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This gave

occasion to a waggish parody:

0, Jemmy Thomson, Jemmy Thompson, O! which for a wbile was echoed through the town.

I have been told by Savage, that of the prologue to 'So. phonisba’ the first part was written by Pope, who could not be persuaded to finish it, and that the concluding lines were added by Mallet.

Thomson was not long afterward, by the influence of Dr. Rundle, sent to travel with Mr. Charles Talbot, the eldest son of the Chancellor. He was yet young enough to receive new impressions, to have his opinions rectified, and his views enlarged ; nor can be be supposed to have wanted that curiosity which is inseparable from an active and comprehensive mind. : He may therefore now be supposed to have revelled in all the joys of intellectual lux. ury; he was every day feasted with instructive novelties; he lived splendidly without expense; and might expect when he returned home a certain establishment.

At this time a long course of opposition to Sir Robert Walpole bad filled the nation with clamours for liberty, of which no man felt the want; and with care for liberty, which was not in danger. Thomson, in his travels on the Continent, found or fancied so many evils arising from the tyranny of other governments, that he resolved to write a very long poem, in five parts, upon Liberty.

While he was busy on the first book, Mr. Talbot died; and Thomson, who had been rewarded for his attendance by the place of secretary of the briefs, pays in the initial lines a decent tribute to his memory.

Upon this great poem two years were spent, and the author congratulated himself upon it, as his noblest work ; but an author and his reader are not always of a mind. Liberty called in vain upon her votaries to read her praises and reward her encomiast; ber praises were condemned to harbour spiders and to gather dast; none of Thomson's performances were so little regarded.

The judgment of the public was not erroneous; the recurrence of the same images must tire in time; an enume. ration of examples to prove a position which nobody denied, as it was from the beginning superfluous, must quickly grow disgusting.

The poem of Liberty' does not now appear in its original

state; but, when the author's works were collected after his death, was shortened by Sir George Lyttelton, with a li. berty which, as it has a manifest tendency to lessen the confidence of society, and to confound the characters of authors, by making one man write by the judgment of an. other, cannot be justified by any supposed propriety of the alteration, or kindness of the friend. I wish to see it exhibited as its author left it.

Thomson now lived in ease and plenty, and seems for a while to have suspended his poetry; but he was soon called back to labour by the death of the Chancellor, for his place then became vacant; and though the Lord Hardwicke delayed for some time to give it away, Thomson's bashfulness or pride, or some other motive perhaps not more laudable, withheld him from soliciting; and the new Chancellor would not give him what he would not ask.

He now relapsed to his former indigence; but the Prince of Wales was at that time struggling for popularity, and by the influence of Mr. Lyttelton professed himself the pa. trou of wit: to him Thomson was introduced, and being gaily interrogated about the state of his affairs, said, 'that they were in a more poetical posture than formerly;' and had a pension allowed him of one hundred pounds a year.

Being now obliged to write, he produced (1738)* the tragedy of' Agamemnon,' which was much shortened in the representation. It had the fate which most commonly at. tends mythological stories, and was only endured, but not favoured. It struggled with such difficulty through the first night, that Thomson, coming late to bis friends with whom he was to sup, excused his delay by telling them bow the sweat of his distress had so disordered his wig, that he could not come till he had been refitted by a barber.

He so interested himself in his own drama, that, if I remember right, as he sat in the upper gallery, he accompanied the players by audible recitation, till a friendly hint frighted him to silence. Pope countenanced • Agamemnon,' by coming to it the first night, and was welcomed to the theatre by a general clap; he had much regard for 'Thomson, and once expressed it in a poetical epistle sent to Italy,

* It is not generally known that in this year an edition of Milton's' Areopagitica' was published by Millar, to which Thomson wrote a preface.-C.

of which however he abated the value, by translating some of the lines into his epistle to Arbuthnot.

About this time the act was passed for licensing plays, of which the first operation was the prohibition of Gustavus Vasa,' a tragedy of Mr. Brooke, whom the public recompensed by a very liberal subscription ; the next was the refusal of 'Edward and Eleonora,' offered by Thom son. It is hard to discover why either play should have been obstructed. Thomson likewise endeavoured to repair his loss by a subscription, of which I cannot pow tell the success.

When the public murmured at the unkind treatment of Thomson, one of the ministerial writers remarked, that he had taken a liberty which was not agreeable to Britannia in any season.'

He was soon after employed, in conjunction with Mr. Mallet, to write the mask of Alfred,' which was acted be fore the Prince at Cliefden-House.

His next work (1745) was 'Tancred and Sigismunda,' the most successful of all his tragedies, for it still keeps its turn upon the stage. It may be doubted whether he was, either by the bent of nature or habits of study, much qualified for tragedy. It does not appear that he had much sense of the pathetic; and his diffusive and descriptive style produced declamation rather than dialogue.

His friend Mr. Lyttelton was now in power, and .conferred upon him the office of surveyor-general of the Leeward Islands; from which, when his deputy was paid, he received about three hundred pounds a year.

The last piece that he lived to publish was the Castle of Indolence,' which was many years under his hand, but was at last finished with great accuracy. The first canto opens a scene of lazy luxury that fills the imagination.. :

He was now at ease, but was not long to enjoy it; for, by taking cold on the water between London and Kew, he caught a disorder, which, with some careless exasperation, ended in a fever that put an end to his life, August 27, 1748. He was buried in the church of Richmond, without an inscription; but a monument has been erected to his memory in Westminster-Abbey.

Thomson was of a stature above the middle size, and 'more fat than bard beseems,' of a dull countenance, and a gross, unanimated, uninviting appearance; silent in mingled company, but cheerful among select friends, and by his friends very tenderly and warmly beloved.

He left behind him the tragedy of' Coriolanus,' which was, by the zeal of his patron Sir George Lyttelton, brought upon the stage for the benefit of his family, and recommended by a prologue, which Quin, who had long lived with Thomson in fond intimacy, spoke in such a manner as shewed him to be,' on that occasion, no actor.'. The commencement of this benevolence is very honourable to Quin; who is reported to have delivered Thomson, then known to him only for his genius, from an arrest by a very considerable present; and its continuance is honourable to both, for friendship is not always the sequel of obligation. By this tragedy a considerable sum was raised, of which part discharged his debts, and the rest was remitted to his sisters, whom, however removed from them by place or condition, he regarded with great tenderness, as will appear by the following letter, which I communicate with much pleasure, as it gives me at once an opportunity of recording the fraternal kindness of 'Thomson, and reflecting on the friendly assistance of Mr. Boswell, from whom I received it.

* Hagley, in Worcestershire, October the 4th, 1747. “My dear Sister, * I thought you had known me better than to interpret my silence into a decay of affection, especially as your behaviour has always been such as rather to increase than diminish it. Dop't imagine, because I am a bad correspondent, that I can ever prove an unkind friend and brother, I must do myself the justice to tell you, that my affections are naturally very fixed and constant; and if I had ever reason of complaint against you (of which by-theby I have not the least shadow), I am conscious of so many defects in myself, as dispose me to be not a little charitable and forgiving.

* It gives me the truest heart-felt satisfaction to hear you have a good, kind husband, and are in easy, contented circumstances; but were they otherwise, that would only awaken and heighten my tenderness towards you. As our good and tender-hearted parents did not live to receive any

- rial testimonies of that highest human gratitude I owed

them (than which nothing could have given me equal plea. sure), the only return I can make them now is by kindness to those they left behind them. Would to God poor Lizy had lived longer, to have been a farther witness of the truth of what I say, and that I might have had the pleasure of seeing once more a sister who so truly deserved my esteem and love! But she is happy, while we must toil a little longer here below; let us however do it cheerfully and gratefully, supported by the pleasing hope of meeting yet again on a safer shore, where to recollect the storms and difficulties of life will not perhaps be inconsistent with that blissful state, You did right to call your daughter by her name; for you must needs have had a particular tender friendship for one another, endeared as you were by nature, by having passed the affectionate years of your youth together, and by that great softener and engager of hearts, mutual hardship. That it was in my power to ease it a little, I account one of the most exquisite pleasures of my life. But enough of this melancholy, though not unpleasa ing strain.

'I esteem you for your sensible and disinterested advice to Mr. Bell, as you will see by my letter to him; as I approve entirely of his marrying again, you may readily ask me why I don't marry at all. My circumstances have hitherto been so variable and uncertain in this fluctuating world, as induce to keep me from engagirg in such a state; and now, though they are more settled, and of late (which you will be glad to hear) considerably improved, I begin to think myself too far advanced in life for such youthful undertakings, not to mention some other petty reasons that are apt to startle the delicacy of difficult old bachelors. T am, however, not a little suspicions that, was I to pay a visit to Scotland (which I have some thoughts of doing soon), I might possibly be tempted to think of a thing not easily repaired if done amiss. I have always been of opi. pion, that none make better wives than the ladies of Scotlaad;, and yet, who more forsaken than they, while the gentlemen are continually running abroad all the world over ?. Some of them, it is true, are wise, enough to return for a wife. You see I am beginning to make interest already with the Scots ladies. But no more of this infectious subject.- Pray let me bear from you now and then : and though

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