This comedy was first presented very hurriedly for the amusement of Prince Charles as he passed through Cambridge to York. Cowley himself describes it, then, as “neither made nor acted, but rough-drawn by him, and repeated by his scholars” for this temporary purpose. After the Restoration he endeavoured to do more justice to his juvenile work, by remodelling it, and producing it at the Duke of York’s theatre. But as many of the characters necessarily retained the features of the older play, and times had changed; it was easy to affix a false stigma to the poet’s pictures of the old Cavaliers; and the play was universally condemned as a satire on the Royalists. It was reproduced with success at the theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, as long afterwards as the year 1730.—Ed.
The anecdote, probably little known, may be found in “The Judgment of Dr. Prideaux in Condemning the Murder of Julius Cæsar by the Conspirators as a most villanous act, maintained,” 1721, p. 41.
In his letters there are uncommon instances of vivacity, whenever pointed against authors. The following have not yet met the public eye. What can be more maliciously pungent than this on Spence? “As I know Mr. J. Spence, I do not think I should have been so much delighted as Dr. Kippis with reading his letters. He was a good-natured harmless little soul, but more like a silver penny than a genius. It was a neat fiddle-faddle bit of sterling, that had read good books, and kept good company; but was too trifling for use, and only fit to please a child.”—On Dr. Nash’s first volume of ‘Worcestershire’: “It is a folio of prodigious corpulence, and yet dry enough; but it is finely dressed with many heads and views.” He characterises Pennant; “He is not one of our plodders (alluding to Gough); rather the other extreme; his corporal spirits (for I cannot call them animal) do not allow him to digest anything. He gave a round jump from ornithology to antiquity, and, as if they had any relation, thought he understood everything that lay between them. The report of his being disordered is not true; he has been with me, and at least is as composed as ever I saw him.” His literary correspondence with his friend Cole abounds with this easy satirical criticism—he delighted to ridicule authors!—as well as to starve the miserable artists he so grudgingly paid. In the very volumes he celebrated the arts, he disgraced them by his penuriousness; so that he loved to indulge his avarice at the expense of his vanity!
This opinion on Walpole’s talent for letter-writing was published in 1812, many years before the public had the present collection of his letters; my prediction has been amply verified. He wrote a great number to Bentley, the son of Dr. Bentley, who ornamented Gray’s works with some extraordinary designs. Walpole, who was always proud and capricious, observes his friend Cole, broke with Bentley because he would bring his wife with him to Strawberry-hill. He then asked Bentley for all his letters back, but he would not in return give Bentley’s own.
This whole correspondence abounded with literature, criticism, and wit of the most original and brilliant composition. This is the opinion of no friend, but an admirer, and a good judge; for it was Bentley’s own.
This is the renowned Strawberry-hill, a villa still standing on the banks of the Thames, between Teddington and Twickenham, but now despoiled of the large collection of pictures, curiosities, and articles of vertu so assiduously collected by Walpole during a long life. The ground on which it stands was originally partially occupied by a small cottage, built by a nobleman’s coachman for a lodging-house, and occupied by a toy-woman of the name of Chevenix. Hence Walpole says of it, in a letter to General Conway, “it is a little plaything house that I got out of Mrs. Chevenix’s shop, and is the prettiest bauble you ever saw.”—Ed.
Walpole’s characters are not often to be relied on, witness his injustice to Hogarth as a painter, and his insolent calumny of Charles I. His literary opinions of James I. and of Sidney might have been written without any acquaintance with the works he has so maliciously criticised. In his account of Sidney he had silently passed over the “Defence of Poetry;” and in his second edition has written this avowal, that “he had forgotten it; a proof that I at least did not think it sufficient foundation for so high a character as he acquired.” How heartless was the polished cynicism which could dare to hazard this false criticism! Nothing can be more imposing than his volatile and caustic criticisms on the works of James I., yet he had probably never opened that folio he so poignantly ridicules. He doubts whether two pieces, “The Prince’s Cabala,” and “The Duty of a King in his Royal Office,” were genuine productions of James I. The truth is that both these works are nothing more than extracts printed with those separate titles and drawn from the king’s “Basilicon Doron.” He had probably neither read the extracts nor the original.
It was such a person as Cole of Milton, his correspondent of forty years, who lived at a distance, and obsequious to his wishes, always looking up to him, though never with a parallel glance—with whom he did not quarrel, though if Walpole could have read the private notes Cole made in his MSS. at the time he was often writing the civilest letters of admiration,—even Cole would have been cashiered from his correspondence. Walpole could not endure equality in literary men.—Bentley observed to Cole, that Walpole’s pride and hauteur were excessive; which betrayed themselves in the treatment of Gray who had himself too much pride and spirit to forgive it when matters were made up between them, and Walpole invited Gray to Strawberry-hill. When Gray came, he, without any ceremony, told Walpole that though he waited on him as civility required, yet by no means would he ever be there on the terms of their former friendship, which he had totally cancelled.—From Cole’s MSS.
It is curious to observe that Kippis, who classifies with the pomp of enumeration his heap of pamphlets, imagines that, as Blackmore’s Epic is consigned to oblivion, so likewise must be the criticism, which, however, he confesses he could never meet with. An odd fate attends Dennis’s works: his criticism on a bad work ought to survive it, as good works have survived his criticisms.
See in Dennis’s “Original Letters” one to Tonson, entitled, “On the conspiracy against the reputation of Mr. Dryden.” It was in favour of folly against wisdom, weakness against power, &c.; Pope against Dryden. He closes with a well-turned period. “Wherever genius runs through a work, I forgive its faults; and wherever that is wanting, no beauties can touch me. Being struck by Mr. Dryden’s genius, I have no eyes for his errors; and I have no eyes for his enemies’ beauties, because I am not struck by their genius.”
In the narrative of his frenzy (quoted p. 56), his personnel is thus given. “His aspect was furious, his eyes were rather fiery than lively, which he rolled about in an uncommon manner. He often opened his mouth as if he would have uttered some matter of importance, but the sound seemed lost inwardly. His beard was grown, which they told me he would not suffer to be shaved, believing the modern dramatic poets had corrupted all the barbers of the town to take the first opportunity of cutting his throat. His eyebrows were grey, long, and grown together, which he knit with indignation when anything was spoken, insomuch that he seemed not to have smoothed his forehead for many years.”—Ed.
There is an epigram on Dennis by Savage, which Johnson has preserved in his Life; and I feel it to be a very correct likeness, although Johnson censures Savage for writing an epigram against Dennis, while he was living in great familiarity with the critic. Perhaps that was the happiest moment to write the epigram. The anecdote in the text doubtless prompted “the fool” to take this fair revenge and just chastisement. Savage has brought out the features strongly, in these touches—
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“Say what revenge on Dennis can be had, |
Dennis points his heavy cannon of criticism and thus bombards that aerial edifice, the “Rape of the Lock.” He is inquiring into the nature of poetical machinery, which, he oracularly pronounces, should be religious, or allegorical, or political; asserting the “Lutrin” of Boileau to be a trifle only in appearance, covering the deep political design of reforming the Popish Church!—With the yard of criticism he takes measure of the slender graces and tiny elegance of Pope’s aerial machines, as “less considerable than the human persons, which is without precedent. Nothing can be so contemptible as the persons or so foolish as the understandings of these hobgoblins. Ariel’s speech is one continued impertinence. After he has talked to them of black omens and dire disasters that threaten his heroine, those bugbears dwindle to the breaking a piece of china, to staining a petticoat, the losing a fan, or a bottle of sal volatile—and what makes Ariel’s speech more ridiculous is the place where it is spoken, on the sails and cordage of Belinda’s barge.” And then he compares the Sylphs to the Discord of Homer, whose feet are upon the earth, and head in the skies. “They are, indeed, beings so diminutive that they bear the same proportion to the rest of the intellectual that Eels in vinegar do to the rest of the material world; the latter are only to be seen through microscopes, and the former only through the false optics of a Rosicrucian understanding.” And finally, he decides that “these diminutive beings are only Sawney (that is, Alexander Pope), taking the change; for it is he, a little lump of flesh, that talks, instead of a little spirit.” Dennis’s profound gravity contributes an additional feature of the burlesque to these heroi-comic poems themselves, only that Dennis cannot be playful, and will not be good-humoured.
On the same tasteless principle he decides on the improbability of that incident in the “Conscious Lovers” of Steele, raised by Bevil, who, having received great obligations from his father, has promised not to marry without his consent. On this Dennis, who rarely in his critical progress will stir a foot without authority, quotes four formidable pages from Locke’s “Essay on Government,” to prove that, at the age of discretion, a man is free to dispose of his own actions! One would imagine that Dennis was arguing like a special pleader, rather than developing the involved action of an affecting drama. Are there critics who would pronounce Dennis to be a very sensible brother? It is here too he calls Steele “a twopenny author,” alluding to the price of the “Tatlers”—but this cost Dennis dear!
“The narrative of the frenzy of Mr. John Dennis,” published in the Miscellanies of Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot, and said to have been written by Pope, is a grave banter on his usual violence. It professes to be the account of the physician who attended him at the request of a servant, who describes the first attack of his madness coming on when “a poor simple child came to him from the printers; the boy had no sooner entered the room, but he cried out ‘the devil was come!’” The constant idiosyncrasy he had that his writings against France and the Pope might endanger his liberty, is amusingly hit off; “he perpetually starts and runs to the window when any one knocks, crying out ‘’Sdeath! a messenger from the French King; I shall die in the Bastile!’”—Ed.
So little is known of this singular man, that Mr. Dibdin, in his very curious “Bibliomania,” was not able to recollect any other details than those he transcribed from Warburton’s “Commentary on the Dunciad.” In Mr. Nichols’ “History of Leicestershire” a more copious account of Henley may be found; to their facts something is here added. It was, however, difficult to glean after so excellent a harvest-home. To the author of the “Life of Bowyer,” and other works devoted to our authors, our literary history is more indebted, than to the labours of any other contemporary. He is the Prosper Marchand of English literature.
It is, perhaps, unnecessary to point out this allusion of Pope to our ancient mysteries, where the Clergy were the actors; among which, the Vice or Punch was introduced. (See “Curiosities of Literature.”)
Specimens of Henley’s style may be most easily referred to in the “Spectator,” Nos. 94 and 518. The communication on punning, in the first; and that of judging character by exteriors, in the last; are both attributed to Henley.—Ed.
The title is, “Esther, Queen of Persia, an historical Poem, in four books; by John Henley, B.A. of St. John’s College, Cambridge. 1714.”
Many of the rough drafts of his famed discourses delivered at the Oratory are preserved in the library of the Guildhall, London. The advertisements he drew up for the papers, announcing their subject, are generally exceedingly whimsical, and calculated to attract popular attention.—Ed.
This narrative is subscribed A. Welstede. Warburton maliciously quotes it as a life of Henley, written by Welsted—doubtless designed to lower the writer of that name, and one of the heroes of the Dunciad. The public have long been deceived by this artifice; the effect, I believe, of Warburton’s dishonesty.
Every lecture is dedicated to some branch of the royal family. Among them one is on “University Learning,” an attack.—“On the English History and Historians,” extremely curious.—“On the Languages, Ancient and Modern,” full of erudition.—“On the English Tongue,” a valuable criticism at that moment when our style was receiving a new polish from Addison and Prior. Henley, acknowledging that these writers had raised correctness of expression to its utmost height, adds, though, “if I mistake not, something to the detriment of that force and freedom that ought, with the most concealed art, to be a perfect copy of nature in all compositions.” This is among the first notices of that artificial style which has vitiated our native idiom, substituting for its purity an affected delicacy, and for its vigour profuse ornament. Henley observes that, “to be perspicuous, pure, elegant, copious, and harmonious, are the chief good qualities of writing the English tongue; they are attained by study and practice, and lost by the contrary: but imitation is to be avoided; they cannot be made our own but by keeping the force of our understandings superior to our models; by rendering our thoughts the original, and our words the copy.”—“On Wit and Imagination,” abounding with excellent criticism.—“On grave conundrums and serious buffoons, in defence of burlesque discourses, from the most weighty authorities.”—“A Dissertation upon Nonsense.” At the close he has a fling at his friend Pope; it was after the publication of the Dunciad. “Of Nonsense there are celebrated professors; Mr. Pope grows witty like Bays in the ‘Rehearsal,’ by selling bargains (his subscriptions for Homer), praising himself, laughing at his joke, and making his own works the test of any man’s criticism; but he seems to be in some jeopardy; for the ghost of Homer has lately spoke to him in Greek, and Shakspeare resolves to bring him, as he has brought Shakspeare, to a tragical conclusion. Mr. Pope suggests the last choice of a subject for writing a book, by making the Nonsense of others his argument; while his own puts it out of any writer’s power to confute him.” In another fling at Pope, he gives the reason why Mr. Pope adds the dirty dialect to that of the water, and is in love with the Nymphs of Fleet ditch; and in a lecture on the spleen he announced “an anatomical discovery, that Mr. Pope’s spleen is bigger than his head!”
It is preserved in the “Historical Register,” vol. xi. for 1726. It is curious and well written.
His “Defence of the Oratory” is a curious performance. He pretends to derive his own from great authority. “St. Paul is related, Acts 28, to have dwelt two whole years in his own hired house, and to have received all that came in unto him, teaching those things which concern the Lord Jesus Christ with all confidence, no man forbidding him. This was at Rome, and doubtless was his practice in his other travels, there being the same reason in the thing to produce elsewhere the like circumstances.” He proceeds to show “the calumnies and reproaches, and the novelty and impiety, with which Christianity, at its first setting out, was charged, as a mean, abject institution, not only useless and unserviceable, but pernicious to the public and its professors, as the refuse of the world.”—Of the false accusations raised against Jesus—all this he applies to himself and his oratory—and he concludes, that “Bringing men to think rightly will always be reckoned a depraving of their minds by those who are desirous to keep them in a mistake, and who measure all truth by the standard of their own narrow opinions, views, and passions. The principles of this institution are those of right reason: the first ages of Christianity; true facts, clear criticism, and polite literature—if these corrupt the mind, to find a place where the mind will not be corrupted will be impracticable.” Thus speciously could “the Orator” reason, raising himself to the height of apostolical purity. And when he was accused that he did all for lucre, he retorted, that “some do nothing for it;” and that “he preached more charity sermons than any clergyman in the kingdom.”
He once advertised an oration on marriage, which drew together an overflowing assembly of females, at which, solemnly shaking his head, he told the ladies, that “he was afraid, that oftentimes, as well as now, they came to church in hopes to get husbands, rather than be instructed by the preacher;” to which he added a piece of wit not quite decent. He congregated the trade of shoemakers, by offering to show the most expeditious method of making shoes: he held out a boot, and cut off the leg part. He gave a lecture, which he advertised was “for the instruction of those who do not like it; it was on the philosophy, history, and great use of Nonsense to the learned, political, and polite world, who excel in it.”
Dr. Cobden, one of George the Second’s chaplains, having, in 1748, preached a sermon at St. James’s from these words, “Take away the wicked from before the king, and his throne shall be established in righteousness,” it gave so much displeasure, that the doctor was struck out of the list of chaplains; and the next Saturday the following parody of his text appeared as a motto to Henley’s advertisement:
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“Away with the wicked before the king, Chalmer’s “Biographical Dictionary.” |
The history of the closing years of Henley’s life is thus given in “The History of the Robin Hood Society,” 1764, a political club, whose debates he occasionally enlivened:—“The Orator, with various success, still kept up his Oratory, King George’s, or Charles’s Chapel, as he differently termed it, till the year 1759, when he died. At its first establishment it was amazingly crowded, and money flowed in upon him apace; and between whiles it languished and drooped: but for some years before its author’s death it dwindled away so much, and fell into such an hectic state, that the few friends of it feared its decease was very near. The doctor, indeed, kept it up to the last, determined it should live as long as he did, and actually exhibited many evenings to empty benches. Finding no one at length would attend, he admitted the acquaintances of his door-keeper, runner, mouth-piece, and some other of his followers, gratis. On the 13th of October, however, the doctor died, and the Oratory ceased; no one having iniquity or impudence sufficient to continue it on.”—Ed.
Hogarth has preserved his features in the parson who figures so conspicuously in his “Modern Midnight Conversation.” His off-hand style of discourse is given in the Gray’s-Inn Journal, 1753 (No. 18), in an imaginary meeting of the political Robin Hood Society, where he figures as Orator Bronze, and exclaims:—“I am pleased to see this assembly—you’re a twig from me; a chip of the old block at Clare Market;—I am the old block, invincible; coup de grace as yet unanswered. We are brother rationalists; logicians upon fundamentals! I love ye all—I love mankind in general—give me some of that porter.”—Ed.
Hawkesworth, in the second paper of the “Adventurer,” has composed, from his own feelings, an elegant description of intellectual and corporeal labour, and the sufferings of an author, with the uncertainty of his labour and his reward.
Dr. Fuller’s “Medicina Gymnastica, or, a treatise concerning the power of Exercise, with respect to the Animal Œconomy, fifth edition, 1718,” is useful to remind the student of what he is apt to forget; for the object of this volume is to substitute exercise for medicine. He wrote the book before he became a physician. He considers horse-riding as the best and noblest of all exercises, it being “a mixed exercise, partly active and partly passive, while other sorts, such as walking, running, stooping, or the like, require some labour and more strength for their performance.” Cheyne, in his well-known treatise of “The English Malady,” published about twenty years after Fuller’s work, acknowledges that riding on horseback is the best of all exercises, for which he details his reasons. “Walking,” he says, “though it will answer the same end, yet is it more laborious and tiresome;” but amusement ought always to be combined with the exercise of a student; the mind will receive no refreshment by a solitary walk or ride, unless it be agreeably withdrawn from all thoughtfulness and anxiety; if it continue studying in its recreations, it is the sure means of obtaining neither of its objects—a friend, not an author, will at such a moment be the better companion.
The last chapter in Fuller’s work contains much curious reading on the ancient physicians, and their gymnastic courses, which Asclepiades, the pleasantest of all the ancient physicians, greatly studied; he was most fortunate in the invention of exercises to supply the place of much physic, and (says Fuller) no man in any age ever had the happiness to obtain so general an applause; Pliny calls him the delight of mankind. Admirable physician, who had so many ways, it appears, to make physic agreeable! He invented the lecti pensiles, or hanging beds, that the sick might be rocked to sleep; which took so much at that time, that they became a great luxury among the Romans.
Fuller judiciously does not recommend the gymnastic courses, because horse-riding, for persons of delicate constitutions, is preferable; he discovers too the reason why the ancients did not introduce this mode of exercise—it arose from the simple circumstance of their not knowing the use of stirrups, which was a later invention. Riding with the ancients was, therefore, only an exercise for the healthy and the robust; a horse without stirrups was a formidable animal for a valetudinarian.
Home was at the time when he wrote “Douglas” a clergyman in the Scottish Church; the theatre was then looked upon by the religious Scotsmen with the most perfect abhorrence. Many means were taken to deter the performance of the play; and as they did not succeed, others were tried to annoy the author, until their persevering efforts induced him to withdraw himself entirely from the clerical profession.—Ed.
The objection to his tragedy was made chiefly by his parishioners at South Leith, who were strongly opposed to their minister being in any way connected with the theatre. He therefore resigned his appointment, and settled in London, which he never afterwards abandoned, dying there in 1788.—Ed.
This admirable little work is entitled “A Dissertation on the Governments, Manners, and Spirit of Asia; Murray, 1787.” It is anonymous; but the publisher informed me it was written by Logan. His “Elements of the Philosophy of History” are valuable. His “Sermons” have been republished.
An attempt has been made to deprive Logan of the authorship of this poem. He had edited (very badly) the poems of a deceased friend, Michael Bruce; and the friends of the latter claimed this poem as one of them. In the words of one who has examined the evidence it may be sufficient to say, “his claim is not only supported by internal evidence, but the charge was never advanced against him while he was alive to repel it.”—Ed.
“The Comforts of Life” were written in prison; “The Miseries” (by Jas. Beresford) necessarily in a drawing-room. The works of authors are often in contrast with themselves; melancholy authors are the most jocular, and the most humorous the most melancholy.
Kennett was characterised throughout life by a strong party feeling, which he took care to display on every occasion. He was born at Dover in 1660, and his first publication, at the age of twenty, gave great offence to the Whig party; it was in the form of a letter from a Student at Oxford to a friend in the country, concerning the approaching parliament. He scarcely ever published a sermon without so far mixing party matters in it as to obtain replies and rejoinders; the rector of Whitechapel employed an artist to place his head on Judas’s shoulders in the picture of the Last Supper done for that church, and to make the figure unmistakeable, placed the patch on the forehead which Kennett wore, to conceal a scar he got by the bursting of a gun. His diligence and application through life was extraordinary. He assisted Anthony Wood in collecting materials for his “Athenæ Oxonienses;” and, like Oldys, was continually employed in noting books, or in forming manuscript collections on various subjects, all of which were purchased by the Earl of Shelburne, afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne, and were sold with the rest of his manuscripts to the British Museum. He died in 1714, of a fever he had contracted in a journey to Italy.—Ed.
The best account of the Rev. Wm. Cole is to be found in Nichols’s “Literary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth Century,” vol. i. His life was eventless, and passed in studious drudgery. He had all that power of continuous application which will readily form immense manuscript collections. In this way his life was passed, occasionally aiding from his enormous stores the labours of others. He was an early and intimate acquaintance of Horace Walpole’s, and they visited France together in 1765. Browne Willis, the antiquary, gave him the rectory of Blecheley, in Buckinghamshire, and he was afterwards presented to the vicarage of Burnham, near Eton. He died in 1782, in the 68th year of his age, having chiefly employed a long life in noting on all subjects, until his manuscripts became a small library of themselves, which he bequeathed to the British Museum, with an order that they should not be opened for twenty years. They are correctly characterised by Nichols: he says, “many of the volumes exhibit striking traits of Mr. Cole’s own character; and a man of sufficient leisure might pick out of them abundance of curious matter.” He left a diary behind him which for puerility could not be exceeded, and of which Nichols gives several ridiculous specimens. If his parrot died, or his man-servant was bled; if he sent a loin of pork to a friend, and got a quarter of lamb in return; “drank coffee with Mrs. Willis,” or “sent two French wigs to a London barber,” all is faithfully recorded. It is a true picture of a lover of labour, whose constant energy must be employed, and will write even if the labour be worthless.—Ed.
Cole’s collection, ultimately bequeathed by him to the British Museum, is comprised in 92 volumes, and is arranged among the additional manuscripts there, of which it forms Nos. 5798 to 5887.—Ed.
This, his most valuable work, has been most carefully edited, with numerous additions by Dr. Bliss, and is the great authority for Lives of Oxford men. Its author, born at Oxford in 1632, died there in 1695, having devoted his life strictly to study.—Ed.
The late Richard Clark, of the Chapel Royal and Westminster Abbey, published in 1823 “An Account of the National Anthem, entitled God save the King,” in which he satisfactorily proves “that Carey neither had, nor could have had, any claim at all to this composition,” which he traces back to the celebrated composer, Dr. John Bull, who he believes composed it for the entertainment given by the Merchant Taylors Company to King James I., in 1607. Ward, in his “Lives of the Gresham Professors,” gives a list of Bull’s compositions, then in the possession of Dr. Pepusch (who arranged the music for the Beggar’s Opera), and Art. 56 is “God save the King.” At the Doctor’s death, his manuscripts, amounting to two cartloads, were scattered or sold for waste-paper, and this was one of the number. Clark ultimately recovered this MS.—Ed.
Dr. Zachary Grey was throughout a long life a busy contributor to literature. The mere list of his productions, in divinity and history, occupy some pages of our biographical dictionaries. He was born 1687, and died at Ampthill, in Bedfordshire, in 1766. In private he was noted for mild and pleasing manners. His “Hudibras,” which was first published in 1744, in two octavo volumes, is now the standard edition.—Ed.
Those who desire to further investigate the utter misery of female authorship may be referred to Whyte’s vivid description of an interview with Mrs. Clarke (the daughter of Colley Cibber), about the purchase of a novel. It is appended to an edition of his own poems, printed at Dublin, 1792; and has been reproduced in Hone’s “Table Book,” vol. i.—Ed.
It is much to the honour of Carte, that the French acknowledge that his publication of the “Rolles Gascognes” gave to them the first idea of their learned work, the “Notice des Diplomes.”
This paper, which is a great literary curiosity, is preserved by Mr. Nichols in his “Literary History,” vol. ii.
Of Akenside few particulars have been recorded, for the friend who best knew him was of so cold a temper with regard to public opinion, that he has not, in his account, revealed a solitary feature in the character of the poet. Yet Akenside’s mind and manners were of a fine romantic cast, drawn from the moulds of classical antiquity. Such was the charm of his converse, that he even heated the cold and sluggish mind of Sir John Hawkins, who has, with unusual vivacity, described a day spent with him in the country. As I have mentioned the fictitious physician in “Peregrine Pickle,” let the same page show the real one. I shall transcribe Sir John’s forgotten words—omitting his “neat and elegant dinner:”—“Akenside’s conversation was of the most delightful kind, learned, instructive, and, without any affectation of wit, cheerful and entertaining. One of the pleasantest days of my life I passed with him, Mr. Dyson, and another friend, at Putney—where the enlivening sunshine of a summer’s day, and the view of an unclouded sky, were the least of our gratifications. In perfect good-humour with himself and all about him, he seemed to feel a joy that he lived, and poured out his gratulations to the great Dispenser of all felicity in expressions that Plato himself might have uttered on such an occasion. In conversations with select friends, and those whose studies had been nearly the same with his own, it was a usual thing with him, in libations to the memory of eminent men among the ancients, to bring their characters into view, and expatiate on those particulars of their lives that had rendered them famous.” Observe the arts of the ridiculer! he seized on the romantic enthusiasm of Akenside, and turned it to the cookery of the ancients!
This pamphlet has been ascribed to John Lilly, but it must be confessed that its native vigour strangely contrasts with the famous Euphuism of that refined writer. [There can, however, be little doubt that he was the author of this tract, as he is alluded to more than once as such by Harvey in his “Pierce’s Supererogation;”—“would that Lilly had alwaies been Euphues and never Pap-hatchet.”—Ed.]
Tarleton appears to have had considerable power of extemporising satirical rhymes on the fleeting events of his own day. A collection of his Jests was published in 1611; the following is a favourable specimen:—“There was a nobleman asked Tarleton what he thought of soldiers in time of peace. Marry, quoth he, they are like chimneys in summer.”—Ed.
A long list of Elderton’s popular rhymes is given by Ritson in his “Bibliographia Poetica.” One of them, on the “King of Scots and Andrew Browne,” is published in Percy’s “Reliques,” who speaks of him as “a facetious fuddling companion, whose tippling and whose rhymes rendered him famous among his contemporaries.” Ritson is more condensed and less civil in his analysis; he simply describes him as “a ballad-maker by profession, and drunkard by habit.”—Ed.
Harvey, in the title-page of his “Pierce’s Supererogation,” has placed an emblematic woodcut, expressive of his own confidence, and his contempt of the wits. It is a lofty palm-tree, with its durable and impenetrable trunk; at its feet lie a heap of serpents, darting their tongues, and filthy toads, in vain attempting to pierce or to pollute it. The Italian motto, wreathed among the branches of the palm, declares, Il vostro malignare non giova nulla: Your malignity avails nothing.
Among those Sonnets, in Harvey’s “Foure Letters, and certaine Sonnets, especially touching Robert Greene and other parties by him abused, 1592,” there is one, which, with great originality of conception, has an equal vigour of style, and causticity of satire, on Robert Greene’s death. John Harvey the physician, who was then dead, is thus made to address the town-wit, and the libeller of himself and his family. If Gabriel was the writer of this singular Sonnet, as he undoubtedly is of the verses to Spenser, subscribed Hobynol, it must be confessed he is a Poet, which he never appears in his English hexameters:—
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John Harvey the Physician’s Welcome to Robert Greene!
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