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THE

LIFE OF PITT,

BY DR. JOHNSON,

CHRISTOPHER PITT, of whom whatever I shall relate, more than has been already published, I owe to the kind communication of Dr. Wharton, was born in 1699, at Blandford, the son of a physician much esteemed.

He was, in 1714, received as a scholar into Winchester College, where he was distinguished by exercises of uncommon elegance, and, at his removal to New College in 1719, presented to the electors, as the product of his private and voluntary studies, a complete version of Lucan's poem, which he did not then know to have been translated by Rowe.

This is an instance of early diligence which well deserves to be recorded. The suppression of such a work, recommended by such uncommon circumstances, is to be regretted. It is indeed culpable to load libraries with superfluous books; but incitements to early excellence are never superfluous, and from this example the danger is not great of many imitations. .

When he had resided at his college three years, he was presented to the rectory of Pimpern in Dorsetshire (1722), by his relation, Mr. Pitt, of Stratfield Say in Hampshire; and, resigning his fellowship, continued at Oxford two years longer, till he became master of arts (1724).

He probably about this time translated Vida's Art of Poetry, which Tristram's splendid edition had then made popular. In this translation he distinguished him. self, both by its general elegance, and by the skilful adaptation of his numbers to the images expressed; a beauty which Vida has with great ardour enforced and exemplified.

He then retired to his living, a place very pleasing by its situation, and therefore likely to excite the imagination of a poet; where he passed the rest of his life, reverenced for his virtue, and beloved for the softness of bis temper and the easiness of his manners.

Before strangers he had something of the scholar's timidity or distrust; bul when he became familiar he was in a very high degree cheerful and entertaining. His general benevolence procured general respect; and he passed a life placid and honourable, neither too great for the kindness of the low, dor too low for the notice of the great

·AT what time he composed his Miscellany, published in 1727, it is not easy or necessary to know : those which have dates appear to have been very early produce tions, and I have not observed that any rise above mediocrity.

The success of his Vida animated him to a higher undertaking: and in his thirtieth year he published a version of the first book of the Eneid. This being, I suppose, commended by his friends, he some time afterwards added three or four more; with an advertisement, in which he represents himself as translating with great indifference, and with a progress of which himself was hardly conscious. This can hardly be true, and, if true, is nothing to the reader.

At last, without any farther contention with his modesty, or any awe of the name of Dryden, he gave us a complete English Eneid, which I am sorry not to see joined in this publication with his other poems'. It would have been pleasing to have an opportunity of comparing the two best translations that perhaps were ever produced by one nation of the same author.

Pitt, engaging as a rival with Dryden, naturally observed his failures, and avoided them; and, as he wrote after Pope's Iliad, he had an example of an exact, equable, and splendid versification. With these advantages, seconded by great diligence, he might successfully labour particular passages, and escape many errours.

If the two versions are compared, perhaps the result would be, that Dryden leads the reader forward by his general vigour and sprightliness, and Pitt often stops him to contemplate the excellence of a single couplet; that Dryden's faults are forgotten in the hurry of delight, and that Pitt's beauties are neglected in the languor of a cold and listless perusal; that Pitt pleases the critics, and Dryden the people; that Pitt is quoted, and Dryden read.

He did not long enjoy the reputation which this great work deservedly conferred; for he left the world in 1748, and lies buried under a stone at Blandford, on which is this inscription.

In Memory of
CHR. Pitt, clerk, M. A.

Very eminent
for his talents in poetry;

and yet more
for the universal candour of
his mind, and the primitive
simplicity of his manners.

He lived innocent;
and died beloved,
Apr. 13, 1748,

aged 48.

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TO

GEORGE PITT,

ESQ.

OF STRATFIELD SEA, IN HAMPSHIRE.

SIR,

Since you vouchsafe to be a patron to these sheets, as well as to their author, I will not make an ill use of the liberty you give me, to address you in this public manner, by running into the common topics of dedications. Should I venture to engage in such an extensive theme as your character, the world would judge the attempt to be altogether unnecessary, because it had long before been thoroughly acquainted with your virtues ; besides, I am sensible, that you as earnestly decline all praise and panegyric, as you eminently deserve them.

I hope, sir, on another occasion, to present you with the product of my severer studies; in the mean time be pleased to accept of this trife, as one small acknowledgment of the many great favours you have bestowed on,

honoured sir,

your obliged humble servant,

CHRISTOPHER PITT.

PREFACE.

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My translation of Vida's Art of Poetry having been more favourably received than I had reason to expect, has encouraged me to publish this little miscellany of poems and select translations. I shall neither embarrass myself nor my reader with apologies concerning this collection ; for whether it is a good one or a bad one, all excuses are unnecessary in one case, and offered in vain in the other.

An author of a miscellany has a better chance of pleasing the world, than he who writes on a single subject; and I have sometimes known a bad, or (which is still worse) an indifferent poet, ineet with tolerable success ; which has been owing more to thc variety of subjects, than his happiness in treating them.

I am sensible the men of wit and pleasure will be disgusted to find so great a part of this collection consist of sacred poetry ; but I assure these gentlemen, whatever they shall be pleased to object, that I shall never be ashamed of employing my talents (such as they are) in the service of my Maker; that it wonld look indecent in one of my profession, not to spend as much time on the psalms of David, as the hymns of Callimachus; and farther, that if those beautiful pieces of divine poetry had been written by Callimachus, or any heathen author, they might have possibly vouchsafed them a reading even in my translation.

But I will not trespass further on my reader's patience in prose, since I shall have occasion enough for it, as well as for his good-nature, in the following verses ; concerning which I must acquaint him, that some of thein were written several years since, and that I have precisely observed the rule of our great master Horace-Nonamque prematur in annum. But I may say more justly than Mr. Prior said of himself in the like case, that I have observed the letter, more than the spirit of the precept.

1727.

TESTIMONIES OF AUTHORS.

Vida no more the long oblivion fears,
TO MR. CHRISTOPHER PITT. Which hid his virtues through a length of years;

Ally'd to thee, he lives again; thy rhymes
ON HIS POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS.

Shall friendly hand him down to latest times; Forgive th' ambitious fondness of a friend,

Shall do his injur'd reputation right, For such thy worth, 'tis glory to commend;

While in thy work with such success unite To thee, from judgment, such applause is due,

His strength of judgment, and his charms of speech, I praise myself while I am praising you;

That precepts please, and music scems to teach. As he who bears the lighted torch, receives

Lest unimprov'd I seem to read thee o'er, Himself assistance from the light he gives.

Th' unhallow'd rapture 1 indulge no more ; So much you please, so vast is my delight,

By thee instructed, I the task forsake, Thy, ev'n thy fancy cannot reach its height.

Nor for chaste love, the lust of verse mistake; In vain I strive to make the transport known,

Thy works that rais'd this frenzy in my soul, No language can describe it but thy own.

Shall teach the giddy tumult to control : Could'st thou thy genius pour into my heart,

Warm'd as I am with every Muse's charms, Thy copious fancy, thy engaging heart,

Since the coy virgins fly my eager arms, Thy vigorous thoughts, thy manly flow of sense,

I'll quit the work, throw by my strong desire, Thy strong and glowing paint of eloqnence;

And from thy praise' reluctantly retire.
Then should'st thou well conceive that happiness,
Which I alone can feel, and you express.

G. Ridley.
In scenes which thy invention sets to view,
Forgive me, friend, if I lose sight of you;
I see with how much spirit Homer thought,
With how much judgment cooler Virgil wrote;

DR. COBDEN TO MR. PITT.
In every line, in every word you speak,
I read the Roman and confess the Greek;

ON HIS HAVING A BAY LEAF SENT HIM FROM VIRGIL'S
Forgetting thee, my soul with rapture swellid,
Cries out, “How much the ancient bards excell?d!” Forgive me, sir, if I approve
But when thy just translations introduce

The ju:igment of your friend, To nearer converse any Latian Muse,

Who chose this token of his love
The several beauties you so well express,

From Virgil's tomb to send.
I lose the Roman in the British dress!
Sweetly deceiv'd, the ancients ( contemn, You, who the Mantuan poet dress
And with inistaken zeal to thee exclaim,

In purest English lays, (By so much nature, so much art betray'd)

Who all his soul and flame express, “ What vast improvements have our moderns May justly claim his bays.

made !" How vain and unsuccessful seems the toil,

Those bays, which, water'd by your hand, To raise such precious fruits in foreign soil :

From Vida's spring shall rise,

And, with fresh verdure crown'd, withstand
They mourn, transplanted to another coast,
Their beauties languid, and their favour lost !

The lightning of the skies.
But such thy art, the ripening colours glow Let hence your emulation fir'd
As pure as those their native suns bestow ;

His matchless strains pursue, Not an insipid beauty only yield,

As, from Achilles' tomb inspir'd,
But breathe the odours of Ausonia's field.

The youth a rival grew.
Such is the genuine flavour, it belies
Their stranger soil, and unacquainted skies.

· See Mr. Pitts translation of Vida.

TOMB.

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