CHAP. I.

THOSE ſons of genius and judgment who have made themſelves remarkable, by the exertion of their abilities, when departed from this ſublunary world [26] ſeem to claim the remembrance of their ſurvivors as a debt; and gra⯑titude ſuggeſts to us, it would be inhuman, as well as impolitic, to conſign their memories to oblivion, at the ſame time that we commit their clay to the grave.

Anecdotes concerning the good and great throw a light on many paſſages in their writings, which without them would be obſcure. Nay, we cannot taſte the works of a fine genius ſo thoroughly, as when acquainted with his life's hiſtory. If we are informed of his family, his education, connections, and con⯑duct in private life, we have a kind of comment on his writings by us, which elucidates his ſentiments, and explains ambiguities.

[27] On theſe accounts, mankind pe⯑ruſe with a peculiar pleaſure, any little informations, concerning the lives and manners of thoſe, who have ſoared above the common herd of mortals, by the diſplay of any extraordinary acquiſitions they have been poſſeſſed of.

While ſome conſider the cha⯑racter of a philoſopher or a bard, in ſome meaſure, approaching to that of a demi-god; others look on it in the moſt contemptible light imaginable. The former are chiefly compoſed of low, illiterate people, or pretended ſcholars; the latter, of ſubſtantial or ignorant tradeſ⯑men, whoſe whole abilities conſiſt in a plodding, dull, houſehold un⯑derſtanding, capable of the com⯑mon [28] rules of arithmetic, and cal⯑culated for the meridian of a gro⯑cer's, or an oilman's ſhop.

To both theſe miſtaken kind of beings, the following work will afford little entertainment. Mr. Churchill, in his private conduct, was not unlike any other gentle⯑man; and, therefore, thoſe who expect marvellous adventures, and uncommon ſcenes, to be here re⯑lated, or the dirty and pitiful tricks of a poor wit to gain a precarious livelihood, will be equally diſap⯑pointed.

Mr. Churchill was a man—a com⯑pounded being of fleſh and ſpirit—neither a deity, nor a devil; as hi [...] friends and foes ſeem to inſinuate▪ [29] He had many virtues; and ſome vices. Many excellent faculties, and extraordinary accompliſhments; and ſome defects. Some ſingulari⯑ties; but an amazing number of winning methods, the fair fruits, the pure offspring of a good heart, of conciliating the eſteem of all his friends and acquaintances.

Diſtreſs never ſued to him in vain. A philanthropy that knew no bounds, taught him to ſympa⯑thize at others woes, and melt at others ſorrows. His purſe was ever open to the poor and indigent; his advice ever ready to the ignorant and dubious.

Pride and revenge were ſtrangers to him. His good-ſenſe preſerved [30] him from the firſt; and a thorough conviction of the truth and excel⯑lency of the chriſtian religion, and a fortitude of ſoul which no dangers could daunt, ſecured him from the laſt.

If injured by an inveterate foe, his reſentment was ever proporti⯑oned to the offence; but if time, with ſtealing pace, crept on, it eraſed all remembrance of it from his memory; and the leaſt conceſ⯑ſion made by the offender, made Churchill his firm friend.

Brave and open-hearted, no ma⯑lice could ever lurk in his ſoul,—Of exquiſite ſenſations, the ſmall⯑eſt injury was felt; but felt, to be either pardoned, or deſpiſed; ex⯑cept [31] when prudential caution made it neceſſary to reſent it: then due chaſtiſement was inflicted, and the offender himſelf forced, on the re⯑turn of reaſon, to own the juſtice of the hand that ſmote him.

A tiny witling,—the moſt con⯑temptible of all contemptible wri⯑ters—the putter-together of dull eſſays for a dull news-paper—on his publication of his Roſciad, thought proper to aſperſe his cha⯑racter, and depreciate his work.—Churchill was ſhewn the paper, and told the name of its author. ‘"You ought to reſent this unprovoked attack, and this falſe piece of criticiſm,"’ cries the friend.—‘"Not at all," anſwers the bard; "that is the very reaſon it is be⯑neath [32] neath my notice: I look on this wretch, as the generous horſe ſurveys the yelping cur at his heels, with cold diſdain, and ſi⯑lent contempt."’

Another time, thoſe veterans that know an author by his ſtile, under⯑took to prove he was a fellow of no mark, or livelihood, as Shakeſpear expreſſes it, and that his works were unworthy the public notice. Churchill being ſhewn the elabo⯑rate production of theſe directors of the public taſte, and requeſted to anſwer it, obſerved, ‘"that if flies buzz about one, it were ri⯑diculous to regard them; but if they attempted to ſting, it were fit they ſhould be cruſhed."’

[33] Superior to corruption, repeated offers, that would have ſtaggered the patriotiſm, and ſapped the very foundations, of m-n-ſt-r--l inte⯑grity, were rejected with diſdain. He ſcorned to proſtitute his pen for a place or penſion; and had rather eat a beef-ſteak, and drink a tankard of porter, with an ho⯑neſt artizan, than feaſt on orto⯑lans, or veniſon, and drink claret and burgundy, with an ignoble no⯑bleman. When his name was at the higheſt, and he was dreſſed like an ambaſſador, he would ſhake hands with, and aſſiſt, a friend in diſtreſs with a thread-bare coat; and deſpiſe, from his very ſoul, the ſtar and gartered villain flaunting in embroidery.

[34] He was ſo thoroughly attached to the intereſt of Old-England, that he could not, without the utmoſt indignation, ſee her conſtitution broke by rank empirics, her very vitals decayed, and her whole frame brought to ſuch a conſumptive, hec⯑tic ſtate, as threatened a ſpeedy diſ⯑ſolution.

What could be done by a private man, to prevent ſo calamitous, ſo fatal a cataſtrophe, was done by him. His pen was employed in the cauſe of honour, in the cauſe of freedom, in the cauſe of Britain. His muſe, of true celeſtial deſcent, engaged in the generous cauſe. She exhorted Britons to act for the in⯑tereſt of Britain; to ſpurn the venal ſee; to diſdain the galling chain, [35] though caſed with gold; to deliver down the generous plan of power our anceſtors had tranſmitted to us, at the expence of their blood and treaſure, inviolate to poſterity; and to take all conſtitutional methods to prevent iniquitous, ruinous, and de⯑ſtructive, Scottified meaſures from taking place.

For this he was blamed by the fool, and aſperſed by the knave; traduced by ſycophants, and whiſ⯑pered againſt by cowards: but, ſo that his country could be in the leaſt benefited by his patriotic endea⯑vours, he regarded his foes like ſo many ſerpents, who would hiſs at the traveller, but ſkulk away at the inſtant he was preparing to chaſtize them.

[36] His ſincerity was ever conſpicu⯑ous, unqueſtioned, and exemplary. Averſe to flattery, he diſdained re⯑ceiving it himſelf, or to beſtow it on others. He juſtly conſidered, the uſe of ſpeech is to deliver our ſentiments; and he thought, that the man who is mean enough to ſpeak what he does not think, muſt be both a coward and a ſlave.

In conſequence of this opinion, he was as free, as cheerful, and as eaſy, in the ſociety of a lord as a tradeſman; and was equally com⯑municative of his ſentiments to the learned, as to the illiterate. For, as he was wholly exempt from ſelf⯑conceit, and abhorred adulation; ſo was he conſcious of ſpeaking the dictates of his heart; and juſtly [37] conſidered, that every individual that compoſes a company, has an undoubted right of delivering his ſentiments freely to that company: and, though he might ſometimes be unſucceſsful in his endeavours to inſtruct, he was never ſo in his at⯑tempt to pleaſe and entertain.

A pitiful ambition of diſplaying ſuperior knowledge in particular arts and ſciences, that have been canvaſſed in company, is very com⯑mon, and is very ridiculous. This fault Churchill was never guilty of; and, tho' his erudition and know⯑ledge were ſuperior to moſt people's, and might have juſtified him in en⯑forcing his ſentiments with a pro⯑per warmth, and to take up a longer time than perſons of inferior [38] abilities could arrogate, he ever de⯑livered his opinion in a decent man⯑ner, and was as patient an auditor, as he was a ſkilful orator.

Chearfulneſs is one of the moſt amiable accompliſhments in a com⯑panion; and, if we may believe Mr. Addiſon, one of the peculiar cha⯑racteriſtics of a good Chriſtian. This accompliſhment, Churchill poſſeſſed in a very eminent degree; for, being of a brave and intrepid diſpoſition, an honeſt man, and a good Chriſtian, diſappointments loſt their force, and could not rob him of his wonted vigour and ſerenity of mind.

There is a wide difference be⯑tween intemperate mirth and a [39] chearful temper. The former our bard ever avoided; the latter he al⯑ways poſſeſſed. A deſpondency of mind ſeldom, indeed, attends a well⯑cultivated judgment and a noble ſoul; and, perhaps, no perſon was ever more free from it than Mr. Churchill.

He was alſo a firm friend, and never made any profeſſions of eſteem he did not really bear a per⯑ſon. Far from conſidering ſuch profeſſions as mere words of courſe, he religiouſly obſerved the promiſes he made; and punctually adhered to the friendſhips and connections he formed with various perſons.

But a perfect character, as a great wit has obſerved, is a faultleſs mon⯑ſter, [40] a creature of the brain only, that never exiſted in human-nature. Churchill is an eminent proof of the juſtneſs of this obſervation. He had his faults; but they were ſuch as were nearly allied to, and grew out of his exceſs of virtues. As every virtue is nearly connected with ſome vice, ſo every vice borders on, and is not far remote from, its op⯑poſite virtue. Churchill's exceſs of generoſity, and contempt of ſor⯑did lucre, led him to the oppoſite extreme, and bordered on extrava⯑gance. His regard for his friends induced him to diſregard the nar⯑row limits of regularity and tem⯑perance, to indulge too frequently in riot and keeping ill hours: and his violent and true love for his country, and hatred of villainy, [41] however dignified or diſtinguiſhed, hurried him to ſome exceſſes, and carried him to ſome lengths in his writings, that are not, perhaps, ſtrictly juſtifiable by the laws of his country, or conſiſtent with the rules of decorum or good-breeding.

To ſum up his character, there⯑fore, conciſely and candidly, we deliver it as our opinion, that his virtues, compared with his faults, are as mountains compared with mole-hills. As a man of genius and a poet, he ſtands one of the firſt in rank; as a patriot, his integrity re⯑mains unimpeached; as a valuable member of ſociety, he is deſervedly eſteemed; and, as a firm friend, and a chearful companion, the tears that are ſhed over his urn are ample [42] proofs. Poſterity, therefore, ſhall revere and embalm our poet's me⯑mory, when the malignant cenſures of envious ſnarlers, who now at⯑tempt to pluck the well-earned wreath of merit from his laurelled brows, and defame his character with all the rage of petulant malice, ſhall be forgotten; and when them⯑ſelves ſhall be turned to clay, and no traces of their having exiſted re⯑main.

CHAP. II.

AS it is our intention to keep as cloſe as poſſible to our ſubject, we ſhall avoid ſaying any thing of any perſon, that is not ma⯑terially intereſted in our hiſtory: [44] digreſſions being uſually very tedi⯑ous, and often trifling; and anec⯑dotes of perſons we have nothing to do with, at once inſignificant and improper; tending only to ſwell a work, for the printer's and bookſeller's benefit, and for the reader's drowſineſs and fatigue.

Beſides, as we write the life but of one perſon, we have no right to give the hiſtories of ſeveral; or we fulfil not properly our engagement in the title-page, and withall take an unwarrantable liberty, we appre⯑hend, we have no claim to.

What, therefore, the reader has to expect in this performance, is The Life of Mr. Churchill only; and an account of, and obſervations [45] on, the writings he has publiſhed: and it is not doubted, but, if we perform this work properly, it will be thought we ſhall have matter ſuf⯑ficient for one volume, without interſperſing it with particulars of people, and remarks on books, fo⯑reign to our purpoſe.

Thus much by way of proemi⯑um; proceed we now to our hiſ⯑tory.

Mr. Charles Churchill was born near Weſtminſter-Abbey, in the houſe where Mrs. Churchill, our poet's mother, now lives. His fa⯑ther was the reverend Mr. Charles Churchill, curate and lecturer of St. John's, in Weſtminſter; a man deſervedly eſteemed for the integrity [46] of his heart, and the qualifications he was endued with.

Mr. Churchill had but little for⯑tune of his own, and but few ex⯑pectations from his relations, tho' deſcended from an antient and ho⯑nourable family.

At the accuſtomary age, Mr. Charles Churchill, our poet, was ſent to a reading-ſchool, where he behaved in much the ſame manner as other children of his years gene⯑rally do; diſplaying no characte⯑riſtical marks of genius ſuperior to his fellows, or acting different in any reſpect from them.

At the age of ſix, however, when ſome little dawnings of reaſon begin [47] to appear, and the natural diſpoſi⯑tion of a boy reveals itſelf, the temper of young Churchill might be ſeen. It was plainly apparent that his ſenſibility was very quick; his fortitude of mind very great; his generoſity conſpicuous; and his candor quite amiable.

A ſtriking inſtance of the truth of this aſſertion I beg leave to relate, from the authority of his father; who, among other little anecdotes concerning his ſon, told me the fol⯑lowing:

One of his ſchool-fellows, an arch, unlucky boy, ſomewhat older than our hero, in diverting himſelf with throwing of ſtones, in con⯑junction with young Churchill, had [48] the misfortune to break a pane of glaſs of a neighbour's window.

Alarmed at the rattling of the glaſs, and ſtill more ſo with the fear of puniſhment, the young rogue fled from the ſcene of action with all the precipitation his heels could fur⯑niſh, and his companion followed him.

An enquiry was, however, ſoon made into the affair; and the of⯑fender threatened with ſevere chaſ⯑tiſement unleſs he confeſſed the truth. Churchill's companion ſtiffly denied his being the aggreſſor, and charged it on him. He was, ac⯑cordingly, called to an account; in⯑formed, that his play-fellow had poſitively declared he had broken [49] the pane of glaſs, and required to make an ample confeſſion.

Our young hero was ſo ſurpriſed at his friend's baſeneſs and falſhood, that, inſtead of vindicating his in⯑nocence, and recriminating on his accuſer, he burſt into tears. The tears were conſtrued by his ſchool-maſter as a ſign of guilt, and he was ſeverely whipped. After which, notice was ſent to Mr. Churchill, who immediately paid for the da⯑mage ſuſtained by the breaking of the pane.

This tranſaction happened in the ſchool-yard, and our hero's compa⯑nion hugged himſelf at the ſucceſs of his ingenuity, in eſcaping the puniſhment he feared, and gloried in the betraying of his friend.

[50] After the ſchool-hours were over, as the children were returning to their reſpective homes, young Churchill, in a firm voice, charged his companion with being a liar, to aſſert ſo manifeſt a falſity as to ac⯑cuſe him of breaking the glaſs; and a coward, for not daring to brave the puniſhment due for his crime; and withall told him, that, ſince he had acted ſo unworthily, he would beat him, and never aſſoci⯑ate with him afterwards.

The other, confiding in his ſu⯑perior ſtrength, being a ſturdy boy, and at leaſt a year older than our hero, diſregarded his threats, and offered to fight him. The propo⯑ſal Churchill accepted with joy, and they both ſtripped. In three [51] minutes, our hero had entirely vanquiſhed his antagoniſt, had made his noſe bleed, given him two black eyes, and throwing him againſt a flint-ſtone, he was ſo much ſtunned that he lay quite ſenſeleſs.

Our hero having now taken ſa⯑tisfaction for the treachery ſhewn him, his honour being ſatisfied, clemency ſucceeded. He raiſed up his friend, who ſoon coming to himſelf, and declaring he would fight no more, Churchill told him, he now forgave him: ‘"But, not⯑withſtanding that," continued he, "I will never be intimate with ſuch a falſe friend again, unleſs you aſk my pardon, and confeſs the truth, that you broke the win⯑dow."’

[52] The little fellow did both. Our hero was applauded by every one for his courage and generoſity; his friend receiving ſo effectual a check for his perfidiouſneſs in ſuch early years, altered his conduct; and Churchill and he were good friends ever after.

Another time, fearing that his antagoniſt would receive puniſh⯑ment for ſome fault he had commit⯑ted, he adviſed him to hide the ſchool-maſter's birchen rod. He accordingly did ſo: the rod was miſſed; and, to effect a diſcovery of the offender, all the boys were examined; and all denied their knowing any thing of the matter. The ſchool-maſter vowed, that they ſhould all be whipped, one after [53] another, till the offender confeſſed his guilt; and inſtantly ordered, that our young hero's late antagoniſt ſhould be the firſt. Churchill, ſee⯑ing him already horſed, and ready to receive the laſhes, told the maſter, if he would not whip Billy N---, he would inform him which boy had hid the rod. The maſter promiſed he would not; Billy was ſet down; and, in a ſtern voice, the maſter aſked our hero, who the offender was; and, at the ſame time, threatened he would ſe⯑verely chaſtiſe him; or, in his own words, whip him within an inch of his life.

All the boys now ſtood aghaſt, and dreaded the menaced puniſh⯑ment. Even conſcious innocence [54] could not ſecure them from fear; and their little limbs ſeemed robbed of their wonted functions, and trembled; while the pallid hue that overſpread their ſeveral faces, de⯑clared, that each was fearful leſt himſelf ſhould be charged with the offence.

Our hero only was unmoved. Surveying his maſter with an at⯑tentive, but reſpectful look; "Sir," ſaid he, with a firm voice, ‘"I only am guilty: I only deſerve to ſuf⯑fer.—All my ſchoolfellows are entirely innocent, and, therefore, undeſerving your reſentment. On me inflict your ſcourge: I deſerve it; and am prepared to ſuffer."’

[55] The unrelenting, the unfeeling brute, inſenſible to the courage and candor of the youthful hero, or⯑dered him to be horſed, pulled down his breeches, and the uplifted rod threatened his poor poſteriors, when a voice cried out, ‘"Churchill is not guilty, but I am!"’

This was freſh matter of ſurpriſe to the aſtoniſhed pedagogue. He had no ſort of conception that any boy ſhould voluntarily offer to ſuf⯑fer for his friend, and determined on whipping both, to diſcover the real truth.

He now examined both the par⯑ties between whom this generous conteſt ſubſiſted; and neither could be induced, from the fear of any [56] puniſhment, to retract from their reſolution of ſuffering for each other.—In ſhort, the illiterate wretch, unable to feel the beauty and heroiſm of their conduct, whipped both in the ſevereſt man⯑ner.

The conſequence was, old Mr. Churchill hearing of the affair, ex⯑amined into the true ſtate of it, and learnt the real truth. He admired his ſon for his good-nature in con⯑cealing the fault of his friend, and for his intrepidity in bearing the puniſhment due to him alone; and he eſteemed young Billy N------, his ſon's late antagoniſt, in perſiſt⯑ing to own that he only hid the rod. A week after both of them were [57] taken from that ſchool, and ſent to another, where a more ſkilful ſchoolmaſter, and worthier man preſided; and the example of the parents of theſe young friends was followed by many others ſoon after.

CHAP. III.

IT was not many years after this tranſaction, that young Churchill was ſent to Weſtminſter ſchool, to [59] be educated in the higher branches of learning.

For the firſt two or three years he continued here, he did not diſ⯑play any extraordinary capacity, or ſhew any marks of that genius he afterwards exhibited. Nay, he was not unfrequently incapable of mak⯑ing his exerciſe, and remanded back to render it more perfect.

His capacity, however, was infi⯑nitely ſuperior to his aſſiduity. He was idle, fond of play, averſe to ſtudy, and teſtified the utmoſt re⯑luctance in conforming to the tram⯑mels of a ſchool education.

This evidently appears from his being able to go through all his ex⯑erciſes [60] whenever he thought proper to apply to them with half the at⯑tention that the generality of boys do: and the following true anecdote of him is a farther proof of the truth of this aſſertion.

Having through idleneſs, or inat⯑tention, neglected one day to make his exerciſe, his maſter thought proper to chaſtiſe him very ſeverely, and at the ſame time reproached him for his ſtupidity; telling him he was the moſt idle and ignorant boy in the ſchool; that did he ſtill perſiſt in his neglecting to furniſh his mind with claſſic learning, he would never be able to make a figure in life, but be looked upon as a dull and illiterate blockhead: a character, he ſaid, the moſt odious that could [61] be imagined, and which would ſub⯑ject him to the contempt of the wiſe and learned, and render him fit company only for people like himſelf.

The remonſtrance had its due effect. Churchill ruminated in his mind on what his maſter had ſaid, and he found he had ſpoke the truth. He determined, therefore, he ſhould no longer have cauſe to complain of him; for he would be as aſſiduous and induſtrious, as he had before been indolent and lazy.

From this time his improvement in literature was rapid, was aſtoniſh⯑ing. He learnt with eaſe what coſt others the greateſt pains; and he apprehended, as by intuition, the [62] true meaning of ſome paſſages that occurred to him, which his com⯑panions had not the leaſt idea of.

Thus we ſee that what the fear of ſtripes could not effect, the fear of ſhame ſoon produced; and from henceforwards he brought his ex⯑erciſes finiſhed in ſuch a manner, that he received the public thanks of all his maſters; and was pointed out as an example that the other boys ought to copy.

Theſe encomiums were not given in vain. They filled our hero with the moſt agreeable ſenſations, and excited in him greater deſires of approaching ſtill nearer to perfec⯑tion.

[63] Suffer me here to make a remark: a remark growing out of, and con⯑nected with my ſubject, and as ſuch, not to be looked on as a di⯑greſſion.

Our hero's maſter acted ex⯑tremely jndicious in his conduct. He well knew Churchill dreaded not chaſtiſement: he knew he dreaded ſhame. However, that his admonition might have greater ef⯑fect, it was preceded by ſomeſtripes; and then, in the preſence of all the ſcholars, he pointed him out as the moſt indolent, ſtupid boy in the whole ſchool.

It is not a little ſtrange, that we ſo ſeldom ſee the conduct of this maſter imitated. Our ſchoolmaſters, [64] in general, conſult not the different diſpoſitions of different lads; they conſult not the wide difference there is, in point of genius, between one boy and another: they take the ſame methods of inſtruction with, they teach the ſame branches of learning to, all.

Is not ſuch a conduct manifeſtly wrong? is it not incongruous to common reaſon, and irreconcileable to the common nature of things? do people of any profeſſions, men of any trades, act ſo abſurdly, in this reſpect, as ſchoolmaſter's; who ſhould, one would imagine, be poſſeſſed of good-ſenſe and diſcern⯑ment, ſomewhat ſuperior to the bulk of mankind?

[65] Does an ignorant farmer act ſo ignorantly as a learned ſchool⯑maſter? does he ſow his ſeeds on lands not fit for them? or, does he not rather, conſult the difference of ſoils, and ſow his ſeeds on thoſe lands that are moſt peculiarly adapted to each?

So ought a ſchoolmaſter to do: the farmer's conduct ought he to copy. It is with the human mind as it is with land. Some minds re⯑quire little cultivation to what others do: they ſpontaneouſly bring forth much good fruit: while others pro⯑duce little but weeds and tares.—Yet are theſe laſt to be neglected becauſe they want inſtruction moſt? no; they are rather to be mended by a different kind of manure than [66] what the others require. With dif⯑ferent ſoils different methods are taken to purge and cultivate them; and ſo muſt it be with the human mind.

I know but of one reaſon that can be aſſigned for the abſurdity of our ſchoolmaſters I have above pointed out. Indeed, it is a for⯑cible one in their favour; but it is no extenuation of the abſurdity of parent's conduct.—The reaſon I mean is, that ſo poor a pittance is given for the education of youth, that it lays the maſter under a ne⯑ceſſity of taking more ſcholars than he can poſſibly inſtruct, to do all of them juſtice. However, though, to gain a comfortable ſubſiſtence, he is obliged to have a multitude of [67] pupils, one quarter of which would take up his whole time to inſtruct properly; yet, did he but attend to the different capacities of his boys ever ſo little, and had penetration and learning ſufficient for the ar⯑duous profeſſion he had aſſumed, he might diſcern the various diſpo⯑ſitions and talents of various boys; and did he diſcharge properly the truſt repoſed in him, he would, in conſequence of his obſervations, lay his opinion before the youths parents; and if, after being in⯑formed of the turn and bent of their ſons genius, they ſhould, never⯑theleſs, perſiſt in having them taught branches of literature their genius's were not turned for, and adapted to, thoſe parents only would be in fault.

[68] Our hero having continued at ſchool a ſufficient number of years, and being thoroughly converſant in ſcholaſtic education; his father re⯑ſolved on ſending him to the uni⯑verſity of Oxford, where he him⯑ſelf had been educated, to finiſh his ſtudies.

Hiring a poſt-chaiſe, and his ſon and himſelf getting in it, they ſet out for the univerſity, and arrived there in about nine hours.

The literate or intelligent reader need not be told, that an examina⯑tion is always made of the perſon who offers himſelf to be admitted, with reſpect to his abilities in claſ⯑ſical learning. This examination our hero was now to go through; [69] and, conſcious of his own abilities, he dreaded it not.

His father, indeed, had for ſome time before, in order to render him ſtill more aſſiduous at his exerciſes at Weſtminſter ſchool, ſought to impreſs an high idea of the great talents neceſſary for the ſtudent to be poſſeſſed of, to be admitted into the univerſity; and of the profound erudition the examiner himſelf was maſter of; which, indeed, he ſaid, was ſufficiently apparent from the difficult queſtions he propoſed to the examinant.

When Churchill, after vaſt ſolem⯑nity, and an awful preparation, de⯑ſigned to intimidate him, and lower his ſenſe of his own qualifications, [70] was led up to the examiner, whoſe ſolemn viſage, rendered important by a buſhy wig, beſpoke credit from a ſuperficial obſerver for vaſt wiſ⯑dom; he began to think his father's deſcription of the examiner was a juſt one; and prepared to anſwer the extremely difficult queſtions he imagined would be propoſed to him.

But inſtead of theſe difficulties, how amazed was he, on the open⯑ing of the examiner's mouth, to find the charm diſſolved! inſtead of being required to anſwer queſ⯑tions of depth and ſolidity, he had none propoſed to him, but what were ſo ſuperficial, ſo frivolous and trifling, that a boy of the third [71] claſs, might with eaſe have ſolved them.

Our hero was ſo aſtoniſhed and ſo irritated, at their thus treating him like an ideot, as he imagined it, that he could not but reſent it. He accordingly ſatiriſed the perſon whoſe office it was to examine him; to queſtion his abilities who was appointed to fathom his own; and to aſk ſome queſtions, which the examiner, whether from ignorance, or diſdain, I know not, did not think proper to anſwer.

The conſequence was, that our hero was rejected; and, probably, this circumſtance might have given occaſion to the frequent invectives [72] we find in his works againſt that moſt reſpectable univerſity.

Upon his returning from Oxford, he again applied to his ſtudies at Weſtminſter-ſchool, and made ſuch a progreſs as was really ſurpriſing; which afforded great ſatisfaction to his father, and his friends.

CHAP. IV.

WHILE our hero was thus laudably employed in the cultivation of his mind, his heart was moſt ſenſibly affected at the ſight of Miſs ----------, and he [74] longed for an opportunity of de⯑claring his exceſs of love.

He was then but ſeventeen; was robuſt, comely, and well-propor⯑tioned: exerciſe had thrown crim⯑ſon on his cheeks, and given a vi⯑gour to his limbs which effeminate beaux and ſlaves of indolence are entire ſtrangers to. While, falſly luxurious, the delicate and the de⯑bauched were impairing their con⯑ſtitutions, and enervating their minds, by diſſipation and luxury, young Churchill was aſſiduouſly em⯑ployed, during ſchool-hours, to lay in a large ſtock of claſſic lore; and afterwards, in engaging in manly, robuſt exerciſes, which, while they contributed to open his cheſt, to brace his nerves, and enure him to [75] brave the inclemencies of the wea⯑ther, or change of ſeaſons in this va⯑rying clime, not a little aſſiſted in fortifying his mind; as it is well known, that, the ſtronger and more robuſt a body is, the more likely is it to lodge a brave and noble ſoul.

Miſs ---------, the young lady our hero had ſet his affections on, was neither a complete beauty or a wit; but ſhe was endued with ſome accompliſhments ſuperior to both: accompliſhments that rendered her the envy of her own ſex and the ad⯑miration of ours.

She was judicious, diſcreet, ſin⯑cere, and affable; poſſeſſed of virtue without auſterity; gaiety, without levity; wit, without ill⯑nature; [76] and prudence, without conceit. Her perſonal accompliſh⯑ments were alſo ſufficient to attract the attention of the moſt indiffer⯑ent, and excite the warmeſt deſires in the coldeſt breaſt; being well⯑ſhaped, agreeable, and diſplaying a certain je ne ſcais quoi in her whole appearance, that invites more pow⯑erfully than haughty beauty com⯑mands.

To this lady our hero contrived to get himſelf introduced, and paid his addreſſes to her with all the warmth that youthful ardor could inſpire.

The more he knew of the lady the better he loved her. If, on [...] ſlight and tranſient view, he found [77] his breaſt was touched, a thorough acquaintance, and a more cloſe in⯑timacy, affected his very ſoul. Reaſon approved what paſſion ad⯑mired. To fix one's eſteem on a truly deſerving object, is, at once, a proof of a good head and a good heart.

This proof our poet gave. He perfectly idolized his charmer, and every opportunity he had of being with her alone, he ſought to evince the greatneſs of his paſſion, by pouring out the dictates of his ſoul in the moſt expreſſive and undiſſem⯑bled terms love could ſuggeſt.

The artleſs, ſincere paſſion our hero felt; the forcible, the winning expreſſions he uſed, in breathing [78] out the ſoft ſentiments of his ſoul, ſoon excited a reciprocal love in his charmer. She confeſſed his merit, ſhe ſaw his accompliſhments, and ſhe gave him her heart.

Where a violent and a mutual flame warms two boſoms, and the parties are both agreed, it is not long before the aid of Hymen is required to tie the connubial knot. So was it ſoon by our hero and his charmer, and they were united in thoſe bands which nothing but death or divorce could looſe.

They both now thought them⯑ſelves ſupremely happy. Poſſeſſed of each other, they imagined them⯑ſelves poſſeſſed of every thing that could contribute to their felicity [79] They were truly happy, for they thought themſelves ſo.

In this comfortable ſtate they con⯑tinued for two years; when our poet's father, who had ever bred him up with an eye to the ſacred function, examined him very ſtrictly with reſpect to his inclinations; for he determined, if he found him in the leaſt averſe to enter into the mi⯑niſtry, that he would by no means perſuade him to do it; it being, in his opinion, extremely wrong to lay any force on the natural diſpoſition of a perſon; or to endeavour, by any authority, to prevail with him to labour in the vineyard of the Lord, if his reaſon and inclination did not of themſelves approve ſuch a profeſſion.

[80] On ſuch examination he found, to his great joy, his ſon had no ſort of objection to that courſe of life. Now, though he had not been edu⯑cated at Oxford, or taken any de⯑gree, yet, ſo thoroughly convinced was he of his ſon's abilities, that he made no doubt of his getting him ordained, and convincing the biſhop that the church would obtain no ſmall acquiſition by obtaining ſuch a member, whoſe abilities, at that time, began to blaze forth with great luſtre, and to promiſe to ſhine, in a few more years, with a radiance that would aſtoniſh mankind.

He was not deceived in his ex⯑pectations and hopes. The late worthy prelate, Dr. Thomas Sher⯑lock, biſhop of London, examined [81] our hero; and teſtified no ſmall ſurprize, that ſo young a perſon, for he was not above three and twenty, ſhould be ſo learned and intelligent. Not content with a ſuperficial exa⯑mination, as is the caſe on ſome occaſions, the deepeſt and moſt ab⯑ſtruſe queſtions were propoſed to Churchill, both by the biſhop him⯑ſelf and his chaplains; to all which ſuch pertinent and ſolid anſwers were given, as perfectly aſtoniſhed the examiners, and made the good biſhop, who was acquainted with our hero's having been rejected at Oxford, exclaim, ‘"Good GOD! what ſort of an examiner muſt this gentleman have been before, when he was pronounced to be deficient in ſcholaſtic educati⯑on!"’

[82] Being ordained by the biſhop, he ſought to gain ſome preferment in the church; and reſolved, that, ſhould he be ſo fortunate, he would diſcharge the duties of his ſacred function conſcientiouſly and pro⯑perly.

It is well known, that, without intereſt, had a man all the genius, and all the wiſdom, and all the learning in the world, he would ſtand but little chance of riſing in the church.—But is this aſtoniſh⯑ing? No. It would be ſo, indeed, were it otherwiſe.

Did genius, wiſdom, and learn⯑ing, meet with that encouragement they merited, we ſhould not ſee pliant knaves and artful villains at [83] the head of affairs. We ſhould not ſee preferments and offices in the diſpoſal of worthleſs wretches, whoſe ſole merit conſiſts in being allied to ſome wh-----e, having pimped for ſome great v---ll----n, or been ever ready to proſtitute their conſciences, and willing to be led as their drivers ſhall think proper: nor ſhould we ſee real ge⯑nius, and ſound learning groaning beneath countleſs wrongs, and hold⯑ing the ſtirrups of thoſe horſes which baſe-born ſcoundrels and ſlaviſh ſy⯑cophants beſtride.

The obſervation is not peculiarly adapted to the church; it holds good with the army, law, and ſtate. In each we ſee men, that, were we to aſk for which of their good qua⯑lities [84] they were ſo nobly provided for; we might anſwer, we could not tell: but, at beholding their having thus aſcended the ſummit of Fortune's hill, we cannot help acting as we do in viewing droll, uncouth figures in pieces of amber, and wondering how the devil they came there.

Intereſt, in ſhort, like fancy, is the queen of the world. She per⯑forms every thing; and fools and knaves are generally her's and for⯑tune's favourites.

If, however, the poſt of honour be a private ſtation, Churchill's was a truly honourable one. With abi⯑lities that would reflect an honour on the country that gave him birth, [85] with an ardent zeal for the ſpiritual and temporal welfare of mankind, after living for ſome time privately with his wife, at a little houſe he rented in Weſtminſter, he was pro⯑moted.

His genius, his learning, his piety, had been viſible ever ſince his entering into holy-orders, and had procured him the friendſhip and eſteem of many judicious and pious perſons: but whether they were not of rank ſufficient to recommend him to a living, whether they wanted inclination, or, which is more pro⯑bable, whether they had poor rela⯑tions enough of their own to put into rich benefices, I know not; but certain it is, that our hero was left unprovided for, and his finances [86] were not in the moſt proſperous ſituation, till a certain clergyman, ſeeing his abilities and his neceſſity, promoted him to a ----- curacy in the north of Wales, that brought him in the full ſum of --- twenty⯑ſeven pounds a year; which is more than can be ſaid of a full half of the livings in that part of the world.

It is no ſmall proof of Mr. Churchill's good-ſenſe, and good diſpoſition, that, rather than be burthenſome to his friends, he ac⯑cepted ſuch a pitiful income, and conformed to his ſituation with all the reſolution of a philoſopher, with all the reſignation of a Chriſ⯑tian.

[87] In ſhort, his wife and he, after taking leave of their father, mo⯑ther, brothers, and friends, ſet out for Wales; and arrived at the place they were to reſide at in good health and ſpirits.

CHAP. V.

NO man ever diſcharged the duties of his ſtation with greater chearfulneſs and aſſiduity [89] than Mr. Churchill did; no man was ever more loved and eſteemed by his pariſhioners than he was. They conſidered him in the moſt reſpectable light imaginable; paid due attention to his precepts, and honoured him for his worth and genius.

He had not lived long in Wales before he became a very popular preacher, and was followed there as much as Romaine is here.

A preacher's popularity generally ariſes from three cauſes only. Either from his inculcating ſome ſtrange and paradoxical opinions; from his working on the paſſions of his au⯑ditors, by a vehement or perſuaſive oratory; or from his delivering [90] wholſome and ſound diſcourſes, written in a perſpicuous, eaſy, ele⯑gant ſtyle.

Our poet's popularity aroſe from the laſt aſſigned cauſe. His ſer⯑mons were full of the ſublimeſt and moſt important truths, conveyed in a plain but expreſſive language; which, though intelligible to the peaſant, was not unworthy the at⯑tention of a peer.

By ſublime and important truths, I mean not diſquiſitions on mere ſpeculative points, or pretended ex⯑planations of myſteries, but truths that come home to every one's breaſt, that influence the moral conduct of mankind; and that therefore, are of the utmoſt conſe⯑quence [91] to every perſon's peace of mind here, and to his eternal hap⯑pineſs hereafter.

Such only were the ſubjects Mr. Churchill expatiated on: ſuch ſub⯑jects only ought every country cler⯑gyman to treat on; or it is impoſ⯑ſible for him to diſcharge the duties of his function properly, or edify his flock.

A diction is not leſs to be regard⯑ed than a ſubject. If the plaineſt theme be treated on in a majeſtic, ſwelling ſtyle, replete with tropes, metaphors, and allegories, a con⯑gregation may go home juſt as wiſe as they came. They may, indeed, ſtare at the preacher, and cry him up for a profound ſcholar; but their [92] admiration will be found to proceed from the ſame cauſe as that of Don Lewis's did, in the play of The Fop's Fortune; who honoured his nephew Carlos for his high-ſound⯑ing Greek, though he did not un⯑derſtand a ſingle ſyllable of it.

Churchill differed ſo widely from preachers of this ſtamp, that he ſought to convince their reaſon, by appealing to their reaſon only, in a plain, eaſy, Addiſonian ſtyle, if I may ſo expreſs myſelf.

His good conduct, in this re⯑ſpect, cannot be ſufficiently com⯑mended. It is no uncommon thing for a perſon of low ideas, little learning, and leſs genius, to write and talk in ſuch a manner as is per⯑fectly [93] adapted to the capacities of the vulgar. But for a great poet, whoſe imagination teems with lofty images, and ſwelling figures, to ac⯑commodate himſelf to the concep⯑tions of the million, is at once ſin⯑gular and amazing!

In conſequence of our poet's de⯑meaning himſelf ſo prudently, he was univerſally eſteemed; and, tho' that part of Wales he lived in was [...]one of the moſt agreeable, eſpeci⯑ally in the winter ſeaſon, when the raw bleak winds came whiſtling o'er the mountain tops, piercing [...]he reddened cheek, yet he was [...]ontent with his ſituation, and em⯑ployed himſelf in going through [...]he offices of his function with [...]leaſure; and, when leiſure per⯑mitted, [94] climbing the mountains in ſearch of game, hunting, courſing, ſhooting, angling, or walking; taking a chearful glaſs with his friends, or peruſing thoſe books his own library, or thoſe of the neigh⯑bouring gentry afforded.

But, though he lived in a coun⯑try where there was plenty of pro⯑viſions, which of courſe rendered them cheap; and though he re⯑ceived ſometimes preſents from his pariſhioners; yet how can a man maintain himſelf and wife on the poor pittance of twenty-ſeven pounds a year, in the manner they had been uſed to live?—It is im⯑poſſible. Churchill found it ſo and, therefore, to enlarge his ſcanty finances, after the money he ha [...] [95] brought with him from England was exhauſted, he reſolved to enter into a branch of trade, which, he hoped, would enable him to live in the ſame manner he had hitherto done.

The reader will not eaſily conjec⯑ture what trade it was our poet pitched upon; and he will not be a little ſurpriſed when told it was that of a cyder-dealer. He had a large cellar belonging to his houſe, which he fitted up as genteelly as the place would admit of; laid in a good ſtock of cyder; furniſhed him⯑ſelf with mugs and glaſſes, pipes and tobacco; and hey! preſto! my lads, behold all at once the parſon and poet turned publican!

[96] Indeed, reader, be not ſurpriſed, ſuch metamorphoſes are not uncom⯑mon in Wales. Parſons are there horſe-jockeys, ſhop-keepers, bak⯑ers, barbers, butchers, ale-ſellers, and pig-dealers.

You have read Joſeph Andrews, I ſuppoſe; if you have not, I would not give a farthing for you. You may there be acquainted with par⯑ſon Trulliber, of pig-ſelling me⯑mory. I knew the man well. He was a round, fat, ſhort, ſquab fel⯑low, that underſtood the nature of a pig as well as any man in Wales. He was educated at Jeſus-College at Oxford, entered into holy or⯑ders there, and ſold pigs and preach⯑ed the Goſpel at Llanridwhyd, in Wales.

[97] Our poet being thus turned cy⯑der-merchant, buſineſs flowed in a⯑pace. ‘"Parſon! bring me a mug of the right ſort,"’ cries one. ‘"This is excellent ſtuff, i'faith,"’ cries another. ‘"I pray you now, Mr. John Jones, I peſeech you, and intrete you, now to tell me, look you, if you do not think this cyder is better than Lewis Mor⯑gan ap Thomas's?"’ aſked ano⯑ther. In ſhort, they all agreed the parſon's cyder was excellent; and they ſwore, By Cot, there faz not ſuch another coot liquor in Wales, look you!

Churchill, in the mean time, pined in ſecret, at being obliged to deſcend ſo low as to ſell cyder. But what could he do? His pride pre⯑vented [98] him from begging; and a generoſity that knew no bounds opened his purſe-ſtrings whenever diſtreſs ſued to him.

He had now more ſupplicants than before, and his doors were continually crowded with diſtreſſed wretches, entreating a meal's ſuſte⯑nance to ſatiate their hunger, or a drop of cyder to allay their thirſt.

He was a man, though reſolute and bold as the moſt bold and reſo⯑lute, yet caſt in pity's ſofteſt mould. He has given his liquor and victuals to the hungry and thirſty, though he had none for a ſecond meal for his own family; and the tear of ſorrow hath ſtarted from his eye at the affliction of thoſe whom his li⯑beral hand was unable to relieve.

[99] His money, in the mean time, waſted away; his creditors gr [...]w clamorous; and a goal, the conti⯑nual terror of indigent genius, threatened him.

In this exigency he was forſaken by every thing but his reſolution and preſence of mind. He con⯑ſulted with his wife on the ſteps proper for him to take to retrieve his affairs; and ſhe adviſed an ap⯑plication to his creditors through the mediation of ſome friend. He approved of her counſel; put it in execution; but had the mortifica⯑tion to find they would come into no terms, but inſiſted on an imme⯑diate payment of their ſeveral de⯑mands.

[100] In this dilemma he came to a reſolution of quitting the country and returning to London. ‘"Why ſhould I," ſaid he to his wife one day, "by continuing here, brave the horrors of a goal, and run the hazard of ſtarving? It is true, I could eaſily ſupport the utmoſt misfortunes my ill fortune could inflict on me; but the thought of what you muſt feel, quite un⯑mans me, and melts me into ten⯑derneſs.—However, my dear, don't be afflicted; it is a peculiar mark of a great mind to tower above adverſity. Diſtreſs, in⯑deed, of any kind, is the teſt of fortitude, and the touch-ſtone of wiſdom. Throw off then that grief which now hangs on you, and let us prepare to return to our [101] friends and acquaintance in Lon⯑don, who will be extremely glad to ſee us, and where our fate may have better things in ſtore for us than we can reaſonably expect here."’

Theſe and other expoſtulations tended to dry her tears, and reſtore her to her wonted ſerenity of mind. They afterwards prepared to ſettle their affairs with all the expedition conſiſtent with perſonal ſafety; and, having tranſacted them, ſet off for London; where they arrived, in ſeven days, to the great joy of all their friends.

CHAP. VI.

OUR poet was not a little de⯑lighted to reviſit his native country, after ſo long and tedious [103] an abſence, and to ſee his relations and friends, eſpecially his brother John, who is now an apothecary and druggiſt, in Church-ſtreet, Weſtminſter, and for whom our poet had ever a warmer affection than for any other of his bro⯑thers.

It afforded no ſmall joy to our hero's father and mother to ſee ſo cordial an affection ſubſiſting be⯑tween their ſons; and the old gen⯑tleman being extremely deſirous of having Charles well ſettled, did his utmoſt endeavours to procure him ſome preferment in the church; but, for want of intereſt, was diſ⯑appointed in his intention, to his very great regret.

[104] Our poet was moſt ſenſibly mor⯑tified to find he was ſo neglected. Independent of the reaſon he had to expect ſome good living from his acknowledged merit and abili⯑ties, he had a ſtill ſtronger expec⯑tation of it from the promiſes he had received from ſome pretended friends; who had weight and in⯑fluence enough to have ſerved him, had they been ſo inclinable.

The truth is, they found Mr. Churchill was poſſeſſed of abilities ſuperior to moſt; that he was en⯑dued, in particular, with ſuch a ſatyrical vein, that they dreaded, ſhould he be put into any good be⯑nefice, he would laſh the indolence and ignorance of many of the ſu⯑perior clergy, ſo roughly, that they [105] would ſo ſmart with the anguiſh, as to be incapable of returning the favour. On this account, they de⯑termined to keep him as low as poſſible; well knowing, that an irritated, independent wit is a moſt dangerous enemy for the unworthy part of the clergy to cope with.

Hed merit and genius any claim to preferment, there is no doubt but our bard had been exalted to the higheſt. But ſince there were ſuch ungenerous methods taken to prevent his riſing in the church, it is no wonder that his higheſt pre⯑ferment was, his ſucceeding his fa⯑ther as lecturer and curate of St. John's, on the death of the latter, which happened but a ſhort time after our poet's return from Wales.

[106] In this ſituation he continued for ſome time, doing his duty conſci⯑entiouſly and properly, and being regarded in the moſt amiable light by all thoſe that had the pleaſure of his acquaintance.

But even now his finances were but ſcanty, and he had been accuſ⯑tomed to live well. Rather than content himſelf with ſubſiſting on his ſalary, which amounted to a bare hundred a year, and live an inactive kind of life, he choſe to labour harder, and take more pains, to enable himſelf to live more gen⯑teelly.

The office he took on him wa that of uſher to Mrs. Dennis' boarding-ſchool, teaching the youn [107] ladies to write the Engliſh tongue gra mmatically, correctly, and ele⯑gantly; a branch of learning which, tho' generally neglected, is of more importance than the world in general imagine!

Is it not ſtrange, that ſuch vaſt pains are taken to faſhion the bodies of the youth of either ſex, to teach them all kind of orna⯑mental accompliſhments, and yet neglect the cultivation of their minds, and omit the uſeful quali⯑fications, as things of no moment?

Very few young ladies, very few young gentlemen, are prevented from having the utmoſt pains taken with them, at great expence of time and money, to learn them to [108] dance, to ſing, to play on different inſtruments of muſic, and to un⯑derſtand French; all of which branches of education, though confeſſedly of uſe, they have no occaſion to ſhew themſelves miſ⯑treſſes and maſters of, perhaps, ten times in a year; but to ſpeak, read, and write their native tongue cor⯑rectly and elegantly, which they have occaſion to make uſe of every day of their lives, little pains are taken, little expence beſtowed, to make them proficients in.—This important, tho' neglected branch of education, to Mrs. Dennis's ho⯑nour be it ſpoken, is taught at her ſchool.

It is no wonder that, in this ſi⯑tuation in life, our poet gave great [109] ſatisfaction. Maſter as he was of an elegance of compoſition, and thoroughly converſant in the diver⯑ſities of ſtyle, he ſaw in a moment, when the various pieces the young ladies had written were ſhewn to him, their different excellencies, and their different errors. He pointed out both to them, made them ſenſible wherein conſiſted the beauty of the former; and taught them how to remedy the defects of the latter.

But a mind like our poet's was not to be bounded within the li⯑mits of a lectureſhip, or the pale of a ſchool. The dull, tedious, in⯑ſipid work, of continually repeat⯑ing over the ſame form of words, (though confeſſedly the moſt noble in the world, the moſt perfect the [110] wit or ingenuity of man can put together!) or to undergo the con⯑tinued drudgery of inſtructing youth, was not calculated for one

After being, therefore, at Mrs Dennis's about ſeventeen months he began to be tired, as well a aſhamed of his ſervile employ⯑ment: and, to recreate his mind [111] after being quite jaded with the fatigues of his uſherſhip, he ſaun⯑tered away to the playhouſe, where he knew his dulneſs would be chaſed away, and his melancholy expelled.

So diſcerning a perſon as our poet could not frequent the theatre long before he was thoroughly acquaint⯑ed with the merits and defects of the actors. He thought, that a work, pointing them out, would be of public utility; as it would enter⯑tain the town, and induce the ſons of the drama, who live on the pub⯑lic favour, to ſtrain every nerve, to exert all their abilities, to excel in their profeſſion, and render them⯑ſelves ſtill more worthy of the coun⯑tenance [112] and encouragement of the public.

This work he determined at⯑tempting. He had, indeed, hi⯑therto, written but few pieces; and thoſe were chiefly ſongs and epi⯑grams, which were never publiſhed, and only handed about among his moſt particular and intimate friends. However, he doubted not, but he had abilities ſufficient to do juſtice to his ſubject; he having, in one material reſpect, the advantage of moſt of the writers that had pre⯑ceded him; which was, no ſort of connection, or intimacy, with any player whatever; ſo that, being en⯑tirely unbiaſſed by perſonal friend⯑ſhip, or reſentment, his muſe might [113] cenſure with candour, and praiſe without adulation.

Our poet, however, could not enter upon this work ſo ſoon as he willingly would, on account of ſome private diſtreſſes he laboured under. His income ariſing from his lecture⯑ſhip and uſherſhip was but narrow, and his ſpirit was great. His living by far exceeded his revenues, which obliged him to contract debts he was incapable of diſcharging, and gave him no ſmall uneaſineſs, his houſe being continually blocked up by his creditors and ſurrounded by bailiffs.

But this was not all the vexation he laboured under. About this time, ſome domeſtic diſputes, ſtill [114] more afflicting, happened. Mrs. Churchill and he had frequent quar⯑rels; and a ſeparation was talked of, and deſired by both as advantageous to both.

It is by no means incumbent on me, as a biographer, or a man, to enter into circumſtances of this na⯑ture, and relate the origin and pro⯑greſs of ſuch an unhappy diſſention. Private family affairs are unfit for the public eye. They are of too tender and too delicate a nature to be divulged. Suffice it, that our poet and his lady DID NOT AGREE. To ſay more, would be to injure one of the parties at the expence of the other.

His debts were, however, ſoon diſcharged, or his creditors ſatisfied, [115] by the benevolence of Mr. Lloyd; and our hero then determined, he would retard his work no longer, but proceed on it inſtantly.

About the time of his forming this reſolution, his late ingenious friend, Mr. Robert Lloyd, the ſon of the before-mentioned gentleman, publiſhed a poetical epiſtle, called The Actor; which was addreſſed to Mr. Bonnel Thornton, and was looked on as a piece of infinite me⯑rit, and its author ranked among the moſt eminent writers of the age.

Fired by his friend's example, animated with a laudable emulation, our poet ſat down and compoſed his Roſciad. A work which enters in⯑to [116] a cloſe and minute diſcuſſion of the various excellencies and faults of the ſeveral actors and actreſſes of both theatres; aſcribing due praiſes to thoſe who were eminent in their different walks (to uſe a theatrical phraſe) and ſatiriſing thoſe who, buoyed up on the bladders of ſelf⯑conceit, imagined themſelves great actors; when, to uſe a well-known, though ſomewhat coarſe ſimile, they might be compared to pieces of horſe-dung, which ſwimming down a river with ſome golden-pippins, proudly cried out, ‘"See how we apples ſwim!"’

Having finiſhed his piece, he pub⯑liſhed it, but without ſetting his name to it as its author. The town were divided in their ſentiments [117] concerning its writer, but allowed it vaſt merit. Unwilling to aſcribe ſo much fame to one alone, it was ſaid, it was the off-ſpring of a com⯑bination of wits. The authors of the Critical Review, in particular, pronounced, point-blank, it was written by Lloyd. They valued themſelves, they ſaid, on knowing any author by his ſtyle; and, how⯑ever the common herd of critics might be impoſed on by a falſe judgment, they affirmed it was im⯑poſſible to deceive them, the ſkil⯑ful veterans of the age. Others de⯑clared, it was the joint-production of Lloyd, Thornton, and Colman; and the reaſon they gave for their opinion was ſomewhat ſingular; be⯑cauſe, they ſaid, no one man was capable of producing ſo finiſhed a piece.

[118] Theſe ſagacious veteran critics, and others, were, however, ſhewn their error in judgment on the pub⯑lication of the ſecond edition, which came out with the name of its au⯑thor. Our poet was now regarded as a firſt-rate genius, his acquaint⯑ance was cultivated by every man of taſte, and his fame was every day more and more extended.

CHAP. VII.

AMONG the many honour⯑able friends and acquaint⯑ances our hero gained by the pub⯑lication [120] of his Roſciad, may be reckoned Mr. Garrick; who gave him the freedom of his houſe, and entered into the ſtricteſt intimacy with him.

Shortly after the Critical Re⯑viewers had thought proper to at⯑tack his piece, by giving a lame and injudicious account of it, and, according to their uſual cuſtom, ſe⯑lecting ſome of the worſt lines they could find in it, and giving them as ſpecimens of the work; our poet thought proper to publiſh his Apo⯑logy, addreſſed to them; in which he ſeverely laſhes thoſe pſeudo-cri⯑tics, thoſe ſelf-appointed cenſors, who have forced themſelves into the chair of Ariſtarchus, with a view to direct the public taſte, and who [121] filch away the reputations of the good and great, with as little re⯑morſe as hardened high waymen ſteal purſes.

They were extremely nettled with the juſt ſatire they had drawn on themſelves, and would have recant⯑ed; would have begged our poet's pardon; would have fallen down on their marrow-bones; and, like naughty ſchool-boys, when con⯑victed of a fault, would have pro⯑miſed never to do ſo again; but our poet deſpiſed them too much to heed their ſuppliant poſture, or their pi⯑tiful promiſes. He was equally unconcerned at their inſidious ma⯑lice and their avowed repentance.

The town was extremely diverted at the poor devils expence. They [122] had never been ſo thoroughly ſcourged before. They had brought an enemy on them they knew not how to get rid of; and ſuch an enemy as neither their numbers could daunt, or their bribes cor⯑rupt.

Theſe aſſaſſinators of mens cha⯑racters began now to ſear. Conſci⯑ous guilt hallood in their ears the infamy of their proceedings; the infamy in depreciating the works of the learned and ingenious; and injuring the property of the pur⯑chaſers of thoſe works. They would gladly have leſt off their aſſaſſina⯑tion trade; but, alas! if they did, they muſt not cat; for every meal of victuals they procure, is pur⯑chaſed at the expence of the bleed⯑ing [123] reputation of ſome man of worth.

Our hero's fame being greatly extended by theſe productions, and his pockets filled, the firſt two edi⯑tions of the Roſciad only bringing him in three hundred pounds, he came to a reſolution of depending entirely on his muſe for ſubſiſtence; and he made no doubt of meeting the public favour as long as he ſhould continue to merit it.

But to do this, he conſidered his gown as an inſuperable obſtacle. While he wore it, he could not, with propriety, frequent many places; which, as an author, who muſt ſee life in all its variegated ſcenes, if he would paint them, it [124] was abſolutely neceſſary for him to do. All, therefore, for him to con⯑ſider, was, whether he would be a lecturer and curate, with a bare hundred a year, or a lay-author, with a goodly proſpect of gaining fifteen hundred.

He choſe the latter. He threw aſide his gown, and commenced lay⯑man; and, though he was blamed for it by ſome, and ridiculed by others, yet I cannot but think, for my own part, that he acted per⯑fectly right; and I doubt not but the unprejudiced and intelligent will be of the ſame opinion, after they have peruſed the following let⯑ter he ſent to me by the penny-poſt on that occaſion.

Our poet having thus thrown aſide his gown, behaved as any other gen⯑tleman, with ſimilar inclinations, would do. He frequented taverns [128] and coffee-houſes, places of public diverſion, got acquainted with bucks and bloods, and people of all ſorts of characters; and, in order to ſee low as well as high life, did not diſdain ſometimes to go into obſcure public-houſes, the better to obſerve the different ſcenes which different places would afford.

Theſe actions have been imputed as a diſgrace to him; as reflecting on his moral character, and tend⯑ing to leſſen him in the eyes of the public. With ſubmiſſion, we are of a different opinion. We think he acted extremely right; and that an author like him, who would ren⯑der himſelf capable of exhibiting portraits of the different ſtations of life, and humours of different men, [129] could not do better than to be an eye-witneſs of thoſe different ſtati⯑ons and humours. An author who thinks to paint ſcenes he never ſaw, muſt make a very poor hand of it. His deſcriptions muſt reſemble no⯑thing in the heavens above, the earth beneath, or waters under the earth: but an author poſſeſſed of tolerable abilities, if ſpectator of thoſe ſcenes he deſcribes, muſt, by far, excel one with the higheſt, who never ſaw thoſe things he attempts to give his readers an idea of.

Thus much we thought proper to obſerve in juſtification of our poet; and we beg leave farther to obſerve, in juſtification of our own remark, and as a proof of its ſoli⯑dity, that, had not Mr. Churchill [130] acted as he did, in frequenting ſo many public places, and ſeeing ſo many characters of different kinds, the world would not have ſuch highly-finiſhed deſcriptions of per⯑ſons and things from his pen, as it now can boaſt of.

He is alſo to be commended in other reſpects; in ſetting an exam⯑ple to writers to print their works correctly and elegantly, with a good type, and on good paper; to fix a gentleman's price on them, not a mere Grub-ſtreet author's; to re⯑ceive the profits themſelves, not ſuffer them to be pocketed by mer⯑cenary bookſellers, who, if they give but five guineas copy-money for a work, and make five hundred of it, will not preſent the author [131] with a ſingle ſhilling more—Few Andrew Millars are to be found—and, laſtly, by exhibiting a noble example to every bard and author, how they ſhould behave to thoſe who live by THEIR labours, and without which they would be in as wretched a ſtate as they would have them.

Suffer me here to relate five true ſtories; I could relate five ſcore, but five are enough.

Paradiſe Loſt, by John Milton, was ſold for fifteen pounds. The bookſeller gained five hundred by the publication. The author, be⯑ing in diſtreſs, wanted to bor⯑row of the bookſeller five guineas. [132] The bookſeller's gratitude refuſed him.

Joſeph Andrews was ſold for three hundred guineas. It had a rapid ſale. The bookſeller, Mr. Andrew Millar, cleared money by it; and ſent Mr. Fielding, the au⯑thor, unaſked, a preſent of one hundred guineas.

Triſtram Shandy was offered to divers Bookſellers for fifty pounds, and they offered ſeven. The au⯑thor printed the firſt edition on his own account, and cleared upwards of two hundred pounds by the ſale. Mr. Dodſley then purchaſed the copy, and has gained much money by it.

[133] Little Derrick, the great author, ſold a novel for three guineas. The bookſeller gained fifty pounds by the publication.—‘"Lend me a guinea," ſaid Derrick, "if you have any gratitude at all."’ "I have it not," anſwered the book⯑ſeller.

Churchill's Roſciad was offered to three different bookſellers for twenty pounds. They all ſaid the copy-money was too high, but they would give two guineas. He pub⯑liſhed it himſelf, and gained, by all the editions of it, ſeven hundred pounds.

So much for bookſellers—And now let me aſk any impartial [134] author, Whether, as an author, he is not obliged to our bard for ſet⯑ing him an example how he ought to act—Return we now to our hero.

CHAP. VIII.

MR. CHURCHILL gaining mo⯑ney now a-pace, had it in his power to diſplay the native tem⯑per of his mind; which was, an unreſtrained benevolence, that was [136] ever exerted in relieving the di⯑ſtreſſed.

His moſt intimate friend, and brother bard, was at this time ar⯑reſted for ſome debts he was inca⯑pable of diſcharging, and thrown in the Fleet. Every one lamented the fate of ſo great a genius, and were ſorry at his misfortunes; but no one, except Churchill, offered to give him any thing but—pity; a poor gift, and a ſcanty diet for a man to ſubſiſt on!

Our hero, who could not ſee his friend's diſtreſſes with apathy, vi⯑ſited him almoſt daily; and, with a generoſity unparalleled in theſe days, gave Kearſly, the bookſeller, orders to ſend him a guinea every [137] week, and charge it to his account; which was accordingly done.

Is not this a ſtriking proof of his goodneſs, his greatneſs of mind? Is not ſuch a generous action ſuf⯑ficient to atone for many faults? Can an equal inſtance of humanity and true friendſhip be produced by any perſon, if the circumſtances of the donor be compared with our bard's? Let, then, ye ſnarling, envious poetaſters, ye tiny witlings, ye mongrel authors, who feaſt on an inharmonious line with as much greedineſs as a hound will devour carrion, regardleſs of the nervous ſentiment, and incapable of feeling the beauty of a friendly, a humane, a moral, a Chriſtian action: let then the ſacred aſhes of our poet [138] reſt in peace! With more than ſa⯑vage brutiſhneſs, call not up his errors from the grave! Cull not, with a villainous induſtry, ſome few foibles, which, as a man, he poſſeſſed; which, as a poet, his whirl of imagination might lead him into, to ſerve them up as a feaſt for knaves and villains! Imi⯑tate his virtues, and, if poſſible, acquire his abilities; but let his faults be buried with his duſt! Let the green turf lie lightly on his breaſt; and tear not away, with ſacrilegious hands, the lawrelled wreath that binds his honoured brows!

The next work our poet pub⯑liſhed was Night, addreſſed to Mr. Robert Lloyd: a piece which, tho' [139] written with great ſpirit, and re⯑plete with true poetry, is the moſt exceptionable of any of his per⯑formances; it being grounded up⯑on falſe principles. The chief de⯑ſign of it ſeems to be, to prove, that, whatever follies we poſſeſs, we ſhould not undertake to conceal them.

That this doctrine is eſſentially falſe, and is abſolutely baneful to ſociety, is evident, if we only con⯑ſider, that example is ever more prevalent than precept. If the abandoned and the wicked were to take no pains to conceal their ſeve⯑ral crimes, eſpecially were they in high ſtations, other people would think themſelves juſtifiable in imi⯑tating them; perhaps, laudable; [140] ſince the commonalty look on it as extremely praiſe-worthy to ape their betters, not only in faſhions and follies, but vices; and the gentry ſeem to be of the ſame opinion, by their imitating, as near as poſſible, the nobility.

After the publication of this piece, he wrote his Ghoſt: a work of vaſt merit; in which he diſplays great knowledge of the world, rea [...] genius, and ſheer wit. The only fault I can find with this perform⯑ance, is, his indulging a vein of ſa⯑tire rather too ſevere; particularly, his attacking ſome reſpectable cha⯑racters with too much wanton cru⯑elty.

Of theſe Mr. Johnſon ſtands fore⯑moſt. A gentleman of great repu⯑tation [141] as a ſcholar, and a wit; a man with ſuch a comprehenſive mind, as to underſtand moſt ſub⯑jects ſo thoroughly, as would lead one to ſuſpect he had made the ſtudy of each the ſole buſineſs of his life. This gentleman is there characte⯑rized under the name of Pompoſo, and laſhed with a ſeverity he had by no means deſerved of our poet. But indeed the edge of the ſatire is entirely taken off, when it is con⯑ſidered, that every one that reads the character, knows Mr. Johnſon is the author of The Rambler: a work which has enlarged the circle of moral enquiry, and fixed more preciſe land-marks to guide philo⯑ſophy in her inveſtigation of truth.

The Prophecy of Famine ſuc⯑ceeded the Ghoſt. It had a rapid [142] and a prodigious ſale; was univer⯑ſally approved, except by thoſe who felt the keenneſs of its ſcourge.

But why ſhould I give an ac⯑count of his poems he publiſhed, HERE? That I ſhall do, perhaps, at ſome future time; only I thought it neceſſary to ſay ſomething of his firſt publications, in order the bet⯑ter to account for that degree of fame and popularity he experi⯑enced.

CHAP. IX.

NOTHING very material happened to our hero for ſome time, unleſs his intimate ac⯑quaintance with Mr. Wilkes, Mr. Lloyd^*, Mr. Woty, Mr. Lewis, [144] &c. and forming many other con⯑nections with men as eminent for their love of their country and re⯑gard for genius, as for their rank and fortune, may be termed ſuch.

An event, however, ſoon hap⯑pened, that I wiſh I could paſs over in ſilence. But as I have de⯑clared that in writing the life of this great poet, I will

It may be expected, I ſhould re⯑late the affair that happened be⯑tween him and a certain young lady (Miſs C---r), with whom he went to France, and lived with for ſome time.—It may, I ſay, be ex⯑pected [145] from me; but when I de⯑clare to my readers that I know not the whole of that affair, I hope they will excuſe me from publiſhing any part of it, as I know but of little, frivolous circumſtances relating to it; eſpecially, if they conſider, that it is the buſineſs of a biographer, either to give a true and faithful narrative of tranſactions, or entirely to omit them.—Inſtead then, of ſoiling ſome pages with the relation of an affair I profeſs myſelf igno⯑rant of, unleſs ſuperficially, I ſhall act a much better part, by giving the reader a letter I received from Mr. Churchill at Paris, at that very time; and which cannot be deemed a digreſſion, as every little piece our hero was the author of, may with the utmoſt propriety be [146] publiſhed in a work that contains memoirs of his life.

CHAP. X.

MR. CHURCHILL continued at Paris about three months, and then returned to London.

[155] On account of ſome political pieces he publiſhed, his fame was now in its meridian. He was re⯑garded as a ſkilful politician, as well as a great poet. He was, in⯑deed, looked on as one of the moſt formidable champions in the cauſe of Liberty and Britain, againſt do⯑meſtic treachery, and Scottified meaſures.

He thought the intereſt of his country was ſacrificed at the ſhrine of perfidy; that great villains rob⯑bed the public with impunity; that vice prevailed, and impious men bore ſway, while ſkill and inte⯑grity were driven from the helm of ſtate, and diſcarded with diſ⯑grace.

[156] He was not ſingular in theſe no⯑tions. Every honeſt, unplaced, un⯑penſioned, independent Engliſhman thought the ſame. But more cau⯑tious, or rather, more timid, than our patriotic bard, they dared not whiſper, in ſuch perilous times, when proſecutions, and pillories, and fines, and general warrants, and impriſonments, and expenſive journeys, were become ſo frequent, and when brow-beating a------y⯑g------ls held the ſcourge of law over the heads of thoſe who were bold enough to own themſelves friends and lovers of their country▪ they did not, I ſay, dare to whiſpe [...] thoſe ſentiments our poet openly avowed, and gloried in.

He was frequently threatened o [...] account of his generous attachme [...] [157] to the cauſe of liberty. Several very menacing letters were ſent to him in private, and frequent de⯑nunciations appeared againſt him in the public papers, with a view to ſhake his integrity, and blaſt his future fame, to bring him over to the other party, and to induce him to eſpouſe, by his diſcourſe and writings, thoſe principles, and vin⯑dicate thoſe meaſures, he had be⯑fore abhorred, and pronounced baneful to his country, and preju⯑dicial to its true intereſt.

But this was not all. Promiſes were alſo made, and aſſurances given, of high rewards and prefer⯑ments, if he would join the m---y, cry up the glorious and honourable peace, and write againſt thoſe faith⯑ful [158] ſervants of the crown, who had ſerved their country with ſkill and fidelity, and raiſed her reputa⯑tion to the higheſt degree of ſplen⯑dor, from the loweſt and moſt ab⯑ject ſituation conceivable, when ſhe had been inſulted and p----d on by almoſt every ſtate in Europe.

He was alſo to call in his writ⯑ings, an avaricious, cowardly, weal⯑thy d----e, who took a beating at a public horſe-race, a generous, brave, and honeſt man—An igno⯑rant and puſillanimous p--e-m-k-r, a learned and upright miniſter—A cricket-player, debauchee, and in⯑former, a very pious, chaſte, and worthy gentleman. In ſhort, he was to nick-name every thing; to proſtitute his conſcience, and his [159] pen; to depreciate and vilify his country and countrymen; and to laviſh the moſt boundleſs panegyric upon Scotland and Scotſmen.

Theſe ſhallow, ſecond-ſighted, Scottified ſtateſmen, could not have applied to a more improper perſon than our bard. He was equally un⯑moved at their threats and promiſes. He deſpiſed the men and meaſures too heartily to vindicate them; he loved his country and her patriots too ſincerely to betray them.

Finding our poet proof againſt their artifices, or force; and that he ſtood like a rock againſt which the furious winds bellow, and waves beat in vain; two of the m------'s agents propoſed to him, that, ſince [160] he could not be brought to concur in, and eſpouſe their cauſe openly, and by his writings, that, if he would only promiſe, on his honour, not to write againſt them, he ſhould be paid three hundred a year for his ſilence.

To this propoſal the bard gave this anſwer: ‘"I am amazed you ſhould think I would accept ſo infamous an offer. To be ſilent, when viewing treachery and vil⯑lainy, and not to expoſe them, is to be a partaker; and penſioners J-----n and G----e are not leſs inf----s for conſenting to drop their pens, than if they had wrote for the preſent adm---n."’

Fain would the two agents have prevailed on the poet to change his [161] reſolution; fain would they have perſuaded him to have ſapped the foundations of liberty, to have vin⯑dicated arbitrary and illegal mea⯑ſures, and to have proved a baſtard⯑ſon of his country. But they might as well have attempted to have torn up the rooted oak; to have called in queſtion the wiſdom and inte⯑grity of a Temple; to have ſhaken down the mighty battlements; or, like another Sampſon, pull down the ſtrong pillars of Gaza.

They laboured extremely hard to effect their purpoſe; which our poet conſidering as a direct implication and ſuſpicion of his integrity, his anger roſe to ſo high a pitch, that he ſwore, if they did not leave his houſe that moment, he would kick them out of doors.

[162] Not chooſing to give him this trouble, they decamped with pre⯑cipitation, fearing our poet would be as good as his word; but not before he had aſſured them, that, if they ever dared to come to his houſe again on ſuch errands, he would cut off their ears.

Our bard's behaviour on this oc⯑caſion, has induced his enemies to repreſent him as a turbulent man. They may call him, indeed, a man of ſpirit and a man of integrity; but ſure I am, every true lover of his country, ‘"with courage to have made his love known,"’ would have acted as he did.

CHAP. XI.

OUR poet now lived very com⯑fortably and very happily. He wanted not for money, nor for friends. He had taken a very genteel, well-built houſe on Acton-common, which he furniſhed ex⯑tremely elegant; kept his poſt⯑chaiſe, ſaddle-horſes, and his point⯑ers; fiſhed, fowled, hunted, courſed, [164] and took all the diverſions of the ſeaſon he approved, at thoſe hours he retired from ſtudy; and lived in an independent, eaſy manner every man of genius ought to do, but which every man of genius cannot afford.

His writings in favour of that adminiſtration that brought glory and honour to Great-Britain, and ſtrengthened its intereſt; among others, had given offence to Ho⯑garth, the ingenious, and truly co⯑mic painter, whoſe works will im⯑mortaliſe his name; who, having a place at court, as ſerjeant-painter, eſpouſed the cauſe of that admini⯑ſtration that brought inf--y and diſh----r to Britain, and that MADE THE PEACE OF 1763.

[165] The bard and painter having no⯑tice that the other would attend a late remarkable trial at Weſtmin⯑ſter-hall, came there with a view to exerciſe their different functions; the bard to ſatiriſe his antagoniſt for abuſing Mr. Pitt, and other great ſtateſmen; and the painter to catch a ridiculous likeneſs of the poet, ſo as to repreſent him in caricature.

They ſaw each other, and, after the trial was over, departed.

Preſently comes out a print of a bear hugging a full pot of porter in his paws; underneath, a pug⯑dog piſſing on Mr. Churchill's works; with ſome other circum⯑ſtances the reader need not be told.

[166] It would puzzle the moſt pene⯑trating perſon, had he the eyes of Lynceus, to ſee the wit of all this; but, leſt it ſhould be loſt, at the bottom is wrote, ‘"The reverend Mr. Churchill, in the character of a Ruſſian bear."’

Alas! Alas! It is but a too me⯑lancholy truth of the frailty of hu⯑man nature, and a too viſible proof of the decline of genius, that Ho⯑garth, a painter, in his peculiar walk, rivalled by none, ſuperior to all, ſhould, to indulge a perſonal reſentment, publiſh a fooliſh, tri⯑fling, inſignificant print, to prove—what?—why, that he hated Mr. Churchill, and that his own abilities were quite decayed.

[167] Glad ſhould I have been, had our poet diſdained taking notice of it; though the world would there⯑by have been deprived of a fine, nervous, manly piece of writing, that breathes a ſpirit of poetry and humanity, equally honourable to the bard and to the man.

Hogarth was my friend and my companion. I honoured him, and loved him; and I could not, with⯑out the moſt poignant grief, behold the extreme indignation he teſtified in reading the former part of our poet's epiſtle, his Ruſſian Bear had occaſioned; and the compunction of ſoul he felt in reading the con⯑cluſion, where the generous bard pays him greater compliments, and laviſhes higher encomiums on him, [168] as a painter, and with more juſtice, than the united compliments and encomiums that had been given him by all former authors and poets.

It has been ſaid, the ſeverity of our poet's ſatire, the juſtneſs of his remarks, and the warmth of his panegyric, broke the painter's heart. Though I cannot abſolutely believe this, yet, I believe, it contributed not a little towards it; eſpecially if we conſider, that, for ſome months after the publication of the print and epiſtle, poor Hogarth was laſhed moſt unmercifully in all the public papers; his defenders were illiterate and without genius, rather betraying his cauſe than ſerving it; and, as is too frequently the caſe, hurting him by their injudicious praiſes.

[169] Our poet had alſo ſome diſputes with D****n L***h, his quon⯑dam printer; but, as that affair is ſo recent in every one's memory, and ſo generally known, I ſhall not give an account of it here. I muſt, however, beg leave to obſerve, that, however faultleſs our poet might be, in his quarrel with the painter, I can ſcarcely think he was entirely ſo in that with the printer; as Mr. L***h is a very honeſt, deſerving man, and a very intelligent and good artiſt.

CHAP. XII.

THE friendſhip of Pylades and Oreſtes was not greater, or more ſincere, than the friendſhip of Churchill, Wilkes, and Lloyd. This triumvirate had a real eſteem for each other; and would have gone to the utmoſt limits of the earth, or performed any arduous taſk, within their power, to have ſerved their friend.

[171] There are fewer friends on earth than kings, is an antient ſaying, and is a true one. Whenever, therefore, we meet with ſuch a phoenix as faithful friends, we ought to look on them in the moſt amia⯑ble light, and regard them as we regard comets, or eclipſes; eſpeci⯑ally, if thoſe friends, like the three above named, are endued with great and extraordinary abilities, and poſ⯑ſeſſed of an integrity of ſoul, and fortitude of mind, which adverſe fortune cannot daunt, or the moſt proſperous circumſtances enervate.

Our poet longed ſo exceedingly to ſee his friend Wilkes, who had been exiled his country by the ri⯑gorous hands of power, for writing—his ſentiments, and who had [172] taken refuge in France, that he ſet out in his poſt-chaiſe for Dover; from whence he croſſed over to Ca⯑lais, and immediately proceeded to Boulogne, where Mr. Wilkes was.

Their meeting was joyful and affectionate. They thought them⯑ſelves extremely happy, after ſo long an abſence, to enjoy each other's ſociety; and they plumed themſelves on the ſatisfaction they ſhould receive in a reciprocal com⯑munication of ſentiments and plans they had formed for their future conduct.

But, alas! how tranſitory are all ſublunary things; how fleeting and uncertain!—The preſent moment only is ours; the next we are not aſſured of!—Like the baſeleſs fa⯑bric [173] of a dream, we ſee our goodly proſpects in life vaniſh away, when we awake to immortality from this bed of death.

Shall I purſue the ſubject? No. There is no occaſion.—Shall I re⯑late the ſequel of poor Churchill's life?—Fain would I diſpenſe with it!—Would it were not in my power!

In ſhort, our bard, a few days after his arrival at Boulogne, was ſeized with a malignant fever, and was ſenſible his time was come.

To expreſs the anguiſh of ſoul Wilkes felt, requires a pen like his own to deſcribe; or, rather, it is undeſcribable. He felt all the pangs and tortures human nature can feel, [174] when robbed of all the ſoul of man holds dear.

Two days before his death, my friend, my companion, my loved Churchill, wrote me the following letter—Heavens! what were my emotions in reading it!—What did I not feel at that juncture!

The ſecond day after writing this letter, my friend expired. He died calm and compoſed, ſenſible and reſigned. In his laſt moments, he recommended the publication of ſome papers intereſting to his coun⯑try's welfare—In the agonies of death, he ſought, he prayed for, his country's good—Then, with a ſerene ſmile on his countenance, invoking the GOD of mercy for for⯑giveneſs, he reſigned his ſoul into the hands of him that gave it!