The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland Volume II Part 21

O! double sacrilege, on things divine, To rob the relique, and deface the shrine!

But thus Orinda died;

Heav'n by the same disease did both translate, As equal was their souls, so equal was their fate.

Miss Killegrew was buried in the chancel of St. Baptist's chapel in the Savoy hospital, on the North side of which is a very neat monument of marble and free-stone fixed in the wall, with a Latin inscription, a translation of which into English is printed before her poems.

The following verses of Miss Killegrew's were addressed to Mrs.

Philips.

Orinda (Albion, and her s.e.x's grace) Ow'd not her glory to a beauteous face.

It was her radiant soul that shone within, Which struck a l.u.s.tre thro' her outward skin; That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye, Advanc'd her heighth, and sparkled in her eye.

Nor did her s.e.x at all obstruct her fame.

But high'r 'mongst the stars it fixt her name; What she did write, not only all allow'd, But evr'y laurel, to her laurel bow'd!

Soon after her death, her Poems were published in a large thin quarto, to which Dryden's ode in praise of the author is prefixed.

Footnote: 1. Ballard's Memoirs of Learned Ladies.

NAT. LEE.

This eminent dramatic poet was the son of a clergyman of the church of England, and was educated at Westminster school under Dr. Busby. After he left this school, he was some time at Trinity College, Cambridge; whence returning to London, he went upon the stage as an actor.

Very few particulars are preserved concerning Mr. Lee. He died before he was 34 years of age, and wrote eleven tragedies, all of which contain the divine enthusiasm of a poet, a n.o.ble fire and elevation, and the tender breathings of love, beyond many of his cotemporaries.

He seems to have been born to write for the Ladies; none ever felt the pa.s.sion of love more intimately, none ever knew to describe it more gracefully, and no poet ever moved the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of his audience with stronger palpitations, than Lee. The excellent Mr. Addison, whose opinion in a matter of this sort, is of the greatest weight, speaking of the genius of Lee, thus proceeds[1]. "Among our modern English poets, there is none who was better turned for tragedy than our author; if instead of favouring the impetuosity of his genius, he had restrained it, and kept it within proper bounds. His thoughts are wonderfully suited for tragedy; but frequently lost in such a cloud of words, that it is hard to see the beauty of them. There is an infinite fire in his works, but so involved in smoke, that it does not appear in half its l.u.s.tre. He frequently succeeds in the pa.s.sionate part of the tragedy; but more particularly where he slackens his efforts, and eases the stile of those epithets and metaphors in which he so much abounds."

It is certain that our author for some time was deprived of his senses, and was confined in Bedlam; and as Langbaine observes, it is to be regretted, that his madness exceeded that divine fury which Ovid mentions, and which usually accompany the best poets.

Est Deus in n.o.bus agitante calescimus illo.

His condition in Bedlam was far worse; in a Satire on the Poets it is thus described,

There in a den remov'd from human eyes, Possest with muse, the brain-sick poet lies, Too miserably wretched to be nam'd; For plays, for heroes, and for pa.s.sion fam'd: Thoughtless he raves his sleepless hours away In chains all night, in darkness all the day.

And if he gets some intervals from pain, } The fit returns; he foams and bites his chain, } His eye-b.a.l.l.s roll, and he grows mad again. }

The reader may please to observe, the two last lines are taken from Lee himself in his description of madness in Caesar Borgia, which is inimitable. Dryden has observed, that there is a pleasure in being mad, which madmen only know, and indeed Lee has described the condition in such lively terms, that a man can almost imagine himself in the situation,

To my charm'd ears no more of woman tell, Name not a woman, and I shall be well: Like a poor lunatic that makes his moan, And for a while beguiles his lookers on; He reasons well.--His eyes their wildness lose He vows the keepers his wrong'd sense abuse.

But if you hit the cause that hurt his brain, } Then his teeth gnash, he foams, he shakes his chain, } His eye-b.a.l.l.s roll, and he is mad again. }

If we may credit the earl of Rochester, Mr. Lee was addicted to drinking; for in a satire of his, in imitation of Sir John Suckling's Session of the Poets, which, like the original, is dest.i.tute of wit, poetry, and good manners, he charges him with it.

The lines, miserable as they are, we shall insert;

Nat. Lee stept in next, in hopes of a prize; Apollo remembring he had hit once in thrice: By the rubies in's face, he could not deny, But he had as much wit as wine could supply; Confess'd that indeed he had a musical note, But sometimes strain'd so hard that it rattled in the throat; Yet own'd he had sense, and t' encourage him for't He made him his Ovid in Augustus's court.

The testimony of Rochester indeed is of no great value, for he was governed by no principles of honour, and as his ruling pa.s.sion was malice, he was ready on all occasions to indulge it, at the expence of truth and sincerity. We cannot ascertain whether our author wrote any of his plays in Bedlam, tho' it is not improbable he might have attempted something that way in his intervals.

Mad people have often been observed to do very ingenious things. I have seen a ship of straw, finely fabricated by a mad ship-builder; and the most lovely att.i.tudes have been represented by a mad statuary in his cell.

Lee, for aught we know, might have some n.o.ble flights of fancy, even in Bedlam; and it is reported of him, that while he was writing one of his scenes by moon-light, a cloud intervening, he cried out in ecstasy, "Jove snuff the Moon;" but as this is only related upon common report, we desire no more credit may be given to it, than its own nature demands. We do not pretend notwithstanding our high opinion of Lee, to defend all his rants and extravagancies; some of them are ridiculous, some bombast, and others unintelligible; but this observation by no means holds true in general; for tho' some pa.s.sages are too extravagant, yet others are n.o.bly sublime, we had almost said, unequalled by any other poet.

As there are not many particulars preserved of Lee's life, we think ourselves warranted to enlarge a little upon his works; and therefore we beg leave to introduce to our reader's acquaintance a tragedy which perhaps he has not for some time heard of, written by this great man, viz. Lucius Junius Brutus, the Father of his country.

We mention this tragedy because it is certainly the finest of Lee's, and perhaps one of the most moving plays in our language. Junius Brutus engages in the just defence of the injured rights of his country, against Tarquin the Proud; he succeeds in driving him out of Rome. His son t.i.tus falls in love, and interchanges vows with the tyrant's daughter; his father commands him not to touch her, nor to correspond with her; he faithfully promises; but his resolutions are baffled by the insinuating and irresistible charms of Teraminta; he is won by her beauties; he joins in the attempt to restore Tarquin; the enterprize miscarries, and his own father sits in judgment upon him, and condemns him to suffer.

The interview between the father and son is inexpressibly moving, and is only exceeded by that between the son and his Teraminta. t.i.tus is a young hero, struggling between love and duty. Teraminta an amiable Roman lady, fond of her husband, and dutiful to her father.

There are throughout this play, we dare be bold to affirm, as affecting scenes as ever melted the hearts of an audience. Why it is not revived, may be difficult to account for. Shall we charge it to want of taste in the town, or want of discernment in the managers? or are our present actors conscious that they may be unequal to some of the parts in it? yet were Mr. Quin engaged, at either theatre, to do the author justice in the character of Brutus, we are not wanting in a Garrick or a Barry, to perform the part of t.i.tus; nor is either stage dest.i.tute of a Teraminta. This is one of those plays that Mr. Booth proposed to revive (with some few alterations) had he lived to return to the stage: And the part of Brutus was what he purposed to have appeared in.

As to Lee's works, they are in every body's hands, so that we need not trouble the reader with a list of them.

In his tragedy of the Rival Queens, our author has shewn what he could do on the subject of Love; he has there almost exhausted the pa.s.sion, painted it in its various forms, and delineated the workings of the human soul, when influenced by it.

He makes Statira thus speak of Alexander.

Not the spring's mouth, nor breath of Jessamin, Nor Vi'lets infant sweets, nor op'ning buds Are half so sweet as Alexander's breast!

From every pore of him a perfume falls, He kisses softer than a Southern wind Curls like a Vine, and touches like a G.o.d!

Then he will talk! good G.o.ds! how he will talk!

Even when the joy he sigh'd for is possess'd, He speaks the kindest words, and looks such things, Vows with such pa.s.sion, swears with so much grace That 'tis a kind of Heaven to be deluded by him.

If I but mention him the tears will fall, Sure there is not a letter in his name, But is a charm to melt a woman's eyes.

His Tragedy of Theodosius, or the Force of Love, is the only play of Lee's that at present keeps possession of the stage, an argument, in my opinion, not much in favour of our taste, that a Genius should be so neglected.

It is said, that Lee died in the night, in the streets, upon a frolic, and that his father never a.s.sisted him in his frequent and pressing necessity, which he was able to do. It appears that tho' Lee was a player, yet, for want of execution, he did not much succeed, though Mr. Cibber says, that he read excellently, and that the players used to tell him, unless they could act the part as he read it, they could not hope success, which, it seems, was not the case with Dryden, who could hardly read to be understood. Lee was certainly a man of great genius; when it is considered how young he died, he performed miracles, and had he lived 'till his fervour cooled, and his judgment strengthened, which might have been the consequence of years, he would have made a greater figure in poetry than some of his contemporaries, who are now placed in superior rank.

Footnote: 1. Spectator. No. 39, vol. 1st.

SAMUEL BUTLER,

The celebrated author of Hudibras, was born at Strensham in Worcestershire, 1612; His father, a reputable country farmer, perceiving in his son an early inclination to learning, sent him for education to the free-school of Worcester, under the care of Mr. Henry Bright, where having laid the foundation of grammar learning, he was sent for some time to Cambridge, but was never matriculated in that university[1]. After he had resided there six or seven years, he returned to his native county, and became clerk to Mr. Jefferys of Earl's-Croom, an eminent justice of the peace for that county, with whom he lived for some years, in an easy, though, for such a genius, no very reputable service; during which time, through the indulgence of a kind master, he had sufficient leisure to apply himself to his favourite studies, history and poetry, to which, for his diversion, he added music and painting.

The anonymous author of Butler's Life tells us, that he had seen some pictures of his drawing, which were preserved in Mr. Jefferys's family, which I mention not (says he) 'for the excellency of them, but to satisfy the reader of his early inclination to that n.o.ble art; for which also he was afterwards entirely loved by Mr. Samuel Cooper, one of the most eminent Painters of his time.' Wood places our poet's improvement in music and painting, to the time of his service under the countess of Kent, by whose patronage he had not only the opportunity of consulting all kinds of books, but conversing also with the great Mr. Selden, who has justly gained the epithet of a living library of learning, and was then conversant in that lady's family, and who often employed our poet to write letters beyond sea, and translate for him. He lived some time also with Sir Samuel Luke, a gentleman of a good family in Bedfordshire, and a famous commander under Oliver Cromwel.

Much about this time he wrote (says the author of his Life) 'the renowned Hudibras; as he then had opportunities of conversing with the leaders of that party, whose religion he calls hypocrisy, whose politics rebellion, and whose speeches nonsense;' he was of an unshaken loyalty, though he was placed in the house of a rebel, and it is generally thought, that under the character of Hudibras, he intended to ridicule Sir Samuel Luke. After the restoration of Charles II. he was made secretary to the earl of Carbury, lord president of the princ.i.p.ality of Wales, who appointed him steward of Ludlow Castle, when the court was revived there; and about this time he married one Mrs. Herbert, a gentlewoman of very good family. Anthony Wood says, she was a widow, and that Butler supported himself by her jointure; for though in his early years he had studied the common law, yet he had made no advantage by the practice of it; but others a.s.sert, that she was not a widow, and that though she had a competent fortune, it proved of little or no advantage to Butler, as most of it was unfortunately lost by being put out on bad security. Mr. Wood likewise says, that he was secretary to the duke of Buckingham, when that lord was chancellor of the university of Cambridge, and the life writer a.s.sures us he had a great kindness for him: but the late ingenious major Richardson Pack tells a story, which, if true, overthrows both their a.s.sertions, and as it is somewhat particular, we shall give it a place here. Mr. Wycherley had taken every opportunity to represent to his grace the duke of Buckingham, how well Mr. Butler had deserved of the Royal Family, by writing his inimitable Hudibras, and that it was a reproach to the court, that a person of his loyalty and wit should languish in obscurity, under so many wants. The duke seemed always to hearken to him with attention, and, after some time, undertook to recommend his pretentions to his Majesty. Mr. Wycherly, in hopes to keep him steady to his word, obtained of his Grace to name a day, when he might introduce that modest, unfortunate poet to his new patron; at last an appointment was made, Mr. Butler and his friend attended accordingly, the duke joined them. But, as the devil would have it (says the major) 'the door of the room, where he sat, was open, and his Grace, who had seated himself near it, observing a pimp of his acquaintance (the creature too was a knight) trip by with a brace of ladies, immediately quitted his engagement to follow another kind of business, at which he was more ready, than at doing good offices to men of desert, though no one was better qualified than he, both in regard to his fortune, and understanding to protect them, and from that hour to the day of his death, poor Butler never found the least effect of his promise, and descended to the grave oppressed with want and poverty.'

The excellent lord Buckhurst, the late earl of Dorset and Middles.e.x, was a friend to our poet, who, as he was a man of wit and parts himself, knew how to set a just value on those who excelled. He had also promises of places and employment from lord chancellor Clarendon, but, as if poor Butler had been doomed to misfortunes, these proved[2]