LETTER XLVIII.

TO MRS STEWARD.

MADAM, Thursday, April the 11th, 1700.

The ladies of the town have infected you at a distance; they are all of your opinion, and, like my last book of Poems,[205] better than any thing they have formerly seen of mine. I always thought my verses to my cousin Driden were the best of the whole; and to my comfort, the town thinks them so; and he, which pleases me most, is of the same judgment, as appears by a noble present he has sent me, which surprised me, because I did not in the least expect it. I doubt not, but he receiv’d what you were pleas’d to send him; because he sent me the letter, which you did me the favour to write me. At this very instant, I heare the guns, which, going off, give me to understand, that the King is goeing to the Parliament to pass acts, and consequently to prorogue them; for yesterday I heard, that both he and the Lords have given up the cause, and the House of Commons have gained an entire victory.[206] Though under the rose, I am of opinion, that much of the confidence is abated on either side, and that whensoever they meet next, it will give that House a farther occasion of encroaching on the prerogative and the Lords; for they, who beare the purse, will rule. The Parliament being risen, my cousin Driden will immediately be with you, and, I believe, return his thanks in person. All this while I am lame at home, and have not stirr’d abroad this moneth at least. Neither my wife nor Charles are well, but have intrusted their service in my hand. I humbly add my own to the unwilling High Sheriff,[207] and wish him fairly at an end of his trouble.

The latter end of last week, I had the honour of a visite from my cousine, your mother, and my cousine Dorothy, with which I was much comforted. Within this moneth there will be play’d, for my profit, an old play of Fletcher’s, call’d the “Pilgrim,” corrected by my good friend Mr Vanbrook;[208] to which I have added a new masque; and am to write a new prologue and epilogue. Southern’s tragedy, call’d the “Revolt of Capua,” will be play’d at Betterton’s house within this fortnight. I am out with that Company, and therefore, if I can help it, will not read it before ’tis acted, though the authour much desires I shou’d. Do not think I will refuse a present from fair hands; for I am resolv’d to save my bacon. I beg your pardon for this slovenly letter; but I have not health to transcribe it.[209] My service to my cousin, your brother, who, I heare, is happy in your company, which he is not who most desires it, and who is, Madam,

Your most obliged obedient

Servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

_For Mrs Stuart,_ _Att Cotterstock, near Oundle,_ _in Northamptonshyre, These._ _To be left with the_ _Postmaster of Oundle._

APPENDIX.

APPENDIX.

No. I.

DRYDEN’S _Degree as Master of Arts, granted by the Archbishop of Canterbury, preserved in the Faculty Book_, (Book 6. p. 236. b.)

“Dispensatio JOANNI DRYDEN, pro gradu Artium Magistri.

“GILBERTUS providentiâ divinâ Cantuariensis Archiepiscopus, &c. dilecto nobis in Christo JOANNI DRYDEN, in Artibus Baccalaureo, perantiquâ Dreydenorum familiâ in agro Northamptoniensi oriundo, salutem et gratiam. QUUM in scholis rite constitutis mos laudabilis et consuetudo invaluerit, approbatione tam ecclesiarum bene reformatarum, quam hominum doctissimorum, à multis retrò annis, ut quicunque in aliqua artium liberalium scientia cum laude desudaverint, insigni aliquo dignitatis gradu decorarentur. Quum etiam, publicâ legum auctoritate muniti, Cantuarienses Archiepiscopi gradus prædictos et honoris titulos in homines bene merentes conferendi potestate gaudeant et jamdudum gavisi sint, prout ex libro authentico de Facultatibus taxandis Parlamenti auctoritate confirmato pleniùs apparet; Nos igitur prædictà auctoritate freti, et antecessorum nostrorum exemplum imitati, te Joannem prædictum, cujus vitæ probitas, bonarum literarum scientiá, morumque integritas, vel ipsius domini Regis testimonio, perspectæ sunt, MAGISTRI IN ARTIBUS titulo et gradu insigniri decrevimus, et tenore presentium in Artibus Magistrum actualem creamus, pariterque in numerum Magistrorum in Artibus hujusce regni aggregamus; juramento infra scripto priùs per nos de te exacto, et a te jurato:--_Ego Joannes Dryden, ad gradum et titulum Magistri in Artibus, per Reverendissimum in Christo patron ac dominum, Gilbertum divinâ providentiâ Cantuariensem Archiepiscopum, totius Angliæ Primatem et Metropolitanum, admittendus, teste mihi conscientiâ testificor serenissimum nostrum regem Carolum Secundum esse unicum et supremum gubernatorem hujusce regni Angliæ, &c. sicut me Deus adjuvet, per sacra Dei evangelia._--Proviso semper quod hæ literæ tibi non proficiant, nisi registrentur et subscribantur per Clericum Regiæ Majestatis ad Facultates in Cancellaria.

“Dat. sub sigillo de Facultatibus, decimo septimo die mensis Junii, Anno Domini 1668, et nostræ translationis anno quinto.”

No. II.

DRYDEN’S PATENT.

_Pat. 22. Car. II. p. 6. n. 6._

CHARLES THE SECOND, by the grace of God, of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, king, defender of the faith, &c. to the lords commissioners of our treasury, treasurer, chancellor, under-treasurer, chamberlaines, and barons of the exchequer, of us, our heires and successors, now being, and that hereafter shall bee, and to all other the officers and ministers of our said court and of the receipt there, now being and that hereafter shall bee; and to all others to whom these presents shall come, greeting.

Know yee, that wee, for and in consideration of the many good and acceptable services by John Dryden, Master of Arts, and eldest sonne of Erasmus Dryden, of Tichmarsh, in the county of Northampton, esquire, to us heretofore done and performed, and taking notice of the learning and eminent abilities of him the said John Dryden, and of his great skill and elegant style both in verse and prose, and for diverse other good causes and considerations us thereunto especially moving, have nominated, constituted, declared, and appointed, and by these presents do nominate, constitute, declare, and appoint him, the said John Dryden, our POET LAUREAT and HISTORIOGRAPHER ROYAL; giving and granting unto him, the said John Dryden, all and singular the rights, privileges, benefits, and advantages thereunto belonging, as fully and amply as Sir Geoffery Chaucer, knight, Sir John Gower, knight, John Leland, esquire, William Camden, esquire, Benjamin Johnson, esquire, James Howell, esquire, Sir William D’Avenant, knight, or any other person or persons having or exercising the place or employment of Poet Laureat or Historiographer, or either of them, in the time of any of our royal progenitors, had or received, or might lawfully claim or demand, as incident or belonging unto the said places or employments, or either of them. And for the further and better encouragement of him, the said John Dryden, diligently to attend the said employment, we are graciously pleased to give and grant, and by these presents, for us, our heirs and successors, do give and grant, unto the said John Dryden, one annuity or yearly pension of two hundred pounds of lawful money of England, during our pleasure, to have and to hold, and yearly to receive the said annuity or pension of two hundred pounds of lawful money of England by the yeare, unto the said John Dryden and his assigns, from the death of the said Sir William D’Avenant lately deceased, for and during our pleasure, at the receipt of the exchequer, of us, our heirs and successors, out of the treasure of us, our heirs and successors, from time to time there remaining, by the hands of the treasurer or treasurers and chamberlains of us, our heirs and successors, there for the time being, at the four usual terms of the year, that is to say, at the feast of the nativity of St John the Baptist, St Michael the Archangel, the birth of our Lord God, and the annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, by even and equal portions to be paid, the first payment thereof to begin at the feast of the nativity of St John the Baptist next and immediately after the death of the said Sir William D’Avenant, deceased. Wherefore our will and pleasure is, and we do by these presents, for us, our heirs and successors, require, command, and authorize the said lords commissioners of our treasury, treasurer, chancellor, under-treasurer, chamberlains, and barons, and other officers and ministers of the said exchequer now and for the time being, not only to pay, or cause to be paid, unto the said John Dryden and his assigns, the said annuity or yearly pension of two hundred pounds of lawful money of England, according to our will and pleasure herein before expressed, but also from time to time to give full allowance of the same, according to the true meaning of these presents. And these presents, or the inrolment thereof, shall be unto all men whom it shall concern a sufficient warrant and discharge for the paying and allowing of the same accordingly, without any further or other warrant procured or obtained. And further, know ye, that we, of our especial grace, certain knowledge, and mere motion, have given and granted, and by these presents, for us, our heirs and successors, do give and grant, unto the said John Dryden and his assigns, one butt or pipe of the best canary wine, to have, hold, receive, perceive, and take the said butt or pipe of canary wine unto the said John Dryden and his assigns, during our pleasure, out of our store of wines yearly and from time to time remaining at or in our cellars within or belonging to our palace of Whitehall. And for the better effecting of our will and pleasure herein, we do hereby require and command all and singular our officers, and ministers whom it shall or may concern, or who shall have the care or charge of our said wines, that they, or some of them, do deliver, or cause to be delivered, the said butt or pipe of wine yearly, and once in every year, unto the said John Dryden or his assigns, during our pleasure, at such time and times as he or they shall demand or desire the same. And these presents, or the inrolment thereof, shall be unto all men whom it shall concern, a sufficient warrant and discharge in that behalf, although express mention, &c. In witness, &c.

Witness the King at Westminster, the eighteenth day of August. [1670.]

_Per breve de privato sigillo._

No. III.

THE AGREEMENT CONCERNING THE FABLES

I doe hereby promise to pay John Dryden, Esquire, or order, on the 25th of March, 1699, the sume of two hundred and fifty guineas, in consideration of ten thousand verses, which the said John Dryden, Esquire, is to deliver to me Jacob Tonson, when finished, whereof seaven thousand five hundred verses, more or lesse, are already in the said Jacob Tonson’s possession. And I do hereby further promise and engage my selfe to make up the said sume of two hundred and fifty guineas, three hundred pounds sterling, to the said John Dryden, Esquire, his executors, administrators, or assigns, att the beginning of the second impression of the said ten thousand verses. In witnesse whereof, I have hereunto sett my hand and seal this twentieth day of March, 1698-9.

JACOB TONSON.

Sealed and delivered, being first stampt pursuant to the acts of Parliament for that purpose, in the presence of Benj. Portlock, Will Congreve.

March the twenty-fourth, 1698.

Received then of Mr Jacob Tonson the sum of two hundred sixty-eight pounds fifteen shillings, in pursuance of an agreement for ten thousand verses to be delivered by me to the said Jacob Tonson, whereof I have already delivered to him about seven thousand five hundred, more or less: he the sayd Jacob Tonson being obliged to make up the foresayd sum of two hundred sixty-eight pounds fifteen shillings, three hundred pounds, at the beginning of the second impression or the foresayd ten thousand verses.

I say, received by me,

JOHN DRYDEN.

Witness, Charles Dryden.

_The following receipt is written on the back of_ JACOB TONSON’S _Agreement, dated March_ 20, 1698-9.

June 11, 1713. Received of the within-named Jacob Tonson, thirty-one pounds five shillings, which, with two hundred sixty-eight pounds fifteen shillings paid Mr John Dryden the 24th of March 1698, is in full for the copy of a book intituled “Dryden’s FABLES,” consisting of ten thousand verses, more or lesse: I say received as administratrix to the said John Dryden, of such effects as were not administered to by Charles Dryden.

ANN SYLVIUS.

Witnesses, Eliz. Jones. Jacob Tonson, Jun^r.

Paid Mr Dryden, March the 23d, 1698.

L. s. d. In a bag in silver 100 0 0 In silver besides 21 15 6 66 Lewis d’ores at 17s. 6d. 57 15 0 83 Guyneas at [1] 1 6 89 4 6 ------------- 268 15 0 =============

250 Guyneas at L. 1 1s. 6d. are 268 15 0

L. s. d. 268 15 0 31 5 0 =========== 300 0 0

No. IV.

MR RUSSEL’s BILL FOR MR DRYDEN’S FUNERALLS.

For the funerall of Esq^{re} Dryden.

L. s. d. A double coffin covered with cloath, and sett of [off] with work gilt with gold 5 0 0

A herse with six white Flanders horses 1 10 0

Covering the herse with velvet, and velvet housings for the horses 1 0 0

17 plumes of feathers for herse and horses 3 0 0

Hanging the Hall[210] with a border of bays 5 0 0

6 dozen of paper escucheons for the Hall 3 12 0

A large pall of velvet 0 10 0

10 silk escucheons for the pall 2 10 0

24 buck: escucheons for herse and horses 2 8 0

12 shields and six shaffroones for ditto 2 8 0

3 mourning coaches with six horses 2 5 0

Silver dish and rosemary 0 5 0

8 scarves for musicioners 2 0 0

8 hatbands for ditto 1 0 0

17 yds of crape to cover their instruments 1 14 0

4 mourning cloakes 0 10 0

Pd 6 men moveing the corps to the Hall 0 6 0

8 horsemen in long cloakes to ride before the herse 4 0 0 ----------- Carried over 38 18 0 L. S. d.

Brought over 38 18 0

13 footmen in velvet capps, to walk on each side the herse 1 19 0

6 porters that attended at the doores, and walked before the herse to the Abby, in mourning gowns and staves 1 10 0

An atchievement for the house 3 10 0

----------- 45 17 0 -----------

We may add to these accounts the Description of the Funeral itself, extracted from the London Spy of WARD, who was doubtless a spectator.

“A deeper concern hath scarce been known to affect in general the minds of grateful and ingenious men, than the melancholy surprise of the worthy Mr Dryden’s death hath occasioned through the whole town, as well as in all other parts of the kingdom, where any persons either of wit or learning have taken up their residence. Wheresoever his incomparable writings have been scattered by the hands of the travellers into foreign nations, the loss of so great a man must needs be lamented amongst their bards and rabbies; and ’tis reasonable to believe the commendable industry of translations has been such, to render several of his most accurate performances into their own language, that their native country might receive the benefit, and themselves the reputation of so laudable an undertaking: and how far the wings of merit have conveyed the pleasing fruits of his exuberant fancy, is a difficult conjecture, considering what a continual correspondence our nation has with most parts of the universe. For it is reasonable to believe all Christian kingdoms and colonies at least, have been as much the better for his labours, as the world is the worse for the loss of him. Those who were his enemies while he was living, (for no man lives without,) his death has now made such friends to his memory, that they acknowledge they cannot but in justice give him this character, that he was one of the greatest scholars, the most correct dramatic poet, and the best writer of heroic verse, that any age has produced in England. And yet, to verify the old proverb, that poets, like prophets, have little honour in their own countries, notwithstanding his merits had justly entitled his corpse to the most magnificent and solemn interment the beneficence of the greatest spirits could have bestowed on him; yet, ’tis credibly reported, the ingratitude of the age is such, that they had like to have let him pass in private to his grave, without those funeral obsequies suitable to his greatness, had it not been for that true British worthy, who, meeting with the venerable remains of the neglected bard passing silently in a coach, unregarded to his last home, ordered the corpse, by the consent of his few friends that attended him, to be respited from so obscure an interment, and most generously undertook, at his own expence, to revive his worth in the minds of a forgetful people, by bestowing on his peaceful dust a solemn funeral answerable to his merit; which memorable action alone will eternalize his fame with the greatest heroes, and add that lustre to his nobility, which time can never tarnish, but will shine with equal glory in all ages, and in the very teeth of envy bid defiance to oblivion. The management of the funeral was left to Mr Russel, pursuant to the directions of that honourable great man the lord Jefferies, concerned chiefly in the pious undertaking.

“The first honour done to his deserving relics, was lodging them in Physicians College, from whence they were appointed to take their last remove. The constituted day for the celebration of that office, which living heroes perform in respect to a dead worthy, was Monday the 13th of May, in the afternoon; at which time, according to the notice given, most of the nobility and gentry now in town assembled themselves together at the noble edifice aforesaid, in order to honour the corpse with their personal attendance. When the company were met, a performance of grave music, adapted to the solemn occasion, was communicated to the ears of the company, by the hands of the best masters in England, whose artful touches on their soft instruments diffused such harmonious influence amongst the attentive auditory, that the most heroic spirits in the whole assembly were unable to resist the passionate force of each dissolving strain, but melted into tears for the loss of so elegant and sweet a ravisher of human minds; and, notwithstanding their undaunted bravery, which had oft scorned death in the field, yet now, by music’s enchantment at the funeral of so great a poet, were softened beneath their own natures, into a serious reflection on mortality.

“When this part of the solemnity was ended, the famous Doctor G----th ascended the pulpit where the physicians make their lectures, and delivered, according to the Roman custom, a funeral oration in Latin on his deceased friend, which he performed with great approbation and applause of all such gentlemen that heard him, and were true judges of the matter; most rhetorically setting forth those elegies and encomiums which no poet hitherto, but the great Dryden, could ever truly deserve. When these rites were over in the College, the corpse, by bearers for that purpose, was handed into the hearse, being adorned with plumes of black feathers, and the sides hung round with the escutcheons of his ancestors, mixed with that of his lady’s; the hearse drawn by six stately Flanders horses; every thing being set off with the most useful ornaments to move regard, and affect the memories of the numberless spectators, as a means to encourage every sprightly genius to attempt something in their lives that may once render their dust worthy of so public a veneration. All things being put in due order for their movement, they began their solemn procession towards Westminster Abbey, after the following manner:

“The two beadles of the College marched first, in mourning cloaks and hat-bands, with the heads of their staffs wrapt in black crape scarfs, being followed by several other servile mourners, whose business was to prepare the way, that the hearse might pass less liable to interruption; next to these moved a concert of hautboys and trumpets, playing and sounding together a melancholy funeral-march, undoubtedly composed upon that particular occasion; (after these, the undertaker with his hat off, dancing through the dirt like a bear after a bagpipe. I beg the reader’s pardon for foisting in a jest in so improper a place, but as he walked by himself within a parenthesis, so I have here placed him, and hope none will be offended;) then came the hearse, as before described, most honourably attended with abundance of quality in their coaches and six horses; that it may be justly reported to posterity, no ambassador from the greatest emperor in all the universe, sent over with the welcome embassy to the throne of England, ever made his public entry to the court with half that honour as the corpse of the great Dryden did its last exit to the grave. In this order the nobility and gentry attended the hearse to Westminster Abbey, where the quire, assisted with the best masters in England, sung an Epicedium; and the last funeral rites being performed by one of the prebends, he was honourably interred between Chaucer and Cowley; where, according to report, will be erected a very stately monument, at the expence of some of the nobility, in order to recommend his worth, and to preserve his memory to all succeeding ages.”

No. V.

MRS THOMAS’S LETTERS CONCERNING DRYDEN’S DEATH AND FUNERAL;

_Extracted from Wilson’s Life of Congreve, 1730._

[As tales of wonder are generally acceptable to the public, I insert these memorable Epistles, with the necessary caveat, that they are full of every kind of blunder and inconsistency.]

“These Memoirs were communicated to me by a lady, now living, with whom Mr Dryden corresponded under the name of Corinna, and which name he himself gave her.

’SIR,

’Mr Dryden was son of -------- Dryden, of an ancient and good family in Northamptonshire, by a sister of Sir Gilbert Pickering, Bart. of the same county; who has a handsome monument at Tichmarsh, erected in 1721, by the late widow Creed of Oundle, the daughter of another sister of Sir Gilbert’s, and niece to the famous Earl of Sandwich, who was killed in the Dutch war, 1667, being then admiral. He married Lady Elizabeth Howard, (a celebrated beauty) daughter to the old Earl of Berkshire, sister to Sir Robert Howard, Colonel Philip Howard, and Mr Edward Howard: (who wrote “The British Prince,” &c.;) she bore him three sons, Charles, John, and Harry. He lived many years in a very good house in Gerrard street, the 5th or 6th door on the left-hand from Newport-market. On the 19th of April, 1700, he said he had been very bad with the gout, and an erysipelas in one leg; but he was then very well, and designed to go soon abroad: but on the Friday following, he had eat a partridge for his supper; and going to take a turn in the little garden behind his house, was seized with a violent pain under the ball of the great-toe of his right-foot, that, unable to stand, he cried out for help, and was carried in by his servants; when, upon sending for surgeons, they found a small black spot in the place affected: He submitted to their present applications; and when gone, called his son Charles to him, using these words, “I know,” says he, “this black spot is a mortification; I know also, that it will seize my head, and that they will cut off my leg: but I command you, my son, by your filial duty, that you do not suffer me to be dismembered.” As he, too truly, foretold, the event proved; and his son was too dutiful to disobey his father’s commands. On the Wednesday morning following, being May-day, 1700, under the most excruciating dolours, he died. Dr Sprat, then bishop of Rochester, sent, on the Thursday, to Lady Elizabeth, that he would make a present of the ground, which was 40l. with all the other abbey-fees, &c. to his deceased friend. Lord Halifax sent also to my lady and Mr Charles, that if they would give him leave to bury Mr Dryden, he would inter him with a gentleman’s private funeral, and afterwards bestow 500l. on a monument in the Abbey; which, as they had no reason to refuse, they accepted. On the Saturday following the company came, the corpse was put into a velvet hearse, and eighteen mourning coaches, filled with company, attending. When, just before they began to move, Lord Jefferies, with some of his rakish companions, coming by, in wine, asked, whose funeral? and being told, “What!” cries he, “shall Dryden, the greatest honour and ornament of the nation, be buried after this private manner? No, gentlemen; let all that loved Mr Dryden, and honour his memory, alight, and join with me in gaining my lady’s consent, to let me have the honour of his interment, which shall be after another manner than this, and I will bestow 1000l. on a monument in the Abbey for him.” The gentlemen in the coaches not knowing of the bishop of Rochester’s favour, nor of Lord Halifax’s generous design, (these two noble spirits having, out of respect to the family, enjoined Lady Elizabeth and her son to keep their favour concealed to the world, and let it pass for her own expence, &c.), readily came out of the coaches, and attended Lord Jefferies up to the lady’s bed-side, who was then sick, He repeated the purport of what he had before said; but she absolutely refusing, he fell on his knees, vowing never to rise till his request was granted. The rest of the company, by his desire, kneeled also; she being naturally of a timorous disposition, and then under a sudden surprise, fainted away. As soon as she recovered her speech, she cried, no, no. Enough, gentlemen, replied he, (rising briskly,) my lady is very good; she says, go, go. She repeated her former words with all her strength, but, alas! in vain, her feeble voice was lost in their acclamations of joy; and Lord Jefferies ordered the hearsemen to carry the corpse to Russell’s, the undertaker, in Cheapside, and leave it there, till he sent orders for the embalment, which, he added, should be after the royal manner. His directions were obeyed, the company dispersed, and Lady Elizabeth and Mr Charles remained inconsolable. Next morning Mr Charles waited on Lord Halifax, &c. to excuse his mother and self, by relating the real truth: but neither his lordship, nor the bishop, would admit of any plea; especially the latter, who had the Abbey lighted, the ground opened, the choir attending, an anthem ready set, and himself waiting, for some hours, without any corpse to bury, Russel, after three days expectance of orders for embalment, without receiving any, waits on Lord Jefferies, who, pretending ignorance of the matter, turned it off with an ill-natured jest, saying, “Those who observed the orders of a drunken frolic, deserved no better; that he remembered nothing at all of it, and he might do what he pleased with the corpse.” On this Mr Russell waits on Lady Elizabeth and Mr Dryden; but, alas! it was not in their power to answer. The season was very hot, the deceased had lived high and fast; and being corpulent, and abounding with gross humours, grew very offensive. The undertaker, in short, threatened to bring home the corpse, and set it before their door. It cannot be easily imagined, what grief, shame, and confusion, seized this unhappy family. They begged a day’s respite, which was granted. Mr Charles wrote a very handsome letter to Lord Jefferies, who returned it, with this cool answer, “He knew nothing of the matter, and would be troubled no more about it.” He then addressed the Lord Halifax and bishop of Rochester, who were both too justly, though unhappily, incensed, to do any thing in it. In this extreme distress, Dr Garth, a man who entirely loved Mr Dryden, and was withal a man of generosity and great humanity, sends for the corpse to the College of Physicians in Warwicklane, and proposed a funeral by subscription, to which himself set a most noble example; Mr Wycherley, and several others, among whom must not be forgotten, Henry Cromwell, Esq. Captain Gibbons, and Mr Christopher Metcalfe, Mr Dryden’s apothecary and intimate friend, (since a collegiate physician,) who, with many others, contributed most largely to the subscription; and at last a day, about three weeks after his decease, was appointed for the interment at the Abbey. Dr Garth pronounced a fine Latin oration over the corpse at the College; but the audience being numerous, and the room large, it was requisite the orator should be elevated, that he might be heard; but, as it unluckily happened, there was nothing at hand but an old beer-barrel, which the doctor, with much good-nature, mounted; and, in the midst of his oration, beating time to the accent with his foot, the head broke in, and his feet sunk to the bottom, which occasioned the malicious report of his enemies, that he was turned a tub-preacher: However, he finished the oration with a superior grace and genius, to the loud acclamations of mirth, which inspired the mixed or rather mob-auditors. The procession began to move, a numerous train of coaches attended the hearse; but, good God! in what disorder, can only be expressed by a sixpenny pamphlet, soon after published, entitled, “Dryden’s Funeral.” At last the corpse arrived at the Abbey, which was all unlighted. No organ played, no anthem sung; only two of the singing boys preceded the corpse, who sung an ode of Horace, with each a small candle in their hand. The butchers and other mob broke in like a deluge, so that only about eight or ten gentlemen could get admission, and those forced to cut the way with their drawn swords. The coffin, in this disorder, was let down into Chaucer’s grave, with as much confusion, and as little ceremony, as was possible; every one glad to save themselves from the gentlemen’s swords, or the clubs of the mob. When the funeral was over, Mr Charles sent a challenge to Lord Jefferies, who refusing to answer it, he sent several others, and went often himself, but could neither get a letter delivered, nor admittance to speak to him; which so justly incensed him, that he resolved, since his lordship refused to answer him like a gentleman, he would watch an opportunity to meet him, and fight off hand, though with all the rules of honour; which his lordship hearing, left the town; and Mr Charles could never have the satisfaction to meet him, though he sought it till his death with the utmost application. This is the true state of the case, and surely no reflection to the manes of this great man.

“Thus it is very plain, that his being buried by contribution, was owing to a vile drunken frolic of the Lord Jefferies, as I have related. Mr Dryden enjoyed himself in plenty, while he lived, and the surplusage of his goods paid all his debts. After his decease, the Lady Elizabeth, his widow, took a lesser house in Sherrard-street, Golden-square, and had wherewithal to live frugally genteel, and keep two servants, to the day of her death, by the means of a small part of her fortune, which her relations had obliged Mr Dryden to secure to her on marriage. This was 80l. per annum, and duly paid at 20l. per quarter; so that, I can assure you, there was no want to her dying-day. He had only three sons, and all provided for like gentlemen. Mr Charles had served the Pontiff of Rome above nine years, in an honourable and profitable post, as usher to the palace, out of which he had an handsome stipend remitted by his brother John, whom, by the pope’s favour, he left to officiate, while he came to visit his father, who dying soon after his arrival, he returned no more to Italy, but was unhappily drowned at Windsor in swimming cross the river. Mr John died in his post at Rome, and Harry the youngest was a religious; he had 30l. a year allowed by his college in Flanders, besides a generous salary from his near relation the too well-known Duchess of Norfolk, to whom he was domestic chaplain. Behold the great wants of this deplorable family!

I am, Sir,

Your’s, &c.

CORINNA.

_May_ 15, 1729.

P. S. ‘Mr Dryden was educated at Westminster school, under the great Dr Bushby, being one of the king’s scholars upon the royal foundation.’

* * * * *

’SIR,

’Upon recollection, I think it must have been that remarkably fine gentleman, Pope Clement XI., to whom Mr Charles Dryden was usher of the palace. His brother John died of a fever at Rome, not many months after his father, and was buried there; whether before the pope or after I cannot say; but the difference was not much. Mr Charles, who was drowned at Windsor, 1704, was doubtless buried there. Lady Elizabeth lived about eight years after her spouse, and for five years of the time, without any memory, which she lost by a fever in 1703; she was a melancholy object, and was, by her son Harry, as I was told, carried into the country, where she died. What country I never heard. I cannot certainly say where Mr Harry died, or whether before his mother or after.

’Mr Dryden never had any wife but Lady Elizabeth, whatever may have been reported.

’As he was a man of a versatile genius, he took great delight in judicial astrology; though only by himself. There were some incidents which proved his great skill, that were related to Lady Chudleigh at the Bath, and which she desired me to ask Lady Elizabeth about, as I after did; which she not only confirmed, by telling me the exact matter of fact, but added another, which had never been told to any; and which I can solemnly aver was some years before it came to pass. I purposely omitted these Narratives in the Memoirs of Mr Dryden, lest that this over-witty age, which so much ridicules prescience, should think the worse of all the rest; but, if you desire particulars, they shall be freely at your service.

I am, Sir,

Your’s, &c.

CORINNA.

_16th June_, 1729.

* * * * *

_The Narratives referred to in the foregoing Letter, viz._

’Notwithstanding Mr Dryden was a great master of that branch of astronomy, called judicial astrology, there were very few, scarce any, the most intimate of his friends, who knew of his amusements that way, except his own family. In the year 1707, that deservedly celebrated Lady Chudleigh being at the Bath, was told by the Lady Elizabeth of a very surprising instance of this judgement on his eldest son Charles’s horoscope. Lady Chudleigh, whose superior genius rendered her as little credulous on the topic of prescience, as she was on that of apparitions; yet withal was of so candid and curious a disposition, that she neither credited an attested tale on the quality or character of the relater, nor did she altogether despise it, though told by the most ignorant: Her steady zeal for truth always led her to search to the foundation, of it; and on that principle, at her return to London, she spoke to a gentlewoman of her acquaintance, that was well acquainted in Mr Dryden’s family, to ask his widow about it; which she accordingly did. It is true, report has added many incidents to matter of fact; but the real truth, taken from Lady Elizabeth’s own mouth, is in these words:

‘When I was in labour of Charles, Mr Dryden being told it was decent to withdraw, laid his watch on the table, begging one of the ladies, then present, in a most solemn manner, to take an exact notice of the very minute when the child was born: which she did, and acquainted him therewith. This passed without any singular notice; many fathers having had such a fancy, without any farther thought. But about a week after, when I was pretty hearty, he comes into my room; ‘My dear,’ says he, ‘you little think what I have been doing this morning;’ “nor ever shall,” said I, “unless you will be so good to inform me.” ‘Why, then,’ cried he, ‘I have been calculating this child’s nativity, and in grief I speak it, he was born in an evil hour; Jupiter, Venus, and the Sun, were all under the earth, and the lord of his ascendant afflicted by a hateful square of Mars and Saturn. If he lives to arrive at his eighth year, he will go near to die a violent death on his very birth-day; but if he should escape, as I see but small hopes, he will, in his twenty-third year, be under the very same evil direction: and if he should, which seems almost impossible, escape that also, the thirty-third or thirty-fourth year is, I fear’----I interrupted him here, “O, Mr Dryden, what is this you tell me? my blood runs cold at your fatal speech; recal it, I beseech you. Shall my little angel, my Dryden boy, be doomed to so hard a fate? Poor innocent, what hast thou done? No: I will fold thee in my arms, and if thou must fall, we will both perish together.” A flood of tears put a stop to my speech; and through Mr Dryden’s comfortable persuasions, and the distance of time, I began to be a little appeased, but always kept the fatal period in my mind. At last the summer arrived, August was the inauspicious month in which my dear son was to enter on his eighth year. The court being in progress, and Mr Dryden at leisure, he was invited to my brother Berkshire’s to keep the long vacation with him at Charleton in Wilts; I was also invited to my uncle Mordaunt’s, to pass the remainder of the summer at his country-seat. All this was well enough; but when we came to dividing the children, I would have had him took John, and let me have the care of Charles; because, as I told him, a man might be engaged in company, but a woman could have no pretence for not guarding of the evil hour. Poor Mr Dryden was in this too absolute, and I as positive. In fine, we parted in anger; and, as a husband always will be master, he took Charles, and I was forced to be content with my son John. But when the fatal day approached, such anguish of heart seized me, as none but a fond mother can form any idea of. I watched the post; that failed: I wrote and wrote, but no answer. Oh, my friend! judge what I endured, terrified with dreams, tormented by my apprehensions. I abandoned myself to despair, and remained inconsolable.

’The anxiety of my spirits occasioned such an effervescence of my blood, as threw me into so violent a fever, that my life was despaired of, when a letter came from my spouse, reproving my womanish credulity, and assured me all was well, and the child in perfect health; on which I mended daily, and recovered my wonted state of ease, till about six weeks after the fatal day, I received an _eclaircissement_ from Mr Dryden, with a full account of the whole truth, which belike he feared to acquaint me with till the danger was over. It was this: In the month of August, being Charles’s anniversary, it happened, that Lord Berkshire had made a general hunting-match, to which were invited all the adjacent gentlemen; Mr Dryden being at his house, and his brother-in-law, could not be dispensed with from appearing.

’I have told you, that Mr Dryden, either through fear of being thought superstitious, or thinking it a science beneath his study, was extremely cautious in letting any one know that he was a dabbler in astrology, therefore could not excuse his absence from the sport; but he took care to set the boy a double exercise in the Latin tongue, (which he taught his children himself,) with a strict charge not to stir out of the room till his return, well knowing the task he had set him would take up longer time. Poor Charles was all obedience, and sat close to his duty, when, as ill fate ordained, the stag made towards the house. The noise of the dogs, horns, &c. alarmed the family to partake of the sport; and one of the servants coming down stairs, the door being open, saw the child hard at his exercise without being moved. ‘Master,’ cried the fellow, ‘why do you sit there? come down, come down, and see the sport.’ ‘No,’ replied Charles, ’my papa has forbid me, and I dare not.’ ‘Pish!’ quoth the clown, ‘vather shall never know it;’ so takes the child by the hand, and leads him away; when, just as they came to the gate, the stag, being at bay with the dogs, cut a bold stroke, and leaped over the court-wall, which was very low and very old, and the dogs following, threw down at once a part of the wall ten yards in length, under which my dear child lay buried. He was as soon as possible dug out; but, alas, how mangled! his poor little head being crushed to a perfect mash. In this miserable condition he continued above six weeks, without the least hope of life. Through the Divine Providence he recovered, and in process of time, having a most advantageous invitation to Rome, from my uncle, Cardinal Howard, we sent over our two sons Charles and John; (having, through the grace of God, been ourselves admitted into the true Catholic faith;) they were received suitable to the grandeur and generosity of his eminence, and Charles immediately planted in a post of honour, as gentleman-usher to his Holiness, in which he continued about nine years. But what occasions me to mention this, is an allusion to my dear Mr Dryden’s too fatal prediction. In his twenty-third year, being in perfect health, he had attended some ladies of the palace, his Holiness’s nieces, as it was his place, on a party of pleasure. His brother John and he lodged together, at the top of an old round tower belonging to the Vatican, (with a well staircase, much like the Monument,) when he knew his brother Charles was returned, went up, thinking to find him there, and to go to bed. But, alas! no brother was there: on which he made a strict enquiry at all the places he used to frequent, but no news, more than that he was seen by the centinel to go up the staircase. On which he got an order for the door of the foundation of the tower to be opened, where they found my poor unfortunate son Charles mashed to a mummy, and weltering in his own blood. How this happened, he gave no farther account, when he could speak, than, that the heat of the day had been most excessive, and as he came to the top of the tower, he found himself seized with a megrim, or swimming in his head, and leaning against the iron rails, it is to be supposed, tipped over, five stories deep. Under this grievous mischance, his Holiness (God bless him!) omitted nothing that might conduce to his recovery; but as he lay many months without hopes of life, so when he did recover his health, it was always very imperfect, and he continues still to be of a hectic disposition.

’You see here (continued Lady Elizabeth) the too true fulfilling of two of my dear husband’s fatal predictions. But, alas! my friend, there is a third to come, which is, that in his thirty-third or thirty-fourth year, he or I shall die a violent death; but he could not say which would go first. I heartily pray it may be myself: But as I have ten thousand fears, the daily challenges Charles sends to Lord Jefferies, on his ungenerous treatment of my dear Mr Dryden’s corpse; and as he has some value for you, I beg, my dearest friend, that you would dissuade him as much as you can from taking that sort of justice on Lord Jefferies, lest it should fulfil his dear father’s prediction.’

* * * * *

“Thus far Lady Elizabeth’s own words.

“This, if required, I can solemnly attest was long before Mr Charles died; to the best of my remembrance it was in 1701 or 1702, I will not be positive which. But in 1703, Lady Elizabeth was seized with a nervous fever, which deprived her of her memory and understanding, (which surely may be termed a moral death,) though she lived some years after. But Mr Charles, in August 1704, was unhappily drowned at Windsor, as before recited. He had, with another gentleman, swam twice over the Thames; but venturing a third time, it was supposed he was taken with the cramp, because he called out for help, though too late.

I am, Sir, &c.

CORINNA.”

_June_ 18, 1729.

_Mr_ CHARLES DRYDEN’S _Letter to_ CORINNA.

’_Madam_,

’Notwithstanding I have been seized with a fever ever since I saw you last, I have this afternoon endeavoured to do myself the honour of obeying my Lady Chudleigh’s commands. My fever is still increasing, and I beg you to peruse the following verses, according to your own sense and discretion, which far surpasses mine in all respects. In a small time of intermission from my illness, I write these following:

MADAM,

How happy is our British isle, to bear Such crops of wit and beauty to the fair? A female muse each vying age has blest, And the last Phoenix still excels the rest: But you such solid learning add to rhymes, Your sense looks fatal to succeeding times; Which, raised to such a pitch, o’erflows like Nile, And with an after-dearth must seize our isle. Alone of all your sex, without the rules Of formal pedants, or the noisy schools, (What nature has bestowed will art supply?) Have traced the various tracts of dark philosophy.

What happy days had wise Aurelius seen, If, for Faustina, you his wife had been! No jarring nonsense had his soul oppressed, For he with all he wished for had been blessed.

’Be pleased to tell me what you find amiss, or correct it yourself, and excuse this trouble from

Your most humble and most obedient servant,

CHAR. DRYDEN.’

_Easter-Eve._

“I have searched all our ecclesiastical offices for the will of Mr Dryden, but I find he did not make any; administration was granted to his son Charles (his wife, the Lady Elizabeth Howard, being a lunatic for some time before her death) in June 1700.”

No. VI.

MONUMENT IN THE CHURCH AT TICHMARSH.

“In the middle of the north wall of the chapel within the parish church of Tichmarsh, in Northamptonshire, is a wooden monument, having the bust of a person at top, wreathed, crowned with laurel. Underneath, THE POET; and below, this inscription:

“Here lie the honoured remains of Erasmus Dryden, Esq., and Mary Pickering his wife. He was the third son of Sir Erasmus Dryden, an ancient Baronet, who lived with great honour in this county, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Mr Dryden was a very ingenious worthy gentleman, and Justice of the Peace in this county. He married Mrs Mary Pickering, daughter of the reverend Doc^r Pickering,[211] of Aldwinckle, and grand-daughter to Sir Gilbert Pickering: Of her it may truly be said, She was a crown to her husband: Her whole conversation was as becometh the Gospel of Christ. They had 14 children; the eldest of whom was John Dryden, Esq., the celebrated Poet and Laureat of his time. His bright parts and learning are best seen in his own excellent writings on various subjects. We boast, that he was bred and had his first learning here; where he has often made us happie by his kind visits and most delightful conversation. He married the Lady Elizabeth Howard, daughter to Henry[212] Earl of Berkshire; by whom he had three sons, Charles, John, and Erasmus-Henry; and, after 70 odd years, when nature could be no longer supported, he received the notice of his approaching dissolution with sweet submission and entire resignation to the Divine will; and he took so tender and obliging a farewell of his friends, as none but he himself could have expressed; of which sorrowful number I was one. His body was honourably interred in Westminster Abby, among the greatest wits of divers ages. His sons were all fine, ingenious, accomplished gentlemen: they died in their youth, unmarried: Sir Erasmus-Henry, the youngest, lived till the ancient honour of the family descended on him. After his death, it came to his good uncle, Sir Erasmus Dryden; whose grandson is the present Sir John Dryden, of Canons-Ashby, the ancient seat of the Family. Sir Erasmus Dryden, the first named, married his daughters into very honourable familyes; the eldest to Sir John Philipps;[213] the second to Sir John Hartop;[214] the youngest[215] was married to Sir John Pickering, great grand-father to the present Sir Gilbert Pickering, Bart.; and to the same persons I have the honour to be a grand-daughter: And it is with delight and humble thankfullness that I reflect on the character of my pious ancestors; and that I am now, with my owne hand, paying my duty to Sir Erasmus Dryden, my great grand-father, and to Erasmus Dryden, Esq., my honoured uncle,[216] in the 80th year of my age.

ELIZA. CREED, 1722.”

No. VII.

EXTRACT FROM AN EPISTOLARY POEM, TO JOHN DRYDEN, ESQ.

OCCASIONED BY THE MUCH-LAMENTED DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. JAMES EARL OF ABINGDON;

BY WILLIAM PITTIS, LATE FELLOW OF NEW-COLLEGE, IN OXON.

_Quanto rectius hoc, quam tristi lœdere versu Pantolabum scurram, Nomentanumq. Nepotem?_ HOR.

_----Cadet et Repheus justissimus unus Qui fuit in Teucris, et servantissimus æqui._ ÆN. Lib. ii.

THE PREFACE.

_1699. 13. June._

... And though I am not an author confirmed enough to carry my copies about to gentlemen’s chambers, in order to pick up amendments and corrections, as the practice is now of our most received writers; yet I must, in justice to myself, and the gentleman who has favoured me with its perusal, tell the world, it had been much worse had not Mr Dryden acquainted me with its faults. Nothing indeed was so displeasing to him, as what was pleasing to myself, viz. his own commendations: and if it pleases the world, the reader has no one to thank but so distinguishing a judgment who occasioned it.

I might here lay hold of the opportunity of returning the obliging compliments he sent me by the person who brought the papers to him before they were printed; but I may chance to call his judgement in question by it, which I always accounted infallible, but in his kind thoughts of me; and therefore refer the reader to the poem, in order to see whether he’ll be so good natured as to join his opinion with the compliment the gentleman aforesaid has honoured me with.

POEM.

But thou, great bard, whose hoary merits claim The laureat’s place, without the laureat’s name; Whose learned brows, encircled by the bays, Bespeak their owner’s, and their giver’s praise; Thou, Dryden, should’st our loss alone relate, And heroes mourn, who heroes canst create. Amidst thy verse the wife already shines, And owes her virtues, what she owes thy lines. Down from above the saint our sorrows views, And feels a second heaven in thy muse; Whose verse as lasting as her fame shall be, While thou shall live by her, and she by thee. Oh! let the same immortal numbers tell, How just the husband lived, and how he fell; What vows, when living, for his life were made; What floods of tears at his decease were paid; And since their deathless virtues were the same, Equal in worth, alike should be their fame. But thou, withdrawn from us, and public cares, Flatter’st thy age, and feed’st thy growing years; Supine, unmoved, regardless of our cries, Thou mind’st not where thy noble patron lies: Wrapt in death’s icy arms, within his urn, Behold him sleeping, and, beholding, mourn: Speechless that tongue for wholesome counsels famed, And without sight those eyes for lust unblamed; Bereaved of motion are those hands which gave Alms to the needy, did the needy crave. Ah! such a sight, and such a man divine, Does only call for such a hand as thine! Great is the task, and worthy is thy pen; The best of bards should sing the best of men. Awake, arise from thy lethargic state, Mourn Britain’s loss, though Britain be ingrate; Nor let the sacred Mantuan’s labours be A _ne plus ultra_ to thy fame and thee. Thy Abingdon, if once thy glorious theme, Shall vie with his Marcellus for esteem; Tears in his eyes, and sorrow in his heart, Shall speak the reader’s grief, and writer’s art; And, though this barren age does not produce A great Augustus, to reward thy muse; Though in this isle no good Octavia reigns, And gives thee Virgil’s premium for his strains: Yet, Dryden, for a while forsake thy ease, And quit thy pleasures, that thou more may’st please. Apollo calls, and every muse attends, With every grace, who every beauty lends. Sweet is thy voice, as was thy subject’s mind, And, like his soul, thy numbers unconfined; Thy language easy, and thy flowing song, Soft as a vale, but like a mountain strong. Such verse as thine, and such alone, should dare To charge the muses with their present care. Thine, and the cause of wit, with speed maintain, Lest some rude hand the sacred work profane, And the dull, mercenary, rhyming crew, Rob the deceased and thee, of what’s your due. Such fears as these, (if duty cannot move, And make thy labours equal to thy love,) Should hasten forth thy verse, and make it show What thou, mankind, and every muse does owe. As Abingdon’s high worth exalted shines, And gives and takes a lustre from thy lines; As Eleonora’s pious deeds revive In him who shared her praises when alive: So the stern Greek, whom nothing could persuade To quit the rash engagements which he made, With sullen looks, and helmet laid aside, He soothed his anger, and indulged his pride; Careless of fate, neglectful of the call Of chiefs entreating, till Patroclus’ fall. Roused by his death, his martial soul could bend, And lose his whole resentments in his friend; As to the dusky field he winged his course, With eyes impatient, and redoubled force, And weeped him dead, in thousands of the slain, Whom living, Greece had beg’d his sword in vain. O Dryden! quick the sacred pencil take, And rise in virtue’s cause for virtue’s sake; Of heaven’s the song, and heaven-born is thy muse, Fitting to follow bliss, which mine will lose: Bold are thy thoughts, and soaring is thy flight; Thy fancy tempting, thy expressions bright; Moving thy grief, and powerful is thy praise, Or to command our tears, or joys to raise. So shall his worth, from age to age conveyed, Shew what the hero did, and poet paid; And future times shall practice what they see Performed so well by him, and praised by thee, While I confess the weakness of my lays, And give my wonder where thou giv’st thy praise: As I from every muse but thine retire, And him in thee, and thee in him, admire.

No. VIII.

EXTRACTS FROM POEMS ATTACKING DRYDEN, FOR HIS SILENCE UPON THE DEATH OF QUEEN MARY.

The author of one of these Mourning Odes inscribes it to Dryden with the following letter:

SIR,

Though I have little acquaintance with you, nor desire to have more, I take upon me, with the assurance of a poet, to make this dedication to you, which I hope you will the more easily excuse, since you have often used the same freedom to others; and since I protest sincerely, that I expect no money from you.

I could not forbear mentioning your admired Lewis, whom you compare to Augustus, as justly as one may compare you to Virgil. Augustus (though not the most exact pattern of a prince) yet, on some occasions, shewed personal valour, and was not a league-breaker, a poisoner, a pirate: Virgil was a good man and a clean poet; all his excellent writings may be carried by a child in one hand more easily, than all your almonzors can be by a porter upon both shoulders.

When I saw your prodigious epistle to the translation of Juvenal, I feared you were wheeling to the government; I confess too, I long expected something from you on the late sad occasion, that has employed so many pens; but it is well that you have kept silence. I hope you will always be on the other side; did even popery ever get any honour by you? You may wonder that I subscribe not my name at length, but I defer that to another time. I hear you are translating again; let English Virgil be better than English Juvenal, or it is odds you will hear of me more at large. In the mean time, hoping that you and your covey will dislike what I _have written_, I remain, Sir, your very humble servant,

A. B.

There is also an attack upon our author, as presiding in the Wits Coffee-house, which gives us a curious view into the interior of that celebrated place of rendezvous. It is entitled, “Urania’s Temple; or, a Satire upon the Silent Poets,” and is as follows:--

URANIA’S TEMPLE; OR, A SATIRE UPON THE SILENT POETS.

_Carmina, nulla canam._----VIRG.

_1694-5. 2. March._

A house there stands where once a convent stood, A nursery still to the old convent brood: This ever hospitable roof of yore The famous sign of the old Osiris bore, A fair red Io, hieroglyphic-fair, For all the suckling wits o’ the town milcht there. This long old emblematic, that had past Full many a bleak winter’s shaking blast, At last with age fell down, some say, confusion, Shamed and quite dasht at the new Revolution; Dropt out of modesty, (as most suppose,) Not daring face the new bright Royal Rose. Here in supiner state, ’twixt reaking tiff, And fumigating clouds of funk and whiff, Snug in a nook, his dusky tripos, sits A senior Delphic ’mongst the minor wits; Feared like an Indian god, a god indeed True Indian, smoked with his own native weed. From this oped mouth, soft eloquence rich mint Steals now and then a keen well-hammered hint, Some sharp state raillery, or politic squint, Hard midwived wit, births by slow labours stopt, Sense not profusely shower’d, but only dropt. Sometimes for oracles yet more profound, A titillating sonnet’s handed round, Some Abdication-Damon madrigal, His own sour pen’s too overflowing gall. I must confess in pure poetic rage, Bowed down to the old Moloch of that age, His strange bigotted muse our wonder saw, Tuned to the late great court tarantula. What though worn out in pleasures old and stale, The reverend Outly sculkt within the pale; It was enough, like the old Mahomet’s pigeon, He lured to bread, and masked into religion. Had that, now silent, muse been but so kind As to this funeral-dirge her numbers joined, On that great theme what wonders had he told! For though the bard, the quill is not grown old, Writes young Apollo still, with his whole rays Encircled and enriched, though not his bays. Thus when the wreath, so long, so justly due, The great Mecænas from those brows withdrew, With pain he saw such merit sunk so far, Shamed that the dragon’s tail swept down the star. Not that the conscience-shackle tied so hard, But had he been the prophet, as the bard, Prognostick’d the diminutive slender birth His seven-hill’d mountain-labour has brought forth, His foreseen precipice; that thought alone Had stopt his fall, secured him all our own; Free from his hypochondriac dreams he had slept, And still his unsold Esau’s birthright kept. ’Tis thus we see him lost, thus mourn his fall; That single teint alone has sullied all. So have I in the Muses garden seen The spreading rose, or blooming jessamine; Once from whose bosom the whole Hybla train The industrious treasurers of the rich plain, Those winged foragers for their fragrant prey, On loaded thighs bore thousand sweets away: Now shaded by a sullen venomed guest Cankered and sooted o’er to a spider’s nest. His sweets thus soured, what melancholy change, What an ill-natur’d lour, a face so strange! His life one whole long scene of all unrest, And airy hopes his thin cameleon-feast; Pleased only with the pride of being preferred, The echoed voice to his own listning herd, A magisterial Belweather tape, The lordly leader of his bleating troop. These doctrines our young Sullenists preach round, The texts which their poetic silence found. But why the doctor of their chair, why thou, Their great rabbinic voice, thus silent too? Could Noll’s once meteor glories blaze so fair, To make thee that all-prostrate zealot there? Strange, that that fiery nose could boast that charm Thy muse with those seraphic raptures warm! And our fair Albion star to shine so bleak, Her radiant influence so chill, so weak! Gorged with his riotous festival of fame, Could thy weak stomach pule at Mary’s name! Or was thy junior palate more canine, And now in years grows squeamish, and more fine! Fie, peevish-niggard, with thy flowing store To play the churl,--excuse thy shame no more.

No. IX.

VERSES OCCASIONED BY READING MR DRYDEN’S FABLES. INSCRIBED TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

BY MR JABEZ HUGHES.

_Musæum ante omnes, medium nam plurima turba Hunc habet, atque humeris extantem suspicit altis._--VIRG.

TO THE READER.

_1720-1, March._

It is now almost fourteen years since these lines were first written; and as I had no thought of making them public, I laid them aside among other papers; where they had still continued private, if it had not, in a manner, become my duty to print them, by the noble regard which is paid to Mr Dryden’s memory, by his grace the Duke of Buckingham, who, to his high quality, has added the liberal distinction of having long been at once both an eminent patron of elegant literature, and the most accomplished judge and pattern of it.

It might indeed seem an adventurous presumption to offer so trivial a poem to his Grace’s view; but he who is able to instruct the most skilful writer, will have benevolence enough to forgive the imperfections of the weakest, and to consider the inscribing these slight verses to his Grace, merely as a respectful acknowledgment of the common obligation he has laid upon all who have a true value for English poetry, by thus honouring the remains of a man who advanced it so highly, and is so justly celebrated for beauty of imagination, and force and delicacy of expression and numbers.

I must also observe, that I have had the happiness to see one part of these verses abundantly disproved by Mr Pope, and accordingly I retract it with pleasure; for that admirable author, who evidently inherits the bright invention, and the harmonious versification of Mr Dryden, has increased the reputation his other ingenious writings had obtained him, by the permanent fame of having finished a translation of the Iliad of Homer, with surprising genius and merit.

UPON READING MR DRYDEN’S FABLES.

Our great forefathers, in poetic song, Were rude in diction, though their sense was strong; Well-measured verse they knew not how to frame, Their words ungraceful, and the cadence lame. Too far they wildly ranged to start the prey, And did too much of Fairy-land display; And in their rugged dissonance of lines, True manly thought debased with trifles shines. Each gaudy flower that wantons on the mead, Must not appear within the curious bed; But nature’s chosen birth should flourish there, And with their beauties crown the sweet parterre. Such was the scene, when Dryden came to found More perfect lays, with harmony of sound: What lively colours glow on every draught! How bright his images, how raised his thought! The parts proportioned to their proper place, With strength supported, and adorned with grace. With what perfection did his artful hand The various kinds of poesy command! And the whole choir of Muses at his call, In his rich song, which was inspired of all, Spoke from the chords of his enchanting lyre, And gave his breast the fulness of their fire. As while the sun displays his lordly light, The host of stars are humbly veiled from sight, Till when he falls, they kindle all on high, And smartly sparkle in the nightly sky: His fellow bards suspended thus their ray, Drowned in the strong effulgence of his day; But glowing to their rise, at his decline, Each cast his beams, and each began to shine. As years advance, the abated soul, in most, Sinks to low ebb, in second childhood lost; And spoiling age, dishonouring our kind, Robs all the treasures of the wasted mind; With hovering clouds obscures the muffled sight, And dim suffusion of enduring night: But the rich fervour of his rising rage, Prevailed o’er all the infirmities of age; And, unimpaired by injuries of time, Enjoyed the bloom of a perpetual prime. His fire not less, he more correctly writ, With ripened judgment, and digested wit; When the luxuriant ardour of his youth, Succeeding years had tamed to better growth, And seemed to break the body’s crust away, To give the expanded mind more room to play; Which, in its evening, opened on the sight, Surprising beams of full meridian light; As thrifty of its splendour it had been, And all its lustre had reserved till then. So the descending sun, which hid his ray In mists before, diminishing the day, Breaks radiant out upon the dazzled eye, And in a blaze of glory leaves the sky. Revolving time had injured Chaucer’s name, And dimmed the brilliant lustre of his fame; Deformed his language, and his wit depressed, His serious sense oft sinking to a jest; Almost a stranger even to British eyes, We scarcely knew him in the rude disguise: But, clothed by thee, the burnished bard appears In all his glory, and new honours wears. Thus Ennius was by Virgil changed of old; He found him rubbish, and he left him gold. Who but thyself could Homer’s weight sustain, And match the voice of his majestic strain; When Phœbus’ wrath the sovereign poet sings, And the big passion of contending kings! No tender pinions of a gentle muse, Who little points in epigram pursues, And, with a short excursion, meekly plays Its fluttering wings in mean enervate lays, Could make a flight like this; to reach the skies, An eagle’s vigour can alone suffice. In every part the courtly Ovid’s style, Thy various versions beautifully foil. Here smoothly turned melodious measures move, And feed the flame, and multiply the love: So sweet they flow, so touch the heaving heart, They teach the doctor[217] in his boasted art. But when the theme demands a manly tone, Sublime he speaks in accents not his own. The bristly boar, and the tremendous rage, When the fell Centaurs in the fight engage; The cruel storm where Ceyx lost his life, And the deep sorrows of his widowed wife; The covered cavern, and the still abode Of empty visions, and the Sleepy God; The powers of nature, in her wonderous reign, Old forms subverting, to produce again, And mould the mass anew, the important verse Does with such dignity of words rehearse, That Virgil, proud of unexampled fame, Looks with concern, and fears a rival name. What vaunting Grecians, of their knowledge vain, In lying legends insolently feign Of magic verses, whose persuasive charm Appeased the soul with glowing passion warm; Then discomposed the calm, and changed the scene, And with the height of madness vexed again,-- Thou hast accomplished in thy wondrous song,[218] With utmost energy of numbers strong. A flow of rage comes hurrying on amain, And now the refluent tide ebbs out again; A quiet pause succeeds; when unconfined It rushes back, and swells upon the mind. The inimitable lay, through all the maze Of harmony’s sweet labyrinth, displays The power of music, and Cecilia’s praise. At first it lifts the flattered monarch high, With boasted lineage, to his kindred sky; Then to the pleasures of the flowing bowl, And mellow mirth, unbends his easy soul; And humbles now, and saddens all the feast, With sense of human miseries expressed; Relenting pity in each face appears, And heavy sorrow ripens into tears. Grief is forbid; and see! in every eye The gaiety of love, and wanton joy! Soft smiles and airs, which tenderly inspire Delightful hope, and languishing desire. But lo! the pealing verse provokes around The frown of rage, and kindles with the sound; Behold the low’ring storm at once arise, And ardent vengeance sparkling in their eyes; Fury boils high, and zeal of fell debate, Demanding ruin, and denouncing fate. Ye British beauties, in whose finished face Smile the gay honours of each bloomy grace; Whose forms, inimitably fair, invite The sighing heart, and cheer the ravished sight, Say, what sweet transports, and complacent joy, Rise in your bosoms, and your soul employ, When royal Emily, the tuneful bard Paints in his song, and makes the rich reward Of knightly arms, in costly lists arrayed, The world at once contending for the maid. How nobly great does Sigismonda shine, With constant faith, and courage masculine! No menaces could bend her mind to fear, But for her love she dies without a tear. There Iphigenia, with her radiant eyes, As the bright sun, illuminates the skies; In clouded Cymon chearful day began, Awaked the sleeping soul, and charmed him into man. The pleasing legends, to your honour, prove The power of beauty, and the force of love. Who, after him, can equally rehearse Such various subjects, in such various verse? And with the raptures of his strain controul, At will, each passion, and command the soul? Not ancient Orpheus, whose surprising lyre Did beasts, and rocks, and rooted woods, inspire, More sweetly sung, nor with superior art Soothed the sad shades, and softened Pluto’s heart. All owned, at distance, his distinguished name, Nor vainly vied to share his awful fame; Unrivalled, living, he enlarged his praise, And, dying, left without an heir his bays. So Philip’s son his universal reign Extended amply over earth and main; Through conquered climes with ready triumph rode, And ruled the nations with his powerful nod; But when fate called the mighty chief away, None could succeed to his imperial sway, And his wide empire languished to decay.

No. IX.

AN ODE BY WAY OF ELEGY, ON THE UNIVERSALLY LAMENTED DEATH OF THE INCOMPARABLE MR DRYDEN.

_Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus Tam chari capitis? Precipe lugubres Cantus Melpomene---- Quando ullam inveniam parem! Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit._

HORAT. Lib. i. Ode 25.

By ALEXANDER OLDYS.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR JAMES DIXON.

SIR,

_1700, 22d June._

The many and great obligations which you have been pleased to lay on me, give me the greatest confusion imaginable at present, when I consider that I am suing for a greater favour than all, in having the liberty to prefix your name to these lines; which though I am sensible they will be condemned by the great, yet the shame of that can no way affect you, when I do you the justice to assure the town, that it is contrary to your knowledge that you are become my patron: so your nicer sense cannot be accountable in the least; for you had no hand in it, and you may plead

_----Quæ non fecimus ipsi Vix ea nostra voco._

Nay, you were not guilty of so much as of the knowledge of this my _wicked intentions_; wicked. I mean, if it should offend you and my other friends, who need not blush for me, since I have already such a terror upon my conscience for this aggression, as is, I think, a punishment in some measure equal to any crime; and all that I can urge in my defence is, that it was pure respect to the dear memory of this great man, to whom I had the honour to be known, that provoked, or, let me rather say, obliged me to expose myself on this occasion. I never attempted any thing in this measure for the public before; and I doubt not that I shall do yet severer penance for it, in the censures of our _awful wits_, which I already fear; but your judgment is still more dreadful than all, by

Worthy Sir,

Your most obliged

obedient and humble servant,

ALEXANDER OLDYS.

AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR DRYDEN.

I.

On a soft bank of camomel I sate, O’ershaded by two mournful yews; (Doubtless it was the will of fate I this retreat should chuse.) Where on delicious poetry I fed, Amazing thoughts chilled all my blood, And almost stopt the vital flood, As Dryden’s sacred verse I read. Whilst killing raptures seized my head, I shook, as if I had foreknown What all-commanding fate had done; What for our sovereign Dryden had designed, Till sleep o’erwhelmed my brain, as sorrow had my mind; To think that all the great, even he, must die, And here, in fame alone, have immortality. When in my dream the fatal muse, With hair dishevell’d, and in tears, Melpomene appears; Upon my throbbing heart her hand she laid, Her hand as cold as death, and thus she said,-- “Least of my care, be calmed! No more just heaven accuse!

II.

“Eternal fate has said,--He must remove; The bards triumphant wait for him above. To everlasting day and blest abodes (The seats of poets and of gods) He’s gone, to fill the throne Which none could fill but he alone; The glorious throne for him prepared; Of glorious acts the glorious, just reward. See, see, as he ascends on high, The sacred bards attending in the sky! So low do they descend To meet their now immortal friend! Immortal there above, and here below, As long as men shall wit and English know, The unequalled Dryden must be so, Immortal in his verse, in verse unequalled too.”-- She said,--then disappear’d; when I Could plainly see all that was done on high.

III.

I saw above an universal joy, Perfect without alloy; (So great as ne’er till then had been Since the sweet Waller entered in,) When all that sacred company Brought the triumphant bard from ours to heaven’s great jubilee; That was the occasion of his happiness, And of our sorrows, surely that the cause, Called hence heaven’s monarch’s praise to help to express, And to receive for that his own deserved applause. There wanted still one in the heavenly quire, Dryden alone was their desire, Whom for the sacred song th’ Almighty did inspire ’Twas pity to us that so long delayed His blest translation to eternal light; Or, otherwise may we not be afraid, ’Twas for the sins of some who durst presume to write; Who durst in verse, in sacred poetry, Even heaven’s own design bely, And damn themselves with utmost industry! For this may we not dread The mighty prophet’s taken from our head? And though the fate of these I fear, I in respect must venture here. A long and racking war was sent, Of common sins, a common punishment; To the unthinking crowd the only curse, Who feel no loss but in their purse: But ah! what loss can now be worse? The mighty Pan has left our mournful shore; The mighty Pan is gone, Dryden is here no more.

IV.

When to the blest bright region he was come, The vulgar angels gazed, and made him room: Each laureat monarch welcomes him on high, And to embrace him altogether fly: Then strait the happy guest is shown To his bright and lofty throne, Inferior there to none. A crown beset with little suns, whose rays Shoot forth in foliages resembling bays, Now on his head they place: Then round him all the sacred band Loudly congratulating stand: When after silence made, Thus the sweetest Waller said:-- “Well hast thou merited, triumphant bard! For, once I knew thee militant below, When I myself was so; Dangerous thy post, the combat fierce and hard, Ignorance and rebellion still thy foe; But for those little pains see now the great reward! Mack-Flecknoe and Achitophel Can now no more disturb thy peace, Thy labours past, thy endless joys increase; The more thou hast endured, the more thou dost excel; And for the laurels snatched from thee below, Thou wear’st an everlasting crown upon thy hallowed brow.”

V.

The bard, who next the new-born saint addrest, Was Milton, for his wonderous poem blest; Who strangely found, in his Lost Paradise, rest. “Great bard,” said he, “’twas verse alone Did for my hideous crime atone, Defending once the worst rebellion. A double share of bliss belongs to thee, For thy rich verse and thy firm loyalty; Some of my harsh and uncouth points do owe To thee a tuneful cadence still below. Thine was indeed the state of innocence, Mine of offence, With studied treason and self-interest stained, Till Paradise Lost wrought Paradise Regained.” He said:--when thus our English Abraham, (In heaven the second of that name, Cowley, as glorious there as sacred here in fame,) “Welcome, Aleides, to this happy place! Our wish, and our long expectation here, Makes thee to us more dear; Thou great destroyer of that monstrous race, Which our sad former seat did harass and disgrace, Be blest and welcomed with our praise! Thy great Herculean labours done, And all the courses of thy zodiac run, Shine here to us, a more illustrious sun! But see! thy brethren gods in poetry, The whole great race divine, Ready in thy applause to join, Who will supply what is defect in me.”

VI.

Rochester, once on earth a prodigy, A happy convert now on high, Here begins his wonderous lays, In the sainted poet’s praise. Fathomless Buckingham, smooth Orrery, The witty D’Avenant, Denham, Suckling too, Shakespeare, nature’s Kneller, who Nature’s picture likest drew, Each in their turn his praise pursue. His song elaborate Jonson next does try, On earth unused to eulogy; Beaumont and Fletcher sing together still, And with their tuneful notes the arched palace fill. The noble patron poet now does try, His wondrous Spenser to outvy. Drayton did next our sacred bard address, And sung above with wonderful success. Our English Ennius, he who gave To the great bard kind welcome to his grave, Chaucer, the mightiest bard of yore, Whose verse could mirth to saddest souls restore, Caressed him next, whilst his delighted eye Expressed his love, and thus his tongue his joy:-- “Was I, when erst below,” said he, “In hopes so great a bard to see, As thou, my son, adopted unto me, And all this godlike race, some equal even to thee! O! ’tis enough.”--Here soft Orinda[219] came And sprightly Afra,[220] muses both on earth, Both burned here with a bright poetic flame, Which to their happiness above gave birth; Their charming songs his entertainment close, The mighty bard then, smiling, bowed, and rose.

VII.

Strait from his head each takes his laurel’d crown, And on the golden pavement casts it down: All prostrate fall before heaven’s high imperial throne, When the new saint begins his song alone; Wond’rous even there it was confest, Scarce to be equalled by the rest; Herbert nor Crashaw, though on earth divine, So sweetly could their numbers join! When, lo! the light of twenty thousand suns, All in one body, shining all at once, Darts from the imperial to this lower court; A light which they but hardly could support! Then the great anthem was begun, Which all the hallowed bards together sung; And by no choir of angels is outdone, But by the great seraphic choir alone, That day and night surround the awful throne of heaven’s eternal King; Even they themselves did the great chorus fill, And brought the grateful sounds to heaven’s high holiest hill.

VIII.

My soul shook with the sacred harmony, which soon alarmed my heart; I fancied I was falling from on high, and wakened with a start: “Waked,” said I, “surely no; I did not sleep; Can they be dreams which such impressions make? My soul does still the blest ideas keep; And still, methinks, I see them, though awake! The other thrones too, which, though vacant, shone With greater glory than the sun, Come fresh into my mind; Which once will lose their lustre by their bards outdone, When filled with those for whom they are designed. Upon their fronts I saw the glittering names, All written in celestial flames. For Dorset what a palace did I see! For Montague! And what for Normandy! What glories wait for Wycherly! For Congreve, Southerne, Tate, Garth, Addison? For Stephney, Prior, and for Dennis too? What thrones are void, what joys prepared and due? The pleasant dear companion Cheek, Whom all the great although at midnight seek, This glorious wreath must wear, and endless joys pursue. And for Motteux, my Gallic friend, The like triumphant laurels wait; Though heaven, I hope, will send it very late, Ere they or he to their blest seats ascend. ’Tis in their verse, next his, that he must live, Next his their lines eternal fame can give; Then all the happiness on earth I know Is, that such godlike men as they are with us still below.”

No. X.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR DRYDEN, A POEM.

_Huic versatile ingenium sic pariter ad omnia fuit, Ut ad id unum natum diceres quodcunque ageret._

_1700, 17th June._

When mortals formed of common clay expire, These vulgar souls an elegy require; But some hero of more heavenly frame, Exerts his valour, and extends his fame; Below the spheres impatient to abide, With universal joy is deified. Thus our triumphant Bard from hence is fled. But let us never, never say he’s dead; Let poetasters make the Muses mourn, And common-place it o’er his sacred urn; The public voice exalts him to the sky, And fate decrees him immortality; Ordains, instead of tears or mournful hearse, His apotheosis be sung in verse. Great poets sure are formed of heavenly race, And with great heroes justly claim a place. As Cæsar’s pen did Cæsar best commend, And all the elegies of Rome transcend; So Dryden’s muse alone, like Phœbus bright, Outshines all human praise, or borrowed light; To form his image, and to make it true, There must be art, and inspiration too. Auspicious stars had doomed him to the trade, By nature framed, by art a poet made: Thus Maro’s words and sense in him we see, And Ovid’s teeming vein of poesy. In his vast miscellaneous works we find, What charms at once, and edifies the mind: His pregnant muse has in the offspring shown What’s rare for use, or beauty to be known: In monumental everlasting verse Epitomised, he grasped the universe. No power but his could tune a British lyre To sweeter notes than any Tuscan quire, Teutonic words to animate and raise, Strong, shining, musical, as attic lays; Rude matter indisposed he formed polite, His muse seemed rather to create than write. His nervous eloquence is brighter far Than florid pulpit, or the noisy bar. His periods shine harmonious in the close, As if a muse presided in his prose; Yet unaffected plain, but strong his style, It overflows to fructify, like Nile. The God of wit conspires with all the Nine, To make the orator and poet join. We’re charmed when he the lady or the friend, Pleased in majestic numbers to commend. The panegyric flows in streams profuse, When worth or beauty sublimates the muse. His notes are moving, powerful, and strong, As Orpheus’ lyre, or as a Syren’s song; Sweet as the happy Idumean fields, And fragrant as the flowers that Tempe yields. Thrice happy she to whom such tribute’s paid, And has such incense at her altar laid; A sacrifice that might with envy move Jove’s consort, or the charming Queen of Love. His lasting lines will give a sacred name, (Eternal records in the book of fame,) His favourites are doom’d by Jove’s decree, To share with him in immortality. The wealthy muse on innate mines could live, Though no Mecenas any smile would give; His light not borrowed, but was all his own; His rays were bright and warm without the sun. Pictures (weak images of him) are sold, The French are proud to have the head for gold: The echo of his verse has charmed their ear,-- O could they comprehend the sound they hear! Who hug the cloud, caress an airy face, What would they give the goddess to embrace? The characters his steady muse could frame, Are more than like, they are so much the same; The pencil and the mirror faintly live, ’Tis but the shadow of a life they give; Like resurrection from the silent grave, He the numeric soul and body gave. No art, no hand but his could e’er bring home The noblest choicest flowers of Greece and Rome; Transplant them with sublimest art and toil, And make them flourish in a British soil. Whatever ore he cast into his mould } He did the dark philosophy unfold, } And by a touch converted all to gold. } With epic feet who ere can steady run, May drive the fiery chariot of the sun, Must neither soar too high, nor fall too low; Must neither burn like fire, nor freeze like snow. All ages mighty conquerors have known, Who courage and their power in arms have shown: Greece knew but one, and Rome the Mantuan swain, Who durst engage in lofty epic strain; Heroics here were lands unknown before, Our great Columbus first descried the shore. No prophet moved the passions of the mind, With sovereign power and force so unconfined: We sympathised with his poetic rage, In lofty buskins when he ruled the stage; He roused our love, our hope, despairs, and fears, Dissolved in joy we were, or drowned in tears. When juster indignation roused his hate, Insipid rhymes to lash, or knaves of state; Each line’s a sting, and ev’ry sting a death, As if their fate depended on his breath. Like sun-beams swift, his fiery shafts were sent, Or lightning darted from the firmament. No warmer clime, no age or muse divine, In pointed satire could our bard outshine. His unexhausted force knew no decay; In spite of years, his muse grew young and gay, And vigorous, like the patriarch of old, His last-born Joseph cast in finest mould; This son of sixty-nine, surpassing fair, With any elder offspring may compare, Has charms in courts of monarchs to be seen, Caressed and cherished by a longing queen. Great prophets oft extend their just command, Receive the tribute of a foreign land; When in their own ungrateful native ground Few just admiring votaries they found. But when these god-like men their clay resign, Pale Envy’s laid a victim at their shrine; United mortals do their worth proclaim, And altars raise to their eternal fame. Wealth, beauty, force of wit, without allay, In Dryden’s heavenly muse profusely lay; Which mighty charms did never yet combine, In any single deity to shine, But were dispensed, more thriftily, between Jove’s wife, his daughter, and the Cyprian queen. The nymphs recorded in his artful lays, Produce the grateful homage of their praise; Assisted in their vows by powers divine, Offer their sacred incense at his shrine. The spheres exalt their music, to commend The poet’s master and the muse’s friend; In concert form seraphic notes to sing, Of numbers, and of harmony the king. In this triumphant scene to act her part, Nature’s attended by her hand-maid, Art: Resounding Echo, with her mimic voice, Concurs to make the universe rejoice. Let ev’ry tongue and pen the poet sing, Who mounts Parnassus top with lofty wing; Whose splendid muse has crowns of laurel won, That brave the shining beauties of the sun. His lines (those sacred reliques of the mind) Not by the laws of fate or war confined, In spite of flames will everlasting prove, Devouring rust of time, or angry Jove.

No. XI.

EXTRACT FROM POETÆ BRITANNICI.

A POEM, SATIRICAL AND PANEGYRICAL.

_1700. 9. January._

L--gh aim’d to rise above great Dr---n’s height, But lofty Dryden kept a steady flight. Like Dædalus, he times with prudent care His well-waxed wings, and waves in middle air. Crowned with the sacred snow of reverend years, Dryden above the ignobler crowd appears, Raises his laurelled head, and, as he goes, O’er-shoulders all, and like Apollo shows. The native spark, which first advanced his name, By industry he kindled to a flame. Then to a different coast his judgment flew, He left the old world behind, and found a new. On the strong columns of his lasting wit, Instructive Dryden built, and peopled it. In every page delight and profit shines; Immortal sense flows in his mighty lines. His images so strong and lively be, I hear not words alone, but substance see, The proper phrase of our exalted tongue To such perfection from his numbers sprung; His tropes continued, and his figures fine, All of a piece throughout, and all divine. Adapted words and sweet expressions move Our various passions, pity, rage, and love. I weep to hear fond Antony complain In Shakespeare’s fancy, but in Virgil’s strain. Though for the comic, others we prefer, Himself the judge; nor does his judgment err. But comedy, ’tis thought, can never claim The sounding title of a poem’s name. For raillery, and what creates a smile, Betrays no lofty genius, nor a style. That heavenly heat refuses to be seen In a town character, and comic mien. If we would do him right, we must produce The Sophoclean buskin; when his muse With her loud accents filled the listning ear, And peals applauding shook the theatre. They fondly seek, great name, to blast thy praise, Who think that foreign banks produced thy bays. Is he obliged to France, who draws from thence, By English energy, their captive sense? Though Edward and famed Henry warred in vain, Subduing what they could not long retain, Yet now, beyond our arms, the muse prevails, And poets conquer, when the hero fails. This does superior excellence betray: O could I write in thy immortal way! If Art be Nature’s scholar, and can make Such great improvements, Nature must forsake Her ancient style; and in some grand design, } She must her own originals decline, } And for the noblest copies follow thine. } This all the world must offer to thy praise, And this Thalia sang in rural lays. As sleep to weary drovers on the plain, As a sweet river to a thirsty swain, Such divine Dryden’s charming verses show, Please like the river, like the river flow. When his first years in mighty order ran, And cradled infancy bespoke the man, Around his lips the waxen artists hung, And breathed ambrosial odours as they sung. In yellow clusters from their hives they flew, And on his tongue distilled eternal dew: Thence from his mouth harmonious numbers broke, More sweet than honey from the knotted oak; More smooth than streams, that from a mountain glide, Yet lofty as the top from whence they slide. Long he possest the hereditary plains, Beloved by all the herdsmen, and the swains, Till he resigned his flock, opprest with years, And olden’d in his woe, as well as fears. Yet still, like Etna’s mount, he kept his fire, And look’d, like beauteous roses on a brier: He smiled, like Phœbus in a stormy morn, And sung, like Philomel against a thorn.

No. XII.

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE NINE MUSES;

_Or, Poems written by nine several Ladies, upon the death of the late famous_ JOHN DRYDEN, _Esq._

As earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky, So shall this verse preserve thy memory; For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee.

_London: printed for Richard Basset, at the Mitre, in Fleet Street, 1700._

* * * * *

The work is dedicated to the Right Hon. Charles Montague, (Lord Halifax,) by the publisher Basset, who thus apologizes for the intrusion:

“The ladies indeed themselves might have had a better plea for your reception; but since the modesty which is natural to the sex they are of, will not suffer them to do that violence to their tempers, I think myself obliged to make a present of what is written in honour of the most consummate poet among our English dead, to the most distinguished among the living. You have been pleased already to shew your respect to his memory, in contributing so largely to his burial, notwithstanding he had that unhappiness of conduct, when alive, to give you cause to disclaim the protection of him.”

The dedication is followed by a commendatory copy of verses, addressed to the publisher, and signed Philomusus; of which most readers will think the following lines a sufficient specimen:

Hence issues forth a most delightful song, Fair as their sex, and as their judgment strong; Moving its force, and tempting in its ease; Secured of fame, unknowing to displease; Its every word like Aganippe, clear, And close its meaning, and its sense severe: As virtuous thoughts with chaste expression join, And make them truly, what they feign, divine.

The poems of these divine ladies, as their eulogist phrases them, appear in the following order:

_Melpomene_, the Tragic Muse, personated by Mrs Manley, refers to his elegies and tragedies. Melpomene sorrows for him:

Who sorrowed Killigrew’s untimely fall, And more than Roman made her funeral; Inspired by me, for me he could command, Bright Abingdon’s rich monument shall stand For evermore the wonder of the land; Oldham he snatched from an ignoble fate, Changed his cross star for one more fortunate; For who would not with pride resign his breath, To be so loved, to be so blest in death?

The eulogiums on Cromwell and Charles then praised. Of the last it is said,

For this alone he did deserve the prize, As Ranelagh, for her victorious eyes.

Cleopatra and St Catharine are mentioned; then

----Dorax and Sebastian both contend To shew the generous enemy and friend.

_Urania_, the Divine Muse, by the Honourable the Lady Peirce. This lady, after much tragic dole, is wonderfully comforted by recollecting that Garth survives, though Dryden is dead:

More I’ll not urge, but know, our wishes can No higher soar, since Garth’s the glorious man; Him let us constitute in Dryden’s stead, Let laurels ever flourish on his head.

Urania, after mentioning Virgil, exclaims,

O give us Homer yet, thou glorious bard!

_Erato_, the Amorous Muse, by Mrs S. Field. She claims the merit of Dryden’s love poems, on the following grounds:

Oft I for ink did radiant nectar bring, And gave him quills from infant Cupid’s wing.

_Euterpe_, the Lyric Muse, by Mrs J. E. Euterpe, of course, pours forth her sorrow in a scrambling Pindaric ode:

But, oh! they could not stand the rage Of an ill-natured and lethargic age, Who, spite of wit, would stupidly be wise; All noble raptures, extasies despise, And only plodders after sense will prize.

Euterpe eulogizeth

Garth, whom the god of wisdom did foredoom, And stock with eloquence, to pay thy tomb The most triumphant rites of ancient Rome.

Euterpe is true to her own character; for one may plod in vain after sense through her lyric effusion.

_Thalia_, the Comic Muse, by Mrs Manley. A pastoral dialogue betwixt Alexis, Daphne, Aminta, and Thalia. After the usual questions concerning the cause of sorrow, Thalia, invoked by the nymphs and swains, sings a ditty, bearing the following burden:

Bring here the spring, and throw fresh garlands on, With all the flowers that wait the rising sun; These ever-greens, true emblems of his soul, Take, Daphne, these, and scatter through the whole, While the eternal Dryden’s worth I tell, My lovely bard, that so lamented fell.

_Clio_, or the Historic Muse, by Mrs Pix, the authoress of a tragedy called “Queen Catharine, or the Ruins of Love.”

Stop here, my muse, no more thy office boast, This drop of praise is in an ocean lost; His works alone are trumpets of his fame, And every line will chronicle his name.

_Calliope_, the Heroic Muse, by Mrs C. Trotter. This is the best of these pieces. Calliope complains, that she is more unhappy than her sisters of the sock and buskin, still worshipped successfully by Vanburgh and Granville, in the epic province:

----------------------Blackmore, in spite Of me and nature, still presumes to write; Heavy and dozed, crawls out the tedious length; Unfit to soar, drags on with peasant strength The weight he cannot raise.

The poem concludes,

--------------------------Now you who aim, With fading power, at bright immortal fame; Ambitious monarchs, all whom glory warms, Cease your vain toil, throw down your conquering arms; Your active souls confine, since you must die Like vulgar men, your names and actions lie Where Trojan heroes, had not Homer lived, Had lain forgot, nor ruined Troy survived; No more their glories I can e’er retrieve, For nature can no second Dryden give.

_Terpsichore_, a Lyric Muse, by Mrs L. D. _ex tempore_. Albeit a lyric muse, Terpsichore laments in hexameters:

Just as the gods were listening to my strains, And thousand loves danced o’er the etherial plains, With my own radiant hair my harp I strung, And in glad concert all my sisters sung: An universal harmony above Inspired us all with gaiety and love; A horrid sound dashed our immortal mirth, Wafted by sighs from the unlucky earth, _Et cætera, et cætera._

_Polyhymnia_, the Muse of Rhetoric, by Mrs D. E. This lady concludes the volume thus:

Incessant groans be all my rhetoric now! My immortality I would forego, Rather than drag this chain of endless woe. O mighty Father, hear a daughter’s prayer, Cure me by death from deathless sad despair!

These extracts are taken from the presentation copy of this rare book, in the library of Mr Bindley, of Somerset-House, whose liberality I have had already repeated occasion to acknowledge.

No. XIII.

VERSES IN PRAISE OF MR DRYDEN.

_To Mr_ DRYDEN, _by_ JO. ADDISON, _Esq._

How long, great poet, shall thy sacred lays Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise! Can neither injuries of time, or age, Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage? Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote; Grief chilled his breast, and checked his rising thought; Pensive and sad, his drooping muse betrays The Roman genius in its last decays. Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest, And second youth is kindled in thy breast. Thou mak’st the beauties of the Romans known, And England boasts of riches not her own: Thy lines have heightened Virgil’s majesty, And Horace wonders at himself in thee. Thou teachest Persius to inform our isle In smoother numbers, and a clearer style: And Juvenal, instructed in thy page, Edges his satire, and improves his rage. Thy copy casts a fairer light on all, And still outshines the bright original. Now Ovid boasts the advantage of thy song, And tells his story in the British tongue; Thy charming verse, and fair translations show How thy own laurel first began to grow; How wild Lycaon, changed by angry Gods, And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods. O may’st thou still the noble tale prolong, Nor age, nor sickness interrupt thy song! Then may we wond’ring read, how human limbs Have watered kingdoms, and dissolved in streams, Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould Turned yellow by degrees, and ripened into gold: How some in feathers, or a ragged hide, Have lived a second life, and different natures tried Then will thy Ovid, thus transformed, reveal A nobler change than he himself can tell.

Mag. Coll. Oxon. June 2, 1693.

INDEX.

A.

Abingdon, Earl of, dedication to, Vol. xi, 121 Countess of, account of, xi, 119

Absalom and Achitophel, Part I. ix, 195 remarks on, ib. 197 recommendatory verses to, ib. 213, 216 notes on, ib. 249