Henry Esmond; The English Humourists; The Four Georges Part 74

136 TO MR. RICHARDSON.

"Twickenham, June 10, 1733.

"As I know you and I mutually desire to see one another, I hope that this day our wishes would have met, and brought you hither. And this for the very reason, which possibly might hinder you coming, that my poor mother is dead. I thank G.o.d, her death was as easy as her life was innocent; and as it cost her not a groan, or even a sigh, there is yet upon her countenance such an expression of tranquillity, nay, almost of pleasure, that it is even amiable to behold it. It would afford the finest image of a saint expired that ever painter drew; and it would be the greatest obligation which even that obliging art could ever bestow on a friend, if you could come and sketch it for me. I am sure, if there be no very precedent obstacle, you will leave any common business to do this; and I hope to see you this evening, or to-morrow morning as early, before this winter flower is faded. I will defer her interment till to-morrow night. I know you love me, or I could not have written this-I could not (at this time) have written at all. Adieu! May you die as happy!

"Yours," &c.

137 "Mr. Pope was with Sir G.o.dfrey Kneller one day, when his nephew, a Guinea trader, came in. 'Nephew,' said Sir G.o.dfrey, 'you have the honour of seeing the two greatest men in the world.'-'I don't know how great you may be,' said the Guinea man, 'but I don't like your looks: I have often bought a man, much better than both of you together, all muscles and bones, for ten guineas.' "-DR. WARBURTON (_Spence's Anecdotes_).

138 Swift's mention of him as one

-- whose filial piety excels, Whatever Grecian story tells,

is well known. And a sneer of Walpole's may be put to a better use than he ever intended it for, a propos of this subject.-He charitably sneers, in one of his letters, at Spence's "fondling an old mother-in imitation of Pope!"

139 Joseph Spence was the son of a clergyman, near Winchester. He was a short time at Eton, and afterwards became a Fellow of New College, Oxford, a clergyman, and professor of poetry. He was a friend of Thomson's, whose reputation he aided. He published an _Essay on the Odyssey_ in 1726, which introduced him to Pope. Everybody liked him.

His _Anecdotes_ were placed, while still in MS., at the service of Johnson and also of Malone. They were published by Mr. Singer in 1820.

140 He speaks of Arbuthnot's having helped him through "that long disease, my life". But not only was he so feeble as is implied in his use of the "buckram", but "it now appears", says Mr. Peter Cunningham, "from his unpublished letters, that, like Lord Hervey, he had recourse to a.s.s's-milk for the preservation of his health."

It is to his lordship's use of that simple beverage that he alludes when he says-

Let Sporus tremble!-A. What, that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white-curd of a.s.s's-milk?

141 "He (Johnson) repeated to us, in his forcible melodious manner, the concluding lines of the _Dunciad_."-BOSWELL.

142 "Mr. Langton informed me that he once related to Johnson (on the authority of Spence), that Pope himself admired these lines so much that when he repeated them his voice faltered. 'And well it might, sir,' said Johnson, 'for they are n.o.ble lines.' "

J. BOSWELL, junior.

143 Coleridge speaks of the "beautiful female faces" in Hogarth's pictures, "in whom," he says, "the satirist never extinguished that love of beauty which belonged to him as a poet."-_The Friend._

144 "I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who, being asked which book he esteemed most in his library, answered, 'Shakespeare': being asked which he esteemed next best, replied 'Hogarth'. His graphic representations are indeed books: they have the teeming, fruitful, suggestive meaning of _words_. Other pictures we look at-his prints we read....

"The quant.i.ty of thought which Hogarth crowds into every picture would almost unvulgarize every subject which he might choose....

"I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have necessarily something in them to make us like them; some are indifferent to us, some in their nature repulsive, and only made interesting by the wonderful skill and truth to nature in the painter; but I contend that there is in most of them that sprinkling of the better nature, which, like holy water, chases away and disperses the contagion of the bad. They have this in them, besides, that they bring us acquainted with the every-day human face,-they give us skill to detect those gradations of sense and virtue (which escape the careless or fastidious observer) in the circ.u.mstances of the world about us; and prevent that disgust at common life, that _taedium quotidianarum formarum_, which an unrestricted pa.s.sion for ideal forms and beauties is in danger of producing. In this, as in many other things, they are a.n.a.logous to the best novels of Smollett and Fielding."-CHARLES LAMB.

"It has been observed that Hogarth's pictures are exceedingly unlike any other representations of the same kind of subjects-that they form a cla.s.s, and have a character, peculiar to themselves. It may be worth while to consider in what this general distinction consists.

"In the first place, they are, in the strictest sense, _historical_ pictures; and if what Fielding says be true, that his novel of _Tom Jones_ ought to be regarded as an epic prose-poem, because it contained a regular development of fable, manners, character, and pa.s.sion, the compositions of Hogarth, will, in like manner, be found to have a higher claim to the t.i.tle of epic pictures than many which have of late arrogated that denomination to themselves. When we say that Hogarth treated his subjects historically, we mean that his works represent the manners and humours of mankind in action, and their characters by varied expression. Everything in his pictures has life and motion in it. Not only does the business of the scene never stand still, but every feature and muscle is put into full play; the exact feeling of the moment is brought out, and carried to its utmost height, and then instantly seized and stamped on the canvas for ever. The expression is always taken _en pa.s.sant_, in a state of progress or change, and, as it were, at the salient point.... His figures are not like the background on which they are painted: even the pictures on the wall have a peculiar look of their own. Again, with the rapidity, variety, and scope of history, Hogarth's heads have all the reality and correctness of portraits.

He gives the extremes of character and expression, but he gives them with perfect truth and accuracy. This is, in fact, what distinguishes his compositions from all others of the same kind, that they are equally remote from caricature, and from mere still life.... His faces go to the very verge of caricature, and yet never (we believe in any single instance) go beyond it."-HAZLITT.

145 He made this excursion in 1732, his companions being John Thornhill (son of Sir James), Scott the landscape-painter, Tothall, and Forrest.

146 "Dr. Johnson made four lines once, on the death of poor Hogarth, which were equally true and pleasing: I know not why Garrick's were preferred to them:-

The hand of him here torpid lies, That drew th' essential forms of grace; Here, closed in death, th' attentive eyes, That saw the manners in the face.

"Mr. Hogarth, among the variety of kindnesses shown to me when I was too young to have a proper sense of them, was used to be very earnest that I should obtain the acquaintance, and if possible the friendship, of Dr. Johnson; whose conversation was, to the talk of other men, like t.i.tian's painting compared to Hudson's, he said: 'but don't you tell people now that I say so' (continued he) 'for the connoisseurs and I are at war, you know; and because I hate _them_, they think I hate _t.i.tian_-and let them!' ... Of Dr.

Johnson, when my father and he were talking about him one day, 'That man' (says Hogarth) 'is not contented with believing the Bible; but he fairly resolves, I think, to believe nothing _but_ the Bible.

Johnson' (added he), 'though so wise a fellow, is more like King David than King Solomon, for he says in his haste, _All men are liars_.' "-MRS. PIOZZI.

Hogarth died on the 26th of October, 1764. The day before his death, he was removed from his villa at Chiswick to Leicester Fields, "in a very weak condition, yet remarkably cheerful." He had just received an agreeable letter from Franklin. He lies buried at Chiswick.

147 TO SIR WATKIN PHILLIPS, BART., OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXON.

"DEAR PHILLIPS,-In my last, I mentioned my having spent an evening with a society of authors, who seemed to be jealous and afraid of one another. My uncle was not at all surprised to hear me say I was disappointed in their conversation. 'A man may be very entertaining and instructive upon paper,' said he, 'and exceedingly dull in common discourse. I have observed, that those who shine most in private company are but secondary stars in the constellation of genius. A small stock of ideas is more easily managed, and sooner displayed, than a great quant.i.ty crowded together. There is very seldom anything extraordinary in the appearance and address of a good writer; whereas a dull author generally distinguishes himself by some oddity or extravagance. For this reason I fancy that an a.s.sembly of grubs must be very diverting.'

"My curiosity being excited by this hint, I consulted my friend d.i.c.k Ivy, who undertook to gratify it the very next day, which was Sunday last. He carried me to dine with S--, whom you and I have long known by his writings. He lives in the skirts of the town; and every Sunday his house is open to all unfortunate brothers of the quill, whom he treats with beef, pudding, and potatoes, port, punch, and Calvert's entire b.u.t.t beer. He has fixed upon the first day of the week for the exercise of his hospitality, because some of his guests could not enjoy it on any other, for reasons that I need not explain. I was civilly received in a plain, yet decent habitation, which opened backwards into a very pleasant garden, kept in excellent order; and, indeed, I saw none of the outward signs of authorship either in the house or the landlord, who is one of those few writers of the age that stand upon their own foundation, without patronage, and above dependence. If there was nothing characteristic in the entertainer, the company made ample amends for his want of singularity.

"At two in the afternoon, I found myself one of ten messmates seated at table; and I question if the whole kingdom could produce such another a.s.semblage of originals. Among their peculiarities, I do not mention those of dress, which may be purely accidental. What struck me were oddities originally produced by affectation, and afterwards confirmed by habit. One of them wore spectacles at dinner, and another his hat flapped; though (as Ivy told me) the first was noted for having a seaman's eye, when a bailiff was in the wind; and the other was never known to labour under any weakness or defect of vision, except about five years ago, when he was complimented with a couple of black eyes by a player, with whom he had quarrelled in his drink. A third wore a laced stocking, and made use of crutches, because, once in his life, he had been laid up with a broken leg, though no man could leap over a stick with more agility. A fourth had contracted such an antipathy to the country, that he insisted upon sitting with his back towards the window that looked into the garden; and when a dish of cauliflower was set upon the table, he snuffed up volatile salts to keep him from fainting; yet this delicate person was the son of a cottager, born under a hedge, and had many years run wild among a.s.ses on a common. A fifth affected distraction: when spoke to, he always answered from the purpose.

Sometimes he suddenly started up, and rapped out a dreadful oath; sometimes he burst out a-laughing; then he folded his arms, and sighed; and then he hissed like fifty serpents.

"At first, I really thought he was mad; and, as he sat near me, began to be under some apprehensions for my own safety; when our landlord, perceiving me alarmed, a.s.sured me aloud that I had nothing to fear. 'The gentleman,' said he, 'is trying to act a part for which he is by no means qualified: if he had all the inclination in the world, it is not in his power to be mad; his spirits are too flat to be kindled into phrenzy.' ''Tis no bad p-p-puff, how-owever,' observed a person in a tarnished laced coat: 'aff-ffected m-madness w-will p-pa.s.s for w-wit w-with nine-nineteen out of t-twenty.' 'And affected stuttering for humour,' replied our landlord; 'though, G.o.d knows! there is no affinity betwixt them.' It seems this wag, after having made some abortive attempts in plain speaking, had recourse to this defect, by means of which he frequently extorted the laugh of the company, without the least expense of genius; and that imperfection, which he had at first counterfeited, was now become so habitual, that he could not lay it aside.

"A certain winking genius, who wore yellow gloves at dinner, had, on his first introduction, taken such offence at S--, because he looked and talked, and ate and drank, like any other man, that he spoke contemptuously of his understanding ever after, and never would repeat his visit, until he had exhibited the following proof of his caprice. Wat Wyvil, the poet, having made some unsuccessful advances towards an intimacy with S--, at last gave him to understand, by a third person, that he had written a poem in his praise, and a satire against his person: that if he would admit him to his house, the first should be immediately sent to press; but that if he persisted in declining his friendship, he would publish the satire without delay. S-- replied, that he looked upon Wyvil's panegyric as, in effect, a species of infamy, and would resent it accordingly with a good cudgel; but if he published the satire, he might deserve his compa.s.sion, and had nothing to fear from his revenge. Wyvil having considered the alternative, resolved to mortify S-- by printing the panegyric, for which he received a sound drubbing. Then he swore the peace against the aggressor, who, in order to avoid a prosecution at law, admitted him to his good graces. It was the singularity in S--'s conduct on this occasion, that reconciled him to the yellow-gloved philosopher, who owned he had some genius; and from that period cultivated his acquaintance.

"Curious to know upon what subjects the several talents of my fellow guests were employed, I applied to my communicative friend d.i.c.k Ivy, who gave me to understand that most of them were, or had been, understrappers, or journeymen, to more creditable authors, for whom they translated, collated, and compiled, in the business of bookmaking; and that all of them had, at different times, laboured in the service of our landlord, though they had now set up for themselves in various departments of literature. Not only their talents, but also their nations and dialects, were so various, that our conversation resembled the confusion of tongues at Babel. We had the Irish brogue, the Scotch accent, and foreign idiom, tw.a.n.ged off by the most discordant vociferation; for as they all spoke together, no man had any chance to be heard, unless he could bawl louder than his fellows. It must be owned, however, there was nothing pedantic in their discourse; they carefully avoided all learned disquisitions, and endeavoured to be facetious; nor did their endeavours always miscarry; some droll repartee pa.s.sed, and much laughter was excited; and if any individual lost his temper so far as to transgress the bounds of decorum, he was effectually checked by the master of the feast, who exerted a sort of paternal authority over this irritable tribe.

"The most learned philosopher of the whole collection, who had been expelled the university for atheism, has made great progress in a refutation of Lord Bolingbroke's metaphysical works, which is said to be equally ingenious and orthodox: but in the meantime, he has been presented to the grand jury as a public nuisance for having blasphemed in an alehouse on the Lord's Day. The Scotchman gives lectures on the p.r.o.nunciation of the English language, which he is now publishing by subscription.

"The Irishman is a political writer, and goes by the name of My Lord Potatoe. He wrote a pamphlet in vindication of a minister, hoping his zeal would be rewarded with some place or pension; but finding himself neglected in that quarter, he whispered about that the pamphlet was written by the minister himself, and he published an answer to his own production. In this he addressed the author under the t.i.tle of 'your lordship', with such solemnity, that the public swallowed the deceit, and bought up the whole impression. The wise politicians of the metropolis declared they were both masterly performances, and chuckled over the flimsy reveries of an ignorant garreteer, as the profound speculations of a veteran statesman, acquainted with all the secrets of the cabinet. The imposture was detected in the sequel, and our Hibernian pamphleteer retains no part of his a.s.sumed importance but the bare t.i.tle of 'my lord', and the upper part of the table at the potatoe-ordinary in Shoe Lane.

"Opposite to me sat a Piedmontese, who had obliged the public with a humorous satire, ent.i.tled _The Balance of the English Poets_; a performance which evinced the great modesty and taste of the author, and, in particular, his intimacy with the elegances of the English language. The sage, who laboured under the ????f??a, or 'horror of green fields', had just finished a treatise on practical agriculture, though, in fact, he had never seen corn growing in his life, and was so ignorant of grain, that our entertainer, in the face of the whole company, made him own that a plate of hominy was the best rice-pudding he had ever eat.

"The stutterer had almost finished his travels through Europe and part of Asia, without ever budging beyond the liberties of the King's Bench, except in term-time, with a tipstaff for his companion: and as for little Tim Cropdale, the most facetious member of the whole society, he had happily wound up the catastrophe of a virgin tragedy, from the exhibition of which no promised himself a large fund of profit and reputation. Tim had made shift to live many years by writing novels, at the rate of five pounds a volume; but that branch of business is now engrossed by female authors, who publish merely for the propagation of virtue, with so much ease, and spirit, and delicacy, and knowledge of the human heart, and all in the serene tranquillity of high life, that the reader is not only enchanted by their genius, but reformed by their morality.

"After dinner, we adjourned into the garden, where I observed Mr.

S-- give a short separate audience to every individual in a small remote filbert-walk, from whence most of them dropped off one after another, without further ceremony."

Smollett's house was in Lawrence Lane, Chelsea, and is now destroyed. See _Handbook of London_, p. 115.

"The person of Smollett was eminently handsome, his features prepossessing, and, by the joint testimony of all his surviving friends, his conversation, in the highest degree, instructive and amusing. Of his disposition, those who have read his works (and who has not?) may form a very accurate estimate; for in each of them he has presented, and sometimes, under various points of view, the leading features of his own character without disguising the most unfavourable of them.... When unseduced by his satirical propensities, he was kind, generous, and humane to others; bold, upright, and independent in his own character; stooped to no patron, sued for no favour, but honestly and honourably maintained himself on his literary labours.... He was a doating father, and an affectionate husband; and the warm zeal with which his memory was cherished by his surviving friends, showed clearly the reliance which they placed upon his regard."-SIR WALTER SCOTT.

148 Smollett of Bonhill, in Dumbartonshire. _Arms_, az. "a bend, or, between a lion rampant, ppr., holding in his paw a banner, arg. and a bugle-horn, also ppr. _Crest_, an oak-tree, ppr. _Motto, Viresco._"

Smollett's father, Archibald, was the fourth son of Sir James Smollett of Bonhill, a Scotch judge and Member of Parliament, and one of the commissioners for framing the Union with England.

Archibald married, without the old gentleman's consent, and died early, leaving his children dependent on their grandfather. Tobias, the second son, was born in 1721, in the old house of Dalquharn in the valley of Leven; and all his life loved and admired that valley and Loch Lomond beyond all the valleys and lakes in Europe. He learned the "rudiments" at Dumbarton Grammar-school, and studied at Glasgow.

But when he was only eighteen, his grandfather died, and left him without provision (figuring as the old judge in _Roderick Random_ in consequence, according to Sir Walter). Tobias, armed with the _Regicide_, a tragedy-a provision precisely similar to that with which Dr. Johnson had started, just before-came up to London. The _Regicide_ came to no good, though at first patronized by Lord Lyttelton ("one of those little fellows who are sometimes called great men," Smollett says); and Smollett embarked as "surgeon's mate" on board a line-of-battle ship, and served in the Carthagena expedition, in 1741. He left the service in the West Indies, and, after residing some time in Jamaica, returned to England in 1746.

He was now unsuccessful as a physician, to begin with; published the satires, _Advice_ and _Reproof_-without any luck; and (1747) married the "beautiful and accomplished Miss Lascelles".

In 1748 he brought out his _Roderick Random_, which at once made a "hit". The subsequent events of his life may be presented, chronologically, in a bird's-eye view:-

1750. Made a tour to Paris, where he chiefly wrote _Peregrine Pickle_.

1751. Published _Peregrine Pickle_.