Volume II Part 14 (1/2)

Thus far this learned prelate, whose testimony in favour of women is the more considerable, as he cannot be supposed to have been influenced by any particular pa.s.sion, at least for Mrs. Philips, who was ordinary in her person and was besides a married lady. In the year 1663 Mrs. Philips quitted Ireland, and went to Cardigan, where she spent the remaining part of that, and the beginning of the next year, in a sort of melancholy retirement; as appears by her letters, occasioned, perhaps, by the bad success of her husband's affairs.

Going to London, in order to relieve her oppressed spirits with the conversation of her friends there, she was seized by the smallpox, and died of it (in Fleet street,) to the great grief of her acquaintance, in the 32d year of her age, and was buried June 22, 1664, in the church of St. Bennet Sherehog[1], under a large monumental stone, where several of her ancestors were before buried. Mr. Aubrey in his ma.n.u.script abovementioned, observes, that her person was of a middle stature, pretty fat, and ruddy complexioned.

Soon after her death, her Poems and Translations were collected and published in a volume in folio, to which was added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey and Horace, Tragedies; with several other Translations out of French, London 1667, with her picture, a good busto, before them, standing on a pedestal, on which is inscribed Orinda; it was printed again at London 1678. In a collection of Letters published by Mr. Thomas Brown, in 1697, are printed four Letters from Mrs. Philips to the Honourable Berenice. Many years after her death, were published a volume of excellent Letters from Mrs.

Philips to Sir Charles Cotterel with the ensuing t.i.tle, Letters from Orinda to Polliarchus, 8vo. London 1705. Major Pack, in his Essay on Study, inserted in his Miscellanies, gives the following character of these Letters; 'The best Letters I have met with in our English tongue, are those of the celebrated Mrs. Philips to Sir Charles Cotterel; as they are directed all to the same person, so they run all in the same strain, and seem to have been employed in the service of a refined and generous friends.h.i.+p. In a word, they are such as a woman of spirit and virtue, should write to a courtier of honour, and true gallantry.' The memory of this ingenious lady has been honoured with many encomiums. Mr. Thomas Rowe in his epistle to Daphne, pays the following tribute to her fame.

At last ('twas long indeed!) Orinda came, To ages yet to come an ever glorious name; To virtuous themes, her well tun'd lyre she strung; Of virtuous themes in easy numbers sung.

Horace and Pompey in her line appear, } With all the worth that Rome did once revere: } Much to Corneille they owe, and much to her. } Her thoughts, her numbers, and her fire the same, She soar'd as high, and equal'd all his fame.

Tho' France adores the bard, nor envies Greece The costly buskins of her Sophocles.

More we expected, but untimely death, Soon stopt her rising glories with her breath.

More testimonies might be produced in favour of Mrs. Philips, but as her works are generally known, and are an indelible testimony of her merit, we reckon it superfluous. Besides the poetical abilities of the amiable Orinda, she is said to have been of a generous, charitable disposition, and a friend to all in distress.

As few ladies ever lived more happy in her friends than our poetess, so those friends have done justice to her memory, and celebrated her, when dead, for those virtues they admired, when living. Mr. Dryden more than once mentions her with honour, and Mr Cowley has written an excellent Ode upon her death. As this Ode will better shew the high opinion once entertained of Mrs. Philips, than any thing we can say, after giving a specimen of her poetry, we shall conclude with this performance of Cowley's, which breathes friends.h.i.+p in every line, and speaks an honest mind: so true is the observation of Pope, upon the supposition that Cowley's works are falling into oblivion,

Lost is his epic, nay, pindaric art, But still I love the language of his heart.

Mrs. Philips's poetry has not harmony of versification, or amorous tenderness to recommend it, but it has a force of thinking, which few poets of the other s.e.x can exceed, and if it is without graces, it has yet a great deal of strength. As she has been celebrated for her friends.h.i.+p, we shall present the reader with an Ode upon that subject, addressed to her dearest Lucasia.

I.

Come my Lucasia, since we see That miracles men's faith do move By wonder, and by prodigy; To the dull angry world lets prove There's a religion in our love.

II.

For tho' we were designed t'agree, That fate no liberty destroys, But our election is as free As angels, who with greedy choice Are yet determined to their joys.

III.

Our hearts are doubled by the loss, Here mixture is addition grown; We both diffuse, and both engross: And we whose minds are so much one, Never, yet ever are alone.

IV.

We court our own captivity, Than thrones more great and innocent: 'Twere banishment to be set free, Since we wear fetters whose intent Not bondage is, but ornament.

V.

Divided joys are tedious found, And griefs united easier grow: We are ourselves, but by rebound, And all our t.i.tles shuffled so, Both princes, and both subjects too.

VI.

Our hearts are mutual victims laid, While they (such power in friends.h.i.+p lies) Are altars, priests, and offerings made: And each heart which thus kindly dies, Grows deathless by the sacrifice.

On the DEATH of Mrs. PHILIPS.

I.

Cruel disease! ah, could it not suffice, Thy old and constant spite to exercise Against the gentlest and the fairest s.e.x, Which still thy depredations most do vex?

Where still thy malice, most of all (Thy malice or thy l.u.s.t) does on the fairest fall, And in them most a.s.sault the fairest place, The throne of empress beauty, ev'n the face.

There was enough of that here to a.s.suage, (One would have thought) either thy l.u.s.t or rage; Was't not enough, when thou, profane disease, Didst on this glorious temple seize: Was't not enough, like a wild zealot, there, All the rich outward ornaments to tear, Deface the innocent pride of beauteous images?

Was't not enough thus rudely to defile, But thou must quite destroy the goodly pile?