From Dr. Lettfom's account of the late Dr. Fothergill, (which was read before the Medical Society of London, July 17, and October 23, 1782) we learn, that the father of the deceafed phyfician, who was a native of Wensleydale, Yorkshire, and a member of the religious fociety now generally denominated Quakers, refided at Carr End, the family eftate, where Dr. John Fothergill was born on the 8th of March 1712. His mother was the daughter of Thomas Hough, a perfon of fortune, who refided near Frodsham, in Cheshire, from under whofe care he was placed at fchool in the fame town, where he continued till his twelfth year, and was afterwards removed to Sedberg fchool in Yorkshire. His fchool-education being finished, he was placed, at the age of about fixteen, with Mr. Benjamin Bartlett, an eminent apothecary at Bradford in Yorkshire, who before had been the tutor of Dr. Hillary. At the expiration of his apprenticefhip, he removed to Edinburgh, to fudy phyfic, prior to his fettling in the country as an apothecary; where he early caught the attention of that great anatomical profeffor, the celebrated Dr. Munro, who prevailed on him to enlarge the cultivation of his abilities by a longer refidence at the univerfity, than was at firft intended. In the year 1736, he graduated at Edinburgh, and printed his Thefis, De Emeticorum Ufu:' foon after he came to London, and attended St. Thomas'sHofpital; where his extreme humanity became fo confpicuous, that those who were discharged before their

perfect restoration to health, found the houfe of this amiable phyfician, and being loud in proclaiming the fuccefs of his practice, gradually raised him to more lucrative employment. This fource of his early introduction is mentioned, because Dr. Fothergill often acknowledged to his friend Dr. Lettfom, how much he was indebted to this clafs of grateful though pennylefs fupplicants; and, in his turn, he acknowledged the obligation, by humanely continuing to give the poor advice gratis as long as he lived, and of courfe long after their fuffrages could tend to elevate his reputation. About this time he made an excurfion to the Continent; after which he returned to London, and took up his: refidence in Gracechurch Street. The commencement of his practice is therefore dated from the year 1740; the preceding time having been chiefly employed in laying that foundation upon which was afterwards to be raised a diftinguished fuperftructure. In 1746, he was admitted a licentiate of the Royal College of Phyficians; and in 1748, having previously produced feveral medical effays, he published. his celebrated Account of the Sore Throat attended with Ulcers. The difeafe which he now elucidated, in it's general havock in London before this time, had fwept away the hopes. of fome noble families, and particu-. larly the two fons of the late Henry Pelham, brother to the late Duke of Newcastle, and had hence excited very general alarms; the discovery, therefore, of a new and fuccefsful treatment of fo formidable and fatal a difeafe, was critically fortunate. He was now introduced into the first families in the metropolis; and he was rarely ever employed, but in emer gencies he was fought for again.

After this information, Dr.Lettfom enters into a difcuffion of Dr, Fother gill's character as a naturalift; mentions his valuable cabinet generously. prefented to the college of Edinburgh, for the ufe of the public profeffor of Materia Medica in that university; his botanical garden at Upton, where every valuable plant was introduced

from

from all quarters of the globe; his cabinets and collections of infects, coral, fhells, ores, and minerals; his literary patronage; his encouragement of the arts; his remarkable benevolence and relief of diftrefs; his plan for fupplying fish by land-carriage, and warm recommendation of this article of food; his anonymous effays, which were continually appearing in newfpapers and magazines, to promote public convenience; his eftablishment of Ackworth School; and the honours he received from public bodies of different countries. To these are added, his literary, general, and political characters; a defcription of his perfon; and an account of his death.

With fome few extracts from thefe laft articles we fhall clofe our account of Dr. Lettfom's prefent publication; referving our obfervations on his execution of the whole defign, till we fee the finishing volume of Dr. Fothergill's Works.

If,' fays Dr. Lettfom, his language was not always minutely correct, probably owing to want of time, it was eafy and fluent; and, what in fuch compofitions is more valuable, it was accurately defcriptive.

His epiftolary writing was inftructive and fprightly. As he was not confined to the didactic folidity of medical difquifitions, where knowledge is paffive, and genius fuperfluous, and where facts and experiments, rather than ornament and elegance, are the leading objects, his language was lefs reftrained; it was more brilliant, but lefs correct; it was more varied and amufing, and at the fame time it was chafte and inftructive; and, like his converfation, the fame fentiments were conveyed, in a liveliness of colouring and frankness of expreffion, that in any other point of view might have afforded no emotion of pleasure, or proof of fuperior endowment. There was indeed a charm in his converfe and addrefs, as hath been ingeniously remarked, that affected fome with tranfport of admiration, and commanded the high regard and opinion of those who employed him; whilft, by a difcreet uniformity of conduct,

a

kind, that he was not apt to forfeit the esteem he had once acquired.

As the highest itations are expofed to peculiar inconveniences, fo the brighteft genius is not unfrequently clouded with a counterpart: the mind that is endowed with the quickest perception, whilst interested in multifarious concerns, is not only liable to acquire a habit of deciding hattily, but a tenaciousness of it's decifions. In this epitome of Dr. Fothergill's character, I have endeavoured to delineate the outlines with impartiality, to appreciate his faults as well as his virtues: and, though the brilliancy of the latter hath thone through the clouds of the former, I confider this promptitude of adopting an opinion, and tenacious retention of it, as the moft cenfurable part of a life (fo far as I know, and I knew it well) otherwife blameless. Perfection is fcarcely the lot of humanity; and in extenuation of this difpofition it might be argued, that whilft he formed a hafty, his folidity of judgment prevented a wrong, determination: like the ballaft of a ship, it kept steady the fails that were expofed to the fudden gufts

of a storm.'

Though fome thinking perfons may probably doubt the propriety of a phyfician's embracing occafional opportunities of fuggefting his opinion of the prevailing Jystem of POLITICS, in fa milies of the firft diftinction where he bad profeffional access; it must be acknowledged, that Dr. Fothergill's information refpecting American affairs was very confiderable; and, by humouring that vanity and felf-importance of which most men have a fufficient fhare, adminiftration might poffibly have materially availed themfelves of his intimacy with Dr. Franklin.

The following paffage, in a letter written by Dr. Fothergill, recommending commiffioners to be fent out to America, Auguft 1775, juftifies us to ourselves in this idea. Let our readers judge for themselves.

"than

ART. V. The Village: a Poem. In Two
Books. By the Rev. George Crabbe,
Chaplain to his Grace the Duke of
Rutland. 4to.
2s. 6d. Dodfley.

HIS poem has greatly difapTHI pointed us: we expected, from the title, to have seen a barren imitation of Dr. Goldfmith's Deferted Village; but it is, in reality, a formidable rival of that excellent production.

Mr. Crabbe, indeed, has chosen to reprefent rural scenes in a new point of view: but, if he has availed himfelf of the licentia poetica, in fomewhat magnifying the wretchednefs and vice ufually met with among villagers, he certainly has not deviated fo prepofteroufly from truth and nature, as most of those who have taken the oppofite fide.

We mean not, however, the fmalleft imputation upon the memory of Dr. Goldfmith, or the conduct of his delightful poem: and we beg leave to inform Mr. Crabbe, that we are as much convinced there are fome Auburns, as that there are too many villages refembling that which he fo ably describes: Smuggling, that most important fource of rural corruption, is yet happily unknown in many of the inland counties.

But we are impatient to introduce this very promifing bard to a more intimate acquaintance with our readers. Mr. Crabbe's defign, in this poem, is to defcribe

The village life, and every care that reigns O'er youthful peasants, and declining fwains: What labour yields; and what, that labour paft, Age, in it's hour of languor, finds at last.'

He begins with a lively fatire on modern paftoral poetry; and points a fevere, but juft farcasm, at the great Mantuan bard.

"Fled are those times, if e'er fuch times were feen,
When ruftic poets prais'd their native green;
No fhepherds now, in smooth alternate verfe,
Their country's beauty or their nymphs' rehearse;
Yet ftill for these we frame the tender strain,
Still in our lays fond Corydons complain,
And fhepherds boys their amorous pains reveal,
The only pains, alas! they never feel.
On Mincio's banks, in Cæfar's bounteous reign,
If Tityrus found the golden age again,
Muft fleepy bards the flattering dream prolong,

Mechanic echo's of the Mantuan fong?
From truth and nature shall we widely ftray,

Where Virgil, not where fancy leads the way?'

The prevalence of this fort of writing is thus judiciously accounted for.

From one chief cause these idle praises spring, That, themes fo eafy, few forbear to fing; They afk no thought, require no deep defign, But fwell the fong, and liquify the line: The gentle lover takes the rural ftrain, A nymph his miftrefs and himself a swain; With no fad fcenes he clouds his tuneful prayer, But all, to look like her, is painted fair. I grant, indeed, that fields and flocks have charms For him that gazes, or for him that farms; But when, amid fuch pleafing fcenes, I trace The poor laborious natives of the place, And fee the mid-day fun, with fervid ray, On their bare heads and dewy temples play; While fome,with feebler hands and fainter hearts, Deplore their fortune, yet fuftain their parts; Then fhall I dare thefe real ills to hide, In tinfel trappings of poetic pride? No, caft by Fortune on a frowning coast, Which can no groves nor happy vallies boast; Where other cares than those the mufe relates, And other shepherds dwell with other mates; By fuch examples taught, I paint the cot, As truth will paint it, and as bards will not.”

The fterility of the foil in the neighbourhood of Mr. Crabbe's vilis beautifully described. lage

Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown

o'er,

Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring

poor:

From thence a length of burning fand appears, Where the thin harvest waves it's wither'd ears.

Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye:
There thiftles ftretch their prickly arms afar,
There poppies, nodding, mock the hope of toil,
And to the ragged infant threaten war;

There the blue buglofs paints the fterile foil;
Hardy and high, above the flender sheaf,
The flimy mallow waves her filky leaf;
O'er the young fhoot the charlock throws a fhade,
And the wild tare clings round the fickly blade;
With

With mingled tints the rocky coafts abound,
And a fad fplendor vainly shines around.'

Nor are the inhabitants of fuch a village represented with a lefs mafterly pencil.

Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race, With fullen woe difplay'd in every face; Who far from civil arts and focial fly, And scowl at ftrangers with fufpicious eye. Here, too, the lawless vagrant of the main Draws from his plough th' intoxicated fwain: Want only claim'd the labour of the day, But vice now steals his nightly reft away! Where are the fwains, who, da ly labour done, With rural games play'd down the setting fun; Whoftruck with matchlefs force the bounding ball, Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall; While fome huge Ajax, terrible and strong, Engag'd fome artful ftripling of the throng, And, foil'd, beneath the young Ulyffes fell, When peals of praife the merry mifchief tell? Where now are thefe? Beneath yon cliff they ftand, To fhew the freighted pinnace where to land; To load the ready fteed with guilty hafte, To fly in terror o'er the pathlefs wafte; Or, when detected in their straggling course, To foil their foes by cunning.or by force; Or yielding part, (when equal knaves conteft) To gain a lawless paffport for the reft.'

Our poet is aware that more fertile fpots may be found than that in which he feelingly regrets he was long refident.

• But yet in other scenes more fair in view,
Where Plenty fmiles-alas! fhe fmiles for few;
And those who tafte not, yet behold her ftore,
Are as the flaves that dig the golden ore,
The wealth around them makes them doubly

poor.

}

Or will you deem them amply paid in health,
Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth?
Go, then! and fee them rifing with the fun,
Through a long courfe of daily toil to run;
Like him, to make the plenteous harvests grow,
And yet not share the pleaty they bestow;
See them, beneath the dog-ftar's raging heat,
When the knees tremble, and the temples beat;
Behold them leaning on their scythes, look o'er
The labour paft, and toils to come explore;
See them alternate funs and fhowers engage,
And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;
Through fens and marshy moors their steps purfue,
When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew;
Then own, that labour may as fatal be
To these thy flaves, as luxury to thee.'

'Nor yet can time itself obtain for thefe Life's latest comforts, due refpect and ease: For yonder fee that hoary fwain, whose age Can with no cares except it's own engage;

Who, propt on that rude ftaff, looks up to fee
The bare arms broken from the withering tree,
On which, a boy, he climb'd the loftiest bough,
Then his first joy, but his fad emblem now!
He once was chief in all the ruftic trade,
His fteady hand the straightest furrow made;
Full many a prize he won, and still is proud
To find the triumphs of his youth allow'd;
A tranfient pleasure fparkles in his eyes,
He hears and fmiles, then thinks again, and fighss
For now he journeys to his grave in pain;
The rich difdain him; nay, the poor disdain.
Alternate mafters now their flave command,
And urge the efforts of his feeble hand;
Who, when his age attempts it's task in vain,
With ruthlefs taunts of lazy poor complain.'

The villager's next ftage, the parifh workhoufe, is but too faithfully defcribed.

Theirs is yon houfe that holds the parish poor, Whofe walls of mud fcarce bear the broken door There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day, There children dwell, who know no parents care; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there; Heart-broken matrons, on their joyless bed, Forfaken wives, and mothers never wed, Dejected widows, with unheeded tears, And crippled age with more than childhood's fears The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping ideot, and the madman gay. Here, too, the fick their final doom receive; Here brought, amid the fcenes of grief, to grieve; Where the loud groans from fome fad chamber flow, Mix'd with the clamours of the crowd below. Here, forrowing, they each kindred forrow fcan, And the cold charities of man to man: Whofe laws, indeed, for ruin'd age provide, And strong compulfion plucks the fcrap from prides But ftill that fcrap is bought with many a figh, And pride embitters what it can't deny.'

The following apoftrophe to dif eafed opulence is finely contrafted by the fucceeding defcription of neg、 lected poverty.

Say ye, opprefs'd by fome fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repofe; Who prefs the downy couch, while flaves advance With timid eye, to read the diftant glance; Who with fad prayers the wearied doctor teaze To name the nameless ever-new difeafe; Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain, and that alone, can cure; How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Defpis'd, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? Such is that room, which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the floping fides; ន Where

Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are feen,
And lath and mud are all that lie between;
Save one dull pane,that,coarfely patch'd, gives way
To the rude tempeft, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with duft o'erfpread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head!
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Nor wipes the tear that ftagnates in his eyes!
No friends with foft difcourfe his pain beguile,
Nor promise hope till fickness wears a fmile!'

The village apothecary is remarkably well sketched.

"Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and bufinefs, bustle, and conceit:
With looks unalter'd by thefe fcenes of woe,
With speed that, entering, fpeaks his hafte to go;
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and phyfic in his eye.'

*

Paid by the parish for attendance here, He wears contempt upon his fapient fneer; In hafte he seeks the bed where mifery lies, Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes; And, fome habitual queries hurried 'o'er, Without reply, he rushes on the door: His drooping patient, long inur'd to pain, And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain¡ He ceafes now the feeble help to crave Of man, and mutely haftens to the grave.'

Nor has our reverend poet fhewn the fmallest partiality to his cloth, in defcribing the villager's final fcene

6 But, ere his death, fome pious doubts arife,
Some fimple fears, which bold bad' men despise;
Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove
His title certain to the joys above:

For this he fends the murmuring nurse, who calls
The holy ftranger to thefe difmal walls.
And doth not he, the pious man, appear;
He, paffing rich with forty pounds a year?'
Ah! no; a fhepherd of a different ftock,
And far unlike him, feeds this little flock:
A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's talk
As much as God or man can fairly afk;
The rest he gives to loves and labours light,
To fields the morning, and to feafts the night.
None better fkill'd the noify pack to guide,
To urge their chace, to chear them, or to chide;
Sure in his fhot, his game he feldom mist,
And feldom fail'd to win his game at whift:
Then, while fuch honours bloom around his head,
Shall he fit fadly by the fick man's bed,
To raife the hope he feels not, or with zeal
To combat fears that e'en the pious feel?➡
Now once again the gloomy fcene explore,
Lefs gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er,
The man of many forrows fighs no more!-
Up yonder hill, behold how fadly flow
The bier moves, winding from the vale below:
There lie the happy dead, from trouble free,
And the glad parish pays the frugal fee.
No more, oh! Death, thy victim ftarts to hear
Churchwarden ftern, or kingly overfeer;

No more the farmer gets his humble bow;
Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou!"

In the opening of his fecond book, Mr. Crabbe grants

That oft, amidst these woes,

Are gleams of tranfient mirth, and hours of sweet repofe.'

He, however, ftill returns to the melancholy fide of the picture, and affiduoufly collects the village vices. In this dark catalogue we find drunkennefs, quarrelling, deceit, and flander

"Nor are the nymphs that breathe the rural air
So fair as Cynthia's, nor so chafte as fair:
These to the town afford each fresher face,
And the clown's trull receives the lord's embrace;
From whom,fhould chance again convey her down,
The peer's disease in turn attacks the clown.'

We shall give our poet's own apology for the method he has thought proper to adopt.

Yet why, you afk, these humble crimes relate, Why make the poor as guilty as the great?

To fhew the great, those mightier fons of pride,
How near, in vice, the lowest are allied:
Such are their natures, and their paffions fuch;
But thefe disguise too little, those too much.
So fhall the man of power and pleasure see,
In his own flave, as vile a wretch as he;
In his luxurious lord, the fervant find
His own low pleasures, and degenerate mind:
And each, in all, the kindred vices trace,
Of a poor, blind, bewilder'd, erring race;
Who, a fhort time in varied fortune paft,
Die, and are equal in the dust at last.'

After this, Mr. Crabbe introduces a laudable tribute to the memory of Lord Robert Manners, with which he concludes his poem: we wish, however, this tribute, laudable and elegant as it undoubtedly is, had been paid in a diftinct publication.

We have extended our account of this delightful poem to an unusual length, that all our readers may be enabled to judge for themselves of it's extraordinary merit: but though our extracts are copious, we have been rather ftudious to give a connected account of the whole, than to felect the most beautiful paffages; and cannot too ftrongly recommend the perufal of Mr. Crabbe's Village to every reader of tafte and fenfibility.

POETRY.