The Hermit – Thomas Parnell

The Hermit

“Mr. Parnell’s Tale of the Hermit is conspicuous, throughout the whole of it, for beautiful Descriptive Narration. The manner of the Hermit’s setting forth to visit the world ; his meeting with a companion, and the houses in which they are successively entertained, of the vain man, the covetous man, and the good man, are pieces of very fine painting, touched with a light and delicate pencil, overcharged with no superfluous colouring, and conveying to us a lively idea of the objects.”

Descriptive Poetry, Lectures on Rhetoric and Bells Lettres, Hugh Blair, Vol III, 1812.

Preface

Thomas Parnell’s The Hermit may seem like an English poem from the 18th century, but to me it belongs to a much older lineage. It takes up that ancient and universal dilemma: why do bad things happen to good people? Theologians call it “theodicy,” but really it is just the cry of the human heart. We see it voiced in Mesopotamian laments, in the Book of Job, in the wandering reflections of Ecclesiastes, in the Qur’an’s story of Musa and Khidr.

What Parnell does in verse is not so different from what these earlier voices attempted: he takes the reader through events that appear unjust or cruel, only to reveal that behind what looks like misfortune lies another purpose. His Hermit learns what Job and Musa also had to learn—that our human view is partial, and that divine order is largely hidden from us.

But I also see something else running through this. Parnell’s Hermit resonates with what in the East has been called Crazy Wisdom. On Beezone I’ve often written about this tradition—whether in the life of Adi Da Samraj or in Chögyam Trungpa’s fierce and paradoxical teachings. The Crazy Wisdom way uses shock, reversal, and apparent contradiction to awaken insight. What looks at first like madness or cruelty may, in the long view, turn out to be a deeper form of compassion.

So The Hermit stands at a curious crossroads. It is an English moral poem, yes, but it is also part of a timeless current: theodicy in one direction, Crazy Wisdom in another. In both, the surface appearance of suffering or absurdity becomes a vehicle for revealing something larger than human reason. And that is why the poem still speaks across centuries, not as a quaint fable, but as part of the ongoing struggle to see the hidden shape of Truth behind the bewildering patterns of life.

Ed Reither

FAR in a Wild, unknown to publick View,

From Youth to Age a rev’rend Hermit grew;

The Moss his Bed, the Cave his humble Cell,

His Food the Fruits, his Drink the chrystal Well:

Remote from Man, with God he pass’d the Days,

Pray’r all his Bus’ness, all his Pleasure Praise.

A Life so sacred, such serene Repose,
Seem’d Heav’n it self, ’till one Suggestion rose;
That Vice shou’d triumph, Virtue Vice obey,
This sprung some Doubt of Providence’s Sway:
 
His Hopes no more a certain Prospect boast,
And all the Tenour of his Soul is lost:
So when a smooth Expanse receives imprest
Calm Nature’s Image on its wat’ry Breast,
Down bend the Banks, the Trees depending grow,
And Skies beneath with answ’ring Colours glow:
But if a Stone the gentle Scene divide,
Swift ruffling Circles curl on ev’ry side,
And glimmering Fragments of a broken Sun,
Banks, Trees, and Skies, in thick Disorder run.
 

To clear this Doubt, to know the World by Sight,

To find if Books, or Swains, report it right;

(For yet by Swains alone the World he knew,

Whose Feet came wand’ring o’er the nightly Dew)

He quits his Cell; the Pilgrim-Staff he bore,

And fix’d the Scallop in his Hat before;

Then with the Sun a rising Journey went,

Sedate to think, and watching each Event.

The Morn was wasted in the pathless Grass,
And long and lonesome was the Wild to pass;
But when the Southern Sun had warm’d the Day,
A Youth came posting o’er a crossing Way;
His Rayment decent, his Complexion fair,
And soft in graceful Ringlets wav’d his Hair.
Then near approaching, Father Hail! he cry’d,
And Hail, my Son, the rev’rend Sire reply’d;
Words followed Words, from Question Answer flow’d
And Talk of various kind deceiv’d the Road;
‘Till each with other pleas’d, and loth to part,
While in their Age they differ; joyn in Heart:
Thus stands an aged Elm in Ivy bound,
Thus youthful Ivy clasps an Elm around.
 

Now sunk the Sun; the closing Hour of Day
Came onward, mantled o’er with sober gray;
Nature in silence bid the World repose:
When near the Road a stately Palace rose:
There by the Moon thro’ Ranks of Trees they pass,
Whose Verdure crown’d their sloping sides of Grass.
It chanc’t the noble Master of the Dome,
Still made his House the wand’ring Stranger’s home:
Yet still the Kindness, from a Thirst of Praise,
Prov’d the vain Flourish of expensive Ease.
The Pair arrive: the Liv’ry’d Servants wait;
Their Lord receives them at the pompous Gate.
The Table groans with costly Piles of Food,
And all is more than Hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the Day’s long Toil they drown,
Deep sunk in Sleep, and Silk, and Heaps of Down.

 
At length ’tis Morn, and at the Dawn of Day,
Along the wide Canals the Zephyrs play;
Fresh o’er the gay Parterres the Breezes creep,
And shake the neighb’ring Wood to banish Sleep.
Up rise the Guests, obedient to the Call,
‘An early Banquet deck’d the splendid Hall;
Rich luscious Wine a golden Goblet grac’t,
Which the kind Master forc’d the Guests to taste.
Then pleas’d and thankful, from the Porch they go,
And, but the Landlord, none had cause of Woe;
His Cup was vanish’d; for in secret Guise
The younger Guest purloin’d the glittering Prize.
 

As one who ‘spys a Serpent in his Way,
Glistning and basking in the Summer Ray,
Disorder’d stops to shun the Danger near,
Then walks with Faintness on, and looks with Fear:
So seem’d the Sire; when far upon the Road,
The shining Spoil his wiley Partner show’d.
He stopp’d with Silence, walk’d with trembling Heart,
And much he wish’d, but durst not ask to part:
Murm’ring he lifts his Eyes, and thinks it hard,
That generous Actions meet a base Reward.
 
While thus they pass, the Sun his Glory shrouds,

The changing Skies hang out their sable Clouds;
A Sound in Air presag’d approaching Rain,
And Beasts to covert scud a cross the Plain.
Warn’d by the Signs, the wand’ring Pair retreat,
To seek for Shelter at a neighb’ring Seat.
‘Twas built with Turrets, on a rising Ground,
And strong, and large, and unimprov’d around;
Its Owner’s Temper, tim’rous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caus’d a Desert there.
 

As near the Miser’s heavy Doors they drew,
Fierce rising Gusts with sudden Fury blew;
The nimble Light’ning mix’d with Show’rs began,
And o’er their Heads loud-rolling Thunder ran.
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,
Driv’n by the Wind, and battered by the Rain.
At length some Pity warm’d the Master’s Breast,
(‘Twas then, his Threshold first receiv’d a Guest)
Slow creaking turns the Door with jealous Care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering Pair;
One frugal Faggot lights the naked Walls,
And Nature’s Fervor thro’ their Limbs recals:
Bread of the coursest sort, with eager Wine,
(Each hardly granted) serv’d them both to dine;
And when the Tempest first appear’d to cease,
A ready Warning bid them part in Peace.
 

With still Remark the pond’ring Hermit view’d
In one so rich, a Life so poor and rude;
And why shou’d such, (within himself he cry’d,)
Lock the lost Wealth a thousand want beside?
But what new Marks of Wonder soon took place,
In ev’ry settling Feature of his Face!
When from his Vest the young Companion bore
That Cup, the gen’rous Landlord own’d before,
And paid profusely with the precious Bowl
The stinted Kindness of this churlish Soul.
 

But now the Clouds in airy Tumult fly,
The Sun emerging opes an azure Sky;
A fresher green the smelling Leaves display,
And glitt’ring as they tremble, cheer the Day:
The Weather courts them from the poor Retreat,
And the glad Master bolts the wary Gate.
 

While hence they walk, the Pilgrim’s Bosom wrought,
With all the Travel of uncertain Thought;
His Partner’s Acts without their Cause appear,
‘Twas there a Vice, and seem’d a Madness here:
Detesting that, and pitying this he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various Shows.
 

Now Night’s dim Shades again involve the Sky;
Again the Wand’rers want a Place to lye,
Again they search, and find a Lodging nigh.
The Soil improv’d around, the Mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great:
It seem’d to speak its Master’s turn of Mind,
Content, and not for Praise, but Virtue kind.
 

Hither the Walkers turn with weary Feet

Then bless the Mansion, and the Master greet:

Their greeting fair bestow’d, with modest Guise,

The courteous Master hears, and thus replies:

Without a vain, without a grudging Heart,
To Him who gives us all, I yield a part;
From Him you come, for Him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly Cheer.
He spoke, and bid the welcome Table spread,
Then talk’d of Virtue till the time of Bed,
When the grave Houshold round his Hall repair,
Warn’d by a Bell, and close the Hours with Pray’r.
 

At length the World renew’d by calm Repose
Was strong for Toil, the dappled Morn arose;
 
Before the Pilgrims part, the Younger crept,
Near the clos’d Cradle where an Infant slept,
And writh’d his Neck: the Landlord’s little Pride,
O strange Return! grew black, and gasp’d, and dy’d.
Horrour of Horrours! what! his only Son!
How look’d our Hermit when the Fact was done?
Not Hell, tho’ Hell’s black Jaws in sunder part,
And breathe blue Fire, cou’d more assault his Heart.
 

Confus’d, and struck with Silence at the Deed,
He flies, but trembling fails to fly with Speed.
His Steps the Youth pursues; the Country lay
Perplex’d with Roads, a Servant show’d the Way:
A River cross’d the Path; the Passage o’er
Was nice to find; the Servant trod before;
Long arms of Oaks an open Bridge supply’d,
And deep the Waves beneath the bending glide.
 
The Youth, who seem’d to watch a Time to sin,
Approach’d the careless Guide, and thrust him in;
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his Head,
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the Dead.
 

Wild, sparkling Rage inflames the Father’s Eyes,
He bursts the Bands of Fear, and madly cries,
Detested Wretch — But scarce his Speech began,
When the strange Partner seem’d no longer Man:
His youthful Face grew more serenely sweet;
His Robe turn’d white, and flow’d upon his Feet;
Fair rounds of radiant Points invest his Hair;
Celestial Odours breathe thro’ purpled Air;
And Wings, whose Colours glitter’d on the Day,
Wide at his Back their gradual Plumes display.
The Form Etherial bursts upon his Sight,
And moves in all the Majesty of Light.
 

Tho’ loud at first the Pilgrim’s Passion grew,
Sudden he gaz’d, and wist not what to do;
Surprize in secret Chains his words suspends,
And in a Calm his settling Temper ends.
But Silence here the beauteous Angel broke,
(The Voice of Musick ravish’d as he spoke)
 

Thy Pray’r, thy Praise, thy Life to Vice unknown,
In sweet Memorial rise before the Throne:
These Charms, Success in our bright Region find,
And force an Angel down, to calm thy Mind;
For this commission’d, I forsook the Sky,
Nay, cease to kneel — Thy fellow Servant I.
 

Then know the Truth of Government Divine,

And let these Scruples be no longer thine.

The Maker justly claims that World he made,
In this the Right of Providence is laid;
Its sacred Majesty thro’ all depends
On using second Means to work his Ends:
‘Tis thus, withdrawn in State from human Eye,
The Pow’r exerts his Attributes on high,
Your Actions uses, not controuls your Will,
And bids the doubting Sons of Men be still.
 

What strange Events can strike with more Surprize,

Than those which latelystrook thy wond’ring Eyes?

Yet taught by these, confess th’ Almighty Just,

And where you can’t unriddle, learn to trust!

The Great, Vain Man, who far’d on costly Food,
Whose Life was too luxurious to be good;
Who made his Iv’ry Stands with Goblets shine,
And forc’d his Guests to morning Draughts of Wine,
Has, with the Cup, the graceless Custom lost,
And still he welcomes, but with less of Cost.
 

The mean, suspicious Wretch, whose bolted Door,
Ne’er mov’d in Duty to the wand’ring Poor;
With him I left the Cup, to teach his Mind
That Heav’n can bless, if Mortals will be kind.
Conscious of wanting Worth, he views the Bowl,
And feels Compassion touch his grateful Soul.
Thus Artists melt the sullen Oar of Lead,
With heaping Coals of Fire upon its Head;
In the kind Warmth the Metal learns to glow,
And loose from Dross, the Silver runs below.
 

Long had our pious Friend in Virtue trod,
But now the Child half-wean’d his Heart from God;
(Child of his Age) for him he liv’d in Pain,
And measur’d back his Steps to Earth again.
To what Excesses had his Dotage run?
But God, to save the Father, took the Son.
To all but thee, in Fits he seem’d to go,
(And ’twas my Ministry to deal the Blow)
The poor fond Parent humbled in the Dust,
Now owns in Tears the Punishment was just.

But how had all his Fortune felt a Wrack,
Had that false Servant sped in Safety back?
This Night his treasur’d Heaps he meant to steal,
And what a Fund of Charity wou’d fail!

Thus Heav’n instructs thy Mind: This Tryal o’er,

Depart in Peace, resign, and sin no more.

On sounding Pinnions here the Youth withdrew,
The Sage stood wond’ring as the Seraph flew.
Thus look’d Elisha, when to mount on high,
His Master took the Chariot of the Sky;
The fiery Pomp ascending left the View;
The Prophet gaz’d, and wish’d to follow too.
 

The bending Hermit here a Pray’r begun,
Lord! as in Heaven, on Earth thy Will be done.
Then gladly turning, sought his antient place,
And pass’d a Life of Piety and Peace.

—

Biography

Oliver Goldsmith

The Life of Thomas Parnell, D.D., Archdeacon of Clogher
(Preface to Poems on Several Occasions, 1770)

Thomas Parnell was descended from an ancient family that originally had estates in Cheshire. His father, who had been attached to the Commonwealth party, upon the Restoration of Charles II, quitted his possessions in England, and retired to Ireland, where he purchased an estate, which, with his posterity, has ever since continued.

Thomas, the subject of the present memoir, was born in Dublin, in the year 1679, and received his education at Trinity College there; where, in the year 1700, he took the degree of Master of Arts. On this occasion, he displayed, in his public exercises, the first specimens of that genius and taste, which were afterwards so conspicuous in all his writings.

Being intended for the church, he was admitted deacon at the age of twenty, and, the year following, was ordained priest by Dr. King, then Bishop of Derry. He was preferred by the Archbishop of Dublin to the Archdeaconry of Clogher; a dignity which he continued to possess till his death.

From the first entrance into life, he distinguished himself by his convivial spirit, and the ease and elegance of his manners. He soon became acquainted with all the wits of the time; and his friendship was courted by such men as Swift, Pope, Gay, and Arbuthnot. He was admired by all, beloved by most of them, and, without envy, was received into the circle of those who then gave laws to taste and literature.

But his chief delight was in the conversation of Mr. Pope, with whom he lived upon terms of the strictest intimacy, and who afterwards collected and published his Poems. In that collection, the world is obliged to Pope for the care he took to retrench whatever he thought unworthy the author, and to digest the rest into that order in which they now appear.

The death of his wife, who was a most amiable woman, threw our poet into a deep melancholy, from which he never entirely recovered. This gave his friends too much occasion to remark, that he sought relief from company and wine, to which he was immoderately addicted. But his faults were rather the result of carelessness than of ill-nature; he never gave way to passion, and seldom to resentment.

The love of society led him to excesses, but it also furnished the occasions of his wit, which was always ready, always pleasing, and seldom offensive. The cheerfulness of his temper, which was natural, and the generosity of his disposition, which was without bounds, made him beloved by all his acquaintance. He had a remarkable sweetness of manners, and such a flow of good-nature, as was irresistible.

With respect to his writings, it may be said, that he is one of those poets who excel more in the delicacy of their thoughts, than in the strength of them. His poetry is generally of the tender kind; it breathes the spirit of benevolence and piety. He is remarkable for the harmony of his versification, in which he is scarcely exceeded by any of our English poets. His Allegory on Man is one of the most beautiful pieces in our language. The Fairy Tale is written with exquisite fancy. His Battle of the Frogs and Mice, though but a translation, is executed with great spirit and humour; and his version of Homer’s Hymn to Venus is distinguished by all the ease and elegance of original composition.

But The Hermit is the piece by which he is best known, and on which his reputation will principally depend. It is a poem that deserves the highest praise; simple, natural, and affecting. There is a pathos in it that will ever render it interesting, and a morality that must ever make it useful. Dr. Johnson has not scrupled to say, that if Pope had written it, he would not have been ashamed of it.

He did not live to a great age; his constitution being impaired partly by his application to study, but still more by his irregularities. He died at Chester, on his way to Ireland, in the year 1718, when he was in the thirty-ninth year of his age. He left behind him one son and one daughter. The son did not long survive his father; the daughter married into a very reputable family, and still remains to do honour to her parentage.

Thus died Thomas Parnell, a man in whom the virtues of the heart were as remarkable as the talents of the head. His genius was undoubted, his learning extensive, and his piety sincere. Though he wanted the vigour that distinguishes the first class of poets, yet he must be allowed to have had a considerable share of merit, and to deserve a very respectable place among the English poets. His writings are not numerous, but they are of that kind which entitles them to live.

As a companion, he was highly entertaining; as a friend, he was steady and sincere; and as a clergyman, exemplary and conscientious. He was admired by the best judges of his time, and his memory will be ever dear to those who can relish the elegance of taste, the delicacy of sentiment, and the simplicity of true poetry.

xxxx

Thomas Parnell

by Samuel Johnson*

In the following essay, originally published in 1781, Johnson provides a brief overview of Parnell’s life and claims that his poems, while not works that stemmed from a great mind, have a pleasant sense about them which was enjoyable to the writer himself as well as the reader.

SOURCE: Johnson, Samuel. “Parnell.” In Lives of the English Poets, Vol. 2, edited by George Birkbeck Hill, 49-56. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1905.

The Life of Dr. Parnell is a task which I should very willingly decline, since it has been lately written by Goldsmith¹, a man of such variety of powers and such felicity of performance that he always seemed to do best that which he was doing²; a man who had the art of being minute without tediousness, and general without confusion; whose language was copious without exuberance, exact without constraint, and easy without weakness.

What such an author has told, who would tell again? I have made an abstract from his larger narrative; and have this gratification from my attempt that it gives me an opportunity of paying due tribute to the memory of Goldsmith.

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Thomas Parnell was the son of a commonwealthsman of the same name, who at the Restoration left Congleton in Cheshire, where the family had been established for several centuries, and, settling in Ireland, purchased an estate, which, with his lands in Cheshire, descended to the poet⁴, who was born at Dublin in 1679; and, after the usual education at a grammar school, was at the age of thirteen admitted into the College⁵, where in 1700 he became master of arts; and was the same year ordained a deacon, though under the canonical age, by a dispensation from the Bishop of Derry⁶.

About three years afterwards he was made a priest; and in 1705 Dr. Ashe, the bishop of Clogher, conferred upon him the archdeaconry of Clogher⁷. About the same time he married Mrs. Anne Minchin⁸, an amiable lady, by whom he had two sons who died young, and a daughter who long survived him.

At the ejection of the Whigs, in the end of queen Anne’s reign⁹, Parnell was persuaded to change his party, not without much censure from those whom he forsook¹⁰, and was received by the new ministry as a valuable reinforcement. When the earl of Oxford was told that Dr. Parnell waited among the crowd in the outer room, he went, by the persuasion of Swift, with his treasurer’s staff in his hand, to enquire for him, and to bid him welcome¹¹; and, as may be inferred from Pope’s dedication, admitted him as a favourite companion to his convivial hours¹², but, as it seems often to have happened in those times to the favourites of the great, without attention to his fortune¹³, which however was in no great need of improvement¹⁴.

Parnell, who did not want ambition or vanity, was desirous to make himself conspicuous, and to shew how worthy he was of high preferment. As he thought himself qualified to become a popular preacher he displayed his elocution with great success in the pulpits of London; but the queen’s death putting an end to his expectations abated his diligence: and Pope represents him as falling from that time into intemperance of wine¹⁵. That in his latter life he was too much a lover of the bottle is not denied; but I have heard it imputed to a cause more likely to obtain forgiveness from mankind, the untimely death of a darling son¹⁶; or, as others tell, the loss of his wife, who died (1712) in the midst of his expectations¹⁷.

He was now to derive every future addition to his preferments from his personal interest with his private friends, and he was not long unregarded. He was warmly recommended by Swift to archbishop King, who gave him a prebend in 1713¹⁸, and in May 1716 presented him to the vicarage of Finglas in the diocese of Dublin, worth four hundred pounds a year¹⁹. Such notice from such a man²⁰ inclines me to believe that the vice of which he has been accused was not gross, or not notorious.

But his prosperity did not last long. His end, whatever was its cause, was now approaching. He enjoyed his preferment little more than a year; for in July 1717, in his thirty-eighth year, he died at Chester²¹, on his way to Ireland.

He seems to have been one of those poets who take delight in writing. He contributed to the papers of that time, and probably published more than he owned²². He left many compositions behind him, of which Pope selected those which he thought best, and dedicated them to the earl of Oxford²³. Of these Goldsmith has given an opinion²⁴, and his criticism it is seldom safe to contradict. He bestows just praise upon The Rise of Woman²⁵, the Fairy Tale²⁶, and the Pervigilium Veneris²⁷; but has very properly remarked that in The Battle of Mice and Frogs the Greek names have not in English their original effect²⁸.

He tells us that The Bookworm is borrowed from Beza²⁹; but he should have added with modern applications, and when he discovers that Gay Bacchus is translated from Augurellus³⁰, he ought to have remarked that the latter part is purely Parnell’s. Another poem, When Spring comes on, is, he says, taken from the French³¹. I would add, that the description of Barrenness, in his verses to Pope³², was borrowed from Secundus; but lately searching for the passage which I had formerly read I could not find it³³. The Night-piece on Death is indirectly preferred by Goldsmith to Gray’s Church-yard³⁴, but, in my opinion, Gray has the advantage in dignity, variety, and originality of sentiment³⁵. He observes that the story of The Hermit is in More’s Dialogues and Howell’s Letters, and supposes it to have been originally Arabian³⁶.

Goldsmith has not taken any notice of the Elegy to the old Beauty, which is perhaps the meanest³⁷; nor of the Allegory on Man, the happiest of Parnell’s performances³⁸. The hint of the Hymn to Contentment I suspect to have been borrowed from Cleiveland⁴⁰.

The general character of Parnell is not great extent of comprehension or fertility of mind. Of the little that appears still less is his own. His praise must be derived from the easy sweetness of his diction⁴¹: in his verses there is ‘more happiness than pains⁴²’; he is spritely without effort, and always delights though he never ravishes; every thing is proper, yet every thing seems casual. If there is some appearance of elaboration in The Hermit the narrative, as it is less airy, is less pleasing. Of his other compositions it is impossible to say whether they are the productions of Nature, so excellent as not to want the help of Art, or of Art so refined as to resemble Nature⁴³.

This criticism relates only to the pieces published by Pope. Of the large appendages which I find in the last edition I can only say that I know not whence they came, nor have ever enquired whither they are going. They stand upon the faith of the compilers⁴⁴.

Notes

In 1770. Forster’s Goldsmith, 1871, ii. 223; Goldsmith’s Works, iv. 129.

‘Goldsmith’s Life of Parnell is poor; not that it is poorly written, but that he had poor materials.’ Johnson, Boswell’s Johnson, ii. 166. Goldsmith’s father and uncle had known Parnell. In apologizing for the absence of facts in the narrative of his youth he writes:—‘A poet, while living, is seldom an object sufficiently great to attract much attention. … When his fame is increased by time it is then too late to investigate the peculiarities of his disposition; the dews of the morning are past, and we vainly try to continue the chase by the meridian splendour.’ Goldsmith’s Works, iv. 130.

Johnson said of Goldsmith:—‘Whether we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as an historian, he stands in the first class.’ Boswell’s Johnson, ii. 236. In his epitaph he describes him as one ‘qui nullum fere scribendi genus non tetigit, nullum quod tetigit non ornavit.’ Ib. iii. 82.

Mr. G. A. Aitken, in the Preface to Parnell’s Poems, 1894, has brought together the facts known about the poet.

Odyssey, xxiv. 190.
Charles Stewart Parnell was descended from the poet’s younger brother. Post, Swift, 77 n.
‘He was admitted much sooner than usual, as they are a great deal stricter in their examination for entrance than either at Oxford or Cambridge.’ Goldsmith, Works, iv. 129.
The canonical age is twenty-three. He was twenty-one. He was ordained by the Bishop [King, afterwards Archbishop of Dublin], but the dispensation was from the Primate. Ib. p. 130.
On Feb. 9, 1705-6. Aitken’s Parnell, Preface, p. 10. For Ashe see post, Swift, 70.
Johnson uses ‘Mrs.’ according to its earlier usage. Goldsmith calls her ‘Miss.’
Swift wrote on Sept. 9, 1710:—‘The Whigs were ravished to see me, and would lay hold on me as a twig while they are drowning. … Every Whig in great office will, to a man, be infallibly put out.’ Works, ii. 9. See post, Garth, 12; Sheffield, 19; Prior, 21; Congreve, 28; Granville, 16.
‘Having been the son of a Commonwealth’s man, his Tory connections on this side of the water gave his friends in Ireland great offence.’ Goldsmith, Works, iv. 131.
‘Jan. 31, 1712-13. I contrived it so that Lord Treasurer came to me, and asked (I had Parnell by me) whether that was Dr. Parnell, and came up and spoke to him with great kindness, and invited him to his house. I value myself upon making the ministry desire to be acquainted with Parnell, and not Parnell with the ministry.’ Swift, Works, iii. 102. See also ib. p. 81.

Johnson follows Delany, who, in his Observations, &c., p. 28, heightens the story: ‘Swift made Lord Oxford, in the height of his glory, walk with his treasurer’s staff from room to room through his own levy, inquiring which was Dr. Parnell.’ See also post, Swift, 134 n.

‘For him thou oft hast bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him despised the farce of state,
The sober follies of the wise and great;
Dexterous the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleased to ‘scape from flattery to wit.’
Pope, Epistle to Robert, Earl of Oxford, l. 6.
Post, Pope, 75, 91.
‘His fortune (for a poet) was very considerable, and it may easily be supposed he lived to the very extent of it.’ Goldsmith, Works, iv. 136.
See Appendix E.
He had two sons who died young, and one daughter who long survived him. Ib. p. 130.
‘Those helps that sorrow first called for assistance habit soon rendered necessary, and he died before his fortieth year, in some measure a martyr to conjugal fidelity.’ Ib. p. 140.

His wife died in 1711. Swift wrote on Aug. 24, 1711:—‘I am heartily sorry for poor Mrs. Parnell’s death; she seemed to be an excellent good-natured young woman, and I believe the poor lad is much afflicted; they appeared to live perfectly well together.’ Works, ii. 327. ‘July 1, 1712. It seems he has been ill for grief of his wife’s death.’ Ib. iii. 35.

Ib. xvi. 36.
Swift, in 1730, said it was ‘worth about £100 a year.’ Ib. vii. 293.
Post, Swift, 64. The Duke of Grafton, the Lord-Lieutenant, described him as ‘charitable, hospitable, a despiser of riches, and an excellent bishop.’ Coxe’s Walpole, 1798, ii. 357.
In the register of Trinity Church, Chester, is the following entry:—‘Burialls, 1718. ArchDeacon Tho: Parnell, DD. October 24.’ Aitken’s Parnell, Preface, p. 48.

Boswell (iv. 54) has preserved the following epitaph by Johnson:—

‘Hic requiescit Thomas Parnell,
S.T.P.
Qui sacerdos pariter et poeta,
Utrasque partes ita implevit,
Ut neque sacerdoti suavitas poetae,
Nec poetae sacerdotis sanctitas,
deesset.’

According to Miss Reynolds Johnson produced it extempore.’ John. Misc. ii. 293.

For Goldsmith’s epitaph on Parnell see his Works, i. 111. It is strange that the grave of a poet for whom Johnson and Goldsmith each wrote an epitaph should remain uninscribed.

Steele in The Spectator, No. 555, includes him among the contributors. In the preface entitled ‘The Publisher to the Reader’ prefixed to The Guardian Steele writes:—‘Mr. Parnell will, I hope, forgive me that, without his leave, I mention that I have seen his hand’ among the contributors.
Pope’s Works (Elwin and Courthope), iii. 189; post, Pope, 124. Pope, at the end of his notes on the Iliad, speaks of ‘those beautiful pieces of poetry, the publication of which Dr. Parnell left to my charge, almost with his dying breath.’ In Dec. 1718, Pope wrote:—‘What he gave me to publish was but a small part of what he left behind him; but it was the best, and I will not make it worse by enlarging it.’ Pope’s Works (Elwin and Courthope), viii. 28.

‘In the list of papers ordered to be burnt [by Pope, after his death] were several copies of verses by Parnell. I interceded in vain for them.’ Spence’s Anec. p. 290.

Goldsmith’s Works, iv. 142.
Eng. Poets, xxvii. 5.
Ib. p. 21.
Ib. p. 29.
Ib. p. 35; Goldsmith’s Works, iv. 142. Parnell uses the Greek names, giving at the beginning of the poem the translation of each.
Ib. p. 143. Beza’s poem is entitled Ad Musas, Iocus. His lines

Pene tu mihi passerem Catulli,
Pene tu mihi Lesbiam abstulisti

are thus translated and expanded by Parnell:—

‘By thee my Ovid wounded lies,
By thee my Lesbia’s sparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy’d
The work of love in Biddy Floyd,
They rent Belinda’s locks away,
And spoil’d the Blouzelind of Gay.’

Bezae Poemata, 1569, p. 138; Eng. Poets, xxvii. 66.

‘It is a translation of a Latin poem by Aurelius Augurellus, an Italian poet [ob. 1524], beginning with:—

“Invitat olim Bacchus ad coenam suos
Comum [Comon], Iocum, Cupidinem.”’

Goldsmith, Works, iv. 142.

For the poem, entitled Gratiarum Convivium, see Pope’s Selecta Poemata Italorum, 1740, ii. 69.

Parnell’s version begins (Eng. Poets, xxvii. 19):—

‘Gay Bacchus, liking Estcourt’s(39) wine,
A noble meal bespoke us;
And for the guests that were to dine
Brought Comus, Love and Jocus.’

Ib. p. 16. ‘It is taken from a French poet whose name I forget.’ Goldsmith, Works, iv. 142.
Eng. Poets, xxvii. 56.
Johnson refers to the following lines in the Epistolae, i. 1, of Ioannes Secundus (John Everard), Opera, 1631, p. 142:—

‘Me retinet salsis infausta Valachria terris,
          Oceanus tumidis quam vagus ambit aquis.
Nulla ubi vox avium, pelagi strepit undique murmur,
          Caelum etiam larga desuper urget aqua.
Flat Boreas, dubiusque Notus, flat frigidus Eurus:
          Felices Zephyri nil ubi iuris habent.
Proque tuis ubi carminibus, philomela canora,
          Turpis in obscoena rana coaxat aqua.’

Parnell wrote:—

‘For fortune placed me in unfertile ground;
Far from the joys that with my soul agree,
From wit, from learning,—far, O far, from thee!
Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf,
Here half an acre’s corn is half a sheaf;
Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet,
Rocks at their side, and torrents at their feet;
Or lazy lakes, unconscious of a flood,
Whose dull brown Naiads ever sleep in mud.’

Eng. Poets, xxvii. 56.

For Fenton’s translation of two of Secundus’s Basia see ib. xxxv. 347-8.

Ib. p. 75. ‘The Night Piece on Death deserves every praise, and I should suppose, with very little amendment, might be made to surpass all those night pieces and churchyard scenes that have since appeared.’ Goldsmith, Works, iv. 143.
Post, Gray, 51.
See Appendix F.
Eng. Poets, xxvii. 64. It contains the line:—

‘We call it only pretty Fanny’s way.’

Ib. p. 70. An allusion in one of Johnson’s Letters (ii. 73) is explained by the following couplet in this poem:—

‘Jove talked of breeding him on high, An under-something of the sky.’

Johnson wrote:—‘Young Desmoulins is taken in an under-something of Drury Lane.’

‘A celebrated comedian and tavern-keeper.’
See Appendix G.
Goldsmith speaks of ‘that ease and sweetness for which his poetry is so much admired.’ Works, iv. 139. In his epitaph on him he writes:—

‘What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,

That leads to truth through pleasure’s flowery way!’

‘Led by some rule that guides, but not constrains,

And finish’d more through happiness than pains.’

Pope, Epistle to Mr. Jervas, l. 67.

Hume, contrasting simplicity with wit in poetry, says:—‘It is sufficient to run over Cowley once; but Parnell, after the fiftieth reading, is as fresh as at the first.’ Essays, 1770, i. 244.

Campbell praises his ‘correct and equable sweetness, … the select choice of his expression, the clearness and keeping of his imagery, and the pensive dignity of his moral feeling.’ British Poets, Preface, p. 86.

In the Gent. Mag. 1758, p. 282, Parnell’s Posthumous Works, just published, are treated as forgeries: ‘The volume consists of 286 pages, 202 of which contain the history of the Old Testament, in doggrel, scarce less contemptible than the bell-man’s. The rest consists of enthusiasm and indecency, that are not less disgusting than despicable.’

‘Some of his poems have been made public with very little credit to his reputation.’ Goldsmith, Works, iv. 142.

‘Gray, writing of the volume to Mason, said:—“Parnell is the dunghill of Irish Grub Street.”’ Gosse’s Gray, ii. 372; see also Pope’s Works (Elwin and Courthope), viii. 28.

*Sameul Johnson

Samuel Johnson was a towering figure of his time, known for his profound contributions to literature. His work spanned poetry, essays, and fiction, as well as significant scholarly achievements like editing Shakespeare’s works and compiling the first English dictionary. Johnson’s life and writings offer a rich tapestry of intellectual pursuit, personal challenges, and moral inquiry.

Early Life

Born on September 18, 1709, in Lichfield, Samuel Johnson was the son of Michael Johnson, an unsuccessful bookseller. He faced significant health challenges from infancy, contracting tuberculosis from a wet nurse, which led to partial blindness and deafness. Despite these adversities, he was a diligent self-student, using his father’s bookshop as his personal library. His early education was marked by success at Lichfield Grammar School, followed by a brief stint at Stourbridge Grammar School as both student and teacher. Johnson then entered Pembroke College, Oxford, where he was noted for his exceptional preparedness by his tutors. However, financial constraints forced him to leave without completing his degree in 1731.

References:

The Hermit

Parnell’s “The Hermit.” Here are good, citable starting points (with different angles):

Critical edition with notes. Collected Poems of Thomas Parnell, ed. Claude Rawson & F. P. Lock (University of Delaware Press, 1989). This is the standard scholarly text and includes commentary on “The Hermit.” udpress.udel.edueighteenthcenturypoetry.org
Author-study (chapter on “The Hermit”). Thomas M. Woodman, Thomas Parnell (Twayne’s English Authors Series, 1985). Concise monograph that treats “The Hermit” within Parnell’s Christian-didactic aims and its later “pre-romantic” reception. Google BookseNotes
Reception & illustration history. Nancy Finlay, “Parnell’s ‘Hermit’: Illustrations by Stothard,” The Scriblerian 18.1 (1985): 1–5. Useful for how the poem was visualized and circulated. scholarlypublishingcollective.org
Form & genre context. John W. Draper, “The Metrical Tale in XVIII-Century England,” PMLA 52.2 (1937): 390–97—situates Parnell’s narrative poem in the metrical-tale tradition. JSTOR
18th-century appraisal. Samuel Johnson’s Life of Parnell (in Lives of the Poets) comments directly on “The Hermit” and its narrative qualities—helpful for period taste and critique. Project GutenbergOnline Literature

For sources and analogues, scholars trace the tale through earlier prose versions and moral exempla: James Howell’s Familiar Letters and related traditions (picked up by period essayists) and medieval collections like the Gesta Romanorum; many also note clear parallels to the Qur’anic story of Moses and Khidr (Sura 18:60–82). These are valuable for comparative study of providence and “hidden justice.” Quod LibetInternet ArchiveWikisourceSimerg – Insights from Around the World