnus panting for the battle, is resembled to that of a Steed; which is
perhaps one of the most picturesque beauties in the whole Aeneid.
Qualis, ubi abruptis fugit præsepia vinc'lis,
Tandem liber equus, campoque potitus aperto;
Aut ille in pastus armentaque tendit equarum,
Aut assuetus aquæ perfundi flumine noto
Emicat; arrectisque fremit cervicibus alte
Luxurians, luduntque jubæ per colla, per armos.
DRYDEN.
Freed from his keepers, thus with broken reins,
The wanton courser prances o'er the plains:
Or in the pride of youth, o'erleaps the mounds,
And snuffs the females in forbidden grounds.
Or seeks his wat'ring in the well-known flood,
To quench his thirst, and cool his fiery blood:
He swims luxuriant in the liquid plain;
And o'er his shoulders flows his waving main.
He neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high;
Before his ample chest, the frothy waters fly.
PITT.
So the gay pamper'd steed with loosen'd reins,
Breaks from the stall, and pours along the plains;
With large smooth strokes he rushes to the flood,
Bathes his bright sides, and cools his fiery blood;
Neighs as he flies, and tossing high his head,
Snuffs the fair females in the distant mead;
At every motion o'er his neck reclin'd,
Plays his redundant main, and dances in the wind.
From the above specimens, our readers may determine for themselves to
whose translation they would give the preference. Critics, like
historians, should divest themselves of prejudice: they should never be
misguided by the authority of a great name, nor yield that tribute to
prescription, which is only due to merit. Mr. Pitt, no doubt, had many
advantages above Dryden in this arduous province: As he was later in the
attempt, he had consequently the version of Dryden to improve upon. He
saw the errors of that great poet, and avoided them; he discovered his
beauties, and improved upon them; and as he was not impelled by
necessity, he had leisure to revise, correct, and finish his excellent
work.
The Revd. and ingenious Mr. Joseph Warton has given to the world a
compleat edition of Virgil's works made English. The Aeneid by Mr. Pitt:
The Eclogues, Georgics, and notes on the whole, by himself; with some
new observations by Mr. Holdsworth, Mr. Spence, and others. This is the
compleatest English dress, in which Virgil ever appeared. It is enriched
with a dissertation on the VIth Book of the Aeneid, by Warburton. On the
Shield of Aeneas, by Mr. William Whitehead. On the Character of Japis,
by the late Dr. Atterbury bishop of Rochester; and three Essays on
Pastoral, Didactic, and Epic Poetry, by Mr. Warton.
* * * * *
Mr. HAMMOND.
This Gentleman, known to the world by the Love Elegies, which some years
after his death were published by the Earl of Chesterfield, was the son
of a Turkey merchant, in the city of London. We cannot ascertain where
he received his education; but it does not appear that he was at any of
the universities. Mr. Hammond was early preferred to a place about the
person of the late Prince of Wales, which he held till an unfortunate
accident stript him of his reason, or at least so affected his
imagination, that his senses were greatly disordered. The unhappy cause
of his calamity was a passion he entertained for one Miss Dashwood,
which proved unsuccessful. Upon this occasion it was that he wrote his
Love Elegies, which have been much celebrated for their tenderness. The
lady either could not return his passion with a reciprocal fondness, or
entertained too ambitious views to settle her affections upon him, which
he himself in some of his Elegies seems to hint; for he frequently
mentions her passion for gold and splendour, and justly treats it as
very unworthy a fair one's bosom. The chief beauty of these Elegies
certainly consists in their being written by a man who intimately felt
the subject; for they are more the language of the heart than of the
head. They have warmth, but little poetry, and Mr. Hammond seems to have
been one of those poets, who are made so by love, not by nature.
Mr. Hammond died in the year 1743, in the thirty-first year of his age,
at Stow, the seat of his kind patron, the lord Cobham, who honoured him
with a particular intimacy. The editor of Mr. Hammond's Elegies
observes, that he composed them before he was 21 years of age; a period,
says he, when fancy and imagination commonly riot at the expence of
judgment and correctness. He was sincere in his love, as in his
friendship; he wrote to his mistress, as he spoke to his friends,
nothing but the true genuine sentiments of his heart. Tibullus seems to
have been the model our author judiciously preferred to Ovid; the former
writing directly from the heart to the heart, the latter too often
yielding and addressing himself to the imagination.
As a specimen of Mr. Hammond's turn for Elegiac Poetry, we shall quote
his third Elegy, in which he upbraids and threatens the avarice of
Neæra, and resolves to quit her.
Should Jove descend in floods of liquid ore,
And golden torrents stream from every part,
That craving bosom still would heave for more,
Not all the Gods cou'd satisfy thy heart.
But may thy folly, which can thus disdain
My honest love, the mighty wrong repay,
May midnight-fire involve thy sordid gain,
And on the shining heaps of rapine prey.
May all the youths, like me, by love deceiv'd,
Not quench the ruin, but applaud the doom,
And when thou dy'st, may not one heart be griev'd:
May not one tear bedew the lonely tomb.
But the deserving, tender, gen'rous maid,
Whose only care is her poor lover's mind,
Tho' ruthless age may bid her beauty fade,
In every friend to love, a friend shall find.
And when the lamp of life will burn no more,
When dead, she seems as in a gentle sleep,
The pitying neighbour shall her loss deplore;
And round the bier assembled lovers weep.
With flow'ry garlands, each revolving year
Shall strow the grave, where truth and softness rest,
Then home returning drop the pious tear,
And bid the turff lie easy on her breast.
* * * * *
Mr. JOHN BANKS.
This poet was the son of Mr. John Banks of Sunning in Berkshire, in
which place he was born in 1709. His father dying while our author was
very young, the care of his education devolved upon an uncle in law, who
placed him at a private school, under the tuition of one Mr. Belpene, an
Anabaptist. This schoolmaster, so far from encouraging young Banks to
make a great progress in classical learning, exerted his influence with
his relations to have him taken from school, and represented him as
incapable of receiving much erudition. This conduct in Mr. Belpene
proceeded from an early jealousy imbibed against this young man, who, so
far from being dull, as the school-master represented him, possessed
extraordinary parts, of which he gave very early proofs.
Mr. Belpene was perhaps afraid, that as soon as Mr. Banks mould finish
his education, he would be preferred to him as minister to the
congregation of Anabaptists, which place he enjoyed, independent of his
school. The remonstrances of Mr. Belpene prevailed with Mr. Banks's
uncle, who took him from school, and put him apprentice to a Weaver at
Reading. Before the expiration of the apprenticeship, Mr. Banks had the
misfortune to break his arm, and by that accident was disqualified from
pursuing the employment to which he was bred. How early Mr. Banks began
to write we cannot determine, but probably the first sallies of his wit
were directed against this school-master, by whom he was injuriously
treated, and by whose unwarrantable jealousy his education, in some
measure, was ruined. Our author, by the accident already mentioned,
being rendered unfit to obtain a livelihood, by any mechanical
employment, was in a situation deplorable enough. His uncle was either
unable, or unwilling to assist him, or, perhaps, as the relation between
them was only collateral, he had not a sufficient degree of tenderness
for him, to make any efforts in his favour. In this perplexity of our
young poet's affairs, ten pounds were left him by a relation, which he
very oeconomically improved to the best advantage. He came to London,
and purchasing a parcel of old books, he set up a stall in
Spital-Fields.
Much about this time Stephen Duck, who had wrote a poem called The
Thresher, reaped very great advantages from it, and was caressed by
persons in power, who, in imitation of the Royal patroness, heaped
favours upon him, perhaps more on account of the extraordinary regard
Queen Caroline had shewn him, than any opinion of his merit. Mr. Banks
considered that the success of Mr. Duck was certainly owing to the
peculiarity of his circumstances, and that the novelty of a thresher
writing verses, was the genuine cause of his being taken notice of, and
not any intrinsic excellence in the verses themselves. This reflexion
inspired him with a resolution of making an effort of the same kind; but
as curiosity was no more to be excited by novelty, the attempt was
without success. He wrote, in imitation of The Thresher, The Weaver's
Miscellany, which failed producing the intended effect, and, 'tis said,
never was reckoned by Mr. Banks himself as any way worthy of particular
distinction. His business of selling books upon a stall becoming
disagreeable to him, as it demanded a constant and uncomfortable
attendance, he quitted that way of life, and was received into the shop
of one Mr. Montague a bookbinder, and bookseller, whom he served some
time as a journeyman. During the time he lived with Mr. Montague, he
employed his leisure hours in composing several poems, which were now
swelled to such a number, that he might sollicit a subscription for them
with a good grace. He had taken care to improve his acquaintance, and as
he had a power of distinguishing his company, he found his interest
higher in the world than he had imagined. He addressed a poem to Mr.
Pope, which he transmitted to that gentleman, with a copy of his
proposals inclosed. Mr. Pope answered his letter, and the civilities
contained in it, by subscribing for two setts of his poems, and 'tis
said he wrote to Mr. Banks the following compliment,
'May this put money in your purse:
For, friend, believe me, I've seen worse.'
The publication of these poems, while they, no doubt, enhanced his
interest, added likewise something to his reputation; and quitting his
employment at Mr. Montague's, he made an effort to live by writing only.
He engaged in a large work in folio, entitled, The Life of Christ, which
was very acceptable to the public, and was executed with much piety and
precision.
Mr. Banks's next prose work, of any considerable length, was A Critical
Review of the Life of Oliver Cromwell. We have already taken notice that
he received his education among the Anabaptists, and consequently was
attached to those principles, and a favourer of that kind of
constitution which Cromwell, in the first period of his power, meant to
establish. Of the many Lives of this great man, with which the biography
of this nation has been augmented, perhaps not one is written with a
true dispassionate candour. Men are divided in their sentiments
concerning the measures which, at that critical Æra, were pursued by
contending factions. The writers, who have undertaken to review those
unhappy times, have rather struggled to defend a party, to which they
may have been swayed by education or interest, than, by stripping
themselves of all partiality, to dive to the bottom of contentions in
search of truth. The heats of the Civil War produced such animosities,
that the fervour which then prevailed, communicated itself to posterity,
and, though at the distance of a hundred years, has not yet subsided. It
will be no wonder then if Mr. Banks's Review is not found altogether
impartial. He has, in many cases, very successfully defended Cromwell;
he has yielded his conduct, in others, to the just censure of the world.
But were a Whig and a Tory to read this book, the former would pronounce
him a champion for liberty, and the latter would declare him a subverter
of truth, an enemy to monarchy, and a friend to that chaos which Oliver
introduced.
Mr. Banks, by his early principles, was, no doubt, biassed to the Whig
interest, and, perhaps, it may be true, that in tracing the actions of
Cromwell, he may have dwelt with a kind of increasing pleasure on the
bright side of his character, and but slightly hinted at those facts on
which the other party fasten, when they mean to traduce him as a
parricide and an usurper. But supposing the allegation to be true, Mr.
Banks, in this particular, has only discovered the common failing of
humanity: prejudice and partiality being blemishes from which the mind
of man, perhaps, can never be entirely purged.
Towards the latter end of Mr. Banks's life, he was employed in writing
two weekly news-papers, the Old England, and the Westminster Journals.
Those papers treated chiefly on the politics of the times, and the trade
and navigation of England. They were carried on by our author, without
offence to any party, with an honest regard to the public interest, and
in the same kind of spirit, that works of that sort generally are. These
papers are yet continued by other hands.
Mr. Banks had from nature very considerable abilities, and his poems
deservedly hold the second rank. They are printed in two volumes 8vo.
Besides the poems contained in these volumes, there are several other
poetical pieces of his scattered in news-papers, and other periodical
works to which he was an occasional contributer. He had the talent of
relating a tale humorously in verse, and his graver poems have both
force of thinking, and elegance of numbers to recommend them.
Towards the spring of the year 1751 Mr. Banks, who had long been in a
very indifferent state of health, visibly declined. His disorder was of
a nervous sort, which he bore with great patience, and even with a
chearful resignation. This spring proved fatal to him; he died on the
19th of April at his house at Islington, where he had lived several
years in easy circumstances, by the produce of his pen, without leaving
one enemy behind him.
Mr. Banks was a man of real good nature, of an easy benevolent
disposition, and his friends ever esteemed him as a most agreeable
companion. He had none of the petulance, which too frequently renders
men of genius unacceptable to their acquaintance. He was of so composed
a temper, that he was seldom known to be in a passion, and he wore a
perpetual chearfulness in his countenance. He was rather bashful, than
forward; his address did not qualify him for gay company, and though he
possessed a very extensive knowledge of things, yet, as he had not much
grace of delivery, or elegance of manner, he could not make so good a
figure in conversation, as many persons of his knowledge, with a happier
appearance. Of all authors Mr. Banks was the farthest removed from envy
or malevolence. As he could not bear the least whisper of detraction, so
he was never heard to express uneasiness at the growing reputation of
another; nor was he ever engaged in literacy contests. We shall conclude
this article in the words of lord Clarendon. 'He that lives such a life,
need be less anxious at how short warning it is taken from him [1].'
[1] See lord Clarendon's character of the lord Falkland.
* * * * *
Mrs. LÆTITIA PILKINGTON.
This unfortunate poetess, the circumstances of whose life, written by
herself, have lately entertained the public, was born in the year 1712.
She was the daughter of Dr. Van Lewen, a gentleman of Dutch extraction,
who settled in Dublin. Her mother was descended of an ancient and
honourable family, who have frequently intermarried with the nobility.
Mrs. Pilkington, from her earliest infancy, had a strong disposition to
letters, and particularly to poetry. All her leisure hours were
dedicated to the muses; from a reader she quickly became a writer, and,
as Mr. Pope expresses it,
'She lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.'
Her performances were considered as extraordinary for her years, and
drew upon her the admiration of many, who found more pleasure in her
conversation, than that of girls generally affords. In consequence of a
poetical genius, and an engaging sprightliness peculiar to her, she had
many wooers, some of whom seriously addressed her, while others meant no
more than the common gallantries of young people. After the usual
ceremony of a courtship, she became the wife of Mr. Matthew Pilkington,
a gentleman in holy orders, and well known in the poetical world by his
volume of Miscellanies, revised by dean Swift. As we have few materials
for Mrs. Pilkington's life, beside those furnished by herself in her
Memoirs published in 1749, our readers must depend upon her veracity for
some facts which we may be obliged to mention, upon her sole authority.
Our poetess, says she, had not been long married, e'er Mr. Pilkington
became jealous, not of her person, but her understanding. She was
applauded by dean Swift, and many other persons of taste; every
compliment that was paid her, gave a mortal stab to his peace. Behold
the difference between the lover and the husband! When Mr. Pilkington
courted her, he was not more enamoured of her person, than her poetry,
he shewed her verses to every body in the enthusiasm of admiration: but
now he was become a husband, it was a kind of treason for a wife to
pretend to literary accomplishments.
It is certainly true, that when a woman happens to have more
understanding than her husband, she should be very industrious to
conceal it; but it is like wise true, that the natural vanity of the sex
is difficult to check, and the vanity of a poet still more difficult:
wit in a female mind can no more cease to sparkle, than she who
possesses it, can cease to speak. Mr. Pilkington began to view her with
scornful, yet with jealous eyes, and in this situation, nothing but
misery was likely to be their lot. While these jealousies subsisted, Mr.
Pilkington, contrary to the advice of his friends, went into England, in
order to serve as chaplain to alderman Barber during his mayoralty of
the city of London.
While he remained in London, and having the strange humour of loving his
wife best at a distance, he wrote her a very kind letter, in which he
informed her, that her verses were like herself, full of elegance and
beauty[1]; that Mr. Pope and others, to whom he had shewn them, longed
to see the writer, and that he heartily wished her in London. This
letter set her heart on flame. London has very attractive charms to most
young people, and it cannot be much wondered at if Mrs. Pilkington
should take the only opportunity she was ever likely to have, of
gratifying her curiosity: which however proved fatal to her; for though
we cannot find, that during this visit to London, her conduct was the
least reproachable, yet, upon her return to Ireland, she underwent a
violent persecution of tongues. They who envied her abilities, fastened
now upon her morals; they were industrious to trace the motives of her
going to London; her behaviour while she was there; and insinuated
suspicions against her chastity. These detracters were chiefly of her
own sex, who supplied by the bitterest malice what they wanted in power.
Not long after this an accident happened, which threw Mrs. Pilkington's
affairs into the utmost confusion. Her father was stabbed, as she has
related, by an accident, but many people in Dublin believe, by his own
wife, though some say, by his own hand. Upon this melancholy occasion,
Mrs. Pilkington has given an account of her father, which places her in
a very amiable light. She discovered for him the most filial tenderness;
she watched round his bed, and seems to have been the only relation then
about him, who deserved his blessing. From the death of her father her
sufferings begin, and the subsequent part of her life is a continued
series of misfortunes.
Mr. Pilkington having now no expectation of a fortune by her, threw off
all reserve in his behaviour to her. While Mrs. Pilkington was in the
country for her health, his dislike of her seems to have encreased,
and, perhaps, he resolved to get rid of his wife at any rate: nor was he
long waiting for an occasion of parting with her. The story of their
separation may be found at large in her Memoirs. The substance is, that
she was so indiscreet as to permit a gentleman to be found in her
bed-chamber at an unseasonable hour; for which she makes this apology.
'Lovers of learning I am sure will pardon me, as I solemnly declare, it
was the attractive charms of a new book, which the gentleman would not
lend me, but consented to stay till I read it through, that was the
sole motive of my detaining him.' This indeed is a poor evasion; and as
Mrs. Pilkington has said no more in favour of her innocence, they must
have great charity indeed with whom she can stand exculpated.
While the gentleman was with her, the servants let in twelve men at the
kitchen window, who, though they might, as she avers, have opened the
chamber door, chose rather to break it to pieces, and took both her and
the gentleman prisoners. Her husband now told her, that she must turn
out of doors; and taking hold of her hand, made a present of it to the
gentleman, who could not in honour refuse to take her, especially as his
own liberty was to be procured upon no other terms. It being then two
o'clock in the morning, and not knowing where to steer, she went home
with her gallant: but she sincerely assures us, that neither of them
entertained a thought of any thing like love, but sat like statues 'till
break of day.
The gentleman who was found with her, was obliged to fly, leaving a
letter and five guineas inclosed in it for her. She then took a lodging
in some obscure street, where she was persecuted by infamous women, who
were panders to men of fortune.
In the mean time Mr. Pilkington carried on a vigorous prosecution
against her in the Spiritual Court; during which, as she says, he
solemnly declared, he would allow her a maintainance, if she never gave
him any opposition: but no sooner had he obtained a separation, than he
retracted every word he had said on that subject. Upon this she was
advised to lodge an appeal, and as every one whom he consulted, assured
him he would be cast, he made a proposal of giving her a small annuity,
and thirty pounds[2] in money; which, in regard to her children, she
chose to accept, rather than ruin their father. She was with child at
the time of her separation, and when her labour came on, the woman where
she lodged insisted upon doubling her rent: whereupon she was obliged to
write petitionary letters, which were not always successful.