The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland/Volume 4/Mr. Joseph Mitchel
Mr. Joseph Mitchel.
This gentleman was the ſon of a Stonecutter in Scotland, and was born about the year 1684. He received an univerſity education while he remained in that kingdom, and having ſome views of improving his fortune, repaired to the metropolis. We are not able to recover many particulars concerning this poet, who was never ſufficiently eminent to excite much curioſity concerning him. By a diſſipated imprudent behaviour he rendered thoſe, who were more intimately acquainted with him, leſs ſollicitous to preſerve the circumſtances of his life, which were ſo little to his advantage. We find him enjoying the favour of the earl of Stair, and Sir Robert Walpole, to whom he addreſſes ſome of his poems. He received ſo many obligations from the latter, and was ſo warm in his intereſt, that he obtained the epithet of Sir Robert Walpole’s Poet, and for a great part of his life had an entire dependence on the bounty of that munificent ſtateſman. Mr. Mitchel, who was a ſlave to his pleaſures, and governed by every guſt of irregular appetite, had many opportunities of experiencing the dangerous folly of extravagance, and the many uneaſy moments which it occaſions. Notwithſtanding this, his conduct was never corrected, even when the means of doing it were in his power. At a time when Mr. Mitchel laboured under ſevere neceſſities, by the death of his wife’s uncle ſeveral thouſand pounds devolved to him, of which he had no ſooner got poſſeſſion, than he planned ſchemes of ſpending it, in place of diſcharging the many debts he had contracted. This behaviour, as it conveyed to his creditors no high idea of his honeſty, ſo it obliged him to be perpetually ſkulking, and muſt conſequently have embittered even thoſe hours which he falſly dedidicated to pleaſure; for they who live under a perpetual dread of loſing their liberty, can enjoy no great comfort even in their moſt careleſs moments.
Of the many poems which Mr. Mitchel wrote, but few ſucceeded to any degree, nor indeed much deſerved it. At a time when the politicians were engaged in ſettling the Land-Tax, and various opinions were offered concerning the ability of that branch of the commonwealth, ſo that a proper medium or ſtandard might be fixed; he verſified the Totneſs Addreſs, much about the time of his preſent Majeſty’s acceſſion to the throne; in which it is humourouſly propoſed, that the landed intereſt ſhould pay twenty ſhillings in the pound. This poem having a reference to a faſhionable topic of converſation, was better received than moſt of his other pieces.
There was likewiſe a poem of Mr. Mitchel’s, called The Shoe-heel, which was much read on account of the low humour it contains. He has addreſſed to Dr. Watts a poem on the ſubject of Jonah in the Whale’s Belly. In the dedication he obſerves, ‘That it was written for the advancement of true virtue and reformation of manners; to raiſe an emulation amongſt our young poets to attempt divine compoſures, and help to wipe off the cenſures which the numerous labours of the muſes are juſtly charged with. If (ſays he) it ſhall ſerve any of theſe purpoſes, I ſhall be ſatisfied, though I gain no reputation by it among thoſe who read a new poem with no other view, than to paſs a judgment on the abilities of the author.’ When the antagoniſts of Pope were threatened with the publication of the Dunciad, Mr. Mitchel had ſome ſuſpicion that he himſelf was to be ſtigmatized in it: conſcious that he had never offended Mr. Pope, he took an opportunity to write to him upon that ſubject. He informed him, that he had been an admirer of his writings; that he declined all connexion with thoſe men, who combined to reduce his reputation, and that when no offence was given, no reſentment ſhould be diſcovered. Mr. Pope, upon receiving this letter from Mitchel, proteſting his innocence as to any calumny publiſhed againſt him, was ſo equitable as to ſtrike him out of his Dunciad, in which, by miſrepreſentation he had aſſigned him a place.
Mr. Mitchel lived in good correſpondence with many of the moſt eminent wits of the time, and was particularly honoured with the friendſhip of Aaron Hill, eſq; a gentleman of ſo amiable a diſpoſition, that whoever cultivated an intimacy with him, was ſure to be a gainer. Once, when Mr. Mitchel was in diſtreſs, Mr. Hill, who could not perhaps conveniently relieve him by pecuniary aſſiſtance, gave him a higher inſtance of friendſhip, than could be ſhewn by money. He wrote a beautiful dramatic piece in two acts, called The Fatal Extravagant, in which he expoſed the hideous vice of gaming. This little dramatic work is planned with ſuch exquiſite art, wrought up with ſo much tenderneſs, and the ſcenes are ſo natural, intereſting and moving, that I know not if Mr. Hill has any where touched the paſſions with ſo great a maſtery. This play met the ſucceſs it deſerved, and contributed to relieve Mr. Mitchel’s neceſſities, who had honour enough, however, to undeceive the world, and acknowledge his obligations to Mr. Hill, by making mankind acquainted with the real author of The Fatal Extravagant. As this was a favour never to be forgotten, ſo we find Mr. Mitchel taking every proper occaſion to expreſs his gratitude, and celebrate his patron. Amongſt the firſt of his poems, is An Ode, addreſſed to Mr. Hill, which is one of the beſt of his compoſitions. The two laſt ſtanza’s are as follow,
Heedleſs of cuſtom, and the vulgar breath,
I toil for glory in a path untrod,
Or where but few have dared to combat death,
And few unſtaggering carry virtue’s load.
Thy muſe, O Hill, of living names,
My firſt reſpect, and chief attendance claims.
Sublimely ſir’d, thou look’ſt diſdainful down
On trifling ſubjects, and a vile renown.
In ev’ry verſe, in ev’ry thought of thine,
There’s heav’nly rapture and deſign.
Who can thy god-like Gideon view[1],
And not thy muſe purſue,
Or wiſh, at leaſt, ſuch miracles to do?
Sure in thy breaſt the ancient Hebrew fire
Reviv’d, glows hot, and blazes forth,
How ſtrong, how fierce the flames aſpire!
Of thy interior worth,
When burning worlds thou ſett’ſt before our eyes[2],
And draw’ſt tremendous judgment from the ſkies!
O bear me on thy ſeraph wing,
And teach my weak obſequious muſe to ſing.
To thee I owe the little art I boaſt;
Thy heat firſt melted my co-genial froſt.
Preſerve the ſparks thy breath did fan,
And by thy likeneſs form me into true poetic man.
Mr. Mitchel died in the year 1738. He ſeems to have been a poet of the third rate; he has ſeldom reached the ſublime; his humour, in which he more ſucceeded, is not ſtrong enough to laſt; his verſification holds a ſtate of mediocrity; he poſſeſſed but little invention, and if he was not a bad rhimeſter, he cannot be denominated a fine poet, for there are but few marks of genius in his writings. His poems were printed in two vol. 8vo. in the year 1729.
He wrote alſo, The Union of the Clans; or the Highland-Fair. A Scot’s Opera. ’Twas acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, about the year 1730; but did not ſucceed.
