Fielding's 'Works' were first published in 1762 in 4to and 8vo by Andrew Millar, with an Essay on his Life and Genius by Arthur Murphy. In 1821 the novels appeared in Ballantyne's Novelist's Library, with a biographical sketch by Sir Walter Scott. In 1882 an édition de luxe in ten volumes was published by Messrs Smith and Elder, with a prefatory study by Mr Leslie Stephen; in 1893 Messrs Dent issued an edition in twelve volumes edited by Professor Saintsbury; and in 1898 Messrs Archibald Constable & Co. issued a further edition with a preliminary Essay by Mr Edmund Gosse. An annotated edition of the Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon was published by the Chiswick Press in 1892. There are Lives of Fielding by Watson (1807), Lawrence (1855), and in the Men of Letters' series by the present writer (1883, 1889, and revised American edition, 1900). Among separate articles may be noted Revue des Deux Mondes (Gustave Planche), 1832; Fraser's Magazine (Keightley), January and February 1858; Athenæum, 2nd June 1883; Thackeray's English Humourists (1858), pp. 266-85; Lang's Letters on Literature (1889), pp. 29–42; Traill's New Lucian (1900), pp. 268-86. A bust of Fielding by Miss Margaret Thomas was unveiled at the Shire Hall, Taunton, 4th September 1883, by James Russell Lowell, whose address on that occasion is reproduced in Democracy (1887), pp. 67-88. Fielding's will was printed in the Athenæum, 1st February 1890. The assignment of Joseph Andrews to Millar for £183, 11s. is in the Forster Collection at South Kensington; the receipt and agreement for Tom Jones are in the Huth Collection.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

Sir Charles Hanbury Williams (1709–59) enjoyed great popularity as satirical poet, courtier, and diplomatist during the latter part of the reign of George II. Lord Hervey, Lord Chesterfield, Pulteney, and others threw off political squibs and light satires; but Williams eclipsed them all in liveliness and pungency. On the death of his father, Mr Hanbury, he took the name of Williams in respect of an estate in Monmouthshire left to him by a godfather, and in 1733 entered Parliament by Walpole's favour and as his supporter. Croker says that after lampooning Isabella, Duchess of Manchester, with her second husband, Mr Hussey, he 'retreated, with too little spirit, from the storm that threatened him into Wales, whence he was afterwards glad to accept missions to the courts of Dresden, Berlin, and Russia.' One verse of this truculent satire runs : But careful Heaven reserved her Grace For one of the Milesian race

On stronger parts depending;
Nature, indeed, denies them sense,
But gives them legs and impudence
That beats all understanding.

When Pulteney, in 1741, had succeeded in pro-
curing Walpole's defeat and resignation, and was
himself elevated to the peerage as Earl of Bath,
some of Williams's bitterest verses were levelled at
him. In the Statesman the new peer is pilloried:
When you touch on his lordship's high birth,
Speak Latin as if you were tipsy;
Say we're all but the sons of the earth,
Et genus non fecimus ipsi.

Proclaim him as rich as a Jew,

Yet attempt not to reckon his bounties,
You may say he is married, 'tis true,

Yet speak not a word of the countess.
Leave a blank here and there in each page,
To enrol the fair deeds of his youth;
When you mention the acts of his age,
Leave a blank for his honour and truth.

Say he made a great monarch change hands;
He spake and the minister fell;
Say he made a great statesman of Sands-
Oh, that he had taught him to spell.

In another poem Williams rails at Sandys (or
Sands), who by Pulteney's procurement was made
Chancellor of the Exchequer :

How Sands, in sense and person queer,
Jumped from a patriot to a peer

No mortal yet knows why;

How Pulteney trucked the fairest fame
For a Right Honourable name

To call his vixen by.

His pasquinades are at least as personal and virulent as the political poetry of the Rolliad or the Anti-Jacobin. The following is a specimen of Williams's more careful character-painting-part of a sketch of General Churchill, in several points suggesting Thackeray's Major Pendennis:

None led through youth a gayer life than he,
Cheerful in converse, smart in repartee.
But with old age its vices came along,
And in narration he 's extremely long,
Exact in circumstance, and nice in dates,
On every subject he his tale relates.

If you name one of Marlbro's ten campaigns,
He tells you its whole history for your pains,
And Blenheim's field becomes by his reciting
As long in telling as he was in fighting;
His old desire to please is well expressed,
His hat's well cocked, his periwig's well dressed;
He rolls his stockings still, white gloves he wears,
And in the boxes with the beaux appears;
His eyes through wrinkled corners cast their rays,
Still he bows graceful, still soft things he says:
And, still remembering that he once was young,
He strains his crippled knees and struts along.
The room he entered smiling, which bespoke
Some worn-out compliment or threadbare joke;
For, not perceiving loss of parts, he yet
Grasps at the shade of his departed wit.

In 1822 the fugitive poetry of Williams was collected and published in three volumes; but some at least of the grossest pieces were probably not written by him.

George, Lord Lyttelton (1709–73), was the son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton of Hagley in Worcestershire; and after distinguishing himself at Eton and Oxford, he passed some time in France and Italy. On his return he obtained a seat in Parliament, and opposed the measures of Sir Robert Walpole. As secretary to the Prince of Wales, he was able to secure favours for his literary friends, Thomson and Mallet. Pope admired his talents and opinions, commemorated him in his verse, and remembered him in his will; and his poetry gained him a place in Johnson's collection and his Lives of the Poets. From 1735 he took a conspicuous part in the House of Commons. When Walpole and the Whigs were vanquished, Lyttelton was successively one of the Lords of the Treasury, a Privy-Councillor, Chancellor of the

Exchequer, and, finally, a peer. He was a good, kindly, absent-minded, awkward, and pious man, a friend and patron of poets and literary men. Thomson was his intimate; Fielding dedicated Tom Jones to him; Horace Walpole sneered at him; and Chesterfield and Smollett said unpleasant things about him, his manners and mental equipment. An honest politician, he was not a great statesman. He was publishing poetry as early as 1730, and in 1735 produced the Letters from a Persian in England to his Friend at Ispahan (Montesquieu's Lettres Persanes, the model, dated from 1721), in which Selim describes and naïvely criticises the opera, an indecorous stage play, bear-baiting, card-parties, balls, and the pastimes, manners, and political factions of England and of London society. Some of the letters are novelettes with a purpose. Lyttelton's treatise (1746) on the Conversion of St Paul was written with a particular view to the satisfaction' of Thomson the poet. His Dialogues of the Dead (1760) enjoyed much popularity. He also wrote an elaborate History of the Reign of Henry II., to which he brought ample information and a spirit of impartiality and justice; but the work is dry and tedious-not illuminated,' as Gibbon very truly said, 'by a ray of genius.' Among the poems are eclogues on love and jealousy, epistles and addresses to Pope and many other friends, odes, translations, and a good many real songs. Two of the best date from 1732 and 1733 respectivelyone surveying the symptoms of love in this fashion : Whene'er she speaks my ravished ear No other voice but hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve; Tell me, my heart, if this be love,

and returning always to the same query; and the other beginning :

The heavy hours are almost past

That part my love and me;
My longing eyes may hope at last
Their only wish to see.

The 'Advice to a Lady' is too fairly representative of most of his work. Gray praised his 'Monody' on his wife's death, which remains a truly touching elegy; the Prologue to Thomson's Coriolanus was then accepted as his best poetic effort, and certainly contains felicitous lines and couplets. Before this play could be brought out Thomson was dead. The tragedy was acted for the benefit of the poet's relations, and when Quin spoke Lyttelton's prologue many of the audience wept.

From the 'Monody.'

In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
Where oft we used to walk,

Where oft in tender talk

We saw the summer sun go down the sky;

Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide

Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns, By your delighted mother's side: Who now your infant steps shall guide? Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care To every virtue would have formed your youth, And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of truth? O loss beyond repair!

O wretched father, left alone

To weep their dire misfortune and thy own!
How shall thy weakened mind, oppressed with woe,
And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe,
Now she, alas! is gone,

From folly and from vice their helpless age to save!

From Advice to a Lady.'

The councils of a friend, Belinda, hear,
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatteries of a lover's pen,

Such truths as women seldom learn from men.
Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I shew
What female vanity might fear to know:
Some merit 's mine to dare to be sincere ;
But greater your sincerity to bear.
Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women, like princes, find few real friends:
All who approach them their own ends pursue;
Lovers and ministers are seldom true.
Hence oft from Reason heedless Beauty strays,
And the most trusted guide the most betrays;
Hence, by fond dreams of fancied power amused,
When most you tyrannise, you're most abused.
What is your sex's earliest, latest care,
Your heart's supreme ambition ?--To be fair.
For this, the toilet every thought employs,
Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys:
For this, hands, lips, and eyes are put to school,
And each instructed feature has its rule :
And yet how few have learnt, when this is given,
Not to disgrace the partial boon of Heaven!
How few with all their pride of form can move
How few are lovely, that are made for love!
Do you, my fair, endeavour to possess
An elegance of mind, as well as dress;
Be that your ornament, and know to please
By graceful Nature's unaffected ease.
Nor make to dangerous wit a vain pretence,
But wisely rest content with modest sense;
For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain,
Too strong for feeble woman to sustain :

Of those who claim it more than half have none;

And half of those who have it are undone.

Be still superior to your sex's arts,
Nor think dishonesty a proof of parts:
For you, the plainest is the wisest rule :
A cunning woman is a knavish fool.

Be good yourself, nor think another's shame
Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame.
Virtue is amiable, mild, serene ;
Without all beauty, and all peace within;

The honour of a prude is rage and storm,
'Tis ugliness in its most frightful form ;
Fiercely it stands, defying gods and men,
As fiery monsters guard a giant's den.
Seek to be good, but aim not to be great;
A woman's noblest station is retreat;
Her fairest virtues fly from public sight,
Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light.

Prologue to the Tragedy of Coriolanus.
I come not here your candour to implore
For scenes whose author is, alas! no more;
He wants no advocate his cause to plead ;
You will yourselves be patrons of the dead.
No party his benevolence confined,

No sect-alike it flowed to all mankind.
He loved his friends-forgive this gushing tear :
Alas! I feel I am no actor here-

He loved his friends with such a warmth of heart,
So clear of interest, so devoid of art,
Such generous friendship, such unshaken zeal,
No words can speak it, but our tears may tell.
O candid truth! O faith without a stain!
O manners gently firm, and nobly plain !
O sympathising love of others' bliss-
Where will you find another breast like his !
Such was the man: the poet well you know;
Oft has he touched your hearts with tender woe;
Oft in this crowded house, with just applause,
You heard him teach fair Virtue's purest laws;
For his chaste muse employed her heaven-taught lyre
None but the noblest passions to inspire;
Not one immoral, one corrupted thought,
One line which, dying, he could wish to blot.
O may to-night your favourable doom
Another laurel add to grace his tomb :
Whilst he, superior now to praise or blame,
Hears not the feeble voice of human fame.
Yet if to those whom most on earth he loved,
From whom his pious care is now removed,
With whom his liberal hand, and bounteous heart,
Shared all his little fortune could impart :
If to those friends your kind regard shall give
What they no longer can from his receive,
That, that, even now, above yon starry pole,
May touch with pleasure his immortal soul.

To the Castle of Indolence Lyttelton contributed the stanza with the famous portrait of Thomson, whose 'ditties sweet,' however, Lyttelton did not hesitate to alter and curtail in editions of Thomson's works published in 1750 and 1752; but the liberties thus taken with the poet's text disappeared from later editions. The friendly and playful penportrait of a friend runs thus:

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,
Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,
Poured forth his unpremeditated strain:
The world forsaking with a calm disdain,
Here laughed he careless in his easy seat;
Here quaffed encircled with the joyous train,
Oft moralising sage : his ditty sweet

He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.

An edition of Lyttelton's collected works in prose and verse appeared in 1774, and was reissued in 1775 and 1776; and in 1845 Sir R. Phillimore published his Memoirs and Correspondence.

John Armstrong (1709?–79), the friend of Thomson, of Mallet, Wilkes, and other public and literary characters of that period, is now only known as the author of an unread didactic poem, the Art of Preserving Health. A son of the minister of Castleton, a pastoral parish in Liddesdale, he studied medicine in Edinburgh, and took his M.D in 1732. Three years later he was practising in London, and became known by the publication of several fugitive pieces and medical essays. A nauseous anonymous poem,

the Economy of Love (1736), gave promise of poetical powers, but marred his practice as a physician. In 1744 appeared his Art of Preserving Health, which was followed by two other poems, Benevolence (1751) and Taste (1753), and a pseudonymous volume of Sketches or Essays (1758). In 1760 he was appointed physician to the forces in Germany; and on the peace in 1763 he returned to London, where he practised, but with little success, till his death, 7th September 1779. Armstrong seems to have been an indolent and splenetic but kind-hearted man-shrewd, caustic, and careful: he left £3000, saved out of a small income. His portrait in the Castle of Indolence is in Thomson's happiest manner :

With him was sometimes joined in silent walk
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke)
One shyer still, who quite detested talk :
Oft stung by spleen, at once away he broke
To groves of pine and broad o'ershadowing oak ;
There, inly thrilled, he wandered all alone,
And on himself his pensive fury wroke,

Nor ever uttered word, save when first shone The glittering star of eve-Thank Heaven, the day is done.' Warton praised the Art of Preserving Health for its classical correctness and closeness of style, and its numberless poetical images. In general, however, it is stiff and laboured, with occasional passages of tumid extravagance; and the similes are not infrequently echoes of those of Thomson and other poets. Of these two extracts from the Art of Preserving Health (from the close of the second and third books respectively), the second, the most energetic passage in the whole poem and not least characteristic of its medical author, describes the 'sweating sickness' which appeared in London in September 1485, after the victorious entry of the troops of Henry VII. who had a week or two before fought at Bosworth field.

Wrecks and Mutations of Time.

What does not fade? The tower that long had stood
The crush of thunder and the warring winds,
Shook by the slow but sure destroyer Time,
Now hangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base,
And flinty pyramids and walls of brass
Descend. The Babylonian spires are sunk ;
Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down.
Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones,
And tottering empires crush by their own weight.
This huge rotundity we tread grows old ;
And all those worlds that roll around the sun,

The sun himself shall die, and ancient night Again involve the desolate abyss,

Till the great Father, through the lifeless gloom, Extend his arm to light another world,

And bid new planets roll by other laws.

The Sweating Sickness.

Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spent
Their ancient rage at Bosworth's purple field;
While, for which tyrant England should receive,
Her legions in incestuous murders mixed
And daily horrors; till the fates were drunk
With kindred blood by kindred hands profused:
Another plague of more gigantic arm
Arose, a monster never known before,
Reared from Cocytus its portentous head;
This rapid fury not, like other pests,
Pursued a gradual course, but in a day
Rushed as a storm o'er half the astonished isle,
And strewed with sudden carcasses the land.

First through the shoulders, or whatever part
Was seized the first, a fervid vapour sprung;
With rash combustion thence the quivering spark
Shot to the heart, and kindled all within ;
And soon the surface caught the spreading fires.
Through all the yielding pores the melted blood
Gushed out in smoky sweats; but not assuaged
The torrid heat within, nor aught relieved
The stomach's anguish. With incessant toil,
Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain,

They tossed from side to side. In vain the stream
Ran full and clear; they burnt, and thirsted still.
The restless arteries with rapid blood

Beat strong and frequent. Thick and pantingly

The breath was fetched, and with huge labourings heaved.
At last a heavy pain oppressed the head,

A wild delirium came: their weeping friends
Were strangers now, and this no home of theirs.
Harassed with toil on toil, the sinking powers
Lay prostrate and o'erthrown; a ponderous sleep
Wrapt all the senses up: they slept and died.
In some a gentle horror crept at first
O'er all the limbs; the sluices of the skin
Withheld their moisture, till by art provoked
The sweats o'erflowed, but in a clammy tide;
Now free and copious, now restrained and slow ;
Of tinctures various, as the temperature

Had mixed the blood, and rank with fetid streams :
As if the pent-up humours by delay
Were grown more fell, more putrid, and malign.
Here lay their hopes (though little hope remained),

With full effusion of perpetual sweats

To drive the venom out. And here the fates
Were kind, that long they lingered not in pain.
For, who survived the sun's diurnal race,
Rose from the dreary gates of hell redeemed;
Some the sixth hour oppressed, and some the third.
Of many thousands, few untainted 'scaped;

Of those infected, fewer 'scaped alive;
Of those who lived, some felt a second blow;
And whom the second spared, a third destroyed.
Frantic with fear, they sought by flight to shun
The fierce contagion. O'er the mournful land
The infected city poured her hurrying swarms :
Roused by the flames that fired her seats around,
The infected country rushed into the town.

Some sad at home, and in the desert some
Abjured the fatal commerce of mankind.

In vain ; where'er they fled, the fates pursued,
Others, with hopes more specious, crossed the main,
To seek protection in far-distant skies :

But none they found. It seemed the general air,
From pole to pole, from Atlas to the east,

Was then at enmity with English blood;
For but the race of England all were safe

prayers;

In foreign climes; nor did this fury taste
The foreign blood which England then contained.
Where should they fly? The circumambient heaven
Involved them still, and every breeze was bane:
Where find relief? The salutary art
Was mute, and, startled at the new disease,
In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave.
To Heaven, with suppliant rites they sent their
Heaven heard them not. Of every hope deprived,
Fatigued with vain resources, and subdued
With woes resistless, and enfeebling fear,
Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow.
Nothing but lamentable sounds were heard,
Nor aught was seen but ghastly views of death.
Infectious horror ran from face to face,
And pale despair. 'Twas all the business then
To tend the sick, and in their turns to die.
In heaps they fell; and oft one bed, they say,
The sickening, dying, and the dead contained.

Richard Glover (1712-85), a London merchant who sat in Parliament for Weymouth (1761-68), published two elaborate poems in blank verse, Leonidas and the Athenaid - the former on the defence of Thermopylæ, and the latter continuing the story of the war between the Greeks and Persians. The length of these poems, their want of sustained interest, and lack of genuine poetic quality have led to their being next to unknown in the present day. Leonidas (1737) was hailed with acclamations by the Opposition, or Prince of Wales's party, of which Glover was an active member. London, or the Progress of Commerce (1739), was a poem written to excite the national spirit against the Spaniards; and in 1742 Glover appeared before the bar of the House of Commons as delegate of the London merchants, complaining of the neglect of their interests. In 1744 he declined to join Mallet in writing a Life of the Duke of Marlborough, though his affairs had become somewhat embarrassed. A fortunate speculation in copper enabled him to retrieve his position, and he was returned to Parliament for Weymouth. He continued to maintain mercantile interests, and during his leisure enlarged his poem of Leonidas from nine to twelve books (1770). The Athenaid was published posthumously in 1787. His two tragedies, Boadicea (1753) and Medea (1761), are but indifferent performances. In 1726 a naval expedition against the Spanish West Indies had miscarried, and the commander, Admiral Hosier, whose orders prevented him from fighting, is said to have died of a broken heart. The disgrace was not wiped out till 1739, when, on the commencement of the 'War of Jenkins's Ear,'

Admiral Vernon bombarded and took Portobelo

on the Colombian coast. On this victory Glover wrote a ballad which had a great vogue; Horace Walpole thought it 'very easy and consequently pretty, but from the ease should never have guessed it Glover's.'

Address of Leonidas.

He alone

Remains unshaken. Rising, he displays
His godlike presence. Dignity and grace
Adorn his frame, where manly beauty joins
With strength Herculean. On his aspect shine
Sublimest virtue and desire of fame,
Where justice gives the laurel; in his eye
The inextinguishable spark, which fires
The souls of patriots; while his brow supports
Undaunted valour, and contempt of death.
Serene he cast his looks around, and spake :
'Why this astonishment on every face,
Ye men of Sparta? Does the name of death
Create this fear and wonder? O my friends!
Why do we labour through the arduous paths
Which lead to virtue? Fruitless were the toil.
Above the reach of human feet were placed
The distant summit, if the fear of death
Could intercept our passage. But a frown
Of unavailing terror he assumes

To shake the firmness of the mind which knows

That, wanting virtue, life is pain and woe;
That, wanting liberty, even virtue mourns,
And looks around for happiness in vain.
Then speak, O Sparta! and demand my life;
My heart, exulting, answers to thy call,

And smiles on glorious fate. To live with fame
The gods allow to many; but to die
With equal lustre is a blessing Jove
Among the choicest of his boons reserves,
Which but on few his sparing hand bestows.
Salvation thus to Sparta he proclaimed.
Joy, wrapt awhile in admiration, paused,
Suspending praise; nor praise at last resounds
In high acclaim to rend the arch of heaven;
A reverential murmur breathes applause.

Admiral Hosier's Ghost.

As near Portobello lying

On the gently swelling flood,
At midnight, with streamers flying,
Our triumphant navy rode;
There while Vernon sat all glorious
From the Spaniards' late defeat,
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England's fleet;
On a sudden, shrilly sounding,

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ;
Then, each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghosts appeared;
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,

Which for winding-sheets they wore, And, with looks by sorrow clouded,

Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,
Rising from their watery grave: