|
 BLACKLOCK,
THOMAS, an ingenious blind poet, was born, November 10th, 1721, at Annan;
his parents were natives of Cumberland, his father a bricklayer, and his
mother the daughter of Mr Richard Rae, an extensive cattle dealer. Before
he was six months old, he lost his sight in the small-pox; and was thus
rendered incapable of learning a mechanical trade, while the poor
circumstances to which a series of misfortunes had reduced his father,
placed equally beyond his reach an education for any of those professions
where the exercise of the mental faculties is principally required. His
affectionate parent seems to have been aware, however, that the happiness
of his son, shut out from so many of the enjoyments afforded by the
external world, must mainly depend upon his intellectual resources; and in
order to form these, he devoted part of his leisure hours to such
instruction as his poor blind boy was susceptible of—he read to him, at
first the books adapted to the understanding of a child, and afterwards
those fitted for a maturer capacity, such as Milton, Spenser, Prior, Pope,
and Addison. His companions also, who pitied his want of sight, and loved
him for his gentle disposition, lent their assistance in this task of
kindness; and by their help he acquired some little knowledge of Latin.
Thomson and Allan Ramsay were his favourite authors; and it was as early
as his twelfth year that he evinced still more decidedly his love of the
poetical art by the composition of an ode, addressed "To a little
Girl whom I had offended,"—a production not remarkable solely on
account of the future celebrity of its author, but because it displays at
once his mildness of temper and lively fancy. The argument that
shrewishness spoils a young lady’s looks, and ought therefore to be
avoided, coming as it does from a little fellow of twelve to a girl about
his own age, is adroitly managed:
"Should but thy fair
companions view
How ill that frown becomes thy brow,
With fear and grief in every eye,
Each would to each, astonished, cry,
Heavens! where is all her sweetness flown!—
How strange a figure now she’s grown!
Run, Nancy, let us run, lest we
Grow pettish awkward things as she."
Thus early did Blacklock
show, that in the course of reading chosen for him, his father had not
mistaken the bent of his inclination. But though, as we have mentioned,
some of his comrades delighted to forward his favourite studies, and, by
their assiduous attentions, to make him forget the deprivation under which
he laboured, there were others who took pleasure in rendering him bitterly
conscious of his misfortune, and exulted in the success of such practical
jokes, as it was easy to make him the subject of. It is but too obvious
that his own experience at this period, when exposed to the insults of
unfeeling boys, suggested the reflection introduced in the article
"Blind," afterwards written by him for the Encyclopaeodia
Britannica: "Parents of middle or of higher rank," he there
remarks, "who are so unfortunate as to have blind children, ought by
all possible means to keep them out of vulgar company. The herd of mankind
have a wanton malignity which eternally impels them to impose upon the
blind, and to enjoy the painful situations in which these impositions
place them. This is a stricture upon the humanity of our species, which
nothing but the love of truth and the dictates of benevolence could have
extorted from us. But we have known some," he adds, evidently
referring to himself, "who have suffered so much from this diabolical
mirth in their own persons, that it is natural for us, by all the means in
our power, to prevent others from becoming its victims." The very
means taken to alleviate Blacklock’s misfortune in some sort increased
its force; for as his mind expanded, it taught him to feel with greater
keenness his own dependent condition: familiar with some of the noblest
flights of genius, and himself become a poet, he would probably have
exchanged all his intellectual stores for the ability of earning his bread
by handicraft labour. Lamenting his blindness, he thus closes an
enumeration of the miseries it entailed upon him:
"Nor end my sorrows
here: The sacred fane
Of knowledge, scarce accessible to me,
With heart-consuming anguish I behold:
Knowledge for which my soul insatiate burns
With ardent thirst. Nor can these useless hands,
Untutor’d in each life-sustaining art,
Nourish this wretched being, and supply
Frail nature’s wants, that short cessation know."
Alternately depressed by a
sense of his own helplessness, and comforted by that piety with which he
seems to have been from first to last most deeply imbued, Blacklock lived
at home till his nineteenth year. A fresh misfortune then overtook him in
the loss of his father, who was crushed to death by the fall of a
malt-kiln, with eighty bushels of grain upon it, belonging to his
son-in-law. Blacklock’s affection for his parents must have exceeded
that of other children; for that anxious solicitude about his safety and
comfort which other boys begin to forget, when the business of the world
removes them from its immediate influence, had been to him extended over
those years when to the helplessness of a child he added the sense and
feelings of a man. To his keenly susceptible mind this stroke must
therefore have been peculiarly afflicting. And it was attended not only
with regret on account of remembered benefits, but also by the
anticipation of future evils. A means of livelihood was indeed suggested
by Blacklock’s love of music: as he played well on the violin and flute,
and even composed pieces with taste, it was proposed that he should follow
this art as a profession. "But the unhappy situation in which he was
then placed," says the authority upon which this statement is given,
[An article in the Gentleman’s Magazine, which, after being read over to
Dr Blacklock, slightly altered, and two notes added at his request, was
reprinted in the Scots Magazine for 1754. The authority may therefore be
considered to be that of Dr Blacklock himself. From internal evidence it
appears very certain, that this article was a contribution to Mr Urban
from his frequent correspondent Dr Johnson.] "made him dread
consequences to which he could never reconcile his mind. The very thought
that his time and talents should be prostrated to the forwarding of loose
mirth and riot inspired him with an honest indignation." Unable to
bring down his mind to this occupation,—the only one which seemed within
his reach,—deprived of the stay on which he had hitherto leaned, blind
and feeble, no wonder that the fate of a houseless beggar sometimes
presented itself as what might possibly happen to himself. Burns
occasionally indulged in similar forebodings; but when he depicts his
unhappy fortune, and doggedly exclaims,
"The last o’t, the
warst o’t,
Is only but to beg!"
we must be excused for
iron-heartedly recollecting that he was an able-bodied man, who, as his
brother Gilbert records, never met with his match in mowing— the hardest
of all rustic labour. A man so gifted, yet so complaining, meets with
little sympathy, as he is entitled to none: but with poor Blacklock the
dread of dying a houseless wanderer was more than a mere rhetorical
flourish or the indulgence of a groundless querulousness. While we read
the lines in which he unfolds his fears, we perceive that anguish wrung
his heart in writing them, and we know that his situation justified his
apprehensions.
Dejecting prospect! soon the
hapless hour
May come perhaps this moment it impends—
Which drives me forth, to penury and cold,
Naked, and beat by all the storms of heaven,
Friendless and guideless to explore my way;
Till on cold earth this poor unsheltered head
Reclining, vainly from the ruthless blast
Respite I beg, and in the shock expire."
Although gloomy
anticipations like these sometimes intruded, Blacklock did not permit them
to overwhelm him, but calming his fears, and resting with a pious
confidence in the awards of a protecting Providence, he continued to live
with his mother for a year after his father’s death.
Some of his poems had by
this time got abroad and made him known beyond his own immediate circle of
friends. We shall not pretend to deny that the circumstance of his
blindness had some effect, in addition to the intrinsic merits of these
productions, in making them be sought after and dispersed among literary
persons. On account of their being the verses of a blind poet, they were
no doubt read by many who were little able to appreciate their real
excellencies, and who, having gratified their curiosity, did not concern
themselves about the condition of the author: but still by this means the
fame of Blacklock’s genius was extended; and at last it reached a
gentleman, who to curiosity added benevolence of heart. This was Dr John
Stevenson, a physician in Edinburgh, who, while on a professional visit in
Dumfries, saw some of our author’s pieces, and resolved to afford the
young man’s talents the opportunity of expanding in avocations and amid
society more congenial to one so much restricted to pleasures of an
intellectual kind. Accordingly Blacklock was, in 1741, induced to remove
to the metropolis, where he attended a grammar-school for some time, and
afterwards entered as a student in the college, Dr Stevenson supplying him
with the means necessary for the prosecution of his studies. To the friend
who thus so efficaciously patronized him, he afterwards inscribed an
imitation of the ode to Macenas, which occupies the first place in his
poems, as it does in those of Horace; and that he never forgot the
benefits bestowed upon himself is manifested by the ready zeal which his
future life at all times displayed for the encouragement of unnoticed
genius.
Blacklock’s studies were
interrupted by the expedition of the Highlanders, in 1745; and during the
distractions consequent upon that memorable campaign he resided in
Dumfries with Mr M’Murdo, his brother-in-law. On the re-establishment of
peace, he returned to college, and studied six years more. In this period
he acquired a good knowledge of all those branches of education where he
was not hindered by the want of sight; and became better skilled than was
common in the French language, from being on habits of intimacy with the
family of provost Alexander, whose wife was a Parisian. It may well
inspire wonder that latterly there was no science with which Blacklock had
not made himself acquainted—no learned language which he did not master—and
no modern tongue, of any acknowledged use to a man of general literature,
with which he was not more or less familiar.
Amid the severer studies of
classical learning, philosophy, and theology, his attachment to poetry was
not forgotten. In 1746, a volume of his verses in 8vo. was published at
Glasgow. A second edition followed at Edinburgh, in 1754; and two years
afterwards, a quarto edition, with an account of his life by Mr Spence,
professor of poetry at Oxford, came out by subscription in London. In the
selection of pieces for the press, Blacklock was by his friends considered
to be over fastidious; and by persisting to exclude what he himself
thought unworthy of a place, he greatly limited the size of his books. By
the London edition a considerable sum was realized for the author’s
advantage. Besides these editions of his poems, another in 4to. was
published in 1793, with a life elegantly written by Henry Mackenzie. They
have also been reprinted in the collections of Anderson and Chalmers. Of
all these the edition of Dr Anderson, though not the latest, is the most
complete.
Hume the historian was
among the friends who early interested themselves in the fortunes of
Blacklock, and was of considerable service in promoting the subscription
to the London edition of his poems; but all intercourse between them was
subsequently broken off. When at a later period Beattie submitted to our
author’s judgment his "Essay on the Immutability of Moral
Sentiment," and acquainted him with the more extensive plan of the
"Essay on Truth," stating that, in the prosecution of that
design, he should think it his duty to treat Mr Hume with freedom, he
alluded to that eminent philosopher as "a friend of yours." This
drew from Blacklock a long account of the intercourse between himself and
Hume, from its commencement to its close. The interruption of their good
understanding took place, as Sir William Forbes, who saw the letter among
Beattie’s papers, informs us, "through no fault on the part of Dr
Blacklock ; but the letter itself has never been published,—which is to
be regretted, because it might afford some farther insight than we possess
into a character round which Hume has drawn the screen of an impenetrable
autobiography. It is also desirable that the real circumstances of the
connexion should be known, as it has been the means, in the hands of
Hardy, author of the Memoirs of Lord Charlemont, of throwing a most
disagreeable reflection upon the memory of Blacklock. This writer affirms
that Hume conferred upon him the salary which he derived from an office in
the university—meaning, probably, the Advocates’ Library; while, from
the numerous impossibilities and obvious errors of the statement, it may
be pretty confidently assumed, that the whole is destitute of truth.
The course of study
followed by Blacklock at college was that usually gone through for the
purpose of entering upon the ministry; but it was not till after the
abandonment of a project, (which he began to entertain in 1757, and from
which he was dissuaded by Mr Hume, after making considerable preparations
towards it,) for delivering lectures on oratory, that he finally adopted
the resolution of becoming a clergyman. Having applied himself for some
time exclusively to the necessary studies, he was licensed as a preacher
by the presbytery of Dumfries, in 1759. He soon acquired considerable
reputation as a pulpit orator, and took great delight in composing
sermons, a considerable number of which he left behind him: these it was
at one time the intention of his friends to publish; but for some reason
or other this has never been done.
The Rev. Mr Jameson,
Blacklock’s intimate companion, to whom allusion is more than once made
in his poems, has given the following account of his habits about this
time: "His manner of life was so uniform, that the history of
it during one day, or one week, is the history of it during the seven
years that our intercourse lasted. Reading, music, walking, conversing,
and disputing on various topics, in theology, ethics, &c., employed
almost every hour of our time. It was pleasant to hear him engaged in a
dispute; for no man could keep his temper better than he always did on
such occasions. I have known him frequently very warmly engaged for hours
together, but never could observe one angry word to fall from him.
Whatever his antagonist might say, he always kept his temper. He
was, however, extremely sensible to what he thought ill usage, and equally
so whether it regarded himself or his friends. But his resentment was
always confined to a few satirical verses, which were generally burnt soon
after. The late Mr Spence (the editor of the 4to. edition of his poems)
frequently urged him to write a tragedy, and assured him that he possessed
interest enough with Mr Garrick to get it acted. Various subjects were
proposed to him, several of which he approved, yet he never could be
prevailed on to begin any thing of that kind. It may seem remarkable, but
as far as I know, it was invariably the case, that he never could think or
write on any subject proposed to him by another. I have frequently admired
with what readiness and rapidity he could make verses. I have known him
dictate from thirty to forty verses, and by no means bad ones, as fast as
I could write them; but the moment he was at a loss for a rhyme or a verse
to his liking, he stopt altogether, and could very seldom be induced to
finish what he had begun with so much ardour."
"All those who ever
acted as his amanuenses," says Mackenzie, "agree in this
rapidity and ardour of composition which Mr Jameson ascribes to him. He
never could dictate till he stood up; and as his blindness made walking
about without assistance inconvenient or dangerous to him, he fell
insensibly into a vibratory sort of motion of his body, which increased as
he warmed with his subject, and was pleased with the conceptions of his
mind. This motion at last became habitual to him; and though he could
sometimes restrain it when on ceremony, or in any public appearance, such
as preaching, he felt a certain uneasiness from the effort, and always
returned to it when he could indulge it without impropriety. This is the
appearance which he describes in the ludicrous picture he has drawn of
himself:
—"As some vessel
tossed by wind and tide
Bounds o’er the waves, and rocks from side to side,
In just vibration thus I always move."
Much of the singularity in
the gestures of poor Blacklock must have proceeded from his inability to
observe the carriage of others, and to regulate his own in conformity with
theirs: a tree will accommodate its growth to the restraints imposed upon
it, but where a single branch escapes from the artificial training,
flinging itself abroad in all the wild vigour of nature, its tufted
luxuriance appears more striking from the contiguity of a well-clipt and
orderly neighbourhood. Such was Blacklock’s manner: he could not know
with how little outward discomposure the world has taught men to accompany
the expression of their emotions; and with him ardent feeling produced an
unrestrained effect upon the countenance and gestures. The author of
Douglas, in one of his letters, has given a curious picture of his
singular appearance when under strong excitement: "I went to a
companion’s," says Home, "and sent for the blind poet, who is
really a strange creature to look at—a small weakly under thing—a
chilly, bloodless animal, that shivers at every breeze. But if nature has
cheated him in one respect, by assigning to his share forceless sinews,
and a ragged form, she has made him ample compensation on the other, by
giving him a mind endued with the most exquisite feelings—the most
ardent, kindled-up affections; a soul, to use a poet’s phrase, that’s
tremblingly alive all over: in short, he is the most flagrant enthusiast I
ever saw; when he repeats verses, he is not able to keep his seat, but
springs to his feet, and shows his rage by the most animated motions. He
has promised to let me have copies of his best poems, which I will
transmit to you whenever he is as good as his word."
This letter, besides the
description of Blacklock’s exterior and carriage, opens to us one source
of his acutest sufferings: we have already adverted to the unthinking
insults to which his blindness exposed him while a boy, and it appears but
too certain that many who had arrived, at manhood in respect of their
outward frame, did not treat him with greater tenderness in his maturer
years. They did not, perhaps, decoy him to the edge of a ditch that they
might have the satisfaction of seeing him flounder into it, or offer
prickles to his grasp that they might be diverted by the contortions of
countenance which the unexpected wounds occasioned; but they went to see
the blind poet, and induced him to recite his verses, from the same kind
of motive that takes people to witness the exhibition of a learned pig.
Blacklock’s position in regard to such visitors was peculiarly painful:
he was in a great measure dependant upon his talents for support; and to
have indignantly refused to display them, would have been to raise up
obstacles to his own success. His feelings were at the same time the most
nicely wrought, and even the triumphs of genius did not afford him perfect
gratification; for he knew that his hearers were not carried away by his
enthusiasm, but listened with a cold and critical attention, noting every
peculiarity of tone, look, and gesture. He has himself told us how
exquisitely painful was the consciousness of being the object of such
unfeeling curiosity:
—"the supercilious
eye
Oft, from the noise and glare of prosperous life,
On my obscurity diverts its gaze,
Exulting; and with wanton pride elate
Felicitates its own superior lot:
Inhuman triumph!"
A letter of Blacklock,
written from Dumfries about the time when he received his licence as a
preacher, admits us to a very near view of his remarkable sensibility of
temperament. It does not appear what were the circumstances alluded to in
this letter; but probably the connexion mentioned as having just been
formed, was a declaration of mutual attachment and promise of marriage
between our poet and his future wife, which he calls ill-fated, on account
of his gloomy prospects, and his regret for having involved one whom he
loved in his own unhappy fortunes. This letter is as follows:
"DEAR SIR,—I
received your last inclosed to Mr —; and so far as my situation was
capable of being consoled, I was happy in the tenderness and sympathy
which you express for me. Beneath those exalted pleasures which we are
taught to expect in an eternal state; beneath the enjoyment of God
himself; I know no happiness which deserves the attention of a wise man,
but such as we derive from conscious virtue, benevolence, or friendship.
These alone are at present the cordial drops with which heaven has thought
proper to mix my cup of bitterness. Since every object of my former
pursuit eludes my embrace, or grows insipid by enjoyment, it is time to
anticipate such pleasures as are subject to neither of these misfortunes,
and to cultivate a relish for them. Fate and nature tell me that I must
quickly make my exit from this present scene; they never could send this
information to a heart less intimidated by it. I approach the verge of my
present existence, not with the reluctance of inexperienced youth, not
with the horrors of guilt and superstition, but with the cheerfulness of a
wearied traveller, in prospect of the chamber destined for his repose.
From this account it will be easy to judge how much I would prize, or how
eagerly pursue any civil or ecclesiastical employment were it in my power;
but far from being so, it is beyond my remotest hopes;—all access to
every resource whence these advantages are derived is denied to me. I have
neither power nor influence in life, and am consequently incapable of
interesting any who have it. There are evils which may be suffered without
mortification; yet, let me confess it, there are others which I cannot
think of without being melted to infantine weakness. In my former I told
you that I had projected one last resource, and made one last effort for
happiness: had I then foreseen the weakness of my constitution, and the
unhappiness of my circumstances, sooner would I have run any hazard which
this or any future scene can present, than have ventured to form such an
ill-fated connexion. It is true that those who are interested in me,
persuaded either by my looks, or the present degree of strength which I
seem to possess, flatter themselves, or are willing to flatter me, that
any present indisposition will not prove decisive; such is the opinion of
the lady formerly mentioned. I have endeavoured to impress her with
contrary sentiments, that the friendship between us might be dissolved
without tearing: but I had reason to lament my success; for in proportion
to her sense of my danger, which, after my return from Edinburgh, was
pretty high, her whole manner, not to me only, but to all her other
friends, appeared expressive of dejection and misery. I had not resolution
to continue my former plan, but used every possible argument to persuade
her of my returning health; and though conscious of acting a wrong part in
this, I have not sufficient strength of mind to act a right one. This is
my present situation of mind: I know it is what I ought not to have
discovered to one of your humanity, nor can I pretend any other apology,
but that I apply to the last and most natural resource of wretchedness,
the sympathy of a friend. It is all I ask; it is all I hope; and it is
what I am sure to obtain. Pray, tell me whether your brother prosecutes
the same business with you, or whether friends in the country may not have
it in their power to serve him? The precaution in my former concerning the
balance of accounts between us was not taken from any fear of its
appealing against my relations, but that you might recover it with greater
ease from myself during mine own life. Once more I must ask pardon for the
length and subject of this letter; but if you continue to favour me as a
correspondent, my future answers shall be less tedious and more
cheerful. As you are now more disengaged from secular business, the
demands of your friends to hear from you will proportionably increase; and
as you have now long taught me to think myself of that number, I can no
more resign the claim which it gives than the tenderness which it
inspires,—a tenderness which shall ever be felt in the highest degree,
by your most sincere friend, and humble servant,
"Dumfries, 15th April,
1759. THOMAS BLACKLOCK."
In 1762, the Earl of
Selkirk procured from the Crown a presentation to the parish of
Kirkcudbright in favour of Mr Blacklock; who, having thus the prospect of
a competent income, married Mrs Sarah Johnston, daughter of Mr Joseph
Johnston, surgeon in Dumfries. But though not disappointed in the
happiness he expected to derive from this union, the gleam of fortune
which seems to have induced him to form it, forsook him immediately after
the step was taken. He was ordained a few days after his marriage; but the
people of the parish refused, on account of his blindness, to acknowledge
him as their pastor, and a lawsuit was commenced, which, after two years,
was compromised by Blacklock retiring upon a moderate annuity. From the
first moment of opposition, it had been his wish to make this arrangement,
not from any conviction of incompetency to the duties of a parish
minister, but because he saw it was needless to contend against a
prejudice so strongly maintained. "Civil and ecclesiastical
employments," he says, "have something either in their own
nature, or in the invincible prejudices of mankind, which renders them
almost entirely inaccessible to those who have lost the use of sight. No
liberal and cultivated mind can entertain the least hesitation in
concluding that there is nothing, either in the nature of things, or even
in the positive institutions of genuine religion, repugnant to the idea of
a blind clergyman. But the novelty of the phenomenon, while it astonishes
vulgar and contracted understandings, inflames their zeal to rage and
madness." His own experience, it is evident, suggested this
observation. Blindness is certainly not in itself a sufficient reason for
debarring those afflicted, with it from the ministerial office; it does
not incapacitate a man for the acquirement of the requisite knowledge, nor
exclude from his bosom the glow of holy zeal. On the contrary, worldly
cares and ambition are not so apto intrude. "The attention of the
soul, confined to those avenues of perception which she can command, is
neither dissipated nor confounded by the immense multiplicity, or the
rapid succession of surrounding objects. Hence her contemplations are more
uniformly fixed upon herself, and the revolution of her own internal
frame," [Encyclopedia Britannica, article Blind, 10.] and
hence a greater fitness in her for the growth of devotion. The want of
sight would, indeed, put inconveniences in the way of a clergyman’s
intercourse with his parishioners, but they are small; and it is not easy
to conceive any thing more affecting and impressive than for those in the
full enjoyment of their faculties to hear lessons of submission to the
divine will, and of gratitude for the blessings of providence, from the
mouth of one upon whom the hand of God has been laid. Such were not,
however, the opinions of those with whom Blacklock had to deal; and he
acquiesced. This effort could not but be painful; the sense of exclusion
from all the business of life had long oppressed him, and the moment that
patronage was extended towards him, and opened the prospect of public
usefulness, he was assailed by a persecution, which rejected him as
incompetent to the duties for which other men are fit, and drove him back
to his former state of dependence and seclusion. It is probably to the
period when he experienced so determined an opposition from the people of
Kirkcudbright, that we are to refer the composition of his Paraclesis; for
he informs us in the preface that his motive for writing that work was
"to alleviate the pressure of repeated disappointments, to soothe his
anguish for the loss of departed friends, to elude the rage of implacable
and unprovoked enemies,—in a word, to support his own mind, which, for a
number of years, besides its literary difficulties and its natural
disadvantages, had maintained an incessant conflict with fortune." At
no other period but that above referred to, are we aware that Blacklock
was the object of any thing like an angry feeling.
On the day of Mr Blacklock’s
ordination was afforded, in his person, an instance of sleep-walking,
perhaps the most remarkable and complicated on record. As such the reader
may be pleased to see an account of it as it is preserved in Dr Cleghorn’s
thesis De Somno, which was published in Blacklock’s own lifetime
(in 1783). The facts were authenticated by Mrs Blacklock, Mr Gilbert
Gordon, [Author of the Short Account of the Life and Writings of Blacklock,
prefixed in the second edition of his poems, 1754.] and a
numerous party of friends who dined with him at the inn of Kirkcudbright
on the occasion in question. "Harassed by the censures of the
populace," says Dr Cleghorn, "whereby not only his reputation,
but his very subsistence was endangered, and fatigued with mental
exertion, Blacklock fell asleep after dinner. Some hours afterwards he was
called by a friend, answered his salutation, rose and went into the
dining-room, where his friends were met. He joined with two of them in a
concert, singing tastefully as usual, and without missing a word. He ate
an egg to supper, and drank some wine, and other liquors. His friends,
however, observed him to be a little absent. By and bye he began to speak
to himself; but in so low a tone, and so confusedly, as to be
unintelligible. At last, being pretty forcibly roused, he awoke with a
sudden start, unconscious of all that had happened." We have no
example of a person in sleep performing so many of the functions of one
awake, and in so exact a manner, as Blacklock is here stated to have done.
He spoke, walked, sung, took wine, and must have observed with accuracy
many of the little courtesies of social life; for his friends did not
suspect that he was asleep till he began to talk to himself. The time,
however, was convenient for so unusual an exhibition; and perhaps many
other somnambulists would join in the occupations or amusements of those
around them, if the world were astir when they make their rounds.
Circumstances, however, are quite different in ordinary cases; the person
gets up when all others are at rest, and performs one or two acts, to
which his half-awakened fancy impels him, without being involved, as it
were, in any current of events extraneous to himself, which, by the habit
of association, might have led him on to other mechanical exertions of the
mental or bodily faculties; thus the original excitement, receiving no
casual addition, soon expends itself, and allows him to relapse into
slumber. Blacklock, on the contrary, when partially roused, found the
business of life in progress, and was drawn on from one act to another in
the usual course, no excitement occurring strong enough wholly to burst
the bonds of sleep. "This intermediate state between sleeping and
waking, when part of the faculties are alert and active, and the other
part entirely dormant, may be approached from either confine; and whether
from sleeping we become half awake, or from waking fall half asleep, the
effects are strikingly similar. Many instances of what is called absence,
or reverie, disclose phenomena equally surprising with those of
somnambulism; and a comparison between them would probably afford the best
means of explaining both. A contemporary of Blacklock, the author of the
"Wealth of Nations," was in the habit, when awake, of doing
things as unaccountable as the blind poet is above stated to have done
when asleep.
In 1764, after the
connexion between him and the parish of Kirkcudbrigbt was dissolved in the
manner we have mentioned, Blacklock removed to Edinburgh, where he
received boarders into his house, [He occupied the two upper flats of a
house at the west end of West Nicolson Street, looking towards St Cuthbert’s
Chapel of Ease burying ground.] superintending the studies of
those who chose to have such assistance. "In this occupation,"
says Mackenzie, "no teacher was perhaps ever more agreeable to his
pupils, nor master of a family to its inmates, than Dr Blacklock. The
gentleness of his manners, the benignity of his disposition, and that warm
interest in the happiness of others which led him so constantly to promote
it, were qualities that could not fail to procure him the love and regard
of the young people committed to his charge; while the society which
esteem and respect for his character and his genius often assembled at his
house, afforded them an advantage rarely to be found in establishments of
a similar kind. The writer of this account has frequently been witness of
the family scene at Dr Blacklock’s; has seen the good man amidst the
circle of his young friends, eager to do him all the little offices of
kindness which he seemed so much to merit and to feel. In this society he
appeared entirely to forget the privation of sight, and the melancholy
which, at other times, it might produce. He entered with the cheerful
playfulness of a young man into all the sprightly narrative, the sportful
fancy, the humorous jest, that rose around him. It was a sight highly
gratifying to philanthropy to see how much a mind endowed with knowledge,
kindled by genius, and above all, lighted up with innocence and piety,
like Blacklock’s, could overcome the weight of its own calamity, and
enjoy the content, the happiness, the gaiety of others. Several of those
inmates of Dr Blacklock’s house retained, in future life, all the warmth
of that impression which his friendship at this early period had made upon
them; and in various quarters of the world he had friends and
correspondents from whom no length of time, or distance of place, had ever
estranged him."
In these hours of social
relaxation, Blacklock found one of the greatest pleasures of his
existence. Music also afforded him a lively gratification; for he sung
with taste, and performed tolerably well on several instruments,
particularly on the flute. He had learned to play on the flageolet in
consequence of a dream in which he supposed himself to listen to the most
enchanting melody, produced by a shepherd on a hillside from that
instrument; and he always carried one in his pocket, on which he was by no
means averse from being asked to perform,—"a natural feeling,"
says Mackenzie, "for a blind man, who thus adds a scene to the drama
of his society." We have already alluded to his skill in composition,
which was begun early at least, if it was not very assiduously cultivated.
There is a specimen of his abilities in this way in the Edinburgh Magazine
and Review for 1774, under the title of "Absence, a Pastoral, set to
music, by Dr Blacklock."
Blacklock’s friendship
with Beattie commenced about a year after his return from Kirkcudbright
to Edinburgh. The first letter from the opponent of Hume, dated in 1765,
expresses satisfaction that the present of a copy of our author’s poems
had at last afforded the opportunity of establishing an acquaintance. The
correspondence was for some time kept up with great regularity by Beattie,
who, when the composition of the "Minstrel" had not advanced
beyond a few stanzas, explained his plan to the blind bard. The progress
of a work of still greater importance was confided to Blacklock. The
"Essay on the Immutability of Moral Sentiment" having been
perused and approved by him, the more extensive plan and object of the
"Essay on Truth" was also disclosed; and that he was pleased
with the design, and encouraged the author to proceed, may be understood
from what afterwards took place: on the publication of the work, it was
thought necessary, by Beattie’s friends, that an analysis of it, giving
a brief and popular view of the manner in which the subject was treated,
should be inserted in the newspapers; and "this task," Sir
William Forbes says, "Dr Blacklock undertook, and executed [Edinburgh
Evening Courant, 2d June, 1770.] with much ability." On Blacklock’s
part this literary intercourse was cultivated by allowing Beattie the
perusal of a translation of the "Cenie" of D’Happoncourt de
Grafigny, which he had made under the title of "Seraphina." This
play was not intended to be either printed or brought on the stage; but
the translator appears to have been under some apprehensions, in
consequence of the proceedings in regard to "Douglas," that, if
his having engaged in such a work should come to be known, it might draw
upon him the censure of the church courts, or at least, of the more rigid
ecclesiastics. We find Dr Beattie exhorting him not to be afraid of
meeting with Mr Home’s treatment; for that "to translate a dramatic
poem could never be made to be on a footing with composing one and
bringing it on the stage." This is but indifferent logic, we are
afraid, and marvellously resembles that of certain schoolboys, who,
ambitious of rendering their discourse more emphatic by the admixture of
oaths, yet dreading to swear the common English kind, think themselves
secure in adopting a few out of the learned languages, or in spelling if
they do not pronounce them. Whether Blacklock was satisfied with his
friend’s reasoning, or if he took a different view of the case, and
considered that, though there might be some risk, there was no harm in the
dramatic form of composition, does not appear; but he ventured beyond
translation, and actually wrote a tragedy, of which, however, the subject
and merits are alike unknown, as it had been put into the hands of Mr
Andrew Crosbie, advocate, and could never be recovered. It is probable
that the suggestion of Dr Beattie procured for our author from the college
of Aberdeen the degree of D. D. in 1767. After time publication of the
"Essay on Truth" and of the "Minstrel" had introduced
him to a literary acquaintance much more extensive than he previously
enjoyed, we do not find that Beattie cultivated Blacklock’s
correspondence with the same assiduity as before; but he never ceased to
love and respect him, which is manifested by the epitaph which the
afflictions of his own later years did not prevent him from writing for
his friend.
Finding that his increasing
years and infirmities required repose, Dr Blacklock discontinued the
keeping of boarders in 1787. But though his bodily vigour began to fail,
he experienced no diminution of that benevolence which had ever
characterised him. His own genius having been greatly indebted to
patronage, he was ever ready to acknowledge it in others, and especially
to cultivate and bring it into reputation where he found it struggling
with obscurity. Nor were his efforts for this purpose confined to
occasional acts of liberality—they were laborious and long-continued. He
had taken a boy from a village near Carlisle to lead him, and perceiving
in the youth a willingness to learn, taught him Latin, Greek, and French,
and having thus fitted him for a station superior to that in which he was
born, procured for him the situation of secretary to Lord Milton, who was
chief active manager of state affairs in Scotland for many years. This
young man was Richard Hewitt, known to the admirer of Scottish song as the
author of "Roslin Castle." Hewitt testified his gratitude to his
instructor by a copy of complimentary verses, in every line of which may
be traced the chief excellence of compositions of that description –
sincerity; but he did not long enjoy his change of fortune, having
died in 1764 from the fatigue of the office to which he had been elevated.
But we find a still more
eminent example of Blacklock’s solicitude to promote the interests of
the sons of genius, in his being the first man among the literary circles
of Edinburgh who appreciated the poetry of Burns, (perhaps, indeed,
because he had the earliest opportunity of becoming acquainted with it,
and kindled in the author the ambition of a prize beyond that of
provincial fame. The Rev. Mr Lawrie of Newmills had transmitted to
Blacklock a copy of the Kilmarnock edition of Burns’ poems. It is not
easy for a modern reader to understand with what wonder and delight
Blacklock must have perused them. In our time, the pleasure felt from his
most perfect pieces is damped by the recollection of their author’s
melancholy fate. What reflecting mind can turn from the perusal of the
"Mountain Daisy" with any other feeling than one of sorrow that
Burns was not a better and a happier man? But while his career was yet to
run, with what enviable anticipations must such a perusal have inspired a
generous heart! Here was poetry the purest and most genuine: he who
produced it was of no note; but to what a high place in his country’s
esteem might he not rise! The world was then all before him, and he
capable of attaining whatever fame the most ardent imagination could
desire. With calmness, yet with energy, the enthusiastic Blacklock
indicated his own admiration and the certainty of the poet’s future
fame:—" many instances," he wrote to Mr Lawrie, "have I
seen of nature’s force and beneficence exerted under numerous and
formidable disadvantages; but none equal to that with which you have been
kind enough to present me. There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious
poems, a vein of wit and humour in those of a more festive turn, which
cannot be too much admired nor too warmly approved. I think I shall never
open the book without feeling my astonishment renewed and increased.—It
were much to be wished, for the sake of the young man, that a second
edition, more numerous than the former, could immediately be printed; as
it appears certain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertion of the
author’s friends, might give it a more universal circulation than any
thing of the kind which has been published within my memory."—"I
had taken the last farewell of my few friends," says Burns; "my
chest was on the road to Greenock; I had composed the last song I should
ever measure in Scotland—‘The Gloomy night is gathering fast’—when
a letter from Dr Blacklock to a friend of mine overthrew all my schemes,
by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. The Doctor belonged to a
set of critics for whose applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion
that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition,
fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a single
acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction."—"Blacklock
received him," says Dr Currie, "with all the ardour of
affectionate admiration; he eagerly introduced him to the respectable
circle of his friends; he consulted his interest; he emblazoned his fame;
he lavished upon him all the kindness of a generous and feeling heart,
into which nothing selfish or envious ever found admittance."—"In
Dr Blacklock," Burns himself writes to Mr Lawrie, "In Dr
Blacklock, whom I see very often, I have found what I would have expected
in our friend,—a clear head and an excellent heart." It is not our
business, in this place, to trace Burns’s career farther. Dr Blacklock’s
duty towards him was performed, when he had bestowed upon him every mark
of private regard, and consigned him to the care of more influential
patrons. After Burns retired to the country, some letters passed between
them, which, on Dr Blacklock’s part, show how very poorly a remarkably
sensible man could write when he had little to say, and thought to
compensate for the meagreness of his subject by elevating it into rhyme.
Besides the miscellaneous
poems by which Dr Blacklock is best known as an author, he
published several other works. In 1756 he gave to the world an "Essay
towards Universal Etymology ;" in 1760, " The Right Improvement
of Time, a Sermon;" in the ensuing year another sermon,
entitled "Faith, Hope, and Charity compared." In 1767 appeared
his " Paraclesis; or Consolations deduced from Natural and Revealed
Religion," in two dissertations, the first supposed to be Cicero’s,
translated by Dr Blacklock,—the other written by himself. This work, to
use the author’s own touching words, "was begun and pursued by its
author, to divert wakeful and melancholy hours, which the recollection of
past misfortunes, and the sense of present inconveniences, would otherwise
have severely embittered." He endeavours, but without success, to
prove the authenticity of the dissertation ascribed to Cicero, which he
has translated with fidelity and elegance: the object of the original
discourse is to prove the superiority of the consolations afforded by
revealed religion. In 1768, he printed "Two Discourses on the Spirit
and Evidences of Christianity," translated from the French of Mr
James Armand. To this work he prefixed a long dedication to the Moderator
of the General Assembly. In 1773 appeared his "Panegyric on Great
Britain," which shows him to have possessed considerable talents for
satire had he chosen to pursue that species of writing. His last
production was in 1774, "The Graham, an Heroic Ballad, in Four
Cantos;" intended to promote a good understanding between the natives
of England and Scotland. He contributed to the Encyclopedia Britannica, in
1783, the article Blind—a little treatise of peculiar interest, which we
have had occasion to quote in the present account of its author. He is
also said to have written the Essay on Poetry, and others on various
subjects in the same work. Dr Blacklock left behind him in manuscript some
volumes of sermons, and a Treatise on Morals.
In his latter years our
author was occasionally afflicted with deafness—in his case a double
calamity, as at the periods when it visited him, he was in a manner shut
out from all communication with the external world. In this forlorn
condition—old, blind, and sometimes deaf—it was more difficult for him
than formerly to bear up against the depression of spirits to which he had
always been more or less subject; but his gentleness of temper never
forsook him, and though he could not altogether avoid complaint, he was
not loath to discover and state some alleviating circumstance along with
it. He died from fever after a week’s illness, on the 7th July, 1791,
and was buried in the ground of St Cuthbert’s Chapel of Ease, where
there is a tombstone erected, with the following inscription by Dr
Beattie:— "Viro Reverendo Thomae Blacklock, D. D. [The classical
reader will easily detect a fault here – Divinitatis Doctor!
Which, it may be remarked, was also committed on one occasion by Dr Adam.]
Probo, Pio, Benevolo, Omnigent Doctrina Erudito, Poetae sublimi; ab
incunabului usque oculis capto, at hilari, faceto, amicisque semper
carissimo; qui natus xxi Novemb. MDCCXX. obiit VII Julii, MDCCXCI: Hoc
Monumentum Vidua ejus Sara Johnston, moerens P."
It has been said of Dr
Blacklock that "he never lost a friend, nor made a foe;" and
perhaps no literary man ever passed through life so perfectly free from
envious feeling, and so entirely respected and beloved. His conversation
was lively and entertaining; his wit was acknowledged, but it had
no tinge of malice; his temper was gentle, his feelings warm—intense;
his whole character was one to which may be applied the epithet
amiable, without any qualification. We do not deny him the merit of this;
but he was placed in circumstances favourable for the development
of such a character; his blindness, together with his genius, prepossessed
all in his favour, and procured him many warm friends; while he was never
in hazard of creating enemies, because, being incapacitated for any of the
more active pursuits of life, his interests did not come into collision
with those of any other aspirant in a similar path. He was thus enabled to
"live pleasant," as far as his intercourse with the world was
concerned. In his own mind, he did not at all times enjoy the cheerfulness
which his excellent temper and his piety might seem to promise; he
laboured under a depression of spirits, which grew upon him, as the
buoyancy of youth and the energy of manhood declined. When we consider how
much more we are liable to superstitious fears and alarms of every kind
during the night than in the day, it does not appear surprising, that
those condemned to ceaseless darkness should find it impossible to subdue
their sense of loneliness and destitution. No variety of visible objects,
no beauty of colour or grace of motion, ever diverts the mind of the blind
man from brooding over its own phantasmata; the ear may be said to be the
only inlet by which he can receive cheering ideas, and hence, when
companionless, he becomes liable to the intrusion of doubts and dreads in
an endless train. The bodily inactivity to which the want of sight compels
him and his exclusion from business, unhappily promote the same morbid
sensibility; and though society may afford him many gleams of delight, the
long hours of solitude bring back the prevailing gloom. From this disease
of the mind, Dr Blacklock’s varied stores of acquired knowledge, the
native sweetness of his temper, and the tender cares of an affectionate
wife, could not preserve him. It might be the cause of uneasiness to
himself, however, but never influenced his behaviour to others; it made
him melancholy, but not morose. Even they who look upon it as being, in
ordinary instances, a fantastic and blameable weakness, must pity the
present sufferer, in whom so many causes concurred to render it
irresistible.
To Dr Blacklock as a poet,
the rank of first-rate excellence has not been assigned, and is not
claimed; but his works possess solid merits, which will always repay a
perusal. The thoughts are, for the most part, vigorous, seldom less than
just; and they are conveyed with a certain intensity of expression, which
shows them, even when not uncommon in themselves, to be the offspring of a
superior genius. As the productions of a blind man, they present a study
of the very highest interest, and have frequently been viewed as a problem
in the science of mind. The author himself seems to have been not
unwilling to invest them with a certain character of mystery: "It is
possible," he says, "for the blind, by a retentive memory, to
tell you, that the sky is an azure; that the sun, moon, and stars, are
bright; that the rose is red, the lily white or yellow, and the tulip
variegated. By continually hearing these substantives and adjectives
joined, he may be mechanically taught to join them in the same manner; but
as he never had any sensation of colour, however accurately he may speak
of coloured objects, his language must be like that of a parrot,—without
meaning, or without ideas. Homer, Milton, and Ossian, had been long
acquainted with the visible world before they were surrounded with clouds
and ever-during darkness. They might, therefore, still retain the warm and
pleasing impressions of what they had seen. Their descriptions might be
animated with all the rapture and enthusiasm which originally fired their
bosoms when the grand or delightful objects which they delineated were
immediately beheld. Nay, that enthusiasm might still be heightened by a
bitter sense of their loss, and by that regret which a situation so dismal
might naturally inspire. But how shall we account for the same energy, the
same transport of description, exhibited by those on whose minds visible
objects were either never impressed, or have been entirely obliterated?
Yet, however unaccountable this fact may appear, it is no less certain
than extraordinary. But delicacy, and other particular circumstances,
forbid us to enter into this disquisition with that minuteness and
precision which it requires."
"Mr Spence
observes," says the writer in the Gentleman’s Magazine, [We have
already stated our belief that this writer was Dr Johnson. Besides the
evidence which the passages quoted in the text afford, there is much of
the spirit of Johnson in the summary of Blacklock’s personal character:
"This gentleman has one excellence which outvalues all genius, and
all learning – he is truly and eminently a good man. He possesses great
abilities with modesty, and wants almost every thing else with
content." The probability is farther heightened by the kindness which
Johnson manifested to Blacklock when he visited Scotland. On being
introduced at Mr Boswell’s, the English moralist "received him with
a most humane complacency – ‘Dear Dr Blacklock, I am glad to see you!’"
Boswell’s Tour to the Hebrides. We are also told by Mr Boswell,
that Dr Johnson, on his return from the Western Islands, breakfasted once
at Dr Blacklock’s house. We esteem the verbal criticism in the article
we have just spoken of, as equally characteristic of the illustrious
lexicographer: "Some passages," it is remarked, "appear to
have something wrong in them at the first view, but upon a more accurate
inspection, are found to be right, or at least only to be wrong as they
reflect the faults of others. In these verses, ‘What cave profound, what
star sublime, Shall hide me from thy boundless view,’ there seems to be
an improper connextion of ideas; but the impropriety is in a great degree
of our own making, We have joined ideas which Mr Blacklock, without any
absurdity, has here separated. We have associated the idea of darkness
with that of profundity; and a star being, as a luminous body, rather
adapted to discover than to hide, we think the cave and the star, with
their epithets, improperly opposed in this passage; but Mr Blacklock’s
idea included only distance: and as neither height nor depth, in the
language of St Paul, can separate good men from the love of God; neither,
says Mr Blacklock, can height or depth conceal any being from his sight.
And that he did not here suppose concealment the effect of obscurity,
appears plainly from the epithet boundless, which he has given to that
view which he supposes to comprehend all height and depth, or, in other
words, universal space. It must, however, be granted, that as height and
depth are relative to a middle point, there is no proportion between the
depth of a cave and the height of a star. ‘So fools their flocks to
sanguine wolves resign, So trust the cunning fox to prune the vine.’ But
into this mistake he was perhaps led by the impropriety of the common
fable of the fox and grapes, which we frequently quote, without reflecting
that an inordinate love of grapes is falsely attributed to that animal:
when the fox could not reach the grapes, he said they were sour. Blacklock
explained this latter passage by saying, "that he alluded to that
well-known passage of the Scripture: ‘Take us the foxes, the little
foxes, that spoil the vines; for our vines have tender grapes.’ Cant.
ii. 15."] "that Blacklock’s notion of day may comprehend the
ideas of warmth, variety of sounds, society, and cheerfulness; and his
notion of night, the contrary ideas of chillness, silence, solitude,
melancholy, and, occasionally, even of horror: that he substitutes the
idea of glory for that of the sun; and of glory in a less degree for those
of the moon and stars: that his idea of the beams of the sun may be
composed of this idea of glory, and that of rapidity: that something of
solidity, too, may perhaps be admitted both into his idea of light and
darkness; but that what his idea of glory is, cannot be determined. Mr
Spence also remarks, that Mr Blacklock may attribute paleness to grief,
brightness to the eyes, cheerfulness to green, and a glow to gems and
roses, without any determinate ideas; as boys at school, when, in their
distress for a word to lengthen out a verse, they find purpureus olor, or
purpureum mare, may afterwards use the epithet purpureus with
propriety, though they know not what it means, and have never seen either
a swan or the sea, or heard that the swan is of a light, and the sea of a
dark colour. But he supposes, too, that Mr Blacklock may have been able to
distinguish colours by his touch, and to have made a new vocabulary to
himself, by substituting tangible for visible differences, and giving them
the same names; so that green, with him, may seem something pleasing or
soft to the touch, and red, something displeasing or rough. In defence of
this supposition, it has been said, with some plausibility, that the same
disposition of parts in the surfaces of bodies, which makes them reflect
different rays of light, may make them feel as differently to the
exquisite touch of a blind man. But there is so much difference in the
tangible qualities of things of the same colour, so much roughness and
smoothness, harshness and softness, arising from other causes, that it is
more difficult to conceive how that minute degree arising from colour
should be distinguished, than how a blind man should talk sensibly on the
subject without having made such distinction. We cannot conceive how a
piece of red velvet, woollen cloth, camblet, silk, and painted canvass,
should have something in common, which can be distinguished by the touch,
through the greatest difference in all qualities which the touch can
discover; or in what mode green buckram should be more soft and pleasing
to the touch than red velvet. If the softness peculiar to green be
distinguished in the buckram, and the harshness peculiar to red in the
velvet, it must be by some quality with which the rest of mankind are as
little acquainted as the blind with colour. It may perhaps be said, that a
blind man is supposed to distinguish colours by his touch, only when all
things are equal. But if this be admitted, it would as much violate the
order of his ideas to call velvet red, as to call softness harsh, or,
indeed, to call green red; velvet being somewhat soft and pleasing to the
touch, and somewhat soft and pleasing to the touch being his idea of
green."
The acuteness of these
remarks leaves us to regret that the author eluded the discussion of the
most difficult part of the subject, and fixed upon that concerning which
there is no dispute: Blacklock himself acknowledged what is here said
about distinguishing colours by the touch, to be true as far as he was
concerned, that being a nicety of perception which, though reported to be
possessed by others, he in vain endeavoured to attain. "We have known
a person," he says, in his article on Blindness, "who lost the
use of his sight at an early period of infancy, who, in the vivacity or
delicacy of his sensations, was not, perhaps, inferior to any one, and who
had often heard of others in his own situation capable of distinguishing
colours by touch with the utmost exactness and promptitude. Stimulated,
therefore, partly by curiosity, to acquire a new train of ideas, if that
acquisition were possible, but still more by incredulity with respect to
the facts related, he tried repeated experiments by touching the surfaces
of different bodies, and examining whether any such diversities could be
found in them as might enable him to distinguish colours; but no such
diversity could he ever ascertain. Sometimes, indeed, he imagined that
objects which had no colour, or, in other words, such as were black, were
somewhat different and peculiar in their surfaces; but this experiment did
not always, nor universally hold."
But even supposing Dr
Blacklock to have possessed the power of distinguishing colours by the
touch, and that by handling the coat which he wore he could have told
whether it was blue or black, the stock of ideas that he might thereby
have obtained, would have contributed little to fit him for describing
external nature. He could have formed no conception of a landscape from
the representation of it on canvass; which, at the most, could only convey
the idea of a plain surface covered with a variety of spots, some of which
were smoother and more pleasant to the touch than others. The pomp of
groves and garniture of fields would never have been disclosed to his
yearning fancy by so slow and unperfect a process. Nor could his notions
of scenery be much improved by whatever other conventional method he
endeavoured to form them. Granting that he framed his idea of the sun upon
the model of that of glory, it was still but an abstract idea, and could
bring him no nearer to a distinct apprehension of the splendour with which
light covers the face of the earth; nor could his idea of the obscuration
of glory enable him to understand the real nature of the appearances he
describes when he says—
"Clouds peep on clouds,
and as they rise,
Condense to solid gloom the skies."
All these suppositions fail
to afford a solution of the difficulty concerning the nature of his ideas
of visible objects. In order to arrive at the proper explanation, let us
inquire whence he derived them: that the sky is blue and the fields green,
he could only learn from the descriptions of others. What he learned from
others he might combine variously, and by long familiarity with the use of
words, he might do so correctly, but it was from memory alone that he drew
his materials. Imagination could not heighten his pictures by stores of
any kind but those supplied by his recollection of books. We wonder,
indeed, at the accurate arrangement of the different parts in his
delineations, and that he should ever have been led to peruse what he
could not by any possibility understand— how, for instance, he should
have studied with ardour and delight such a work as the
"Seasons," the appreciation of whose beauties one would suppose
to depend almost entirely on an acquaintance with the visible forms of
creation. But when we consider how deeply he must have regretted the want
of the most delightful of our senses, it will appear most natural, that he
should strive by every means to repair the deficiency, and to be admitted
to some share of the pleasure which he had heard that sight conveys. From
his constant endeavours to arrive at some knowledge of the nature of
visible objects, he obtained a full command of the language proper to
them; and the correct application of what he thus learned, is all that can
be claimed for the descriptive parts of his poetry. These never present
any picture absolutely original, however pleasing it may be, and however
much it may enhance the effect of the sentiment it is introduced to
assist.
Besides the earlier notices
of Mr Gilbert Gordon, of Spence, and, we may add, of Johnson, Blacklock’s
life has been written by Mackenzie with great elegance, by Chalmers, and
by Dr Anderson. The last biographer mentions that "some memoirs of
his life, written by himself, are now (1795) in the possession of Dr
Beattie." It is not improbable that this statement refers merely to
the "long letter" from Blacklock to Beattie, already alluded to.
If other documents of this kind were in the hands of the latter in 1795,
as he had not thought proper to communicate them to any of Dr Blacklock’s
biographers, the probability is, that he would have retained them till his
death, and that they would have appeared among his papers. Sir William
Forbes, however, makes no mention of any such discovery; although, besides
frequent allusions to him in the course of the life of Dr Beattie, he has,
in the appendix to that work, given a brief sketch of that of Dr Blacklock.
If such memoirs are, nevertheless, in existence, and could be recovered,
they would form a most interesting addition to our stock of autobiography.
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