No More Learning

Under this good lady I learned all the common rules of decent behaviour,
and standing maxims of domestick prudence; and might have grown up by
degrees to a country gentlewoman, without any thoughts of ranging beyond
the neighbourhood, had not Flavia come down, last summer, to visit her
relations in the next village. I was taken, of course, to compliment
the stranger, and was, at the first sight, surprised at the unconcern
with which she saw herself gazed at by the company whom she had never
known before; at the carelessness with which she received compliments,
and the readiness with which she returned them. I found she had something
which I perceived myself to want, and could not but wish to be like her,
at once easy and officious, attentive and unembarrassed. I went home,
and for four days could think and talk of nothing but Miss Flavia; though
my aunt told me, that she was a forward slut, and thought herself wise
before her time.

In a little time she repaid my visit, and raised in my heart a new
confusion of love and admiration. I soon saw her again, and still found
new charms in her air, conversation, and behaviour. You, who have perhaps
seen the world, may have observed, that formality soon ceases between
young persons. I know not how others are affected on such occasions, but
I found myself irresistibly allured to friendship and intimacy, by the
familiar complaisance and airy gaiety of Flavia; so that in a few weeks I
became her favourite, and all the time was passed with me, that she could
gain from ceremony and visit.

As she came often to me, she necessarily spent some hours with my aunt,
to whom she paid great respect by low courtesies, submissive compliance,
and soft acquiescence; but as I became gradually more accustomed to
her manners, I discovered that her civility was general; that there
was a certain degree of deference shewn by her to circumstances and
appearances; that many went away flattered by her humility, whom she
despised in her heart; that the influence of far the greatest part
of those with whom she conversed ceased with their presence; and that
sometimes she did not remember the names of them, whom, without any
intentional insincerity or false commendation, her habitual civility had
sent away with very high thoughts of their own importance.

It was not long before I perceived that my aunt's opinion was not of
much weight in Flavia's deliberations, and that she was looked upon
by her as a woman of narrow sentiments, without knowledge of books, or
observations on mankind. I had hitherto considered my aunt as entitled,
by her wisdom and experience, to the highest reverence; and could not
forbear to wonder that any one so much younger should venture to suspect
her of errour, or ignorance; but my surprise was without uneasiness,
and being now accustomed to think Flavia always in the right, I readily
learned from her to trust my own reason, and to believe it possible,
that they who had lived longer might be mistaken.

Flavia had read much, and used so often to converse on subjects of
learning, that she put all the men in the country to flight, except the
old parson, who declared himself much delighted with her company, because
she gave him opportunities to recollect the studies of his younger
years, and, by some mention of ancient story, had made him rub the dust
off his Homer, which had lain unregarded in his closet. With Homer, and
a thousand other names familiar to Flavia, I had no acquaintance, but
began, by comparing her accomplishments with my own, to repine at my
education, and wish that I had not been so long confined to the company
of those from whom nothing but housewifery was to be learned. I then set
myself to peruse such books as Flavia recommended, and heard her opinion
of their beauties and defects. I saw new worlds hourly bursting upon
my mind, and was enraptured at the prospect of diversifying life with
endless entertainment.

The old lady, finding that a large screen, which I had undertaken to adorn
with turkey-work against winter, made very slow advances, and that I
had added in two months but three leaves to a flowered apron then in the
frame, took the alarm, and with all the zeal of honest folly exclaimed
against my new acquaintance, who had filled me with idle notions, and
turned my head with books. But she had now lost her authority, for I
began to find innumerable mistakes in her opinions, and improprieties
in her language; and therefore thought myself no longer bound to pay
much regard to one who knew little beyond her needle and her dairy, and
who professed to think that nothing more is required of a woman than to
see that the house is clean, and that the maids go to bed and rise at a
certain hour.

She seemed however to look upon Flavia as seducing me, and to imagine that
when her influence was withdrawn, I should return to my allegiance; she
therefore contented herself with remote hints, and gentle admonitions,
intermixed with sage histories of the miscarriages of wit, and
disappointments of pride. But since she has found, that though Flavia
is departed, I still persist in my new scheme, she has at length lost
her patience, she snatches my book out of my hand, tears my paper if
she finds me writing, burns Flavia's letters before my face when she can
seize them, and threatens to lock me up, and to complain to my father
of my perverseness. If women, she says, would but know their duty and
their interest, they would be careful to acquaint themselves with family
affairs, and many a penny might be saved; for while the mistress of
the house is scribbling and reading, servants are junketing, and linen
is wearing out. She then takes me round the rooms, shews me the worked
hangings, and chairs of tent-stitch, and asks whether all this was done
with a pen and a book.

I cannot deny that I sometimes laugh and sometimes am sullen; but she has
not delicacy enough to be much moved either with my mirth or my gloom,
if she did not think the interest of the family endangered by this change
of my manners. She had for some years marked out young Mr. Surly, an
heir in the neighbourhood, remarkable for his love of fighting-cocks,
as an advantageous match; and was extremely pleased with the civilities
which he used to pay me, till under Flavia's tuition I learned to
talk of subjects which he could not understand. This, she says, is the
consequence of female study: girls grow too wise to be advised, and too
stubborn to be commanded; but she is resolved to try who shall govern,
and will thwart my humour till she breaks my spirit.

These menaces, Mr. Rambler, sometimes make me quite angry; for I have been
sixteen these ten weeks, and think myself exempted from the dominion of a
governess, who has no pretensions to more sense or knowledge than myself.
I am resolved, since I am as tall and as wise as other women, to be no
longer treated like a girl. Miss Flavia has often told me, that ladies of
my age go to assemblies and routs, without their mothers and their aunts;
I shall therefore, from this time, leave asking advice, and refuse to
give accounts. I wish you would state the time at which young ladies may
judge for themselves, which I am sure you cannot but think ought to begin
before sixteen; if you are inclined to delay it longer, I shall have very
little regard to your opinion.

My aunt often tells me of the advantages of experience, and of the
deference due to seniority; and both she and all the antiquated part
of the world, talk of the unreserved obedience which they paid to the
commands of their parents, and the undoubting confidence with which they
listened to their precepts; of the terrours which they felt at a frown,
and the humility with which they supplicated forgiveness whenever they
had offended. I cannot but fancy that this boast is too general to be
true, and that the young and the old were always at variance. I have,
however, told my aunt, that I will mend whatever she will prove to be
wrong; but she replies that she has reasons of her own, and that she is
sorry to live in an age when girls have the impudence to ask for proofs.

I beg once again, Mr. Rambler, to know whether I am not as wise as my aunt,
and whether, when she presumes to check me as a baby, I may not pluck
up a spirit and return her insolence. I shall not proceed to extremities
without your advice, which is therefore impatiently expected by

MYRTILLA.

P. S. Remember I am past sixteen.




No. 85. TUESDAY, JANUARY 8, 1751.


_Otia si tollas, periere Cupidinis arcus,_
_Contemptæque jacent, et sine luce faces. _
OVID, Rem. 139.

At busy hearts in vain Love's arrows fly;
Dim'd, scorn'd, and impotent, his torches lie.


Many writers of eminence in physick have laid out their diligence upon the
consideration of those distempers to which men are exposed by particular
states of life, and very learned treatises have been produced upon the
maladies of the camp, the sea, and the mines. There are, indeed, few
employments which a man accustomed to anatomical inquiries, and medical
refinements, would not find reasons for declining as dangerous to
health, did not his learning or experience inform him, that almost every
occupation, however inconvenient or formidable, is happier and safer than
a life of sloth.

The necessity of action is not only demonstrable from the fabrick of the
body, but evident from observation of the universal practice of mankind,
who, for the preservation of health, in those whose rank or wealth
exempts them from the necessity of lucrative labour, have invented sports
and diversions, though not of equal use to the world with manual trades,
yet of equal fatigue to those who practise them, and differing only
from the drudgery of the husbandman or manufacturer, as they are acts of
choice, and therefore performed without the painful sense of compulsion.
The huntsman rises early, pursues his game through all the dangers and
obstructions of the chace, swims rivers, and scales precipices, till he
returns home no less harassed than the soldier, and has perhaps sometimes
incurred as great hazard of wounds or death; yet he has no motive to
incite his ardour; he is neither subject to the commands of a general,
nor dreads any penalties for neglect and disobedience; he has neither
profit nor honour to expect from his perils and his conquests, but toils
without the hope of mural or civick garlands, and must content himself
with the praise of his tenants and companions.

But such is the constitution of man, that labour may be styled its
own reward; nor will any external incitements be requisite, if it be
considered how much happiness is gained, and how much misery escaped, by
frequent and violent agitation of the body.

Ease is the most that can be hoped from a sedentary and unactive habit;
ease, a neutral state between pain and pleasure. The dance of spirits,
the bound of vigour, readiness of enterprize, and defiance of fatigue,
are reserved for him that braces his nerves, and hardens his fibres, that
keeps his limbs pliant with motion, and by frequent exposure fortifies
his frame against the common accidents of cold and heat.

With ease, however, if it could be secured, many would be content; but
nothing terrestrial can be kept at a stand. Ease, if it is not rising
into pleasure, will be falling towards pain; and whatever hope the dreams
of speculation may suggest of observing the proportion between nutriment
and labour, and keeping the body in a healthy state by supplies exactly
equal to its waste, we know that, in effect, the vital powers unexcited by
motion, grow gradually languid; that, as their vigour fails, obstructions
are generated; and that from obstructions proceed most of those pains
which wear us away slowly with periodical tortures, and which, though
they sometimes suffer life to be long, condemn it to be useless, chain us
down to the couch of misery, and mock us with the hopes of death.

Exercise cannot secure us from that dissolution to which we are decreed;
but while the soul and body continue united, it can make the association
pleasing, and give probable hopes that they shall be disjoined by an easy
separation. It was a principle among the ancients, that acute diseases
are from heaven, and chronical from ourselves: the dart of death indeed
falls from heaven, but we poison it by our own misconduct: to die is the
fate of man, but to die with lingering anguish is generally his folly[53].

It is necessary to that perfection of which our present state is capable,
that the mind and body should both be kept in action; that neither
the faculties of the one nor of the other be suffered to grow lax or
torpid for want of use; that neither health be purchased by voluntary
submission to ignorance, nor knowledge cultivated at the expense of that
health, which must enable it either to give pleasure to its possessor,
or assistance to others. It is too frequently the pride of students
to despise those amusements and recreations, which give to the rest
of mankind strength of limbs and cheerfulness of heart. Solitude and
contemplation are indeed seldom consistent with such skill in common
exercises or sports as is necessary to make them practised with delight,
and no man is willing to do that of which the necessity is not pressing
and immediate, when he knows that his awkwardness must make him ridiculous

_Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis,_
_Indoctusque pilæ, discive, trochive quiescit,_
_Ne spissæ risum tollant impune coronæ. _
HOR. Art. Poet. 379.

He that's unskilful will not toss a ball,
Nor run, nor wrestle, for he fears the fall;
He justly fears to meet deserv'd disgrace,
And that the ring will hiss the baffled ass.
CREECH.

Thus the man of learning is often resigned, almost by his own consent, to
languor and pain; and while in the prosecution of his studies he suffers
the weariness of labour, is subject by his course of life to the maladies
of idleness.

It was, perhaps, from the observation of this mischievous omission in
those who are employed about intellectual objects, that Locke has, in his
"System of Education," urged the necessity of a trade to men of all ranks
and professions, that when the mind is weary with its proper task, it
may be relaxed by a slighter attention to some mechanical operation;
and that while the vital functions are resuscitated and awakened by
vigorous motion, the understanding may be restrained from that vagrance
and dissipation by which it relieves itself after a long intenseness of
thought, unless some allurement be presented that may engage application
without anxiety.

There is so little reason for expecting frequent conformity to Locke's
precept, that it is not necessary to inquire whether the practice
of mechanical arts might not give occasion to petty emulation, and
degenerate ambition; and whether, if our divines and physicians were
taught the lathe and the chisel, they would not think more of their
tools than their books; as Nero neglected the care of his empire for his
chariot and his fiddle. It is certainly dangerous to be too much pleased
with little things; but what is there which may not be perverted? Let
us remember how much worse employment might have been found for those
hours, which a manual occupation appears to engross; let us compute the
profit with the loss, and when we reflect how often a genius is allured
from his studies, consider likewise that perhaps by the same attraction
he is sometimes withheld from debauchery, or recalled from malice, from
ambition, from envy, and from lust.

I have always admired the wisdom of those by whom our female education
was instituted, for having contrived, that every woman, of whatever
condition, should be taught some arts of manufacture, by which the
vacuities of recluse and domestick leisure may be filled up. These arts
are more necessary, as the weakness of their sex and the general system
of life debar ladies from any employments which, by diversifying the
circumstances of men, preserve them from being cankered by the rust of
their own thoughts. I know not how much of the virtue and happiness of
the world may be the consequence of this judicious regulation. Perhaps,
the most powerful fancy might be unable to figure the confusion and
slaughter that would be produced by so many piercing eyes and vivid
understandings, turned loose at once upon mankind, with no other business
than to sparkle and intrigue, to perplex and to destroy.

For my part, whenever chance brings within my observation a knot of misses
busy at their needles, I consider myself as in the school of virtue;
and though I have no extraordinary skill in plain work or embroidery,
look upon their operations with as much satisfaction as their governess,
because I regard them as providing a security against the most dangerous
ensnarers of the soul, by enabling themselves to exclude idleness from
their solitary moments, and with idleness her attendant train of passions,
fancies, and chimeras, fears, sorrows, and desires. Ovid and Cervantes
will inform them that love has no power but over those whom he catches
unemployed; and Hector, in the Iliad, when he sees Andromache overwhelmed
with terrours, sends her for consolation to the loom and the distaff.

It is certain that any wild wish or vain imagination never takes such firm
possession of the mind, as when it is found empty and unoccupied. The old
peripatetick principle, that _Nature abhors a vacuum_, may be properly
applied to the intellect, which will embrace any thing, however absurd
or criminal, rather than be wholly without an object. Perhaps every man
may date the predominance of those desires that disturb his life and
contaminate his conscience, from some unhappy hour when too much leisure
exposed him to their incursions; for he has lived with little observation
either on himself or others, who does not know that to be idle is to
be vicious.

[Footnote 53: This passage was once strangely supposed by some readers
to recommend suicide, instead of _exercise_, which is surely the more
obvious meaning. See, however, a letter from Dr. Johnson on the subject,
in Boswell's Life, vol. iv. p. 162. ]




No. 86. SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 1751.


_Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure. _
HOR. De Ar. Poet. 274.

By fingers, or by ear, we numbers scan.
ELPHINSTON.


One of the ancients has observed, that the burthen of government is
increased upon princes by the virtues of their immediate predecessors.
It is, indeed, always dangerous to be placed in a state of unavoidable
comparison with excellence, and the danger is still greater when that
excellence is consecrated by death; when envy and interest cease to act
against it, and those passions by which it was at first vilified and
opposed, now stand in its defence, and turn their vehemence against
honest emulation.

He that succeeds a celebrated writer, has the same difficulties to
encounter; he stands under the shade of exalted merit, and is hindered
from rising to his natural height, by the interception of those beams
which should invigorate and quicken him. He applies to that attention
which is already engaged, and unwilling to be drawn off from certain
satisfaction; or perhaps to an attention already wearied, and not to be
recalled to the same object.

One of the old poets congratulates himself that he had the untrodden
regions of Parnassus before him, and that his garland will be gathered
from plantations which no writer had yet culled. But the imitator treads
a beaten walk, and with all his diligence can only hope to find a few
flowers or branches untouched by his predecessor, the refuse of contempt,
or the omissions of negligence. The Macedonian conqueror, when he was
once invited to hear a man that sung like a nightingale, replied with
contempt, "that he had heard the nightingale herself;" and the same
treatment must every man expect, whose praise is that he imitates another.

Yet, in the midst of these discouraging reflections, I am about to offer
to my reader some observations upon "Paradise Lost," and hope, that,
however I may fall below the illustrious writer who has so long dictated
to the commonwealth of learning, my attempt may not be wholly useless.
There are, in every age, new errours to be rectified, and new prejudices
to be opposed. False taste is always busy to mislead those that are
entering upon the regions of learning; and the traveller, uncertain of
his way, and forsaken by the sun, will be pleased to see a fainter orb
arise on the horizon, that may rescue him from total darkness, though
with weak and borrowed lustre.

Addison, though he has considered this poem under most of the general
topicks of criticism, has barely touched upon the versification; not
probably because he thought the art of numbers unworthy of his notice,
for he knew with what minute attention the ancient criticks considered
the disposition of syllables, and had himself given hopes of some
metrical observations upon the great Roman poet; but being the first who
undertook to display the beauties, and point out the defects of Milton,
he had many objects at once before him, and passed willingly over those
which were most barren of ideas, and required labour, rather than genius.

Yet versification, or the art of modulating his numbers, is indispensably
necessary to a poet. Every other power by which the understanding is
enlightened, or the imagination enchanted, may be exercised in prose. But
the poet has this peculiar superiority, that to all the powers which the
perfection of every other composition can require, he adds the faculty
of joining music with reason, and of acting at once upon the senses
and the passions. I suppose there are few who do not feel themselves
touched by poetical melody, and who will not confess that they are more
or less moved by the same thoughts, as they are conveyed by different
sounds, and more affected by the same words in one order than in another.
The perception of harmony is indeed conferred upon men in degrees very
unequal, but there are none who do not perceive it, or to whom a regular
series of proportionate sounds cannot give delight.

In treating on the versification of Milton, I am desirous to be generally
understood, and shall therefore studiously decline the dialect of
grammarians; though, indeed, it is always difficult, and sometimes
scarcely possible, to deliver the precepts of an art, without the terms
by which the peculiar ideas of that art are expressed, and which had not
been invented but because the language already in use was insufficient.
If, therefore, I shall sometimes seem obscure, it may be imputed to this
voluntary interdiction, and to a desire of avoiding that offence which is
always given by unusual words.

The heroick measure of the English language may be properly considered
as pure or mixed. It is pure when the accent rests upon every second
syllable through the whole line.

Courage uncertain dangers may abate,
But whó can beár th' appróach of cértain fáte.
DRYDEN.

Here love his golden shafts employs, here lights
His cónstant lámp, and wáves his púrple wíngs,
Reigns here, and revels; not in the bought smile
Of hárlots, lóveless, jóyless, únendéar'd.
MILTON.

The accent may be observed, in the second line of Dryden, and the second
and fourth of Milton, to repose upon every second syllable.

The repetition of this sound or percussion at equal times, is the most
complete harmony of which a single verse is capable, and should therefore
be exactly kept in distichs, and generally in the last line of a
paragraph, that the ear may rest without any sense of imperfection.

But, to preserve the series of sounds untransposed in a long composition,
is not only very difficult, but tiresome and disgusting; for we are soon
wearied with the perpetual recurrence of the same cadence. Necessity
has therefore enforced the mixed measure, in which some variation of the
accents is allowed; this, though it always injures the harmony of the
line, considered by itself, yet compensates the loss by relieving us from
the continual tyranny of the same sound, and makes us more sensible of
the harmony of the pure measure.

Of these mixed numbers every poet affords us innumerable instances, and
Milton seldom has two pure lines together, as will appear if any of his
paragraphs be read with attention merely to the musick.

Thus at their shady lodge arriv'd, both stood,
Both turn'd, and under open sky ador'd
The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav'n,
Which they beheld; the moon's resplendent globe,
_And starry pole: thou also mad'st the night,_
Maker omnipotent! and thou the day,
Which we in our appointed work employ'd
Have finish'd, happy in our mutual help,
_And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss,_
Ordain'd by thee; and this delicious place,
For us too large; where thy abundance wants
Partakers, and uncrop'd falls to the ground;
But thou hast promis'd from us two a race
To fill the earth, who shall with us extol
Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake,
And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep.

In this passage it will be at first observed, that all the lines are not
equally harmonious, and upon a nearer examination it will be found that
only the fifth and ninth lines are regular, and the rest are more or less
licentious with respect to the accent. In some the accent is equally upon
two syllables together, and in both strong. As

Thus at their shady lodge arriv'd, _both stood_,
_Both turned_, and under open sky ador'd
The God that made both sky, _air_, _earth_, and heav'n.

In others the accent is equally upon two syllables, but upon both weak.

--------------------------A race
To fill the earth, who shall with us extol
Thy goodness _infinite_, both when we wake,
_And when_ we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep.

In the first pair of syllables the accent may deviate from the rigour
of exactness, without any unpleasing diminution of harmony, as may be
observed in the lines already cited, and more remarkably in this,

------------Thou also mad'st the night,
_Maker_ omnipotent! and thou the day,

But, excepting in the first pair of syllables, which may be considered as
arbitrary, a poet who, not having the invention or knowledge of Milton,
has more need to allure his audience by musical cadences, should seldom
suffer more than one aberration from the rule in any single verse.

There are two lines in this passage more remarkably unharmonious:

------------This delicious place,
For us too large; _where thy_ abundance wants
Partakers, and uncrop'd _falls_ to the ground,

Here the third pair of syllables in the first, and fourth pair in the
second verse, have their accents retrograde or inverted; the first
syllable being strong or acute, and the second weak. The detriment
which the measure suffers by this inversion of the accents is sometimes
less perceptible, when the verses are carried one into another, but is
remarkably striking in this place, where the vicious verse concludes
a period, and is yet more offensive in rhyme, when we regularly attend
to the flow of every single line. This will appear by reading a couplet
in which Cowley, an author not sufficiently studious of harmony, has
committed the same fault.

----------------His harmless life
Does with substantial blessedness abound,
And the soft wings of peace _cover_ him round.

In these the law of metre is very grossly violated by mingling
combinations of sound directly opposite to each other, as Milton
expresses in his sonnet, by _committing short and long_, and setting
one part of the measure at variance with the rest. The ancients, who had
a language more capable of variety than ours, had two kinds of verse,
the Iambick, consisting of short and long syllables alternately, from
which our heroick measure is derived, and Trochaick, consisting in a
like alternation of long and short. These were considered as opposites,
and conveyed the contrary images of speed and slowness; to confound
them, therefore, as in these lines, is to deviate from the established
practice. But where the senses are to judge, authority is not necessary,
the ear is sufficient to detect dissonance, nor should I have sought
auxiliaries on such an occasion against any name but that of Milton.




No. 87. TUESDAY, JANUARY 15, 1751.


_Invidus, iracundus, iners, vinosus, amator,_
_Nemo adeo ferus est, ut non mitescere possit,_
_Si modo culturæ patientem commodet aurem. _
HOR. Lib. i. Ep. i. 38.

The slave to envy, anger, wine, or love,
The wretch of sloth, its excellence shall prove;
Fierceness itself shall hear its rage away.
When list'ning calmly to th' instructive lay.
FRANCIS.


That few things are so liberally bestowed, or squandered with so little
effect, as good advice, has been generally observed; and many sage
positions have been advanced concerning the reasons of this complaint,
and the means of removing it. It is indeed an important and noble
inquiry, for little would be wanting to the happiness of life, if every
man could conform to the right as soon as he was shewn it.

This perverse neglect of the most salutary precepts, and stubborn
resistance of the most pathetick persuasion, is usually imputed to him
by whom the counsel is received, and we often hear it mentioned as a sign
of hopeless depravity, that though good advice was given, it has wrought
no reformation.

Others, who imagine themselves to have quicker sagacity and deeper
penetration, have found out that the inefficacy of advice is usually the
fault of the counsellor, and rules have been laid down, by which this
important duty may be successfully performed. We are directed by what
tokens to discover the favourable moment at which the heart is disposed
for the operation of truth and reason, with what address to administer,
and with what vehicles to disguise _the catharticks of the soul_.

But, notwithstanding this specious expedient, we find the world yet in the
same state: advice is still given, but still received with disgust; nor
has it appeared that the bitterness of the medicine has been yet abated,
or its powers increased, by any methods of preparing it.

If we consider the manner in which those who assume the office of
directing the conduct of others execute their undertaking, it will not
be very wonderful that their labours, however zealous or affectionate, are
frequently useless. For what is the advice that is commonly given? A few
general maxims, enforced with vehemence, and inculcated with importunity,
but failing for want of particular reference and immediate application.

It is not often that any man can have so much knowledge of another, as
is necessary to make instruction useful. We are sometimes not ourselves
conscious of the original motives of our actions, and when we know them,
our first care is to hide them from the sight of others, and often from
those most diligently, whose superiority either of power or understanding
may entitle them to inspect our lives; it is therefore very probable that
he who endeavours the cure of our intellectual maladies, mistakes their
cause; and that his prescriptions avail nothing, because he knows not
which of the passions or desires is vitiated.

Advice, as it always gives a temporary appearance of superiority, can
never be very grateful, even when it is most necessary or most judicious.
But for the same reason every one is eager to instruct his neighbours.
To be wise or to be virtuous, is to buy dignity and importance at a high
price; but when nothing is necessary to elevation but detection of the
follies or the faults of others, no man is so insensible to the voice of
fame as to linger on the ground.

_--Tentanda via est, qua me quoque possim_
_Tollere humo, victorque virûm volitare per ora. _
VIRG. Geor. iii. 8.

New ways I must attempt, my groveling name
To raise aloft, and wing my flight to fame.
DRYDEN.

Vanity is so frequently the apparent motive of advice, that we, for the
most part, summon our powers to oppose it without any very accurate
inquiry whether it is right. It is sufficient that another is growing
great in his own eyes at our expense, and assumes authority over
us without our permission; for many would contentedly suffer the
consequences of their own mistakes, rather than the insolence of him who
triumphs as their deliverer.

It is, indeed, seldom found that any advantages are enjoyed with that
moderation which the uncertainty of all human good so powerfully
enforces; and therefore the adviser may justly suspect, that he
has inflamed the opposition which he laments by arrogance and
superciliousness. He may suspect, but needs not hastily to condemn
himself, for he can rarely be certain that the softest language or most
humble diffidence would have escaped resentment; since scarcely any
degree of circumspection can prevent or obviate the rage with which the
slothful, the impotent, and the unsuccessful, vent their discontent upon
those that excel them. Modesty itself, if it is praised, will be envied;
and there are minds so impatient of inferiority, that their gratitude is
a species of revenge, and they return benefits, not because recompense is
a pleasure, but because obligation is a pain.

The number of those whom the love of themselves has thus far corrupted,
is perhaps not great; but there are few so free from vanity, as not to
dictate to those who will hear their instructions with a visible sense
of their own beneficence; and few to whom it is not unpleasing to receive
documents, however tenderly and cautiously delivered, or who are not
willing to raise themselves from pupillage, by disputing the propositions
of their teacher.

It was the maxim, I think, of Alphonsus of Arragon, that _dead counsellors
are safest_. The grave puts an end to flattery and artifice, and the
information that we receive from books is pure from interest, fear,
or ambition. Dead counsellors are likewise most instructive; because
they are heard with patience and with reverence. We are not unwilling
to believe that man wiser than ourselves, from whose abilities we may
receive advantage, without any danger of rivalry or opposition, and
who affords us the light of his experience, without hurting our eyes
by flashes of insolence.

By the consultation of books, whether of dead or living authors, many
temptations to petulance and opposition, which occur in oral conferences,
are avoided. An author cannot obtrude his service unasked, nor can be
often suspected of any malignant intention to insult his readers with his
knowledge or his wit. Yet so prevalent is the habit of comparing ourselves
with others, while they remain within the reach of our passions, that
books are seldom read with complete impartiality, but by those from
whom the writer is placed at such a distance that his life or death
is indifferent.

We see that volumes may be perused, and perused with attention, to little
effect; and that maxims of prudence, or principles of virtue, may be
treasured in the memory without influencing the conduct. Of the numbers
that pass their lives among books, very few read to be made wiser or
better, apply any general reproof of vice to themselves, or try their own
manners by axioms of justice. They purpose either to consume those hours
for which they can find no other amusement, to gain or preserve that
respect which learning has always obtained; or to gratify their curiosity
with knowledge, which, like treasures buried and forgotten, is of no use
to others or themselves.

"The preacher (says a French author) may spend an hour in explaining and
enforcing a precept of religion, without feeling any impression from his
own performance, because he may have no further design than to fill up
his hour. " A student may easily exhaust his life in comparing divines and
moralists, without any practical regard to morality or religion; he may
be learning not to live, but to reason; he may regard only the elegance
of style, justness of argument, and accuracy of method; and may enable
himself to criticise with judgment, and dispute with subtilty, while the
chief use of his volumes is unthought of, his mind is unaffected, and his
life is unreformed.

But though truth and virtue are thus frequently defeated by pride,
obstinacy, or folly, we are not allowed to desert them; for whoever can
furnish arms which they hitherto have not employed, may enable them to
gain some hearts which would have resisted any other method of attack.
Every man of genius has some arts of fixing the attention peculiar to
himself, by which, honestly exerted, he may benefit mankind; for the
arguments for purity of life fail of their due influence, not because
they have been considered and confuted, but because they have been
passed over without consideration. To the position of Tully, that if
Virtue could be seen, she must be loved, may be added, that if Truth
could be heard, she must be obeyed.




No. 88. SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1751.
_Cum tabulis animum censoris sumet honesti:_
_Audebit, quæcunque parum splendoris habebunt,_
_Et sine pondere erunt, et honore indigna ferentur,_
_Verba movere loco, quamvis invita recedant,_
_Et versentur adhuc intra penetralia Vestæ. _
HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. ii. 110.

But he that hath a curious piece designed,
When he begins must take a censor's mind.
Severe and honest; and what words appear
Too light and trivial, or too weak to bear
The weighty sense, nor worth the reader's care,
Shake off; though stubborn, they are loth to move,
And though we fancy, dearly though we love.
CREECH.


"There is no reputation for genius," says Quintilian, "to be gained by
writing on things, which, however necessary, have little splendour or
shew. The height of a building attracts the eye, but the foundations lie
without regard. Yet since there is not any way to the top of science,
but from the lowest parts, I shall think nothing unconnected with the
art of oratory, which he that wants cannot be an orator. "

Confirmed and animated by this illustrious precedent, I shall continue my
inquiries into Milton's art of versification. Since, however minute the
employment may appear, of analysing lines into syllables, and whatever
ridicule may be incurred by a solemn deliberation upon accents and pauses,
it is certain that without this petty knowledge no man can be a poet;
and that from the proper disposition of single sounds results that
harmony that adds force to reason, and gives grace to sublimity; that
shackles attention, and governs passions.

That verse may be melodious and pleasing, it is necessary, not only that
the words be so ranged as that the accent may fall on its proper place,
but that the syllables themselves be so chosen as to flow smoothly into
one another. This is to be effected by a proportionate mixture of vowels
and consonants, and, by tempering the mute consonants with liquids and
semivowels. The Hebrew grammarians have observed, that it is impossible
to pronounce two consonants without the intervention of a vowel, or
without some emission of the breath between one and the other; this is
longer and more perceptible, as the sounds of the consonants are less
harmonically conjoined, and, by consequence, the flow of the verse is
longer interrupted.

It is pronounced by Dryden, that a line of monosyllables is almost always
harsh. This, with regard to our language, is evidently true, not because
monosyllables cannot compose harmony, but because our monosyllables,
being of Teutonick original, or formed by contraction, commonly begin and
end with consonants, as,

--------Every lower faculty
_Of sense, whereby they hear, see, smell, touch, taste. _

The difference of harmony arising principally from the collocation of
vowels and consonants, will be sufficiently conceived by attending to the
following passages:

Immortal _Amarant_----there grows
And flow'rs aloft, shading the fount of life,
And where the river of bliss through midst of heav'n
_Rolls o'er Elysian flow'rs her amber stream;_
With these that never fade, the spirits elect
_Bind their resplendent locks inwreath'd with beams. _

The same comparison that I propose to be made between the fourth and
sixth verses of this passage, may be repeated between the last lines of
the following quotations:

--------Under foot the violet,
Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich in-lay
_Broider'd the ground, more colour'd than with stone_
Of costliest emblem.

--------Here in close recess,
With flowers, garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs,
Espoused Eve first deck'd her nuptial bed;
_And heav'nly choirs the hymenean sung. _

Milton, whose ear had been accustomed, not only to the musick of the
ancient tongues, which, however vitiated by our pronunciation, excel
all that are now in use, but to the softness of the Italian, the most
mellifluous of all modern poetry, seems fully convinced of the unfitness
of our language for smooth versification, and is therefore pleased with
an opportunity of calling in a softer word to his assistance; for this
reason, and I believe for this only, he sometimes indulges himself in a
long series of proper names, and introduces them where they add little
but musick to his poem.

--------The richer seat
Of _Atabalipa_, and yet unspoil'd
_Guiana_, whose great city _Gerion's_ sons
Call _El Dorado_. ----

The moon----The _Tuscan_ artist views
At evening, from the top of _Fesole_
Or in _Valdarno_, to descry new lands. --

He has indeed been more attentive to his syllables than to his accents,
and does not often offend by collisions of consonants, or openings of
vowels upon each other, at least not more often than other writers who
have had less important or complicated subjects to take off their care
from the cadence of their lines.

The great peculiarity of Milton's versification compared with that
of later poets, is the elision of one vowel before another, or the
suppression of the last syllable of a word ending with a vowel, when
a vowel begins the following word. As

--------Knowledge
Oppresses else with surfeit, and soon turns
Wisdom to folly, as nourishment to wind.

This licence, though now disused in English poetry, was practised by
our old writers, and is allowed in many other languages ancient and
modern, and therefore the criticks on "Paradise Lost" have, without much
deliberation, commended Milton for continuing it[54]. But one language
cannot communicate its rules to another. We have already tried and
rejected the hexameter of the ancients, the double close of the Italians,
and the alexandrine of the French; and the elision of vowels, however
graceful it may seem to other nations, may be very unsuitable to the
genius of the English tongue.

There is reason to believe that we have negligently lost part of our
vowels, and that the silent _e_ which our ancestors added to most of our
monosyllables, was once vocal. By this detruncation of our syllables, our
language is overstocked with consonants, and it is more necessary to add
vowels to the beginning of words, than to cut them off from the end.

Milton therefore seems to have somewhat mistaken the nature of our
language, of which the chief defect is ruggedness and asperity, and has
left our harsh cadences yet harsher. But his elisions are not all equally
to be censured; in some syllables they may be allowed, and perhaps in
a few may be safely imitated. The abscission of a vowel is undoubtedly
vicious when it is strongly sounded, and makes, with its associate
consonant, a full and audible syllable.

--------What he gives,
Spiritual, may to purest spirits be found,
_No_ ingrateful food, and food alike these pure
Intelligential substances require.

Fruits,----Hesperian fables true,
If true, here _only_, and of delicious taste.

----Evening now approach'd,
For we have _also_ our evening and our morn.

Of guests he makes them slaves,
Inhospita_bly_, and kills their infant males.

And vital Vir_tue_ infus'd, and vital warmth
Throughout the fluid mass. ----

God made _thee_ of choice his own, and of his own
To serve him.

I believe every reader will agree, that in all those passages, though not
equally in all, the musick is injured, and in some the meaning obscured.
There are other lines in which the vowel is cut off, but it is so faintly
pronounced in common speech, that the loss of it in poetry is scarcely
perceived; and therefore such compliance with the measure may be allowed.

--------Nature breeds
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things,
Abomina_ble_, inuttera_ble_; and worse
Than fables yet have feigned. ----

--------From the shore
They view'd the vast immensura_ble_ abyss.
Impenetra_ble_, impal'd with circling fire.
To none communica_ble_ in earth or heav'n.

Yet even these contractions increase the roughness of a language too rough
already; and though in long poems they may be sometimes suffered, it
never can be faulty to forbear them.

Milton frequently uses in his poems the hypermetrical or redundant line of
eleven syllables.

--------Thus it shall befall
Him who to worth in woman over-trust_ing_
Lets her will rule. ----
I also err'd in over much admir_ing_.

Verses of this kind occur almost in every page; but though they are not
unpleasing or dissonant, they ought not to be admitted into heroick
poetry, since the narrow limits of our language allow us no other
distinction of epick and tragick measures, than is afforded by the
liberty of changing at will the terminations of the dramatick lines, and
bringing them by that relaxation of metrical rigour nearer to prose.

[Footnote 54: _Variation_. "This licence, though an innovation in English
poetry, is yet allowed in many other languages ancient and modern; and
therefore the criticks on Paradise Lost have, without much deliberation,
commended Milton for introducing it. " _First folio edition. _]




No. 89. TUESDAY, JANUARY 22, 1751.


_Dulce est desipere in loco. _
HOR. Lib. iv. Od. xii. 28.

Wisdom at proper times is well forgot.


Locke, whom there is no reason to suspect of being a favourer of idleness
or libertinism, has advanced, that whoever hopes to employ any part of his
time with efficacy and vigour, must allow some of it to pass in trifles.
It is beyond the powers of humanity to spend a whole life in profound
study and intense meditation, and the most rigorous exacters of industry
and seriousness have appointed hours for relaxation and amusement.

It is certain, that, with or without our consent, many of the few moments
allotted us will slide imperceptibly away, and that the mind will break,
from confinement to its stated task, into sudden excursions. Severe and
connected attention is preserved but for a short time; and when a man
shuts himself up in his closet, and bends his thoughts to the discussion
of any abstruse question, he will find his faculties continually
stealing away to more pleasing entertainments. He often perceives himself
transported, he knows not how, to distant tracts of thought, and returns
to his first object as from a dream, without knowing when he forsook it,
or how long he has been abstracted from it.

It has been observed that the most studious are not always the most
learned. There is, indeed, no great difficulty in discovering that this
difference of proficiency may arise from the difference of intellectual
powers, of the choice of books, or the convenience of information. But I
believe it likewise frequently happens that the most recluse are not the
most vigorous prosecutors of study. Many impose upon the world, and many
upon themselves, by an appearance of severe and exemplary diligence, when
they, in reality, give themselves up to the luxury of fancy, please their
minds with regulating the past, or planning the future; place themselves
at will in varied situations of happiness, and slumber away their days
in voluntary visions. In the journey of life some are left behind,
because they are naturally feeble and slow; some because they miss the
way, and many because they leave it by choice, and instead of pressing
onward with a steady pace, delight themselves with momentary deviations,
turn aside to pluck every flower, and repose in every shade.

There is nothing more fatal to a man whose business is to think, than to
have learned the art of regaling his mind with those airy gratifications.
Other vices or follies are restrained by fear, reformed by admonition,
or rejected by the conviction which the comparison of our conduct with
that of others may in time produce. But this invisible riot of the mind,
this secret prodigality of being, is secure from detection, and fearless
of reproach. The dreamer retires to his apartments, shuts out the cares
and interruptions of mankind, and abandons himself to his own fancy; new
worlds rise up before him, one image is followed by another, and a long
succession of delights dances round him. He is at last called back to
life by nature, or by custom, and enters peevish into society, because he
cannot model it to his own will. He returns from his idle excursions with
the asperity, though not with the knowledge of a student, and hastens
again to the same felicity with the eagerness of a man bent upon the
advancement of some favourite science. The infatuation strengthens by
degrees, and like the poison of opiates, weakens his powers, without any
external symptoms of malignity.

It happens, indeed, that these hypocrites of learning are in time
detected, and convinced by disgrace and disappointment of the difference
between the labour of thought, and the sport of musing. But this
discovery is often not made till it is too late to recover the time that
has been fooled away. A thousand accidents may, indeed, awaken drones
to a more early sense of their danger and their shame. But they who are
convinced of the necessity of breaking from this habitual drowsiness, too
often relapse in spite of their resolution; for these ideal seducers are
always near, and neither any particularity of time nor place is necessary
to their influence; they invade the soul without warning, and have often
charmed down resistance before their approach is perceived or suspected.

This captivity, however, it is necessary for every man to break, who
has any desire to be wise or useful, to pass his life with the esteem
of others, or to look back with satisfaction from his old age upon his
earlier years. In order to regain liberty, he must find the means of
flying from himself; he must, in opposition to the Stoick precept, teach
his desires to fix upon external things; he must adopt the joys and the
pains of others, and excite in his mind the want of social pleasures and
amicable communication.

It is, perhaps, not impossible to promote the cure of this mental malady,
by close application to some new study, which may pour in fresh ideas,
and keep curiosity in perpetual motion. But study requires solitude, and
solitude is a state dangerous to those who are too much accustomed to
sink into themselves. Active employment or public pleasure is generally
a necessary part of this intellectual regimen, without which, though some
remission may be obtained, a complete cure will scarcely be effected.

This is a formidable and obstinate disease of the intellect, of which,
when it has once become radicated by time, the remedy is one of the
hardest tasks of reason and of virtue. Its slightest attacks, therefore,
should be watchfully opposed; and he that finds the frigid and narcotick
infection beginning to seize him, should turn his whole attention against
it, and check it at the first discovery by proper counteraction.

The great resolution to be formed, when happiness and virtue are thus
formidably invaded, is, that no part of life be spent in a state of
neutrality or indifference; but that some pleasure be found for every
moment that is not devoted to labour; and that, whenever the necessary
business of life grows irksome or disgusting, an immediate transition be
made to diversion and gaiety.

After the exercises which the health of the body requires, and which
have themselves a natural tendency to actuate and invigorate the mind, the
most eligible amusement of a rational being seems to be that interchange
of thoughts which is practised in free and easy conversation; where
suspicion is banished by experience, and emulation by benevolence; where
every man speaks with no other restraint than unwillingness to offend,
and hears with no other disposition than desire to be pleased.

There must be a time in which every man trifles; and the only choice that
nature offers us, is, to trifle in company or alone. To join profit with
pleasure, has been an old precept among men who have had very different
conceptions of profit. All have agreed that our amusements should not
terminate wholly in the present moment, but contribute more or less to
future advantage. He that amuses himself among well-chosen companions,
can scarcely fail to receive, from the most careless and obstreperous
merriment which virtue can allow, some useful hints; nor can converse
on the most familiar topicks without some casual information. The loose
sparkles of thoughtless wit may give new light to the mind, and the gay
contention for paradoxical positions rectify the opinions.

This is the time in which those friendships that give happiness or
consolation, relief or security, are generally formed. A wise and good
man is never so amiable as in his unbended and familiar intervals.
Heroick generosity, or philosophical discoveries, may compel veneration
and respect, but love always implies some kind of natural or voluntary
equality, and is only to be excited by that levity and cheerfulness
which disencumber all minds from awe and solicitude, invite the modest
to freedom, and exalt the timorous to confidence. This easy gaiety is
certain to please, whatever be the character of him that exerts it; if
our superiors descend from their elevation, we love them for lessening
the distance at which we are placed below them; and inferiors, from whom
we can receive no lasting advantage, will always keep our affections
while their sprightliness and mirth contribute to our pleasure.

Every man finds himself differently affected by the sight of fortresses
of war, and palaces of pleasure; we look on the height and strength of
the bulwarks with a kind of gloomy satisfaction, for we cannot think
of defence without admitting images of danger; but we range delighted
and jocund through the gay apartments of the palace, because nothing
is impressed by them on the mind but joy and festivity. Such is the
difference between great and amiable characters; with protectors we are
safe, with companions we are happy.




No. 90. SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 1751.


_In tenui labor. _
VIRG. Geor. iv. 6.

What toil in slender things!


It is very difficult to write on the minuter parts of literature without
failing either to please or instruct. Too much nicety of detail disgusts
the greatest part of readers, and to throw a multitude of particulars
under general heads, and lay down rules of extensive comprehension, is
to common understandings of little use. They who undertake these subjects
are therefore always in danger, as one or other inconvenience arises to
their imagination, of frighting us with rugged science, or amusing us
with empty sound.

In criticising the work of Milton, there is, indeed, opportunity to
intersperse passages that can hardly fail to relieve the languors of
attention; and since, in examining the variety and choice of the pauses
with which he has diversified his numbers, it will be necessary to
exhibit the lines in which they are to be found, perhaps the remarks may
be well compensated by the examples, and the irksomeness of grammatical
disquisitions somewhat alleviated.

Milton formed his scheme of versification by the poets of Greece and Rome,
whom he proposed to himself for his models, so far as the difference of
his language from theirs would permit the imitation. There are indeed
many inconveniencies inseparable from our heroick measure compared
with that of Homer and Virgil; inconveniencies, which it is no reproach
to Milton not to have overcome, because they are in their own nature
insuperable; but against which he has struggled with so much art and
diligence, that he may at least be said to have deserved success.

The hexameter of the ancients may be considered as consisting of fifteen
syllables, so melodiously disposed, that, as every one knows who has
examined the poetical authors, very pleasing and sonorous lyrick measures
are formed from the fragments of the heroick. It is, indeed, scarce
possible to break them in such a manner but that _invenias etiam disjecti
membra poetæ_, some harmony will still remain, and the due proportions
of sound will always be discovered. This measure therefore allowed great
variety of pauses, and great liberties of connecting one verse with
another, because wherever the line was interrupted, either part singly
was musical. But the ancients seem to have confined this privilege to
hexameters; for in their other measures, though longer than the English
heroick, those who wrote after the refinements of versification, venture
so seldom to change their pauses, that every variation may be supposed
rather a compliance with necessity than the choice of judgment.

Milton was constrained within the narrow limits of a measure not very
harmonious in the utmost perfection; the single parts, therefore, into
which it was to be sometimes broken by pauses, were in danger of losing
the very form of verse. This has, perhaps, notwithstanding all his care,
sometimes happened.

As harmony is the end of poetical measures, no part of a verse ought to
be so separated from the rest as not to remain still more harmonious than
prose, or to show, by the disposition of the tones, that it is part of
a verse. This rule in the old hexameter might be easily observed, but in
English will very frequently be in danger of violation; for the order
and regularity of accents cannot well be perceived in a succession of
fewer than three syllables, which will confine the English poet to only
five pauses; it being supposed, that when he connects one line with
another, he should never make a full pause at less distance than that
of three syllables from the beginning or end of a verse.

That this rule should be universally and indispensably established,
perhaps cannot be granted; something may be allowed to variety, and
something to the adaptation of the numbers to the subject; but it will
be found generally necessary, and the ear will seldom fail to suffer by
its neglect.

Thus when a single syllable is cut off from the rest, it must either be
united to the line with which the sense connects it, or be sounded alone.
If it be united to the other line, it corrupts its harmony; if disjoined,
it must stand alone, and with regard to musick be superfluous; for there
is no harmony in a single sound, because it has no proportion to another.

----Hypocrites austerely talk,
Defaming as impure what God declares
_Pure_; and commands to some, leaves free to all.

When two syllables likewise are abscinded from the rest, they evidently
want some associate sounds to make them harmonious.

----Eyes----
----more wakeful than to drouze,
Charm'd with Arcadian pipe, the pastoral reed
Of Hermes, or his opiate rod. _Meanwhile_
To re-salute the world with sacred light
Leucothea wak'd.

He ended, and the sun gave signal high
To the bright minister that watch'd: _he blew_
His trumpet.

First in the east his glorious lamp was seen,
Regent of day; and all th' horizon round
Invested with bright rays, jocund to run
His longitude through heav'n's high road; _the gray_
Dawn, and the Pleiades, before him danc'd,
Shedding sweet influence.

The same defect is perceived in the following line, where the pause is at
the second syllable from the beginning.

--------The race
Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard
In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears
To rapture, 'till the savage clamour drown'd
Both harp and voice; nor could the muse defend
_Her son_. So fail not thou, who thee implores.

When the pause falls upon the third syllable or the seventh, the harmony
is the better preserved; but as the third and seventh are weak syllables,
the period leaves the ear unsatisfied, and in expectation of the
remaining part of the verse.

----He, with his horrid crew,
Lay vanquish'd, rolling in the fiery gulph,
Confounded though immor_tal_. But his doom
Reserv'd him to more wrath; for now the thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments _him_.

God,--with frequent intercourse,
Thither will send his winged messengers
On errands of supernal grace. So sung
The glorious train ascend_ing_.

It may be, I think, established as a rule, that a pause which concludes
a period should be made for the most part upon a strong syllable, as
the fourth and sixth; but those pauses which only suspend the sense may
be placed upon the weaker. Thus the rest in the third line of the first
passage satisfies the ear better than in the fourth, and the close of the
second quotation better than of the third.

--------The evil soon
Drawn back, redounded (as a flood) on those
From whom it _sprung_; impossible to mix
With _blessedness_.

--------What we by day
Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind,
One night or two with wanton growth derides,
Tending to _wild_.

The paths and bow'rs doubt not but our joint hands
Will keep from wilderness with ease as wide
As we need walk, till younger hands ere long
Assist _us_.

The rest in the fifth place has the same inconvenience as in the seventh
and third, that the syllable is weak.

Beast now with beast 'gan war, and fowl with fowl,
And fish with fish, to graze the herb all leaving,
Devour'd each _other_: Nor stood much in awe
Of man, but fled _him_, or with countenance grim,
Glar'd on him pass_ing_.

The noblest and most majestick pauses which our versification admits, are
upon the fourth and sixth syllables, which are both strongly sounded in
a pure and regular verse, and at either of which the line is so divided,
that both members participate of harmony.

But now at last the sacred influence
Of light _appears_, and from the walls of heav'n
Shoots far into the bosom of dim night
A glimmering _dawn_: here nature first begins
Her farthest verge, and chaos to retire.

But far above all others, if I can give any credit to my own ear, is the
rest upon the sixth syllable, which, taking in a complete compass of
sound, such as is sufficient to constitute one of our lyrick measures,
makes a full and solemn close. Some passages which conclude at this stop,
I could never read without some strong emotions of delight or admiration.

Before the hills appear'd, or fountain flow'd,
Thou with the eternal wisdom didst converse,
Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play
In presence of the almighty Father, pleas'd
With thy celestial _song_.

Or other worlds they seem'd, or happy isles,
Like those Hesperian gardens fam'd of old,
Fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales,
Thrice happy isles! But who dwelt happy there,
He stayed not to in_quire_.

--------He blew
His trumpet, heard in Oreb since, perhaps
When God descended; and, perhaps, once more
To sound at general _doom_.

If the poetry of Milton be examined, with regard to the pauses and flow of
his verses into each other, it will appear, that he has performed all that
our language would admit; and the comparison of his numbers with those who
have cultivated the same manner of writing, will show that he excelled as
much in the lower as the higher parts of his art, and that his skill in
harmony was not less than his invention or his learning.




No. 91. TUESDAY, JANUARY 29, 1751.


_Dulcis inexpertis cultura potentis amici;_
_Expertus metuit. _
HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xviii. 86.

To court the great ones, and to sooth their pride,
Seems a sweet task to those that never tried;
But those that have, know well that danger's near.
CREECH.


The Sciences having long seen their votaries labouring for the benefit
of mankind without reward, put up their petition to Jupiter for a more
equitable distribution of riches and honours. Jupiter was moved at their
complaints, and touched with the approaching miseries of men, whom the
Sciences, wearied with perpetual ingratitude, were now threatening to
forsake, and who would have been reduced by their departure to feed in
dens upon the mast of trees, to hunt their prey in deserts, and to perish
under the paws of animals stronger and fiercer than themselves.

A synod of the celestials was therefore convened, in which it was
resolved, that Patronage should descend to the assistance of the
Sciences. Patronage was the daughter of Astrea, by a mortal father, and
had been educated in the school of Truth, by the Goddesses, whom she
was now appointed to protect. She had from her mother that dignity of
aspect, which struck terrour into false merit, and from her mistress
that reserve, which made her only accessible to those whom the Sciences
brought into her presence.

She came down, with the general acclamation of all the powers that favour
learning. Hope danced before her, and Liberality stood at her side, ready
to scatter by her direction the gifts which Fortune, who followed her,
was commanded to supply. As she advanced towards Parnassus, the cloud
which had long hung over it, was immediately dispelled. The shades,
before withered with drought, spread their original verdure, and the
flowers that had languished with chillness brightened their colours,
and invigorated their scents; the Muses tuned their harps, and exerted
their voices; and all the concert of nature welcomed her arrival.

On Parnassus she fixed her residence, in a palace raised by the Sciences,
and adorned with whatever could delight the eye, elevate the imagination,
or enlarge the understanding. Here she dispersed the gifts of Fortune with
the impartiality of Justice, and the discernment of Truth. Her gate stood
always open, and Hope sat at the portal, inviting to entrance all whom
the Sciences numbered in their train. The court was therefore thronged
with innumerable multitudes, of whom, though many returned disappointed,
seldom any had confidence to complain; for Patronage was known to neglect
few, but for want of the due claims to her regard. Those, therefore, who
had solicited her favour without success, generally withdrew from publick
notice, and either diverted their attention to meaner employments, or
endeavoured to supply their deficiencies by closer application.

In time, however, the number of those who had miscarried in their
pretensions grew so great, that they became less ashamed of their
repulses; and instead of hiding their disgrace in retirement, began to
besiege the gates of the palace, and obstruct the entrance of such as
they thought likely to be more caressed. The decisions of Patronage,
who was but half a Goddess, had been sometimes erroneous; and though
she always made haste to rectify her mistakes, a few instances of her
fallibility encouraged every one to appeal from her judgment to his own
and that of his companions, who are always ready to clamour in the common
cause, and elate each other with reciprocal applause.

Hope was a steady friend of the disappointed, and Impudence incited
them to accept a second invitation, and lay their claim again before
Patronage. They were again, for the most part, sent back with ignominy,
but found Hope not alienated, and Impudence more resolutely zealous; they
therefore contrived new expedients, and hoped at last to prevail by their
multitudes, which were always increasing, and their perseverance, which
Hope and Impudence forbad them to relax.

Patronage having been long a stranger to the heavenly assemblies, began to
degenerate towards terrestrial nature, and forget the precepts of Justice
and Truth. Instead of confining her friendship to the Sciences, she
suffered herself, by little and little, to contract an acquaintance with
Pride, the son of Falsehood, by whose embraces she had two daughters,
Flattery and Caprice. Flattery was nursed by Liberality, and Caprice by
Fortune, without any assistance from the lessons of the Sciences.

Patronage began openly to adopt the sentiments and imitate the manners of
her husband, by whose opinions she now directed her decisions with very
little heed to the precepts of Truth; and as her daughters continually
gained upon her affections, the Sciences lost their influence, till none
found much reason to boast of their reception, but those whom Caprice or
Flattery conducted to her throne.

The throngs who had so long waited, and so often been dismissed for want
of recommendation from the Sciences, were delighted to see the power of
those rigourous Goddesses tending to its extinction. Their patronesses
now renewed their encouragements.