Herzog August Bibliothek Wolfenbüttel ( copyright information )
This celebrated
distinguished honour, was son of the revd. Mr. Thomson, a minister of
the church of Scotland, in the Presbytery of Jedburgh.
He was born in the place where his father was minister, about the
beginning of the present century, and received the rudiments of his
education at a private country school. Mr. Thomson, in the early part of
his life, so far from appearing to possess a sprightly genius, was
considered by his school master, and those which directed his education,
as being really without a common share of parts.
While he was improving himself in the Latin and Greek tongues at this
country school, he often visited a minister, whose charge lay in the
same presbytery with his father's, the revd.
such amazing powers, that many persons of genius, as well as Mr.
merit should be buried in an obscure part of the country, where he had
no opportunity to display himself, and, except upon periodical meetings
of the ministers, seldom an opportunity of conversing with men of
learning.
Though
with a common portion of understanding, yet
blind to his genius; he distinguished our author's early propension to
poetry, and had once in his hands some of the first attempts Mr.
ever made in that province.
It is not to be doubted but our young poet greatly improved while he
continued to converse with Mr.
man, inspired his mind with a love of the Sciences, nor were the revd.
gentleman's endeavours in vain, for Mr.
how well he was acquainted with natural and moral philosophy, a
circumstance which, perhaps, is owing to the early impressions he
received from Mr.
Nature, which delights in diversifying her gifts, does not bestow upon
every one a power of displaying the abilities she herself has granted to
the best advantage. Though Mr.
genius, yet he never could have imagined, as he often declared, that
there existed in his mind such powers, as even by the best cultivation
could have raised him to so high a degree of eminence amongst the poets.
When Mr.
Bookseller's shop at Edinburgh, he stood amazed, and after he had read
the lines quoted below, he dropt the poem from his hand in the extasy of
admiration. The lines are his induction to Winter, than which few poets
ever rose to a more sublime height[1].
After spending the usual time at a country school in the acquisition of
the dead languages, Mr.
Edinburgh, in order to finish his education, and be fitted for the
ministry. Here, as at the country school, he made no great figure: his
companions thought contemptuously of him, and the masters under whom he
studied, had not a higher opinion of our poet's abilities, than their
pupils. His course of attendance upon the classes of philosophy being
finished, he was entered in the Divinity Hall, as one of the candidates
for the ministry, where the students, before they are permitted to enter
on their probation, must yield six years attendance.
It was in the second year of Mr.
of divinity, whose professor at that time was the revd. and learned Mr.
our author was appointed by the professor to write a discourse on the
Power of the Supreme Being. When his companions heard their task
assigned him, they could not but arraign the professor's judgment, for
assigning so copious a theme to a young man, from whom nothing equal to
the subject could be expected. But when Mr.
discourse, they had then reason to reproach themselves for want of
discernment, and for indulging a contempt of one superior to the
brightest genius amongst them. This discourse was so sublimely elevated,
that both the professor and the students who heard it delivered, were
astonished. It was written in blank verse, for which
rebuked him, as being improper upon that occasion. Such of his
fellow-students as envied him the success of this discourse, and the
admiration it procured him, employed their industry to trace him as a
plagiary; for they could not be persuaded that a youth seemingly so much
removed from the appearance of genius, could compose a declamation, in
which learning, genius, and judgment had a very great share. Their
search, however, proved fruitless, and Mr.
remained at the university, to possess the honour of that discourse,
without any diminution.
We are not certain upon what account it was that Mr.
notion of going into the ministry; perhaps he imagined it a way of life
too severe for the freedom of his disposition: probably he declined
becoming a presbyterian minister, from a consciousness of his own
genius, which gave him a right to entertain more ambitious views; for it
seldom happens, that a man of great parts can be content with obscurity,
or the low income of sixty pounds a year, in some retired corner of a
neglected country; which must have been the lot of
not extended his views beyond the sphere of a minister of the
established church of Scotland.
After he had dropt all thoughts of the clerical profession, he began to
be more sollicitous of distinguishing his genius, as he placed some
dependence upon it, and hoped to acquire such patronage as would enable
him to appear in life with advantage. But the part of the world where he
then was, could not be very auspicious to such hopes; for which reason
he began to turn his eyes towards the grand metropolis.
The first poem of Mr.
the public, was his
further notice will be taken; but he had private approbation for several
of his pieces, long before his Winter was published, or before he
quitted his native country. He wrote a Paraphrase on the 104th Psalm,
which, after it had received the approbation of Mr.
permitted his friends to copy. By some means or other this Paraphrase
fell into the hands of Mr.
admiration of it, said, that he doubted not if the author was in London,
but he would meet with encouragement equal to his merit. This
observation of Benson's was communicated to
doubt, had its natural influence in inflaming his heart, and hastening
his journey to the metropolis. He soon set out for Newcastle, where he
took shipping, and landed at Billinsgate. When he arrived, it was his
immediate care to wait on [2] Mr. Mallet, who then lived in
Hanover-Square in the character of tutor to his grace the
Montrose
reached Hanover-Square, an accident happened to him, which, as it may
divert some of our readers, we shall here insert. He had received
letters of recommendation from a gentleman of rank in Scotland, to some
persons of distinction in London, which he had carefully tied up in his
pocket-handkerchief. As he sauntered along the streets, he could not
withhold his admiration of the magnitude, opulence, and various objects
this great metropolis continually presented to his view. These must
naturally have diverted the imagination of a man of less reflexion, and
it is not greatly to be wondered at, if Mr.
ingrossed by these new presented scenes, as to be absent to the busy
crowds around him. He often stopped to gratify his curiosity, the
consequences of which he afterwards experienced. With an honest
simplicity of heart, unsuspecting, as unknowing of guilt, he was ten
times longer in reaching Hanover-Square, than one less sensible and
curious would have been. When he arrived, he found he had paid for his
curiosity; his pocket was picked of his handkerchief, and all the
letters that were wrapped up in it. This accident would have proved very
mortifying to a man less philosophical than
temper never to be agitated; he then smiled at it, and frequently made
his companions laugh at the relation.
It is natural to suppose, that as soon as Mr.
he shewed to some of his friends his poem on Winter[3]. The approbation
it might meet with from them, was not, however, a sufficient
recommendation to introduce it to the world. He had the mortification of
offering it to several Booksellers without success, who, perhaps, not
being qualified themselves to judge of the merit of the performance,
refused to risque the necessary expences, on the work of an obscure
stranger, whose name could be no recommendation to it. These were severe
repulses; but, at last, the difficulty was surmounted.
offered it to
making any scruples, printed it. For some time
believe, that he should be a loser by his frankness; for the impression
lay like as paper on his hands, few copies being sold, 'till by an
accident its merit was discovered.[4] One
taste in letters, but perfectly enthusiastic in the admiration of any
thing which pleased him, happened to cast his eye upon it, and finding
something which delighted him, perused the whole, not without growing
astonishment, that the poem should be unknown, and the author obscure.
He learned from the Bookseller the circumstances already mentioned, and,
in the extasy of his admiration of this poem, he went from Coffee-house
to Coffee house, pointing out its beauties, and calling upon all men of
taste, to exert themselves in rescuing one of the greatest geniuses that
ever appeared, from obscurity. This had a very happy effect, for, in a
short time, the impression was bought up, and they who read the poem,
had no reason to complain of
it so compleatly beautiful, that they could not but think themselves
happy in doing justice to a man of so much merit.
The poem of
picturesque, of any of the Four Seasons. The scenes are grand and
lively. It is in that season that the creation appears in distress, and
nature assumes a melancholy air; and an imagination so poetical as
fill the soul with a solemn dread of _those Vapours, and Storms, and
Clouds_, he has so well painted. Description is the peculiar talent of
winter's cold, and we rejoice at the renovation of nature, by the sweet
influence of spring. But the poem deserves a further illustration, and
we shall take an opportunity of pointing out some of its most striking
beauties; but before we speak of these, we beg leave to relate the
following anecdote.
As soon as
present to
not liking many parts of it, inclosed to him the following couplet;
To this Mr.
Upon a friend's remonstrating to Mr.
blasted eye would look like a personal reflexion, as
really that misfortune, he changed the epithet blasted, into blasting.
But to return:
After our poet has represented the influence of Winter upon the face of
nature, and particularly described the severities of the frost, he has
the following beautiful transition;
The description of a thaw is equally picturesque. The following lines
consequent upon it are excellent.
As the induction of Mr.
sublimity, so the conclusion has likewise a claim to praise, for the
tenderness of the sentiments, and the pathetic force of the expression.
The poem of Winter meeting with such general applause, Mr.
induced to write the other three seasons, which he finished with equal
success. His
unfinished of the four; it is not however without its beauties, of which
many have considered the story of Lavinia, naturally and artfully
introduced, as the most affecting. The story is in itself moving and
tender. It is perhaps no diminution to the merit of this beautiful tale,
that the hint of it is taken from the book of Ruth in the Old Testament.
The author next published the
poetical and beautiful.
It is addressed to the countess of Hertford, with the following elegant
compliment,
Sun, is one of the sublimest and most masterly efforts of genius we have
ever seen.--There are some hints taken from Cowley's beautiful Hymn to
Light.--Mr.
inferior to the foregoing in poetical merit.
The Four Seasons considered separately, each Season as a distinct poem
has been judged defective in point of plan. There appears no particular
design; the parts are not subservient to one another; nor is there any
dependance or connection throughout; but this perhaps is a fault almost
inseparable from a subject in itself so diversified, as not to admit of
such limitation. He has not indeed been guilty of any incongruity; the
scenes described in spring, are all peculiar to that season, and the
digressions, which make up a fourth part of the poem, flow naturally. He
has observed the same regard to the appearances of nature in the other
seasons; but then what he has described in the beginning of any of the
seasons, might as well be placed in the middle, and that in the middle,
as naturally towards the close. So that each season may rather be called
an assemblage of poetical ideas, than a poem, as it seems written
without a plan.
Mr.
His manner of writing is entirely his own: He has introduced a number of
compound words; converted substantives into verbs, and in short has
created a kind of new language for himself. His stile has been blamed
for its singularity and stiffness; but with submission to superior
judges, we cannot but be of opinion, that though this observation is
true, yet is it admirably fitted for description. The object he paints
stands full before the eye, we admire it in all its lustre, and who
would not rather enjoy a perfect inspection into a natural curiosity
through a microscope capable of discovering all the minute beauties,
though its exterior form should not be comely, than perceive an object
but faintly, through a microscope ill adapted for the purpose, however
its outside may be decorated.
then his manner is new; and there never yet arose a distinguished
genius, who had not an air peculiarly his own. 'Tis true indeed, the
tow'ring sublimity of Mr.
passions, which will appear more fully when we consider him as a
dramatic writer, a sphere in which he is not so excellent as in other
species of poetry.
The merit of these poems introduced our author to the acquaintance and
esteem of several persons, distinguished by their rank, or eminent for
their talents:--Among the latter
was so pleased with the spirit of benevolence and piety, which breathes
throughout the Seasons, that he recommended him to the friendship of the
late lord chancellor
son, then preparing to set out on his travels into France and Italy.
With this young nobleman, Mr.
called) The Tour of Europe, and stay'd abroad about three years, where
no doubt he inriched his mind with the noble monuments of antiquity, and
the conversation of ingenious foreigners. 'Twas by comparing modern
with the hint of writing his Liberty, in three parts. The first is
Antient and Modern Italy compared. The second Greece, and the third
died in the year 1734, upon his travels.
Amongst Mr.
of which we shall say no more than this, that if he had never wrote any
thing besides, he deserved to enjoy a distinguished reputation amongst
the poets. Speaking of the amazing genius of Newton, he says,
About the year 1728 Mr.
purport of which was to rouse the nation to arms, and excite in the
spirit of the people a generous disposition to revenge the injuries done
them by the Spaniards: This is far from being one of his best poems.
Upon the death of his generous patron, lord chancellor
the nation joined with Mr.
wrote an elegiac poem, which does honour to the author, and to the
memory of that great man he meant to celebrate. He enjoyed, during lord
conferred upon him, in recompence of the care he had taken in forming
the mind of his son. Upon his death, his lordship's successor reserved
the place for Mr.
him, and by performing some formalities enter into the possession of it.
This, however, by an unaccountable indolence he neglected, and at last
the place, which he might have enjoyed with so little trouble, was
bestowed upon another.
Amongst the latest of Mr.
Indolence, a poem of so extraordinary merit, that perhaps we are not
extravagant, when we declare, that this single performance discovers
more genius and poetical judgment, than all his other works put
together. We cannot here complain of want of plan, for it is artfully
laid, naturally conducted, and the descriptions rise in a beautiful
succession: It is written in imitation of
obsolete words, with the simplicity of diction in some of the lines,
which borders on the ludicrous, have been thought necessary to make the
imitation more perfect.
'The stile (says Mr.
measure in which he wrote, are, as it were, appropriated by custom to
all allegorical poems written in our language; just as in French, the
stile of Marot, who lived under Francis the 1st, has been used in Tales
and familiar Epistles, by the politest writers of the age of Louis the
XIVth.'
We shall not at present enquire how far Mr.
using the obsolete words of Spenser: As Sir Roger de Coverley observed
on another occasion, much may be said on both sides. One thing is
certain, Mr.
poetry in his imagination, who can read the picturesque descriptions in
his Castle of Indolence, without emotion. In his LXXXIst Stanza he has
the following picture of beauty:
He pursues the description in the subsequent Stanza.
In the two following Stanzas, the dropsy and hypochondria are
beautifully described.
The speech of Sir Industry in the second Canto, when he enumerates the
various blessings which flow from action, is surely one of the highest
instances of genius which can be produced in poetry. In the second
stanza, before he enters upon the subject, the poet complains of the
decay of patronage, and the general depravity of taste; and in the third
breaks out into the following exclamation, which is so perfectly
beautiful, that it would be the greatest mortification not to transcribe
it,
Before we quit this poem, permit us, reader, to give you two more
stanzas from it: the first shews Mr.
actor; of their friendship we may say more hereafter.
We shall now consider Mr.
In the year 1730, about six years after he had been in London, he
brought a Tragedy upon the stage, called
Carthaginian history of that princess, and upon which the famous
favourable reception from the public.
distinguished herself in the character of Sophonisba, which Mr.
acknowledges in his preface.--'I cannot conclude, says he, without
owning my obligations to those concerned in the representation. They
have indeed done me more than justice; Whatever was designed as amiable
and engageing in Masinessa shines out in
fondness of an author I could either wish or imagine. The grace, dignity
and happy variety of her action, have been universally applauded, and
are truly admirable.'
Before we quit this play, we must not omit two anecdotes which happened
the first night of the representation. Mr.
characters address Sophonisba in a line, which some critics reckoned the
false pathetic.
O! Sophonisba, Sophonisba Oh!
Upon which a smart from the pit cried out,
Oh! Jamey
However ill-natured this critic might be in interrupting the action of
the play for sake of a joke; yet it is certain that the line ridiculed
does partake of the false pathetic, and should be a warning to tragic
poets to guard against the swelling stile; for by aiming at the sublime,
they are often betrayed into the bombast.--Mr.
feel all the emotions and sollicitudes of a young author the first night
of his play, wanted to place himself in some obscure part of the house,
in order to see the representation to the best advantage, without being
known as the poet.--He accordingly placed himself in the upper gallery;
but such was the power of nature in him, that he could not help
repeating the parts along with the players, and would sometimes whisper
to himself, 'now such a scene is to open,' by which he was soon
discovered to be the author, by some gentlemen who could not, on account
of the great crowd, be situated in any other part of the house.
After an interval of four years, Mr.
second Tragedy called
affection to Mr.
favour to the managers, and honoured the representation on the first
night with his presence. As he had not been for some time at a play,
this was considered as a very great instance of esteem. Mr.
submitted to have this play considerably shortened in the action, as
some parts were too long, other unnecessary, in which not the character
but the poet spoke; and though not brought on the stage till the month
of April, it continued to be acted with applause for several nights.
Many have remark'd that his characters in his plays are more frequently
descriptive, than expressive, of the passions; but they all abound with
uncommon beauties, with fire, and depth of thought, with noble
sentiments and nervous writing. His speeches are often too long,
especially for an English audience; perhaps sometimes they are
unnaturally lengthened: and 'tis certainly a greater relief to the ear
to have the dialogue more broken; yet our attention is well rewarded,
and in no passages, perhaps, in his tragedies, more so, than in the
affecting account Melisander [7] gives of his being betrayed, and left
on the desolate island.
In the year 1736 Mr.
Edward and Eleonora, which was forbid to be acted, for some political
reason, which it is not in our power to guess.
The play of
succeeded beyond any other of
of the stage. The plot is borrowed from a story in the celebrated
romance of
few, but active; and the attention in this play is never suffered to
wander. The character of Seffredi has been justly censured as
inconsistent, forced, and unnatural.
By the command of his royal highness the
in conjunction with
performed twice in his royal highness's gardens at Cliffden. Since Mr.
fresh in the memory of its frequent auditors, 'tis needless to say more
concerning it.
Mr.
his death; the profits of it were given to his sisters in Scotland, one
of whom is married to a minister there, and the other to a man of low
circumstances in the city of Edinburgh. This play, which is certainly
the least excellent of any of
written by Sir
very happy effect upon the audience.
of
themselves very tender, all the endearments of a long acquaintance, rose
at once to his imagination, while the tears gushed from his eyes.
The beautiful break in these lines had a fine effect in speaking.
Quin
this instant, when he declared himself none: 'twas an exquisite stroke
to nature; art alone could hardly reach it. Pardon the digression,
reader, but, we feel a desire to say somewhat more on this head. The
poet and the actor were friends, it cannot then be quite foreign to the
purpose to proceed. A deep fetch'd sigh filled up the heart felt pause;
grief spread o'er all the countenance; the tear started to the eye, the
muscles fell, and,
'The whiteness of his cheek
Was apter than his tongue to speak his tale.'
They all expressed the tender feelings of a manly heart, becoming a
delivered the whole with an emphasis and pathos, worthy the excellent
lines he spoke; worthy the great poet and good man, whose merits they
painted, and whose loss they deplored.
The epilogue too, which was spoken by
humour, greatly pleased. These circumstances, added to the consideration
of the author's being no more, procured this play a run of nine nights,
which without these assistances 'tis likely it could not have had; for,
without playing the critic, it is not a piece of equal merit to many
other of his works. It was his misfortune as a dramatist, that he never
knew when to have done; he makes every character speak while there is
any thing to be said; and during these long interviews, the action too
stands still, and the story languishes. His
be excepted from this general censure: But his characters are too little
distinguished; they seldom vary from one another in their manner of
speaking. In short,
for the stage, from a motive too obvious to be mentioned, and too strong
to be refilled. He is indeed the eldest born of
often confessed that if he had any thing excellent in poetry, he owed it
to the inspiration he first received from reading the Fairy Queen, in
the very early part of his life.
In August 1748 the world was deprived of this great ornament of poetry
and genius, by a violent fever, which carried him off in the 48th year
of his age. Before his death he was provided for by Sir
Littleton
lived not long to enjoy. Mr.
acquaintance. He was of an open generous disposition; and was sometimes
tempted to an excessive indulgence of the social pleasures: A failing
too frequently inseparable from men of genius. His exterior appearance
was not very engaging, but he grew more and more agreeable, as he
entered into conversation: He had a grateful heart, ready to acknowledge
every favour he received, and he never forgot his old benefactors,
notwithstanding a long absence, new acquaintance, and additional
eminence; of which the following instance cannot be unacceptable to the
reader.
Some time before Mr.
him at his house in Kew-Lane, near Richmond, where he then lived. This
gentleman had been his acquaintance when very young, and proved to be
Dr. Gustard, the son of a revd. minister in the city of Edinburgh. Mr.
Gustard had been Mr.
contributed from his own purse (Mr.
affluent circumstances) to enable him to prosecute his studies. The
visitor sent not in his name, but only intimated to the servant that an
old acquaintance desired to see Mr.
receive him, and looking stedfastly at him (for they had not seen one
another for many years) said, Troth Sir, I cannot say I ken your
countenance well--Let me therefore crave your name. Which the gentleman
no sooner mentioned but the tears gushed from Mr.
could only reply, good God! are you the son of my dear friend, my old
benefactor; and then rushing to his arms, he tenderly embraced him;
rejoicing at so unexpected a meeting.
It is a true observation, that whenever gratitude is absent from a
heart, it is generally capable of the most consummate baseness; and on
the other hand, where that generous virtue has a powerful prevalence in
the soul, the heart of such a man is fraught with all those other
endearing and tender qualities, which constitute goodness. Such was the
heart of this amiable poet, whose life was as inoffensive as his page
was moral: For of all our poets he is the farthest removed from whatever
has the appearance of indecency; and, as Sir George Lyttleton happily
expresses it, in the prologue to Mr.
FOOTNOTES:
[1]
See winter comes to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train!
Vapours, and storms, and clouds; be these my theme;
These that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
And heav'nly musing; welcome kindred glooms.
Congenial horrors hail!--with frequent foot
Oft have I in my pleasing calm of life,
When nurs'd by careless solitude I liv'd,
Oft have I wander'd thro' your rough domain;
Trod the pure virgin snows; my self as pure;
Heard the winds blow, or the big torrents burst,
Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew'd
In the red evening sky. Thus pass'd the time,
'Till from the lucid chambers of the south
Look'd out the joyous spring, look'd out and smil'd.
contracted an early intimacy, which improved with their years, nor
was it ever once disturbed by any casual mistake, envy, or jealousy
on either side: a proof that two writers of merit may agree, in
spite of the common observation to the contrary.
descriptions; it was by the advice of Mr. Mallet they were collected
and made into one connected piece. This was finished the first of
all the seasons, and was the first poem he published. By the farther
advice, and at the earnest request, of Mr. Mallet, he wrote the
other three seasons.
who could read, than could taste, nor is it very surprizing, that an
unknown author might meet with a difficulty of this sort; since an
eager desire to peruse a new piece, with a fashionable name to it,
shall, in one day, occasion the sale of thousands of what may never
reach a second edition: while a work, that has only its intrinsic
merit to depend on, may lie long dormant in a Bookseller's shop,
'till some person, eminent for taste, points out its worth to the
many, declares the bullion sterling, stamps its value with his name,
and makes it pass current with the world. Such was the fate of
were only found in the libraries of the curious, or judicious few,
'till Addison's remarks spread a taste for them; and, at length, it
became even unfashionable not to have read them.
[7] The mention of this name reminds me of an obligation I had to Mr.
acknowledging the favour, and doing myself justice.
I had the pleasure of perusing the play of Agamemnon, before it was
introduced to the manager. Mr.
(I might say more) with my reading of it; he said, he was confirmed
in his design of giving to me the part of Melisander. When I
expressed my sentiments of the favour, he told me, he thought it
none; that my old acquaintance Savage knew, he had not forgot my
taste in reading the poem of Winter some years before: he added,
that when (before this meeting) he had expressed his doubt, to which
of the actors he should give this part (as he had seen but few plays
since his return from abroad) Savage warmly urged, I was the fittest
person, and, with an oath affirmed, that Theo. Cibber would taste
it, feel it, and act it; perhaps he might extravagantly add, 'beyond
any one else.' 'Tis likely, Mr. Savage might be then more vehement
in this assertion, as some of his friends had been more used to see
me in a comic, than a serious light; and which was, indeed, more
frequently my choice. But to go on. When I read the play to the
manager, Mr. Quin, etc. (at which several gentlemen, intimate friends
of the author, were present) I was complimented by them all; Mr.
Quin particularly declared, he never heard a play done so much
justice to, in reading, through all its various parts, Mrs. Porter
also (who on this occasion was to appear in the character of
Clytemnestra) so much approved my entering into the taste, sense,
and spirit of the piece, that she was pleased to desire me to repeat
a reading of it, which, at her request, and that of other principal
performers, I often did; they all confessed their approbation, with
thanks.
When this play was to come forward into rehearsal, Mr.
me, another actor had been recommended to him for this part in
private, by the manager (who, by the way) our author, or any one
else, never esteemed as the best judge, of either play, or player.
But money may purchase, and interest procure, a patent, though they
cannot purchase taste, or parts, the person proposed was, possibly,
some favoured flatterer, the partner of his private pleasures, or
humble admirer of his table talk: These little monarchs have their
little courtiers. Mr.
said, 'Twas his opinion, none but myself, or Mr. Quin, could do it
any justice; and, as that excellent actor could not be spared from
the part of Agamemnon (in the performance of which character he
added to his reputation, though before justly rated as the first
actor of that time) he was peremptory for my appearing in it; I did
so, and acquitted myself to the satisfaction of the author and his
friends (men eminent in rank, in taste, and knowledge) and received
testimonies of approbation from the audience, by their attention and
applause.
By this time the reader may be ready to cry out, 'to what purpose is
all this?' Have patience, sir. As I gained reputation in the
forementioned character, is there any crime in acknowledging my
obligation to Mr.
pride myself on his good opinion and friendship? may not gratitude,
as well as vanity, be concerned in this relation? but there is
another reason that may stand as an excuse, for my being led into
this long narrative; which, as it is only an annotation, not made
part of our author's life, the reader, at his option, may peruse, or
pass it over, without being interrupted in his attention to what
more immediately concerns Mr.
truth, which living men of worth can testify; and as it evidently
shows that Mr. Savage's opinion of me as an actor was, in this
latter part of his life, far from contemptible, of which, perhaps,
in his earlier days he had too lavishly spoke; I thought this no
improper (nor ill-timed) contradiction to a remark the writer of[7A]
Mr. Savage's Life has been pleased, in his Gaite de Coeur, to make,
which almost amounts to an unhandsome innuendo, that Mr. Savage, and
some of his friends, thought me no actor at all.
I accidentally met with the book some years ago, and dipt into that
part where the author says, 'The preface (to Sir Thomas Overbury)
contains a very liberal encomium on the blooming excellences of Mr.
Theophilus Cibber, which Mr. Savage could not, in the latter part of
his life, see his friends about to read, without snatching the play
out of their hands.' As poor Savage was well remembered to have been
as inconsiderate, inconsistent, and inconstant a mortal as ever
existed, what he might have said carried but little weight; and, as
he would blow both hot and cold, nay, too frequently, to gratify the
company present, would sacrifice the absent, though his best friend,
I disregarded this invidious hint, 'till I was lately informed, a
person of distinction in the learned world, had condescended to
become the biographer of this unhappy man's unimportant life: as the
sanction of such a name might prove of prejudice to me, I have since
thought it worth my notice.
The truth is, I met Savage one summer, in a condition too melancholy
for description. He was starving; I supported him, and my father
cloathed him, 'till his tragedy was brought on the stage, where it
met with success in the representation, tho' acted by the young part
of the company, in the summer season; whatever might be the merit of
his play, his necessities were too pressing to wait 'till winter for
its performance. When it was just going to be published (as I met
with uncommon encouragement in my young attempt in the part of
Somerset) he repeated to me a most extraordinary compliment, as he
might then think it, which, he said, he intended to make me in his
preface. Neither my youth (for I was then but 18) or vanity, was so
devoid of judgment, as to prevent my objecting to it. I told him, I
imagined this extravagancy would have so contrary an effect to his
intention, that what he kindly meant for praise, might be
misinterpreted, or render him liable to censure, and me to ridicule;
I insisted on his omitting it: contrary to his usual obstinacy, he
consented, and sent his orders to the Printer to leave it out; it
was too late; the sheets were all work'd off, and the play was
advertised to come out (as it did) the next day. T.C.