The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland (1753) Volume V Part 22

He likewise mentions it as a folly, having began and finished Elfrid in a week; and both the difference of time and judgment are visible in favour of the last of those performances.

That year he met the greatest shock that affliction ever gave him; in the loss of one of the most worthy of wives, to whom he had been married above twenty years.

The following epitaph he wrote, and purpos'd for a monument which he designed to erect over her grave.

Enough, cold stone! suffice her long-lov'd name; Words are too weak to pay her virtues claim.

Temples, and tombs, and tongues, shall waste away, And power's vain pomp, in mould'ring dust decay.

But e'er mankind a wife more perfect see, Eternity, O Time! shall bury thee.

He was a man susceptible of love, in its sublimest sense; as may be seen in that poetical description of that pa.s.sion, which he has given in his poem called the Picture of Love; wrote many years ago (from whence the following two lines are taken)

No wild desire can this proud bliss bestow, Souls must be match'd in heav'n, tho' mix'd below.

About the year 1735 he was concern'd with another gentleman in writing a paper called the Prompter; all those mark'd with a B. were his.--This was meant greatly for the service of the stage; and many of them have been regarded in the highest manner.--But, as there was not only instruction, but reproof, the bitter, with the sweet, by some could not be relish'd.

In 1736 having translated from the French of Monsieur de Voltaire, the Tragedy of Zara, he gave it to be acted for the benefit of Mr. William Bond; and it was represented first, at the Long-Room in Villars-Street, York-Buildings; where that poor gentleman performed the part of Lusignan (the old expiring king) a character he was at that time too well suited to; being, and looking, almost dead, as in reality he was before the run of it was over.--Soon after this play was brought upon the stage in Drury-Lane, by Mr. Fleetwood, at the earnest sollicitation of Mr.

Theophilus Cibber; the part of Zara was played by Mrs. Cibber, and was her first attempt in Tragedy; of the performers therein he makes very handsome mention in the preface. This play he dedicated to his royal highness the Prince of Wales.

The same year was acted, at the Theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, another Tragedy of his translating from the same French author, called Alzira, which was likewise dedicated to the Prince.--His dedications generally wore a different face from those of other writers; he there most warmly recommends Monsieur de Voltaire, as worthy of his royal highness's partiality; disclaiming for himself all expectations of his notice. But he was, notwithstanding, particularly honoured with his approbation.

These plays, if not a litteral translation, have been thought much better, for their having past his hands; as generously was acknowledged by Monsieur de Voltaire himself.

In 1737 he published a poem called, The Tears of the Muses; composed of general satire: in the address to the reader he says (speaking of satire)

'There is, indeed, something so like cruelty in the face of that species of poetry, that it can only be reconciled to humanity, by the general benevolence of its purpose; attacking particulars for the public advantage.'

The following year he wrote (in prose) a book called, An Enquiry into the Merit of a.s.sa.s.sination, with a View to the Character of Caesar; and his Designs on the Roman Republic.

About this time, he in a manner left the world, (though living near so populous a part of it as London) and settled at Plaistow in Ess.e.x; where he entirely devoted himself to his study, family, and garden; and the accomplishment of many profitable views; particularly one, in which for years he had laboured through experiments in vain; and when he brought it to perfection, did not live to reap the benefit of it: The discovery of the art of making pot-ash like the Russian, which cost this nation, yearly, an immense sum of money.

In the year 1743 he published The Fanciad, an Heroic Poem; inscribed to his grace the duke of Marlborough: Who as no name was then prefixed to it, perhaps, knew not the author by whom he was distinguished in it.

Soon after he wrote another, int.i.tled the Impartial; which he inscribed, in the same manner, to the lord Carteret (now earl of Granville). In the beginning of it are the following lines,

Burn, sooty slander, burn thy blotted scroll; Greatness is greatness, spite of faction's soul.

Deep let my soul detest th'adhesive pride, That changing sentiment, unchanges side.

It would be tedious to enumerate the variety of smaller pieces he at different times was author of.

His notions of the deity were boundlessly extensive; and the few lines here quoted from his Poem upon faith, published in 1746, must give the best idea of his sentiments upon that most elevated of all subjects.

What then must be believ'd?--Believe G.o.d kind, To fear were to offend him. Fill thy heart With his felt laws; and act the good he loves.

Rev'rence his power. Judge him but by his works: Know him but in his mercies. Rev'rence too The most mistaken schemes that mean his praise.

Rev'rence his priests.--for ev'ry priest is his,-- Who finds him in his conscience.--

This year he published his Art of Acting, a Poem, deriving Rules from a new Principle, for touching the Pa.s.sions in a natural Manner, &c. Which was dedicated to the Earl of Chesterfield.

Having for many years been in a manner forgetful of the eight Books he had finished of his Epic Poem called Gideon,--in 1749 he re-perused that work, and published three of the Books; to which he gave the name of Gideon, or the Patriot.--They were inscribed to the late lord Bolingbroke; to whom he accounts as follows, for the alterations he had made since the first publication of two Books.

Erring, where thousands err'd, in youth's hot smart, Propulsive prejudice had warp'd his heart: Bold, and too loud he sigh'd, for high distress, Fond of the fall'n, nor form'd to serve success; Partial to woes, had weigh'd their cause too light, Wept o'er misfortune,--and mis-nam'd it right: Anguish, attracting, turn'd attachment wrong, And pity's note mis-tun'd his devious song.

'Tis much lamented by many who are admirers of that species of poetry, that the author did not finish it.

The same year (after a length of different applications, for several seasons, at both Theatres without success) his Tragedy, called Merope, was brought upon the stage in Drury-Lane by Mr. Garrick; to whom, as well as to another gentleman he likewise highly both admired and esteemed, he was greatly obliged; and his own words (here borrowed) will shew how just a sense he had of these obligations.--They begin the preface to the play.

'If there can be a pride that ranks with virtues, it is that we feel from friends.h.i.+ps with the worthy. Mr. Mallet, therefore, must forgive me, that I boast the honour he has done my Merope--I have so long been a retreater from the world, that one of the best spirits in it told me lately, I had made myself an alien there. I must confess, I owe so many obligations to its ornaments of most distinguished genius, that I must have looked upon it as a great unhappiness to have made choice of solitude, could I have judged society in general, by a respect so due to these adorners of it.'

And in relation to this Tragedy he says, after very justly censuring Monsieur de Voltaire, for representing in the preface to his Merope the English as incapable of Tragedy,

'To such provoking stimulations I have owed inducement to retouch, for Mr. Voltaire's use, the characters in his high boasted Merope; and I have done it on a plan as near his own as I could bring it with a safe conscience; that is to say, without distaste to English audiences.

This he likewise dedicated to lord Bolingbroke; and was the last he ever wrote.--There is a melancholy thread of fatal prophecy in the beginning of it; of his own approaching dissolution.

Cover'd in fortune's shade, I rest reclin'd; My griefs all silent; and my joys resign'd.

With patient eye life's evening gloom survey: Nor shake th'out-hast'ning sands; nor bid 'em stay-- Yet, while from life my setting prospects fly, Fain wou'd my mind's weak offspring shun to die.

Fain wou'd their hope some light through time explore; The name's kind pasport--When the man's no more.

From about the time he was solliciting the bringing on this play, an illness seized him; from the tormenting pains of which he had scarce an hour's intermission; and after making trial of all he thought could be of service to him in medicine; he was desirous to try his native air of London (as that of Plaistow was too moist a one) but he was then past all recovery, and wasted almost to a skeleton, from some internal cause, that had produced a general decay (and was believed to have been an inflamation in the kidneys; which his intense attachment to his studies might probably lay the foundation of.--When in town, he had the comfort of being honoured with the visits of the most worthy and esteemed among his friends; but he was not permitted many weeks to taste that blessing.

[Transcriber's note: closing brackets missing in original.]

The same humane and generous Mr. Mallet, who had before aided his Merope, about this time was making interest for its being played again, for the advantage of its author:--His royal highness the prince of Wales; had the great goodness to command it; and Mr. Hill just lived to express his grateful acknowledgments (to those about him) upon hearing of it:--But on the day before it was to be represented he died, in the very minute of the earthquake, February the eighth, 1749, which he seemed sensible of, though then deprived of utterance. Had he lived two days longer, he had been sixty-five years old.--He endur'd a twelve-month's torment of the body with a calmness that confess'd a superiority of soul! He was interred in the same grave with her the most dear to him when living, in the great cloister of Westminster-Abbey; near the lord G.o.dolphin's tomb.

It may be truly said of Mr. Hill, he was a great and general writer; and had he been possest of the estate he was int.i.tled to, his liberality had been no less extensive than his genius. But often do we see misfortune's clouds obscure the brightest suns.h.i.+ne.

Besides his works which here have been enumerated, there are several other; particularly two poems, int.i.tled the Creation, and the Judgment-Day; which were published many years ago.--Another in blank verse he published in the time of his retreat into Ess.e.x; it was called, Cleon to Lycidas, a Time Piece; the date not marked by the printer.

Some years before his death, he talked of making a collection of his works for publication; but postponed it for the finis.h.i.+ng some pieces, which he did not live to effect.

Since his death, four volumes of them have been published by subscription, for his family. He left one Tragedy, never yet acted; which was wrote originally about 1737, and int.i.tled Caesar; but since, he has named it the Roman Revenge:--But as the author was avowedly a great admirer of Caesar's character, not in the light he is generally understood (that of a tyrant) but in one much more favourable, he was advised by several of the first distinction, both in rank and judgment, to make such alterations in it as should adapt it more to the general opinion; and upon that advice he in a manner new wrote the play: But as most first opinions are not easily eradicated, it has been never able to make a public trial of the success; which many of the greatest understanding have p.r.o.nounced it highly worthy of.--The late lord Bolingbroke (in a letter wrote to the author) has called it one of the n.o.blest drama's, that our language, or any age can boast.

These few little speeches are taken from the part of Caesar.

'Tis the great mind's expected pain, Calphurnia, To labour for the thankless.--He who seeks Reward in ruling, makes ambition guilt; And living for himself disclaims mankind.

And thus speaking to Mark Anthony;

If man were placed above the reach of insult, To pardon were no virtue.--Think, warm Anthony, What mercy is--'Tis, daring to be wrong'd, Yet unprovok'd by pride, persist, in pity.

This again to Calphurnia.

No matter.--Virtue triumphs by neglect: Vice, while it darkens, lends but foil to brightness: And juster times, removing slander's veil, Wrong'd merit after death is help'd to live.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This was sent us by an unknown hand.

[2] This play he made a present of to the patentee, and had several fine scenes painted for it, at his own expence: He indeed gave all his pieces to the stage; never taking any benefit, or gratuity from the managers, as an author--'till his last piece, Merope, was brought on the stage; when (unhappy gentleman) he was under the necessity of receiving his profits of the third nights; which 'till then, his generosity, and spirit, had ever declined.