Tom Brown, “of facetious memory” in Addison’s phrase, was born at Shifnal, Shropshire, in 1663. His studies at Christ Church, Oxford, were most probably cut short by his irregularities, but are remembered by his clever extempore adaptation of Martial’s epigram, “Non amo te, Sabidi:” “I do not love thee, Dr. Fell.” After a few years of teaching at Kingston-on-Thames, he settled in London, where he made an uncertain living by writing satirical poems and pamphlets, many of them remarkable more for their scurrility than their wit. He is principally interesting now as the assailant of Dryden, Sherlock, Durfey, Sir Richard Blackmore, &c. He lived a shifty and disreputable life, and dying 16th June 1704, was buried in the Westminster cloisters near his friend, Mrs. Afra Behn.

Personal

	THOMAS BROWN,
	AUTHOR OF “THE LONDON SPY,”
	BORN 1663, DIED 1704.

  Lazy, low-minded, dissolute, and clever.

  He was educated at Newport school, in the same county, whence he proceeded in 1678 to Christ Church, Oxford. Here his irregular habits brought him into trouble. The story goes that the dean of Christ Church, Dr. Fell, threatened to expel him, but, on receipt of a submissive letter, promised to forgive him if he would translate extempore the epigram of Martial (i. 32), “Non amo te, Sabidi,” &c., which Brown promptly rendered by—

	I do not love thee, Dr. Fell,
	The reason why I cannot tell;
	But this I know, and know full well,
	I do not love thee, Dr. Fell.

Brown afterwards made amends by writing the doctor’s epitaph…. Tom Brown’s life was as licentious as his writings. Much of his time was spent in a low tavern in Gower’s Row in the Minories. His knowledge of London was certainly “extensive and peculiar,” and his humorous sketches of low life are both entertaining and valuable.

General

  Some of our authors indeed, when they would be more satirical than ordinary, omit only the vowels of a great man’s name, and fall most unmercifully upon all the consonants. This way of writing was first of all introduced by T–m B—wn, of facetious memory.

  Most of the anonymous pieces which happened to please the town, were fathered upon him. This, though in reality an injury to him, is yet a proof of the universality of his reputation, when whatever pleased from an unknown hand was ascribed to him; but by these means he was reputed the writer of many things unworthy of him. In poetry he was not the author of any long piece, for he was quite unambitious of reputation of that kind. They are generally Odes, Satires, and Epigrams, and are certainly not the best part of his works. His Translations in Prose are many, and of various kinds. His stile is strong and masculine; and if he was not so nice in the choice of his authors, as might be expected from a man of his taste, he must be excused; for he performed his translations as a task, prescribed him by the Booksellers, from whom he derived his chief support. It was the misfortune of our author to appear on the stage of the world, when fears, and jealousies had soured the tempers of men, and politics, and polemics, had almost driven mirth and good nature out of the nation: so that the careless gay humour, and negligent cheerful wit, which in former days of tranquility, would have recommended him to the conversation of princes, was, in a gloomy period, lost upon a people incapable of relishing genuine humour.

  Brown was a man not deficient in literature, nor destitute of fancy; but he seems to have thought it the pinnacle of excellence to be a merry fellow; and therefore laid out his powers upon small jests and gross buffoonery, so that his performances have little intrinsic value, and were read only while they were recommended by the novelty of the event that occasioned them.

  The wits laughed, but did not give him reason to laugh also. His conversation of Mr. Bays, related in dialogue, raised his character with the public, as a man of sense, wit, and humour. This was followed by other dialogues, odes, satires, letters, epigrams, and translations without number; for Tom’s tavern bills were long, and he lived solely by his pen, which, as well as his tongue, ever made more enemies than friends: a buffoon in company, his raillery was neither delicate nor decent. He loved low abuse, and scattered it everywhere with a liberal hand: the clergy came in for more than their share of it.

  I would fain believe, to speak from a mere glance into these volumes, that the Meridian of London is improved since Mr. Brown’s days: and sorry to learn that this “vulgar writer’s” works are not likely just yet to visit

“The waters of Oblivion’s lake.”

The author appears to have possessed, besides an acquaintance with French, Italian, and Spanish, some classical lore, and to have employed it in working up the alloy and baser portions of ancient wit into modern shapes. “And if he was not so nice in the choice of his authors,” says Dr. Drake, “as might be expected from a man of his taste, he must be excused; because, doing those things for his subsistence, he did not consult his own liking so much as his booksellers’, taking such as they have offered the best price for.” Poor man! he had better have tried to dig, and ought to have been less ashamed to beg, than to follow in the track of those who, though they do not call evil good, yet stimulate under pretence of satirizing it.

  What, Tom Brown “of facetious memory!” Tom Brown, the witty, the learned, the convivial! Tom Brown, the topmost of topshelfers, the wittiest of witsnappers, the most humoursome of humourists!—he who stood literary sponsor for Tom Moore’s “Twopenny Post-Bag,” even as older Democritus did for Robert Burton’s “Anatomy”—who, I thought, was as well known to the youngest book-luney as to the veteran Dibdinite and Heberian,—to the humblest bookster who displays his ragged wares on a hand-barrow as to the bibliopolic successors of Rodd and Lilly—Tom Brown “an unknown worthy!”… Whose writings are not only characterized by a large amount of wit and learning, but are now especially valuable for the vivid picture which they afford of the habits and the customs, the amusements and the pleasures, the morals and the manners of the period at which they were written.

  Tom Brown hardly deserves a place in my anthology; but I have found room for one copy of verses—a clever imitation of one of Martial’s epigrams.