The Poetical Works of James Beattie. James Beattie

I have ever known.

      "He was taken ill in the night of the 30th of November, 1789; and from that time his decline commenced. It was long what physicians call a nervous atrophy; but towards the end of June, symptoms began to appear of the lungs being affected. Goats' milk, and afterwards asses' milk, were procured for him in abundance; and such exercise as he could bear, he regularly took; these means lengthened his days no doubt, and alleviated his sufferings, which indeed were not often severe: but, in spite of all that could be done, he grew weaker and weaker, and died the 19th of November, 1790, without complaint or pain, without even a groan or a sigh; retaining to the last moment the use of his rational faculties; indeed, from first to last, not one delirious word ever escaped him. He lived twenty-two years and thirteen days. Many weeks before it came, he saw death approaching, and he met it with such composure and pious resignation, as may no doubt be equalled, but cannot be surpassed.

      "He has left many things in writing, serious and humorous, scientific and miscellaneous, prose and verse, Latin and English; but it will be a long time before I shall be able to harden my heart so far as to revise them."

      In April of the following year, Beattie again travelled southwards, accompanied by Montagu,24 his second son and only surviving child. They remained some weeks in Edinburgh, and then journeyed slowly to London, which after a short stay they quitted for the summer residence of Dr. Porteus, who was now elevated to the see of the metropolis. The tranquillity of Fulham Palace, and the kind attentions of its inhabitants, contributed greatly to amend the health and raise the spirits of our author; and he seems to have enjoyed the company of the distinguished persons with whom he had an opportunity of associating. "Last week," he writes to Sir William Forbes, 30th June, 1791, "I made a morning visit to Mr. Pitt. I had heard him spoken of as a grave and reserved man; but saw nothing of it. He gave me a very frank, and indeed affectionate reception; and was so cheerful, and in his conversation so easy, that I almost thought myself in the company rather of an old acquaintance than of a great statesman. He was pleased to pay me some very obliging compliments, asked about my health, and how I meant to pass the summer; spoke of the Duchess of Gordon, the improvements of Edinburgh, and various other matters: and when I told him, I knew not what apology to make for intruding upon him, said, that no apology was necessary, for that he was very glad to see me, and desired to see me again." Before returning to Scotland, the travellers went to Bath, and from thence to Sandleford, the seat of Mrs. Montagu.

      The second volume of the Elements of Moral Science appeared in 1793. During the same year the sudden death of his favourite sister, Mrs. Valentine, increased the domestic sorrows of Beattie. His health was at this period so greatly impaired, that being unable to attend to his duties of Professor in the Marischal College, he engaged his old pupil, Mr. Glennie, as an assistant: occasionally, however, he continued to lecture to his class till the commencement of the winter session of 1797.

      For some time past he had occupied himself in the melancholy yet pleasing task of editing a volume of the compositions of his eldest son. From a pardonable partiality for the writings of a beloved child, and from his not very accurate attainments in classical scholarship, he admitted into the collection several pieces, both English and Latin, which fall considerably below mediocrity. A few copies of the work were privately printed in 1794, under the title of Essays and Fragments in Prose and Verse, by James Hay Beattie, and were "offered as presents to those friends with whom the author was particularly acquainted or connected."25 Though it undoubtedly shows that the deceased was a young man of uncommon quickness of talent, and the most indefatigable application, it exhibits nothing which has a claim to be considered as the offspring of genius.26 The most interesting portion of the volume is the biographical sketch prefixed to it by the afflicted father, a memoir of exquisite simplicity and pathos. The account given by Beattie of the method which he adopted in imparting to his son the first idea of a Supreme Being is too striking to be omitted here:

      "The doctrines of religion I wished to impress on his mind, as soon as it might be prepared to receive them; but I did not see the propriety of making him commit to memory theological sentences, or any sentences which it was not possible for him to understand. And I was desirous to make a trial how far his own reason could go in tracing out, with a little direction, the great and first principle of all religion, the being of God. The following fact is mentioned, not as a proof of superior sagacity in him (for I have no[Pg lxviii] doubt that most children would in like circumstances think as he did), but merely as a moral or logical experiment: He had reached his fifth (or sixth) year, knew the alphabet, and could read a little; but had received no particular information with respect to the Author of his being; because I thought he could not yet understand such information; and because I had learned, from my own experience, that to be made to repeat words not understood is extremely detrimental to the faculties of a young mind. In a corner of a little garden, without informing any person of the circumstance, I wrote in the mould, with my finger, the three initial letters of his name; and sowing garden-cresses in the furrows, covered up the seed, and smoothed the ground. Ten days after, he came running to me, and with astonishment in his countenance, told me that his name was growing in the garden. I smiled at the report, and seemed inclined to disregard it; but he insisted on my going to see what had happened. Yes, said I carelessly, on coming to the place, I see it is so; but there is nothing in this worth notice; it is mere chance; and I went away. He followed me and taking hold of my coat, said, with some earnestness, It could not be mere chance; for that somebody must have contrived matters so as to produce it. – I pretend not to give his words, or my own, for I have forgotten both; but I give the substance of what passed between us in such language as we both understood. – So you think, I said, that what appears so regular as the letters of your name, cannot be by chance. Yes, said he, with firmness, I think so. Look at yourself, I replied, and consider your hands and fingers, your legs and feet, and other limbs; are not they regular in their appearance, and useful to you? He said, they were. Came you then hither, said I, by chance? No, he answered, that cannot be; something must have made me. And who is that something? I asked. He said he did not know. (I took particular notice, that he did not say, as Rousseau fancies a child in like circumstances would say, that his parents made him.) I had now gained the point I aimed at, and saw that his reason taught him (though he could not so express it) that what begins to be must have a cause, and that what is formed with regularity must have an intelligent cause. I therefore told him the name of the Great Being who made him and all the world; concerning whose adorable nature I gave him such information as I thought he could in some measure comprehend. The lesson affected him greatly, and he never forgot either it, or the circumstance that introduced it."

      After the loss of this highly-gifted youth, the only tie which bound Beattie to the world was his second son, who, though far inferior to the deceased in learning, was endowed with no ordinary talents.27 Just as our author was anxiously forming plans for his future establishment in life, Montagu was unexpectedly carried off by a fever of only a few days' continuance, in the eighteenth year of his age. Beattie thus communicates to Sir William Forbes the intelligence of his death:

"Aberdeen, 14th March, 1796.

      "Our plans relating to Montagu are all at an end. I am sorry to give you the pain of being informed, that he died this morning at five. His disorder was a fever, from which at first we had little apprehension; but it cut him off in five days. He himself thought from the beginning that it would be fatal; and, before the delirium came on, spoke with great composure and Christian piety of his approaching dissolution: he even gave some directions about his funeral. The delirium was very violent, and continued till within a few minutes of his death, when he was heard to repeat in a whisper the Lord's prayer, and began an unfinished sentence, of which nothing could be heard but the words incorruptible glory. Pious sentiments prevailed in his mind through life, and did not leave him till death; nor then, I trust, did they leave him. Notwithstanding the extreme violence of his fever, he seemed to suffer little pain, either in body or in mind, and as his end drew near, a smile settled upon his countenance. I need not tell you that he had every attention that skilful and affectionate physicians could bestow. I give you the trouble to notify this event to Mr. Arbuthnot. I would have written to him, but have many things to mind, and but indifferent health.

24

He was so named after Mrs. Montagu. From one of Beattie's letters, dated 1789, it appears that she had made a handsome present of money to her godson.

25

I possess a copy of it which bears the following inscription:

"To William Hayley, Esq.,in testimony of the utmost respect,esteem, and gratitude, from J. Beattie1st January, 1796."

On one of its fly-leaves the ever-ready pen of Hayley has written the subjoined sonnet:

TO DOCTOR BEATTIE, IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OFHIS VERY INTERESTING PRESENT"Bard of the North! I thank thee with my tearsFor this fond work of thy paternal hand:It bids the buried youth before me standIn nature's softest light, which love endears.Parents like thee, whose grief the world reveres,Faithful to pure affection's proud command,For a lost child have lasting honours plann'd,To give in fame what fate denied in years.The filial form of Icarus was wroughtBy his afflicted sire, the sire of art!And Tullia's fane engross'd her father's heart:That fane rose only in perturbed thought;But sweet perfection crowns, as truth begun,This Christian image of thy happier son."

26

It was afterwards published for sale in 1799. I extract from it a jeu d'esprit – one of those pieces which Beattie printed, in opposition to the advice of Sir William Forbes and some other grave friends.

THE MODERN TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERSFather Hodge96 had his pipe and his dram,And at night, his cloy'd thirst to awaken,He was served with a rasher of ham,Which procured him the surname of Bacon.He has shown that, though logical scienceAnd dry theory oft prove unhandy,Honest Truth will ne'er set at defianceExperiment, aided by brandy.Des Cartes bore a musket, they tell us,Ere he wished, or was able, to write,And was noted among the brave fellows,Who are bolder to tipple than fight.Of his system the cause and designWe no more can be pos'd to explain: —The materia subtilis was wine,And the vortices whirl'd in his brain.Old Hobbes, as his name plainly shows,At a hob-nob was frequently tried:That all virtue from selfishness roseHe believ'd, and all laughter from pride.97The truth of his creed he would brag on,Smoke his pipe, murder Homer,98 and quaff,Then staring, as drunk as a dragon,In the pride of his heart he would laugh.Sir Isaac discover'd, it seems,The nature of colors and light,In remarking the tremulous beamsThat swom on his wandering sight.Ever sapient, sober though seldom,From experience attraction he found,By observing, when no one upheld him,That his wise head fell souse on the ground.As to Berkley's philosophy – he hasLeft his poor pupils nought to inherit,But a swarm of deceitful ideasKept like other monsters, in spirit.99Tar-drinkers can't think what's the matter,That their health does not mend, but decline:Why, they take but some wine to their water,He took but some water to wine.One Mandeville once, or Man-devil,(Either name you may give as you please)By a brain ever brooding on evil,Hatch'd a monster call'd Fable of Bees,Vice, said he, aggrandizes a people;100By this light let my conduct be view'd;I swagger, swear, guzzle, and tipple:And d – ye, 'tis all for your good.David Hume ate a swinging great dinner,And grew every day fatter and fatter;And yet the huge hulk of a sinnerSaid there was neither spirit nor matter.Now there's no sober man in the nation,Who such nonsense could write, speak, or think:It follows, by fair demonstration,That he philosophiz'd in his drink.As a smuggler, even Priestley could sin;Who, in hopes the poor gauger of frightening,While he fill'd the case-bottles with gin,Swore he fill'd them with thunder and lightning.101In his cups, (when Locke's laid on the shelf),Could he speak, he would frankly confess t' ye,That unable to manage himself,He puts his whole trust in Necessity.If the young in rash folly engage,How closely continues the evil!Old Franklin retains, as a sage,The thirst he acquired when a devil.102That charging drives fire from a phial,It was natural for him to think,After finding, from many a trial,That drought may be kindled by drink.A certain high priest could explain,103How the soul is but nerve at the most;And how Milton had glands in his brain,That secreted the Paradise Lost.And sure it is what they deserve,Of such theories if I aver it,They are not even dictates of nerve,But mere muddy suggestions of claret.Our Holland Philosophers say, GinIs the true philosophical drink,As it made Doctor Hartley imagineThat to shake is the same as to think.104For, while drunkenness throbb'd in his brain,The sturdy materialist chose (O fye!)To believe its vibrations not pain,But wisdom, and downright philosophy.Ye sages, who shine in my verse,On my labours with gratitude think,Which condemn not the faults they rehearse,But impute all your sin to your drink.In drink, poets, philosophers, mob, err;Then excuse if my satire e'er nips ye:When I praise, think me prudent and sober,If I blame, be assur'd I am tipsy.

27

"I have been assured by those who were intimately acquainted with both, that of the two brothers, Montagu was in many respects the superior."

Bower's Life of Beattie, 1804, p. 210.