Part 21

That no man ever lived more completely in a castle of indolence there can be little question, and perhaps as little that it cut his life short. He died at forty-eight, of cold taken on the Thames between Kew and Richmond. He used, it seems, to be in the habit of walking from town to his house at Richmond, and crossed at a boat-house somewhere here about, which being also a public house, he there took a rest and refreshment. The place is still shown. Here, it would seem, he came warm from his walk, and, crossing in a damp wind, took cold; but this susceptibility to cold was the direct result of his indolent, self-indulgent, and effeminate habits. Had he followed those practices of healthy activity so finely described in his poem, how much longer and more useful might his life have been! Yet it must be a fact unquestionable, that Thomson, as a boy, rose early, saw both sunrises and all the glories of nature, plunged into the summer flood, and braved the severity of winter. No man could so vividly or so accurately describe what he had not experienced, and they who know best the country know how exact is his knowledge of it. Every one can feel how masterly are his descriptions of the grandest phenomena of nature in every region of the world, when such descriptions are deducible from books. In those, however, which came under his own eye, there is a life, and there are beauties that attest that personal knowledge. The faults of his Seasons are those of style. His blank verse is peculiar; you can never mistake it for that of any other poet; but it has not the charm of that of Milton, of Wordsworth, or of various other poets. It is often turgid, and still more often prosaic. There are strange inversions used; and with his adverbs and adjectives he plays the most terrible havoc. Frequently the adjective is tossed behind the substantive, just for the sake of the meter, and regardless of all other effect, as,

"Driving sleets Deform the day delightless,"

instead of the delightless day. His adverbs are continually lopped of their last syllable, and stand like wretched adjectives out of place; as, the sower "liberal throws the grain," instead of liberally: clouds, "cheerless, drown the crude, unripened year," instead of cheerlessly: the herb dies, though with vital power: "it is copious blest," instead of copiously. These barbarisms, which greatly deface this poem, abound; but especially in the Spring, which was not published first in its native position, but third, the routine of appearance being Winter, Summer, Spring, and Autumn.

But, above its faults, how far ascend the beauties and excellences of this poem, the finest of which spring out of that firm, glowing, and noble spirit of patriotism and religion which animated James Thomson. His patriotism bursts forth on all occasions, but more especially in that elaborate description of England, her deeds and worthies, in the Summer, commencing,

"Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around, Of hills and dales, of woods and lawns, and spires And glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all The stretching landscape into smoke decays. Happy Britannia!" &c.

His piety, the piety of love and wonder, of that profound admiration which the contemplation of the works of the Divine Creator had inspired him with, and of that grateful love and trust which the manifestations of parental goodness every where had impressed upon his heart, these are, as it were, the living soul of the poem, and the principles of imperishable vitality. These sentiments, diffused throughout the poem itself, concentrate themselves at its conclusion as predominant over all others, and burst forth in that magnificent hymn, which has no rival in the language except the glorious one of Milton, the morning hymn of our first parents, beginning,

"These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty! Thine this universal frame, This wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then," &c.

The religion, too, of Thomson was the religion not of creeds and crabbed doctrines of humanity. He had studied nature in the spirit of its Maker, and the fruit of that study was an enlarged and tender sympathy for his fellow-men. This sentiment is every where conspicuous as his piety; and in the passage following the fine account of the man perishing in the snow, rises to the power and descriptive eloquence of Shakspeare.

"Ah! little think the gay, licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah! little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death, And all the sad variety of pain; How many sink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame; how many bleed, By shameful variance betwixt man and man; How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms; Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs; how many drink the cup Of baneful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery; sore pierced by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty! How many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse; Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life. They furnish matter for the tragic Muse. Even in the vale where Wisdom loves to dwell, With Friendship, Peace, and Contemplation joined, How many, racked with honest passions, droop In deep retired distress. How many stand Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, And point the parting anguish. Thought fond man Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, That one incessant struggle render life, One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, Vice in his high career would stand appalled, And heedless, rambling Impulse learn to think; The conscious heart of Charity would warm, And her wide wish Benevolence dilate; The social tear would rise, the social sigh; And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Refining still, the social passions work."--_Winter_, p. 147.

Yes, if the great sentiment of this passage were but firmly imprinted on the hearts of all men and all women, but especially the rich and powerful, how soon would the face of this earth be changed, and the vale of tears be converted into a lesser heaven! It is the grand defect of our systems of education, for rich and for poor, but pre-eminently for the former, that it is not taught that no man can live innocently who lives only for his own enjoyment; that to live merely to enjoy ourselves is the highest treason against God and man; that God does not live merely for himself, his eternal existence is one constant work of beneficence; and that it is the social duty of every rational being to live like God, his Creator, for the good of others. Were this law of duty taught faithfully in all our schools, with all its responsibilities, the penalties of its neglect, the ineffable delight of its due discharge, there would be no longer seen that moral monster, the man or woman who lives alone for the mere purpose of selfish enjoyment. That host of gay and idle creatures, who pass through life only to glitter in the circles of fashion; to seek admiration for personal attractions and accomplishments--for dressing, playing, dancing, or riding--whose life is but the life of a butterfly when it should be the life of a man, would speedily disperse, and be no more seen. That life would be shrunk from as a thing odious and criminal, because useless; when faculties, wealth, and fame are put into their hands, and a world is laid before them in which men are to be saved and exalted; misery, crime, shame, despair, and death prevented; and all the hopes and capacities for good in the human soul are to be made easy to the multitude. To live for these objects is to be a hero or a heroine, and any man or woman may be that; to live through this world of opportunities given but once, and to neglect them, is the most fearful fate that can befall a creature of eternal responsibilities. But poets and preachers have proclaimed this great truth for ages; the charge now lies at the door of the educators, and they alone can impress effectually on the world its highest and most inalienable duty, that of living for the good of others.

Among those who have used the voice of poetry given them of God to rouse their fellow-men to a life of beneficence, none have done it more zealously or more eloquently than Thomson. For this we pass over here the mere charms of his poetic achievements; over those great pictures which he has painted of the world, and its elements of forests, tempests, plagues, earthquakes; of the views of active life at home and abroad; the hunter's perils and the hunter's carouse

"In ghostly halls of gray renown;"

of man roaming the forests of the tropics, or climbing the cliffs of the lonely Hebrides; to notice in this brief article those bursts of eloquent fire, in which he calls to godlike deeds--those of mercy and of goodness. In this respect, as well as in that of mere poetical beauty, his poem of the Castle of Indolence is pre-eminent. Thomson suffered from the seductions of the vile wizard of Indolence, and in his first canto he paints most effectively the horrors of that vice; in the second canto he shows that, though he had fallen into the net of sloth, it had not entirely conquered, and it could not corrupt him. He calls with the energy of a martyr on his fellow-men to assume the privileges and glories of men. The Castle of Indolence is as felicitous in its versification as in its sentiments; it is full of harmony, and the spirit of picturesque beauty pervades every line; there is a manliness of sentiment about it that is worthy of true genius. Such a stanza as this is the seed of independence to the minds of thousands:

"I care not, Fortune! what you me deny: You can not rob me of free Nature's grace; You can not shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her bright'ning face; You can not bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living streams, at eve; Let health my nerves and finer fibers brace, And I their toys to the great children leave: Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave."

The address of the bard of active virtue is worthy of being listened to in every age:

"Ye hapless race! Dire laboring here to smother Reason's ray, That lights our Maker's image in our face, And gives us wide o'er earth unquestioned sway: What is the adored Supreme Perfection, say? What but eternal, never-resting soul, Almighty power, and all-directing day; By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll: Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole.

"Come, to the beaming God your hearts unfold! Draw from its fountain life! 'Tis thence alone We can excel. Up from unfeeling mold To seraphs burning round the ALMIGHTY's throne, Life rising still on life, in brighter tone, Perfection forms, and with perfection bliss. In universal nature this clear shown Not needeth proof; to prove it were, I wis, To prove the beauteous world excels the brute abyss.

"It was not by vile loitering in ease That Greece obtained the brighter palm of art; That soft, yet ardent Athens learned to please, To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart, In all supreme, complete in every part! It was not thence majestic Rome arose, And o'er the nations shook her conquering dart: For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows: Renown is not the child of indolent repose.

"Had unambitious mortals minded naught But in loose joy their time to wear away; Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought, Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to lay; Rude Nature's state had been our state to-day; No cities here their towery fronts had raised, No arts had made us opulent and gay; With brother brutes the human race had grazed; None e'er had soared to fame, none honored been, none praised.

"Great Homer's song had never fired the breast To thirst of glory and heroic deeds; Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious rest, Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds; The wits of modern times had told their beads, And monkish legends been their only strains; Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapped in weeds; Our Shakspeare strolled and laughed with Warwick swains; Ne had my master, Spenser, charmed his Mulla's plains.

"Dumb, too, had been the sage historic Muse, And perished all the sons of ancient fame; Those starry lights of virtue that diffuse Through the dark depths of time their vivid flame, Had all been lost with such as have no name. Who then had scorned his care for others' good? Who then had toiled rapacious men to tame? Who in the public breach devoted stood, And for his country's cause been prodigal of blood?

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"Heavens! can you then thus waste in shameful wise Your few important days of trial here? Heirs of eternity! yborn to rise Through endless states of being, still more near To bliss approaching and perfection clear; Can you renounce a fortune so sublime-- Such glorious hopes, your backward steps to steer, And roll with vilest brutes through mud and slime? No! no! your heaven-touched hearts disdain the sordid crime!"

It is a pleasure to find that the spot where these noble sentiments were penned is still preserved sacred to the memory of the poet of truth and virtue. As far as the restless and rapid change of property would permit so near London, the residence of Thomson has been kept from destruction: changed it is, it is true, but that change has been made with a veneration for the Muse in the heart of the new inhabitant. The house of Thomson, in what is called Kew-foot Lane, at Richmond, as shown in the wood-cut at the head of this article, was a simple cottage; behind this lay his garden, and in front he looked down to the Thames, and on the fine landscape beyond. The cottage now appears to be gone, and in the place stands the goodly villa of the Earl of Shaftesbury; the cottage, however, is not really gone: it is only swallowed up in the larger house of the present time. After Thomson's death, his cottage was purchased by George Ross, Esq., who, out of veneration for his memory, forbore to pull it down, but enlarged and improved it at the expense of £9000. The walls of the cottage were left, though its roof was taken off, and the walls continued upward to their present height. Thus, what was Thomson's cottage forms now the entrance hall to Lord Shaftesbury's house. The part of the hall on the left hand was the room where Thomson used to sit, and here is preserved a plain mahogany Pembroke table of his, with a scroll of white wood let into its surface, on which are inlaid, in black letters, this piece of information:

"On this table James Thomson constantly wrote. It was therefore purchased of his servant, who also gave these brass hooks, on which his hat and cane were hung in this his sitting room. F. B."

These initials, F. B., are those of the Hon. Frances Boscawen, the widow of Admiral Boscawen, who came into possession of the property after the death of Mr. Ross, whose name, however, still attaches to it, being called Rossdale, or, more commonly, Rosedale House. Mrs. Boscawen it was who repaired the poet's favorite seat in the garden, and placed in it the table on which he wrote his poems there; she it was, too, no doubt, who hung the inscriptions there, her initials being again found appended to one of them. Her son, Lord Falmouth, sold the place. No brass hooks are now to be seen, that I could discover or learn any thing of.

The garden of Thompson, which lay behind the house, has been preserved in the same manner and to the same extent as his house; the garden and its trees remain, but these now form only part of the present grounds, as the cottage forms only part of the present house. Mr. Ross, when he purchased the cottage and some adjoining grounds, and came to live here after Thomson, not only enlarged the house, but threw down the partition fence, and enlarged the grounds to their present extent. A pleasanter lawn and shrubberies are rarely to be seen; the turf, old and mossy, speaks of long duration and great care; the trees, dispersed beautifully upon it, are of the finest growth and of the greatest beauty. In no part of England are there so many foreign trees as in the grounds of gentlemen's villas near London; in many of them the cedars of Lebanon are of a growth and majesty which probably Lebanon itself can not now show. In these grounds there are some fine ones, but there is one of especial and surpassing loveliness: it is the _pinus picea_, or silver cedar. The growth is broad, like that of the cedar of Lebanon; but its boughs do not throw themselves out in that exact horizontal direction that those of the cedar of Lebanon do; they sweep down to the ground in a style of exquisite grace. Heavy, full of life, rich in hue as masses of chased silver, their effect, with their young cones sitting birdlike on them, is like that of some tree of heaven, or of some garden of poetic romance. Besides this superb tree, standing on its ample portion of lawn, there are here the evergreen ilex, hickory, white sassafras, scarlet and Ragland oaks, the tulip-tree, the catalpa, the tupelo, the black American ash, &c. The effect of their fine growth, their varied hues and foliage, their fine, sweeping branches, over the soft velvet turf, is charming, for trees display the effects of breeding and culture quite as much as horses, dogs, or men.

A large elm, not far from the house, is pointed out as the one under which Thomson's alcove stood; this alcove has, however, been removed to the extremity of the grounds, and stands now under a large Spanish chestnut-tree in the shrubbery. It is a simple wooden construction, with a plain back, and two outward, sloping sides, a bench running round it within, a roof and boarded floor, so as to be readily removable altogether. It is kept well painted of a dark green, and in it stands an old, small walnut table with a drawer, which belonged to Thomson. On the front of the alcove overhead is painted, on a white oval tablet,

"Here Thomson sang The Seasons and their change."

Within the alcove hang three loose boards, on which are painted the following inscriptions:

"Hail, Nature's Poet, whom she taught alone To sing her works in numbers like her own. Sweet as the thrush that warbles in the dale, And soft as Philomela's tender tale; She lent her pencil, too, of wondrous power, To catch the rainbow, and to form the flower Of many mingling hues; and, smiling, said-- But first with laurels crowned her favorite's head-- These beauteous children, though so fair they shine, Fade in my _Seasons_, let them live in _Thine_. And live they shall; the charm of every eye, Till Nature sickens, and the Seasons die."

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F. B.

"Within this pleasing retirement, Allured by the music of the nightingale, Which warbled in soft unison to the melody of his soul, In unaffected cheerfulness, And general though simple elegance, Lived James Thomson. Sensitively alive to the beauties of Nature, He painted their images as they rose in review, And poured the whole profusion of them Into his inimitable Seasons. Warmed with intense devotion To the Sovereign of the Universe, Its flame glowed through all his compositions. Animated with unbounded benevolence, With the tenderest social sensibility, He never gave one moment's pain To any of his fellow-creatures, Save only by his death, which happened At this place on the 27th day of August, 1748."

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"Here Thomson dwelt. He, curious bard, examined every drop That glistens on the thorn; each leaf surveyed That Autumn from the rustling forest shakes, And marked its shape; and traced in the rude wind Its eddying motion. Nature in his hand A pencil, dipped in her own colors, placed, With which he ever faithful copies drew, Each feature in proportion just."

On a brass tablet in the top of the table in the alcove is inscribed, "This table was the property of James Thomson, and always stood in this seat."

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Such is the state of the former residence of James Thomson at Richmond. Here, no doubt, he was visited by many of his literary cotemporaries, though it does not appear that he ever was by Pope, who was so near a neighbor. Old poets grow exclusive. As Wordsworth nowadays says he reads no new poets--he leaves them to their cotemporaries--it is enough for him to stick to his old loves; so, in the correspondence of Pope, you find no further mention of Thomson than that "Thomson and some other young men have published lately some creditable things;" and Gray, writing to one of his friends, says, "Thomson has just published a poem called 'The Castle of Indolence,' which contains some good stanzas."

The view down to the Thames, and over the country beyond, which he enjoyed, is now obstructed by the walls, including part of the royal property, on which the queen has erected her laundry, sending, it seems, all the royal linen from Windsor, the Isle of Wight, and elsewhere, to be washed and got up here, sufficiently, as one would think, near enough to the smoke of London. The vicinity of the royal wash-house certainly does not improve Lord Shaftesbury's residence here, especially as a tall, square, and most unsightly tower, most probably intended to carry the soot from the drying fires pretty high, overlooks his grounds. But it will not disturb the remains of the poet; and let us hope that the queen's linen will enjoy the benefit of all the _Seasons_ from this close neighborhood.

Thomson is buried in Richmond Church, at the west end of the north aisle. There is a square brass tablet, well secured into the wall with ten large screws, bearing this inscription:

"In the earth below this Tablet Are the remains of JAMES THOMSON, Author of the beautiful Poems entitled The Seasons, Castle of Indolence, &c., &c., who died at Richmond on the 27th day of August, and was buried here on the 29th, old style, 1748. The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man and sweet a poet should be without a memorial, has denoted the place of his interment for the satisfaction of his admirers, in the year of our Lord, 1792."

"Father of light and life, thou Good Supreme! O teach me what is good; teach me myself! Save me from folly, vanity, and vice, From every low pursuit! and feed my soul With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure, Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss!"--_Winter_, p. 144.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.