The following anecdote is told of him:—
Mr. H. of Bangor said he was once asked to dinner by Thomson, but could not attend. One of his friends who was there told him that there was a general stipulation agreed on by the whole company, that there should be no hard drinking. Thomson acquiesced, only requiring that each man should drink his bottle. The terms were accepted unconditionally, and when the cloth was removed a three-quart bottle was set before each of his guests. Thomson had much of this kind of agreeable humour.
His Autumn came out in 1730, in which occur the lines:—
But first the fuel’d chimney blazes wide;
The tankards foam; and the strong table groans
Beneath the smoking sirloin, stretch’d immense
From side to side; in which with desperate knife
The deep incision make, and talk the while
Of England’s glory, ne’er to be defaced
While hence they borrow vigour; or amain
Into the pasty plunged at intervals,
If stomach keen can intervals allow,
Relating all the glories of the chace.
Then sated Hunger bids his brother Thirst
Produce the mighty bowl; the mighty bowl,
Swell’d high with fiery juice, steams liberal round
A potent gale, delicious as the breath
Of Mäia to the love-sick shepherdess
On violets diffus’d, while soft she hears
Her panting shepherd stealing to her arms.
Nor wanting is the brown October, drawn
Mature and perfect from his dark retreat
Of thirty years; and now his honest front
Flames in the light refulgent, not afraid
Even with the vineyard’s best produce to vie.
* * * *
At last these puling idlenesses laid
Aside, frequent and full the dry divan
Close in firm circle; and set ardent in
For serious drinking. Nor evasion sly,
Nor sober shift, is to the puking wretch
Indulg’d apart; but earnest brimming bowls
Lave every soul, the table floating round,
And pavement, faithless to the fuddled foot.
* * * *
Before their maudlin eyes
Seen dim and blue the double tapers dance,
Like the sun wading through the misty sky.
Then sliding soft, they drop. Confus’d above
Glasses and bottles, pipes and gazeteers,
As if the table even itself was drunk,
Lie a wet broken scene; and wide below
Is heap’d the social slaughter: where astride
The lubber Power in filthy triumph sits
Slumbrous, inclining still from side to side,
And steeps them drench’d in potent sleep till morn.
Perhaps some doctor, of tremendous paunch
Awful and deep, a black abyss of drink,
Outlives them all; and from his buried flock
Retiring, full of rumination sad,
Laments the weakness of these latter times.
In Autumn, somewhat later, he sings the praises of cider:—
The piercing cider for the thirsty tongue;
Thy native theme and boon inspirer too,
Phillips, Pomona’s bard, the second thou
Who nobly durst in rhyme-unfetter’d verse
With British freedom sing the British song;
How from Silurian vats high-sparkling wines
Foam in transparent floods; some strong to cheer
The wintry revels of the labouring hind;
And tasteful some to cool the summer hours.
Again, we read a few lines later of the autumnal vintage:—
Round the raised nations pours the cup of joy:
The claret smooth, red as the lip we press
In sparkling fancy while we drain the bowl;
The mellow-tasted Burgundy; and quick
As is the wit it gives the gay champagne.
Wordsworth says of the Seasons:—‘Much of it is written from himself.’ Probably this is true.
In 1798 was published a collection of the dramatic works of John O’Keefe. In the following lines from his Poor Soldier occurs a phrase which has become household:—