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The allusion here is to Dr. Grainger's Letter to Tobias Smollett, M. D. occasioned by his criticism on a late translation of Tibullus, a performance some parts of which every friend to the author must wish had not been published. In this letter, however, Grainger, after quoting a passage from the plan or prospectus of the Critical Review, in which the authors promise to revive the true spirit of criticism, to act without prejudice, &c. &c. endeavours to prove, that they have forfeited their word, by notoriously departing from the spirit of just and candid criticism, by introducing gross partialities and malevolent censures. And these assertions, which are certainly not without foundation, are intermixed with reflections on Dr. Smollett's loose novels, and insinuations that his partialities arise from causes not very honourable to the character of an independent reviewer.

But whatever truth may be in all this, the letter was an unwise and hasty production, written in the moment of the strongest irritation. The review appeared in December, and the letter in January. There was no time to cool, and I suspect, no opportunity taken of consulting his friends, who could have told him that nothing was to be gained by an exchange of personalities with Smollett. The latter required no great length of time or consideration to prepare an answer, which appeared accordingly in the review for February, and in which every insinuation or accusation is introduced that could tend to lessen Dr. Grainger in the eyes of the public, both as a writer and as a man. Yet the objections which Grainger took are by no means satisfactorily answered, and the review is still liable to the suspicion of partiality. No reader of candour, or of taste, can peruse the translation, without allowing that the author deserved praise not only for the attempt but for the elegant manner in which he has, in general, transmitted the tender sentiments of Tibullus into our language. But this the reviewer has wholly overlooked, confining himself to the censure of a few defects, part of which he has not proved to be so, and part were typographical errours.

It has been supposed that some personal animosity prompted Smollett to such hostility, but of what nature, or excited by what provocation, is not known. All we can learn from the letter and the answer is, that the parties were once upon friendly terms, but that mutual respect had now ceased. One circumstance, indeed, we find, which may account for much of Smollet's animosity. He supposed Grainger to be one of the Monthly reviewers, and this was provocation enough to the mind of a man who from the commencement of the Critical Review took every opportunity, whether in his way or not, of reviling the proprietor and writers of that journal. As the latter seldom deigned to notice these attacks, no better reason, I am afraid, can be assigned for Smollett's conduct than the jealousy of rival merit and success, in both which respects the Monthly Review had a decided superiority.

Whether Grainger was a Monthly reviewer is not an unimportant question to one who is collecting the materials of his literary life; yet his biographers have hastily subscribed to Smollett's assertion without examining the Review in question. The article of his Tibullus in the Monthly Review may convince any person that Grainger could have little or no interest or influence with the proprietors. Although written with the decency and urbanity which distinguished that journal, it has nothing of partiality or kindness; the reader is left to judge from the specimens extracted, and what praise we find is bestowed with that faint reluctance, which is more blasting to the hopes of an author than open hostility. Even the opinion of the Monthly reviewer on Grainger's Letter to Smollett, is expressed with the brevity of one who wishes not to interfere in the contest.

" Dr.

Grainger has here, for the most part, fully obviated the censures of his antagonist, who seems to have attacked the doctor's translation, under the influence of malice and private pique. Dr. Smollett's furious reply has appeared; and, upon the whole, we must say, that on one side at least, a more illiberal, and, at the same time, a more insignificant controversy never insulted the public attention."

Shenstone, in a letter to Mr. Iago, dated January 6th, 1759, asks his correspondent, "Have you read my friend Dr. Grainger's Tibullus? It affords you an elegant edition of a good translation and of the text. He is engaged in a war with S(mollett), and has just sent me his pamphlet, which I could wish you to read, in order to form a judgment of S-'s character."

Soon after the publication of Tibullus, Dr. Grainger embraced the offer of an advantageous settlement as physician on the island of St. Christopher's. During his passage, a lady on board of one of the merchantmen bound for the same place was seized with the small-pox, attended with some alarming symptoms. He was sent for, and not only prescribed with success, but took the remainder of his passage in the same ship, partly to promote the recovery of his patient, but principally to have an opportunity of paying his addresses to her daughter, whom he married soon after their arrival at St. Christopher's. By his union with this lady, whose name was Burt', he became connected with some of the principal families on the island, and was enabled to commence the practice of physic with the greatest hopes of success. It is probable however that this was not his first attachment. In his preface to the translation of Tibullus, he insinuates that his acquaintance with the passion of love gives him a preference over Dart, who had attempted to transfuse the tender sentiments of that poet into English without the same advantage.

The transition from London to a West India island must have been very striking to a reflecting mind. The scenery and society of St. Christopher's was new in every respect, and Grainger seems to have studied it with those mixed and not very coherent feelings of the poet and the planter, which at length produced his principal work, the SugarCane. On his return to England, at the conclusion of the war, he submitted this poem to his literary friends, and having obtained their opinion and approbation, published it in a handsome quarto volume, in the year 1764. To the astonishment of all who remembered his dispute with Smollett, the Sugar-Cane was honoured with the highest praise in the Critical Review, as a work in which “the most languid will find his passions excited, and the imagination indulged to the highest pitch of luxury. A new creation is offered, of which an European has scarce any conception: the hurricane, the burning winds; a ripe cane-piece on fire at midnight; an Indian prospect after a finished crop, and Nature in all the extreme of tropic exuberance." But Smollett was now on his travels, and the Review was under the care of Mr. Hamilton, the proprietor and printer, a man who took no pleasure in perpetuating animosities, and who, with great respect for Dr. Smollett's memory, did not deny that his vindictive temper was of no great service to the Review.

Mr. Boswell, in his Life of Johnson, informs us that when the Sugar-Cane was read in manuscript at sir Joshua Reynolds's, the assembled wits burst out into a laugh when after much blank-verse pomp, the poet began a new paragraph thus :

Now, Muse, let's sing of rats.

'Daughter to Matthew William Burt, esq. governor of St. Christopher's.

“And what increased the ridicule was, that one of the company, who slyly overlooked the reader, perceived that the word had originally been mice, and had been altered to rats as more dignified.”

"This passage," adds Mr. Boswell, "does not appear in the printed work. Dr. Grainger, or some of his friends, it should seem, having become sensible that introducing even rats in a grave poem, might be liable to banter. He, however, could not bring himself to relinquish the idea: for they are thus, in a still more ludicrous manner, periphrastically exhibited in his poem as it now stands :

Nor with less waste the whisker'd vermin race,

A countless clan despoil the lowland cane'."

Of this incident, Dr. Percy furnished Mr. Boswell with the following explanation. "The passage in question was not originally liable to such a perversion: for the author having occasion in that part of his work to mention the havoc made by rats and mice, had introduced the subject in a kind of mock heroic, and a parody of Homer's battle of the frogs and mice, invoking the Muse of the old Grecian bard in an elegant and well-turned manner. In that state I had seen it; but afterwards, unknown to me, and other friends, he had been persuaded, contrary to his better judgment, to alter it so as to produce the unlucky effect above mentioned."

Such are the anecdotes with which, in defect of more important information, a compiler is frequently obliged to eke out his scanty portion of biography. Mr. Boswell tells us that Dr. Percy had not the poem to refer to, when he wrote this explanation, and it is equally evident that Mr. Boswell had not read the whole passage with attention, or considered the nature of the poem, when he objected to the introduction of rats. If we once allow that a manufacture may be sung in heroics, we must no longer be choice in our subjects: as to the alteration of mice to rats, the former was probably an errour of the pen, for mice are not the animals in question, nor once mentioned by the poet. But it is somewhat strange that Grainger should have ever thought it prudent to introduce an episode of the mock-heroic kind in a poem which his utmost care can scarcely elevate to solemnity.

I have more pleasure, however, in transcribing from Mr. Boswell's work, that Dr. Johnson said " Grainger was an agreeable man, a man that would do any good that was in his power;" and Dr. Percy adds, that "he was not only a man of genius and learning, but had many excellent virtues; being one of the most generous, friendly, and benevolent men he ever knew."

In the same year (1764) Dr. Grainger published an Essay on the more common West India Diseases; and the Remedies which that Country itself produces. To which are added, some Hints on the Management of Negroes. To this pamphlet he did not affix his name. Many of the remarks it contains, particularly those which concern the choice and treatment of the negroes, may be found in The Sugar-Cane.

After a short residence in England, he returned to St. Christopher's, to which it appears by his poem, he became much attached, and continued his practice as a physician until his death, December 24, 1767, which was occasioned by one of those epidemic fevers that frequently rage in the West India islands.

* The Singular History of an ingenious Acquaintance, given by Mr. Boswell after this anecdote, has ome features which belong to Grainger. In more instances than one this ingenious biographer introduces a character with similar circumstances of juxta-position, when he wishes to conceal the name. C.

Although it is impossible to deny Grainger the credit of poetical genius, it must ever be regretted that where he wished most to excel, he was most unfortunate in the choice of a subject. The effect of his Sugar-Cane, either as to pleasure or utility, must be local. Connected as an English merchant may be with the produce of the West Indies, it will not be easy to persuade the reader of English poetry to study the cultivation of the sugar-plant, merely that he may add some new imagery to the more ample stores which he can contemplate without study or trouble. In the West Indies this poem might have charms, if readers could be found; but what poetical fancy can dwell on the economy of canes and copper-boilers, or find interest in the transactions of planters and sugar-brokers?

His invocations to his Muse are so frequent and abrupt, that "the assembled wits at sir Joshua Reynolds's" might have found many passages as ludicrous as that which excited their mirth. The solemnity of these invocations excites expectation which generally ends in disappointment, and at best the reader's attention is bespoke without being rewarded. He is induced to look for something grand, and is told of a contrivance for destroying monkies, or a recipe to poison rats. He smiles to find the slaves called by the happy poetical name of swains, and the planters urged to devotion!

The images in this poem are in general low, and the allusions, where the poet would be minutely descriptive, descend to things little and familiar. Yet this is in some measure forced upon him. His Muse sings of matters so new and uncouth to her, that it is impossible "her heavenly plumes" should escape being "soiled." What Muse, indeed, could give a receipt for a compost of "weeds, mould, dung, and stale," or a lively description of the symptoms and cure of the yaws, and preserve her elegance or purity?

But what lessens the respect of the reader for the poem in general, is the object so often repeated, so unpoetical and unphilosophical, wealth. Yet this, too, is a necessary evil arising from the choice of subject, for although our author frequently says,

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it would be difficult to find many instances of planters who desired any thing else. In all his appeals to that class on the treatment of slaves, he has no persuasion more strong than self-interest, and he has no consolation to give the slaves, but that, in his opinion, they are happier than those who dig the mines.

Where, however, he quits the plain track of mechanical instructions, we have many of those effusions of fancy which will yet preserve this poem in our collections. The description of the hurricane and of the earthquake are truly grand, and heightened by circumstances of horrour that are new to Europeans. The episode of Montano, in the first book, arrests the attention very forcibly, and many of the occasional reflections are elegant and pathetic; nor ought the tale of Junio and Theana to be omitted in a list of the beauties of this poem.

The Ode to Solitude, already noticed, and the ballad of Bryan and Pereene, are sufficient to attest our author's claim to poetical honours. The translation of Tibullus, which is added to the present collection, will give equal proofs of classical taste and learning.

POEMS

OF

JAMES GRAINGER, M.D.

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SOLITUDE.

AN ODE.

SOLITUDE, romantic maid,

Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,

Or, starting from your half-year's sleep,
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or at the purple dawn of day,
Tadmor's marble wastes survey 1;
You, recluse, again I woo,
And again your steps pursue.

Plum'd Conceit himself surveying,
Folly with her shadow playing,
Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence,
Bloated empiric, puff'd Pretence,
Noise that through a trumpet speaks,
Laughter in loud peals that breaks,
Intrusion with a fopling's face
(Ignorant of time and place)
Sparks of fire Dissension blowing,
Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing,
Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer,
Squint-ey'd Censure's artful sneer,
Ambition's buskins steep'd in blood,
Fly thy presence, Solitude.

Sage Reflection bent with years,
Conscious Virtue void of fears,
Mufled Silence, wood-nymph shy,
Meditation's piercing eye,
Halcyon Peace on moss reclin'd,
Retrospect that scans the mind,

'Alluding to the account of Palmyra, published y Messrs. Wood and Dawkins, and the manner in which they were struck at the sight of these magificent ruins by break of day.

Rapt earth-gazing Revery,
Blushing artless Modesty,
Health that snuffs the morning air,
Full-ey'd Truth with bosom bare,
Inspiration, Nature's child,
Seek the solitary wild.

You with the tragic Muse retir'd The wise Euripides inspir'd, You taught the sadly-pleasing air That Athens sav'd from ruins bare 3. You gave the Cean's tears to flow, And unlock'd the springs of woe4; You penn'd what exil'd Naso thought, And pour'd the melancholy note. With Petrarch o'er Valcluse you stray'd, When Death snatch'd his long-lov'd maids; You taught the rocks her loss to mourn, You strew'd with flowers her virgin urn. And late in Hagley you were seen, With blood-shed eyes, and sombre mien, Hymen his yellow vestment tore, And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore. But chief your own the solemn lay That wept Narcissa young and gay, Darkness clapp'd her sable wing, While you touch'd the mournful string, Anguish left the pathless wild, Grim-fac'd Melancholy smil'd, Drowsy Midnight ceas'd to yawn, The starry host put back the dawn, Aside their harps ev'n seraphs flung To hear the sweet Complaint, O Young'.

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