No More Learning

It is scarcely to be imagined how soon the mind sinks to a level with
the condition. I, who had long considered all who approached me as
vassals condemned to regulate their pleasures by my eyes, and harass
their inventions for my entertainment, was in less than three weeks
reduced to receive a ticket with professions of obligation; to catch
with eagerness at a compliment; and to watch with all the anxiousness of
dependance, lest any little civility that was paid me should pass
unacknowledged.

Though the negligence of the men was not very pleasing when compared
with vows and adoration, yet it was far more supportable than the
insolence of my own sex. For the first ten months after my return into
the world, I never entered a single house in which the memory of my
downfall was not revived. At one place I was congratulated on my escape
with life; at another I heard of the benefits of early inoculation; by
some I have been told in express terms, that I am not yet without my
charms; others have whispered at my entrance, This is the celebrated
beauty. One told me of a wash that would smooth the skin; and another
offered me her chair that I might not front the light. Some soothed me
with the observation that none can tell how soon my case may be her own;
and some thought it proper to receive me with mournful tenderness,
formal condolence, and consolatory blandishments.

Thus was I every day harassed with all the stratagems of well-bred
malignity; yet insolence was more tolerable than solitude, and I
therefore persisted to keep my time at the doors of my acquaintance,
without gratifying them with any appearance of resentment or depression.
I expected that their exultation would in time vapour away; that the joy
of their superiority would end with its novelty; and that I should be
suffered to glide along in my present form among the nameless multitude,
whom nature never intended to excite envy or admiration, nor enabled to
delight the eye or inflame the heart.

This was naturally to be expected, and this I began to experience. But
when I was no longer agitated by the perpetual ardour of resistance, and
effort of perseverance, I found more sensibly the want of those
entertainments which had formerly delighted me; the day rose upon me
without an engagement; and the evening closed in its natural gloom,
without summoning me to a concert or a ball. None had any care to find
amusements for me, and I had no power of amusing myself. Idleness
exposed me to melancholy, and life began to languish in motionless
indifference.

Misery and shame are nearly allied. It was not without many struggles
that I prevailed on myself to confess my uneasiness to Euphemia, the
only friend who had never pained me with comfort or with pity. I at last
laid my calamities before her, rather to ease my heart, than receive
assistance. "We must distinguish," said she, "my Victoria, those evils
which are imposed by Providence, from those to which we ourselves give
the power of hurting us. Of your calamity, a small part is the
infliction of Heaven, the rest is little more than the corrosion of idle
discontent. You have lost that which may indeed sometimes contribute to
happiness, but to which happiness is by no means inseparably annexed.
You have lost what the greater number of the human race never have
possessed; what those on whom it is bestowed for the most part possess
in vain; and what you, while it was yours, knew not how to use: you have
only lost early what the laws of nature forbid you to keep long, and
have lost it while your mind is yet flexible, and while you have time to
substitute more valuable and more durable excellencies. Consider
yourself, my Victoria, as a being born to know, to reason, and to act;
rise at once from your dream of melancholy to wisdom and to piety; you
will find that there are other charms than those of beauty, and other
joys than the praise of fools. "

I am, Sir, &c.

VICTORIA.



No. 134. SATURDAY, JUNE 29, 1751.

_Quis scit an adjiciant hodiernae crastina summae
Tempora Dii superi? _ HOR. Lib. iv. Ode vii. 16.

Who knows if Heav'n, with ever-bounteous pow'r,
Shall add to-morrow to the present hour? FRANCIS.

I sat yesterday morning employed in deliberating on which, among the
various subjects that occurred to my imagination, I should bestow the
paper of to-day. After a short effort of meditation by which nothing was
determined, I grew every moment more irresolute, my ideas wandered from
the first intention, and I rather wished to think, than thought upon any
settled subject; till at last I was awakened from this dream of study by
a summons from the press; the time was now come for which I had been
thus negligently purposing to provide, and, however dubious or sluggish,
I was now necessitated to write.

Though to a writer whose design is so comprehensive and miscellaneous,
that he may accommodate himself with a topick from every scene of life,
or view of nature, it is no great aggravation of his task to be obliged
to a sudden composition; yet I could not forbear to reproach myself for
having so long neglected what was unavoidably to be done, and of which
every moment's idleness increased the difficulty. There was however some
pleasure in reflecting that I, who had only trifled till diligence was
necessary, might still congratulate myself upon my superiority to
multitudes, who have trifled till diligence is vain; who can by no
degree of activity or resolution recover the opportunities which have
slipped away; and who are condemned by their own carelessness to
hopeless calamity and barren sorrow.

The folly of allowing ourselves to delay what we know cannot be finally
escaped, is one of the general weaknesses, which, in spite of the
instruction of moralists, and the remonstrances of reason, prevail to a
greater or less degree in every mind; even they who most steadily
withstand it, find it, if not the most violent, the most pertinacious of
their passions, always renewing its attacks, and though often
vanquished, never destroyed.

It is indeed natural to have particular regard to the time present, and
to be most solicitous for that which is by its nearness enabled to make
the strongest impressions. When therefore any sharp pain is to be
suffered, or any formidable danger to be incurred, we can scarcely
exempt ourselves wholly from the seducements of imagination; we readily
believe that another day will bring some support or advantage which we
now want; and are easily persuaded, that the moment of necessity which
we desire never to arrive, is at a great distance from us.

Thus life is languished away in the gloom of anxiety, and consumed in
collecting resolutions which the next morning dissipates; in forming
purposes which we scarcely hope to keep, and reconciling ourselves to
our own cowardice by excuses, which, while we admit them, we know to be
absurd. Our firmness is by the continual contemplation of misery, hourly
impaired; every submission to our fear enlarges its dominion; we not
only waste that time in which the evil we dread might have been suffered
and surmounted, but even where procrastination produces no absolute
increase of our difficulties, make them less superable to ourselves by
habitual terrours. When evils cannot be avoided, it is wise to contract
the interval of expectation; to meet the mischiefs which will overtake
us if we fly; and suffer only their real malignity, without the
conflicts of doubt, and anguish of anticipation.

To act is far easier than to suffer; yet we every day see the progress
of life retarded by the _vis inertiae_, the mere repugnance to motion,
and find multitudes repining at the want of that which nothing but
idleness hinders them from enjoying. The case of Tantalus, in the region
of poetick punishment, was somewhat to be pitied, because the fruits
that hung about him retired from his hand; but what tenderness can be
claimed by those who, though perhaps they suffer the pains of Tantalus,
will never lift their hands for their own relief?

There is nothing more common among this torpid generation than murmurs
and complaints; murmurs at uneasiness which only vacancy and suspicion
expose them to feel, and complaints of distresses which it is in their
own power to remove. Laziness is commonly associated with timidity.
Either fear originally prohibits endeavours by infusing despair of
success; or the frequent failure of irresolute struggles, and the
constant desire of avoiding labour, impress by degrees false terrours on
the mind. But fear, whether natural or acquired, when once it has full
possession of the fancy, never fails to employ it upon visions of
calamity, such as, if they are not dissipated by useful employment, will
soon overcast it with horrours, and embitter life not only with those
miseries by which all earthly beings are really more or less tormented,
but with those which do not yet exist, and which can only be discerned
by the perspicacity of cowardice.

Among all who sacrifice future advantage to present inclination,
scarcely any gain so little as those that suffer themselves to freeze in
idleness. Others are corrupted by some enjoyment of more or less power
to gratify the passions; but to neglect our duties, merely to avoid the
labour of performing them, a labour which is always punctually rewarded,
is surely to sink under weak temptations. Idleness never can secure
tranquillity; the call of reason and of conscience will pierce the
closest pavilion of the sluggard, and though it may not have force to
drive him from his down, will be loud enough to hinder him from sleep.
Those moments which he cannot resolve to make useful, by devoting them
to the great business of his being, will still be usurped by powers that
will not leave them to his disposal; remorse and vexation will seize
upon them, and forbid him to enjoy what he is so desirous to
appropriate.

There are other causes of inactivity incident to more active faculties
and more acute discernment. He to whom many objects of pursuit arise at
the same time, will frequently hesitate between different desires, till
a rival has precluded him, or change his course as new attractions
prevail, and harass himself without advancing. He who sees different
ways to the same end, will, unless he watches carefully over his own
conduct, lay out too much of his attention upon the comparison of
probabilities, and the adjustment of expedients, and pause in the choice
of his road till some accident intercepts his journey. He whose
penetration extends to remote consequences, and who, whenever he applies
his attention to any design, discovers new prospects of advantage, and
possibilities of improvement, will not easily be persuaded that his
project is ripe for execution; but will superadd one contrivance to
another, endeavour to unite various purposes in one operation, multiply
complications, and refine niceties, till he is entangled in his own
scheme, and bewildered in the perplexity of various intentions. He that
resolves to unite all the beauties of situation in a new purchase, must
waste his life in roving to no purpose from province to province. He
that hopes in the same house to obtain every convenience, may draw plans
and study Palladio, but will never lay a stone. He will attempt a
treatise on some important subject, and amass materials, consult
authors, and study all the dependant and collateral parts of learning,
but never conclude himself qualified to write. He that has abilities to
conceive perfection, will not easily be content without it; and since
perfection cannot be reached, will lose the opportunity of doing well in
the vain hope of unattainable excellence.

The certainty that life cannot be long, and the probability that it will
be much shorter than nature allows, ought to awaken every man to the
active prosecution of whatever he is desirous to perform. It is true,
that no diligence can ascertain success; death may intercept the
swiftest career; but he who is cut off in the execution of an honest
undertaking, has at least the honour of falling in his rank, and has
fought the battle though he missed the victory.



No. 135. TUESDAY, JULY 2, 1751.

Coelum, non animum, mutant. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xi. 27.

Place may be chang'd; but who can change his mind?

It is impossible to take a view on any side, or observe any of the
various classes that form the great community of the world, without
discovering the influence of example; and admitting with new conviction
the observation of Aristotle, that _man is an imitative being_. The
greater, far the greater number, follow the track which others have
beaten, without any curiosity after new discoveries, or ambition of
trusting themselves to their own conduct. And, of those who break the
ranks and disorder the uniformity of the march, most return in a short
time from their deviation, and prefer the equal and steady satisfaction
of security before the frolicks of caprice and the honours of adventure.

In questions difficult or dangerous it is indeed natural to repose upon
authority, and, when fear happens to predominate, upon the authority of
those whom we do not in general think wiser than ourselves. Very few
have abilities requisite for the discovery of abstruse truth; and of
those few some want leisure, and some resolution. But it is not so easy
to find the reason of the universal submission to precedent where every
man might safely judge for himself; where no irreparable loss can be
hazarded, nor any mischief of long continuance incurred. Vanity might be
expected to operate where the more powerful passions are not awakened;
the mere pleasure of acknowledging no superior might produce slight
singularities, or the hope of gaining some new degree of happiness
awaken the mind to invention or experiment.

If in any case the shackles of prescription could be wholly shaken off,
and the imagination left to act without control, on what occasion should
it be expected, but in the selection of lawful pleasure? Pleasure, of
which the essence is choice; which compulsion dissociates from every
thing to which nature has united it; and which owes not only its vigour
but its being to the smiles of liberty. Yet we see that the senses, as
well as the reason, are regulated by credulity; and that most will feel,
or say that they feel, the gratifications which others have taught them
to expect.

At this time of universal migration, when almost every one, considerable
enough to attract regard, has retired, or is preparing with all the
earnestness of distress to retire, into the country; when nothing is to
be heard but the hopes of speedy departure, or the complaints of
involuntary delay; I have often been tempted to inquire what happiness
is to be gained, or what inconvenience to be avoided, by this stated
recession? Of the birds of passage, some follow the summer and some the
winter, because they live upon sustenance which only summer or winter
can supply; but of the annual flight of human rovers it is much harder
to assign the reason, because they do not appear either to find or seek
any thing which is not equally afforded by the town and country.

I believe that many of these fugitives may have heard of men whose
continual wish was for the quiet of retirement, who watched every
opportunity to steal away from observation, to forsake the crowd, and
delight themselves with _the society of solitude_. There is indeed
scarcely any writer who has not celebrated the happiness of rural
privacy, and delighted himself and his reader with the melody of birds,
the whisper of groves, and the murmur of rivulets; nor any man eminent
for extent of capacity, or greatness of exploits, that has not left
behind him some memorials of lonely wisdom, and silent dignity.

But almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those
whom we cannot resemble. Those who thus testified their weariness of
tumult and hurry, and hasted with so much eagerness to the leisure of
retreat, were either men overwhelmed with the pressure of difficult
employments, harassed with importunities, and distracted with
multiplicity; or men wholly engrossed by speculative sciences, who
having no other end of life but to learn and teach, found their searches
interrupted by the common commerce of civility, and their reasonings
disjointed by frequent interruptions. Such men might reasonably fly to
that ease and convenience which their condition allowed them to find
only in the country. The statesman who devoted the greater part of his
time to the publick, was desirous of keeping the remainder in his own
power. The general, ruffled with dangers, wearied with labours, and
stunned with acclamations, gladly snatched an interval of silence and
relaxation. The naturalist was unhappy where the works of Providence
were not always before him. The reasoner could adjust his systems only
where his mind was free from the intrusion of outward objects.

Such examples of solitude very few of those who are now hastening from
the town, have any pretensions to plead in their own justification,
since they cannot pretend either weariness of labour, or desire of
knowledge. They purpose nothing more than to quit one scene of idleness
for another, and after having trifled in publick, to sleep in secrecy.
The utmost that they can hope to gain is the change of ridiculousness to
obscurity, and the privilege of having fewer witnesses to a life of
folly. He who is not sufficiently important to be disturbed in his
pursuits, but spends all his hours according to his own inclination, and
has more hours than his mental faculties enable him to fill either with
enjoyment or desires, can have nothing to demand of shades and valleys.
As bravery is said to be a panoply, insignificancy is always a shelter.

There are, however, pleasures and advantages in a rural situation, which
are not confined to philosophers and heroes. The freshness of the air,
the verdure of the woods, the paint of the meadows, and the unexhausted
variety which summer scatters upon the earth, may easily give delight to
an unlearned spectator. It is not necessary that he who looks with
pleasure on the colours of a flower should study the principles of
vegetation, or that the Ptolemaick and Copernican system should be
compared before the light of the sun can gladden, or its warmth
invigorate. Novelty is itself a source of gratification; and Milton
justly observes, that to him who has been long pent up in cities, no
rural object can be presented, which will not delight or refresh some of
his senses.

Yet even these easy pleasures are missed by the greater part of those
who waste their summer in the country. Should any man pursue his
acquaintances to their retreats, he would find few of them listening to
Philomel, loitering in woods, or plucking daisies, catching the healthy
gale of the morning, or watching the gentle coruscations of declining
day. Some will be discovered at a window by the road side, rejoicing
when a new cloud of dust gathers towards them, as at the approach of a
momentary supply of conversation, and a short relief from the
tediousness of unideal vacancy. Others are placed in the adjacent
villages, where they look only upon houses as in the rest of the year,
with no change of objects but what a remove to any new street in London
might have given them. The same set of acquaintances still settle
together, and the form of life is not otherwise diversified than by
doing the same things in a different place. They pay and receive visits
in the usual form, they frequent the walks in the morning, they deal
cards at night, they attend to the same tattle, and dance with the same
partners; nor can they, at their return to their former habitation,
congratulate themselves on any other advantage, than that they have
passed their time like others of the same rank; and have the same right
to talk of the happiness and beauty of the country, of happiness which
they never felt, and beauty which they never regarded.

To be able to procure its own entertainments, and to subsist upon its
own stock, is not the prerogative of every mind. There are indeed
understandings so fertile and comprehensive, that they can always feed
reflection with new supplies, and suffer nothing from the preclusion of
adventitious amusements; as some cities have within their own walls
enclosed ground enough to feed their inhabitants in a siege. But others
live only from day to day, and must be constantly enabled, by foreign
supplies, to keep out the encroachments of languor and stupidity. Such
could not indeed be blamed for hovering within reach of their usual
pleasure, more than any other animal for not quitting its native
element, were not their faculties contracted by their own fault. But let
not those who go into the country, merely because they dare not be left
alone at home, boast their love of nature, or their qualifications for
solitude; nor pretend that they receive instantaneous infusions of
wisdom from the Dryads, and are able, when they leave smoke and noise
behind, to act, or think, or reason for themselves.



No. 136. SATURDAY, JULY 6, 1751.

[Greek: Echthrus gar moi keimos, omos aidao pulusin,
Os ch eteron men keuthei eni phresin, allo de bazei. ]
HOMER, [Greek: I'. ] 313.

Who dares think one thing, and another tell,
My heart detests him as the gates of Hell. POPE.

The regard which they whose abilities are employed in the works of
imagination claim from the rest of mankind, arises in a great measure
from their influence on futurity. Rank may be conferred by princes, and
wealth bequeathed by misers or by robbers; but the honours of a lasting
name, and the veneration of distant ages, only the sons of learning have
the power of bestowing. While therefore it continues one of the
characteristicks of rational nature to decline oblivion, authors never
can be wholly overlooked in the search after happiness, nor become
contemptible but by their own fault.

The man who considers himself as constituted the ultimate judge of
disputable characters, and entrusted with the distribution of the last
terrestrial rewards of merit, ought to summon all his fortitude to the
support of his integrity, and resolve to discharge an office of such
dignity with the most vigilant caution and scrupulous justice. To
deliver examples to posterity, and to regulate the opinion of future
times, is no slight or trivial undertaking; nor is it easy to commit
more atrocious treason against the great republick of humanity, than by
falsifying its records and misguiding its decrees.

To scatter praise or blame without regard to justice, is to destroy the
distinction of good and evil. Many have no other test of actions than
general opinion; and all are so far influenced by a sense of reputation,
that they are often restrained by fear of reproach, and excited by hope
of honour, when other principles have lost their power; nor can any
species of prostitution promote general depravity more than that which
destroys the force of praise, by shewing that it may be acquired without
deserving it, and which, by setting free the active and ambitious from
the dread of infamy, lets loose the rapacity of power, and weakens the
only authority by which greatness is controlled.

Praise, like gold and diamonds, owes its value only to its scarcity. It
becomes cheap as it becomes vulgar, and will no longer raise
expectation, or animate enterprise. It is therefore not only necessary,
that wickedness, even when it is not safe to censure it, be denied
applause, but that goodness be commended only in proportion to its
degree; and that the garlands, due to the great benefactors of mankind,
be not suffered to fade upon the brow of him who can boast only petty
services and easy virtues.

Had these maxims been universally received, how much would have been
added to the task of dedication, the work on which all the power of
modern wit has been exhausted. How few of these initial panegyricks had
appeared, if the author had been obliged first to find a man of virtue,
then to distinguish the distinct species and degree of his desert, and
at last to pay him only the honours which he might justly claim. It is
much easier to learn the name of the last man whom chance has exalted to
wealth and power, to obtain by the intervention of some of his
domesticks the privilege of addressing him, or, in confidence of the
general acceptance of flattery, to venture on an address without any
previous solicitation; and after having heaped upon him all the virtues
to which philosophy had assigned a name, inform him how much more might
be truly said, did not the fear of giving pain to his modesty repress
the raptures of wonder and the zeal of veneration.

Nothing has so much degraded literature from its natural rank, as the
practice of indecent and promiscuous dedication; for what credit can he
expect who professes himself the hireling of vanity, however profligate,
and without shame or scruple, celebrates the worthless, dignifies the
mean, and gives to the corrupt, licentious, and oppressive, the
ornaments which ought only to add grace to truth, and loveliness to
innocence? Every other kind of adulation, however shameful, however
mischievous, is less detestable than the crime of counterfeiting
characters, and fixing the stamp of literary sanction upon the dross and
refuse of the world.

Yet I would not overwhelm the authors with the whole load of infamy, of
which part, perhaps the greater part, ought to fall upon their patrons.
If he that hires a bravo, partakes the guilt of murder, why should he
who bribes a flatterer, hope to be exempted from the shame of falsehood?
The unhappy dedicator is seldom without some motives which obstruct,
though not destroy, the liberty of choice; he is oppressed by miseries
which he hopes to relieve, or inflamed by ambition which he expects to
gratify. But the patron has no incitements equally violent; he can
receive only a short gratification, with which nothing but stupidity
could dispose him to be pleased. The real satisfaction which praise can
afford is by repeating aloud the whispers of conscience, and by shewing
us that we have not endeavoured to deserve well in vain. Every other
encomium is, to an intelligent mind, satire and reproach; the
celebration of those virtues which we feel ourselves to want, can only
impress a quicker sense of our own defects, and shew that we have not
yet satisfied the expectations of the world, by forcing us to observe
how much fiction must contribute to the completion of our character.

Yet sometimes the patron may claim indulgence; for it does not always
happen, that the encomiast has been much encouraged to his attempt. Many
a hapless author, when his book, and perhaps his dedication, was ready
for the press, has waited long before any one would pay the price of
prostitution, or consent to hear the praises destined to insure his name
against the casualties of time; and many a complaint has been vented
against the decline of learning, and neglect of genius, when either
parsimonious prudence has declined expense, or honest indignation
rejected falsehood. But if at last, after long inquiry and innumerable
disappointments, he find a lord willing to hear of his own eloquence and
taste, a statesman desirous of knowing how a friendly historian will
represent his conduct, or a lady delighted to leave to the world some
memorial of her wit and beauty, such weakness cannot be censured as an
instance of enormous depravity. The wisest man may, by a diligent
solicitor, be surprised in the hour of weakness, and persuaded to solace
vexation, or invigorate hope, with the musick of flattery.

To censure all dedications as adulatory and servile, would discover
rather envy than justice. Praise is the tribute of merit, and he that
has incontestably distinguished himself by any publick performance, has
a right to all the honours which the publick can bestow. To men thus
raised above the rest of the community, there is no need that the book
or its author should have any particular relation; that the patron is
known to deserve respect, is sufficient to vindicate him that pays it.
To the same regard from particular persons, private virtue and less
conspicuous excellence may be sometimes entitled. An author may with
great propriety inscribe his work to him by whose encouragement it was
undertaken, or by whose liberality he has been enabled to prosecute it,
and he may justly rejoice in his own fortitude that dares to rescue
merit from obscurity.

_Acribus exemplis videor te claudere: misce
Ergo aliquid nostris de moribus. --_

Thus much I will indulge thee for thy ease,
And mingle something of our times to please. Dryden, jun.

I know not whether greater relaxation may not he indulged, and whether
hope as well as gratitude may not unblamably produce a dedication; but
let the writer who pours out his praises only to propitiate power, or
attract the attention of greatness, be cautious lest his desire betray
him to exuberant eulogies. We are naturally more apt to please ourselves
with the future than the past, and while we luxuriate in expectation,
may be easily persuaded to purchase what we yet rate, only by
imagination, at a higher price than experience will warrant.

But no private views of personal regard can discharge any man from his
general obligations to virtue and to truth. It may happen in the various
combinations of life, that a good man may receive favours from one, who,
notwithstanding his accidental beneficence, cannot be justly proposed to
the imitation of others, and whom therefore he must find some other way
of rewarding than by public celebrations. Self-love has indeed many
powers of seducement; but it surely ought not to exalt any individual to
equality with the collective body of mankind, or persuade him that a
benefit conferred on him is equivalent to every other virtue. Yet many,
upon false principles of gratitude, have ventured to extol wretches,
whom all but their dependents numbered among the reproaches of the
species, and whom they would likewise have beheld with the same scorn,
had they not been hired to dishonest approbation.

To encourage merit with praise is the great business of literature; but
praise must lose its influence, by unjust or negligent distribution; and
he that impairs its value may be charged with misapplication of the
power that genius puts into his hands, and with squandering on guilt the
recompense of virtue.



No. 137. TUESDAY, JULY 9, 1751.

_Dum vitant stulti vitia, in contraria currunt_.
Hor. Lib. i. Sat. ii. 24.

--Whilst fools one vice condemn,
They run into the opposite extreme. CREECH.

That wonder is the effect of ignorance, has been often observed. The
awful stillness of attention, with which the mind is overspread at the
first view of an unexpected effect, ceases when we have leisure to
disentangle complications and investigate causes. Wonder is a pause of
reason, a sudden cessation of the mental progress, which lasts only
while the understanding is fixed upon some single idea, and is at an end
when it recovers force enough to divide the object into its parts, or
mark the intermediate gradations from the first agent to the last
consequence.

It may be remarked with equal truth, that ignorance is often the effect
of wonder. It is common for those who have never accustomed themselves
to the labour of inquiry, nor invigorated their confidence by conquests
over difficulty, to sleep in the gloomy quiescence of astonishment,
without any effort to animate inquiry, or dispel obscurity. What they
cannot immediately conceive, they consider as too high to be reached, or
too extensive to be comprehended; they therefore content themselves with
the gaze of folly, forbear to attempt what they have no hopes of
performing, and resign the pleasure of rational contemplation to more
pertinacious study, or more active faculties.

Among the productions of mechanick art, many are of a form so different
from that of their first materials, and many consist of parts so
numerous and so nicely adapted to each other, that it is not possible to
view them without amazement. But when we enter the shops of artificers,
observe the various tools by which every operation is facilitated, and
trace the progress of a manufacture through the different hands, that,
in succession to each other, contribute to its perfection, we soon
discover that every single man has an easy task, and that the extremes,
however remote, of natural rudeness and artificial elegance, are joined
by a regular concatenation of effects, of which every one is introduced
by that which precedes it, and equally introduces that which is to
follow.

The same is the state of intellectual and manual performances. Long
calculations or complex diagrams affright the timorous and unexperienced
from a second view; but if we have skill sufficient to analyze them into
simple principles, it will be discovered that our fear was groundless.
_Divide and conquer_, is a principle equally just in science as in
policy. Complication is a species of confederacy, which, while it
continues united, bids defiance to the most active and vigorous
intellect; but of which every member is separately weak, and which may
therefore be quickly subdued, if it can once be broken.

The chief art of learning, as Locke has observed, is to attempt but
little at a time. The widest excursions of the mind are made by short
flights frequently repeated; the most lofty fabricks of science are
formed by the continued accumulation of single propositions.

It often happens, whatever be the cause, that impatience of labour, or
dread of miscarriage, seizes those who are most distinguished for
quickness of apprehension; and that they who might with greatest reason
promise themselves victory, are least willing to hazard the encounter.
This diffidence, where the attention is not laid asleep by laziness, or
dissipated by pleasures, can arise only from confused and general views,
such as negligence snatches in haste, or from the disappointment of the
first hopes formed by arrogance without reflection. To expect that the
intricacies of science will be pierced by a careless glance, or the
eminences of fame ascended without labour, is to expect a particular
privilege, a power denied to the rest of mankind; but to suppose that
the maze is inscrutable to diligence, or the heights inaccessible to
perseverance, is to submit tamely to the tyranny of fancy, and enchain
the mind in voluntary shackles.

It is the proper ambition of the heroes in literature to enlarge the
boundaries of knowledge by discovering and conquering new regions of the
intellectual world. To the success of such undertakings perhaps some
degree of fortuitous happiness is necessary, which no man can promise or
procure to himself; and therefore doubt and irresolution may be forgiven
in him that ventures into the unexplored abysses of truth, and attempts
to find his way through the fluctuations of uncertainty, and the
conflicts of contradiction. But when nothing more is required, than to
pursue a path already beaten, and to trample obstacles which others have
demolished, why should any man so much distrust his own intellect as to
imagine himself unequal to the attempt?

It were to be wished that they who devote their lives to study would at
once believe nothing too great for their attainment, and consider
nothing as too little for their regard; that they would extend their
notice alike to science and to life, and unite some knowledge of the
present world to their acquaintance with past ages and remote events.

Nothing has so much exposed men of learning to contempt and ridicule, as
their ignorance of things which are known to all but themselves. Those
who have been taught to consider the institutions of the schools, as
giving the last perfection to human abilities, are surprised to see men
wrinkled with study, yet wanting to be instructed in the minute
circumstances of propriety, or the necessary forms of daily transaction;
and quickly shake off their reverence for modes of education, which they
find to produce no ability above the rest of mankind.

"Books," says Bacon, "can never teach the use of books.
" The student
must learn by commerce with mankind to reduce his speculations to
practice, and accommodate his knowledge to the purposes of life.

It is too common for those who have been bred to scholastick
professions, and passed much of their time in academies where nothing
but learning confers honours, to disregard every other qualification,
and to imagine that they shall find mankind ready to pay homage to their
knowledge, and to crowd about them for instruction. They therefore step
out from their cells into the open world with all the confidence of
authority and dignity of importance; they look round about them at once
with ignorance and scorn on a race of beings to whom they are equally
unknown and equally contemptible, but whose manners they must imitate,
and with whose opinions they must comply, if they desire to pass their
time happily among them.

To lessen that disdain with which scholars are inclined to look on the
common business of the world, and the unwillingness with which they
condescend to learn what is not to be found in any system of philosophy,
it may be necessary to consider that though admiration is excited by
abstruse researches and remote discoveries, yet pleasure is not given,
nor affection conciliated, but by softer accomplishments, and qualities
more easily communicable to those about us. He that can only converse
upon questions, about which only a small part of mankind has knowledge
sufficient to make them curious, must lose his days in unsocial silence,
and live in the crowd of life without a companion. He that can only be
useful on great occasions, may die without exerting his abilities, and
stand a helpless spectator of a thousand vexations which fret away
happiness, and which nothing is required to remove but a little
dexterity of conduct and readiness of expedients.

No degree of knowledge attainable by man is able to set him above the
want of hourly assistance, or to extinguish the desire of fond
endearments, and tender officiousness; and therefore, no one should
think it unnecessary to learn those arts by which friendship may be
gained. Kindness is preserved by a constant reciprocation of benefits or
interchange of pleasures; but such benefits only can be bestowed, as
others are capable to receive, and such pleasures only imparted, as
others are qualified to enjoy.

By this descent from the pinnacles of art no honour will be lost; for
the condescensions of learning are always overpaid by gratitude. An
elevated genius employed in little things, appears, to use the simile of
Longinus, like the sun in his evening declination: he remits his
splendour but retains his magnitude, and pleases more though he dazzles
less.



No. 138. SATURDAY, JULY 13, 1751.

_O tantum libeat mecum tibi sordida rura,
Atque humiles habitare casas, et figere cervos_. VIRG. EC. ii 28.

With me retire, and leave the pomp of courts
For humble cottages and rural sports.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Though the contempt with which you have treated the annual migrations of
the gay and busy part of mankind is justified by daily observation;
since most of those who leave the town, neither vary their
entertainments nor enlarge their notions; yet I suppose you do not
intend to represent the practice itself as ridiculous, or to declare
that he whose condition puts the distribution of his time into his own
power may not properly divide it between the town and country.

That the country, and only the country, displays the inexhaustible
varieties of nature, and supplies the philosophical mind with matter for
admiration and inquiry, never was denied; but my curiosity is very
little attracted by the colour of a flower, the anatomy of an insect, or
the structure of a nest; I am generally employed upon human manners, and
therefore fill up the months of rural leisure with remarks on those who
live within the circle of my notice. If writers would more frequently
visit those regions of negligence and liberty, they might diversify
their representations, and multiply their images, for in the country are
original characters chiefly to be found. In cities, and yet more in
courts, the minute discriminations which distinguish one from another
are for the most part effaced, the peculiarities of temper and opinion
are gradually worn away by promiscuous converse, as angular bodies and
uneven surfaces lose their points and asperities by frequent attrition
against one another, and approach by degrees to uniform rotundity. The
prevalence of fashion, the influence of example, the desire of applause,
and the dread of censure, obstruct the natural tendencies of the mind,
and check the fancy in its first efforts to break forth into experiments
of caprice.

Few inclinations are so strong as to grow up into habits, when they must
struggle with the constant opposition of settled forms and established
customs. But in the country every man is a separate and independent
being: solitude flatters irregularity with hopes of secrecy; and wealth,
removed from the mortification of comparison, and the awe of equality,
swells into contemptuous confidence, and sets blame and laughter at
defiance; the impulses of nature act unrestrained, and the disposition
dares to shew itself in its true form, without any disguise of
hypocrisy, or decorations of elegance. Every one indulges the full
enjoyment of his own choice, and talks and lives with no other view than
to please himself, without inquiring how far he deviates from the
general practice, or considering others as entitled to any account of
his sentiments or actions. If he builds or demolishes, opens or
encloses, deluges or drains, it is not his care what may be the opinion
of those who are skilled in perspective or architecture, it is
sufficient that he has no landlord to controul him, and that none has
any right to examine in what projects the lord of the manour spends his
own money on his own grounds.

For this reason it is not very common to want subjects for rural
conversation. Almost every man is daily doing something which produces
merriment, wonder, or resentment, among his neighbours. This utter
exemption from restraint leaves every anomalous quality to operate in
its full extent, and suffers the natural character to diffuse itself to
every part of life. The pride which, under the check of publick
observation, would have been only vented among servants and domesticks,
becomes in a country baronet the torment of a province, and instead of
terminating in the destruction of China-ware and glasses, ruins tenants,
dispossesses cottagers, and harasses villages with actions of trespass
and bills of indictment.

It frequently happens that, even without violent passions, or enormous
corruption, the freedom and laxity of a rustick life produces remarkable
particularities of conduct or manner. In the province where I now
reside, we have one lady eminent for wearing a gown always of the same
cut and colour; another for shaking hands with those that visit her; and
a third for unshaken resolution never to let tea or coffee enter her
house.

But of all the female characters which this place affords, I have found
none so worthy of attention as that of Mrs. Busy, a widow, who lost her
husband in her thirtieth year, and has since passed her time at the
manour-house in the government of her children, and the management of
the estate.

Mrs. Busy was married at eighteen from a boarding-school, where she had
passed her time like other young ladies, in needle-work, with a few
intervals of dancing and reading. When she became a bride she spent one
winter with her husband in town, where, having no idea of any
conversation beyond the formalities of a visit, she found nothing to
engage her passions: and when she had been one night at court, and two
at an opera, and seen the Monument, the Tombs, and the Tower, she
concluded that London had nothing more to shew, and wondered that when
women had once seen the world, they could not be content to stay at
home. She therefore went willingly to the ancient seat, and for some
years studied housewifery under Mr. Busy's mother, with so much
assiduity, that the old lady, when she died, bequeathed her a
caudle-cup, a soup-dish, two beakers, and a chest of table-linen spun
by herself.

Mr. Busy, finding the economical qualities of his lady, resigned his
affairs wholly into her hands, and devoted his life to his pointers and
his hounds. He never visited his estates but to destroy the partridges
or foxes; and often committed such devastations in the rage of pleasure,
that some of his tenants refused to hold their lands at the usual rent.
Their landlady persuaded them to be satisfied, and entreated her husband
to dismiss his dogs, with many exact calculations of the ale drunk by
his companions, and corn consumed by the horses, and remonstrances
against the insolence of the huntsman, and the frauds of the groom. The
huntsman was too necessary to his happiness to be discarded; and he had
still continued to ravage his own estate, had he not caught a cold and a
fever by shooting mallards in the fens. His fever was followed by a
consumption, which in a few months brought him to the grave.

Mrs. Busy was too much an economist to feel either joy or sorrow at his
death. She received the compliments and consolations of her neighbours
in a dark room, out of which she stole privately every night and morning
to see the cows milked; and after a few days declared that she thought a
widow might employ herself better than in nursing grief; and that, for
her part, she was resolved that the fortunes of her children should not
be impaired by her neglect.

She therefore immediately applied herself to the reformation of abuses.
She gave away the dogs, discharged the servants of the kennel and
stable, and sent the horses to the next fair, but rated at so high a
price that they returned unsold. She was resolved to have nothing idle
about her, and ordered them to be employed in common drudgery. They lost
their sleekness and grace, and were soon purchased at half the value.

She soon disencumbered herself from her weeds, and put on a riding-hood,
a coarse apron, and short petticoats, and has turned a large manour into
a farm, of which she takes the management wholly upon herself. She rises
before the sun to order the horses to their gears, and sees them well
rubbed down at their return from work; she attends the dairy morning and
evening, and watches when a calf falls that it may be carefully nursed;
she walks out among the sheep at noon, counts the lambs, and observes
the fences, and, where she finds a gap, stops it with a bush till it can
be better mended. In harvest she rides a-field in the waggon, and is
very liberal of her ale from a wooden bottle. At her leisure hours she
looks goose eggs, airs the wool-room, and turns the cheese.

When respect or curiosity brings visitants to her house, she entertains
them with prognosticks of a scarcity of wheat, or a rot among the sheep,
and always thinks herself privileged to dismiss them, when she is to see
the hogs fed, or to count her poultry on the roost.

The only things neglected about her are her children, whom she has
taught nothing but the lowest household duties. In my last visit I met
Miss Busy carrying grains to a sick cow, and was entertained with the
accomplishments of her eldest son, a youth of such early maturity, that
though he is only sixteen, she can trust him to sell corn in the market.
Her younger daughter, who is eminent for her beauty, though somewhat
tanned in making hay, was busy in pouring out ale to the ploughmen, that
every one might have an equal share.

I could not but look with pity on this young family, doomed by the
absurd prudence of their mother to ignorance and meanness: but when I
recommended a more elegant education, was answered, that she never saw
bookish or finical people grow rich, and that she was good for nothing
herself till she had forgotten the nicety of the boarding-school.

I am, Yours, &c.

BUCOLUS.



No. 139. TUESDAY, JULY 16, 1751

--_Sit quod vis simplex duntanat et unum_. Hor. Art. Poet. 23.

Let ev'ry piece be simple and be one.

It is required by Aristotle to the perfection of a tragedy, and is
equally necessary to every other species of regular composition, that it
should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. "The beginning," says he,
"is that which hath nothing necessarily previous, but to which that
which follows is naturally consequent; the end, on the contrary, is that
which by necessity, or, at least, according to the common course of
things, succeeds something else, but which implies nothing consequent to
itself; the middle is connected on one side to something that naturally
goes before, and on the other to something that naturally follows it. "

Such is the rule laid down by this great critick, for the disposition of
the different parts of a well-constituted fable. It must begin where it
may be made intelligible without introduction; and end where the mind is
left in repose, without expectation of any further event. The
intermediate passages must join the last effect to the first cause, by a
regular and unbroken concatenation; nothing must be, therefore,
inserted, which does not apparently arise from something foregoing, and
properly make way for something that succeeds it.

This precept is to be understood in its rigour only with respect to
great and essential events, and cannot be extended in the same force to
minuter circumstances and arbitrary decorations, which yet are more
happy, as they contribute more to the main design; for it is always a
proof of extensive thought and accurate circumspection, to promote
various purposes by the same act; and the idea of an ornament admits
use, though it seems to exclude necessity.

Whoever purposes, as it is expressed by Milton, _to build the lofty
rhyme_, must acquaint himself with this law of poetical architecture,
and take care that his edifice be solid as well as beautiful; that
nothing stand single or independent, so as that it may be taken away
without injuring the rest; but that, from the foundation to the
pinnacles, one part rest firm upon another.

The regular and consequential distribution is among common authors
frequently neglected; but the failures of those, whose example can have
no influence, may be safely overlooked, nor is it of much use to recall
obscure and unguarded names to memory for the sake of sporting with
their infamy. But if there is any writer whose genius can embellish
impropriety, and whose authority can make errour venerable, his works
are the proper objects of critical inquisition. To expunge faults where
there are no excellencies is a task equally useless with that of the
chymist, who employs the arts of separation and refinement upon ore in
which no precious metal is contained to reward his operations.

The tragedy of Samson Agonistes has been celebrated as the second work
of the great author of Paradise Lost, and opposed, with all the
confidence of triumph, to the dramatick performances of other nations.
It contains, indeed, just sentiments, maxims of wisdom, and oracles of
piety, and many passages written with the ancient spirit of choral
poetry, in which there is a just and pleasing mixture of Seneca's moral
declamation, with the wild enthusiasm of the Greek writers. It is,
therefore, worthy of examination, whether a performance thus illuminated
with genius, and enriched with learning, is composed according to the
indispensable laws of Aristotelian criticism: and, omitting, at present,
all other considerations, whether it exhibits a beginning, a middle, and
an end.

The beginning is undoubtedly beautiful and proper, opening with a
graceful abruptness, and proceeding naturally to a mournful recital of
facts necessary to be known:

_Samson_. A little onward lend thy guiding hand
To these dark steps, a little further on;
For yonder bank hath choice of sun and shade:
There I am wont to sit, when any chance
Relieves me from my task of servile toil,
Daily in the common prison else enjoin'd me. --
O, wherefore was my birth from Heav'n foretold
Twice by an Angel? --
Why was my breeding order'd and prescrib'd,
As of a person separate to God,
Design'd for great exploits; if I must die
Betray'd, captiv'd, and both my eyes put out? --
Whom have I to complain of but myself?
Who this high gift of strength committed to me,
In what part lodg'd, how easily bereft me,
Under the seal of silence could not keep:
But weakly to a woman must reveal it.

His soliloquy is interrupted by a chorus or company of men of his own
tribe, who condole his miseries, extenuate his fault, and conclude with
a solemn vindication of divine justice. So that at the conclusion of the
first act there is no design laid, no discovery made, nor any
disposition formed towards the consequent event.

In the second act, Manoah, the father of Samson, comes to seek his son,
and, being shewn him by the chorus, breaks out into lamentations of his
misery, and comparisons of his present with his former state,
representing to him the ignominy which his religion suffers, by the
festival this day celebrated in honour of Dagon, to whom the idolaters
ascribed his overthrow.

--Thou bear'st
Enough, and more, the burthen of that fault;
Bitterly hast thou paid, and still art paying
That rigid score. A worse thing yet remains,
This day the Philistines a popular feast
Here celebrate in Gaza; and proclaim
Great pomp, and sacrifice, and praises loud
To Dagon, as their God who hath deliver'd
Thee, Samson, bound and blind, into their hands,
Them out of thine, who slew'st them many a slain.

Samson, touched with this reproach, makes a reply equally penitential
and pious, which his father considers as the effusion of prophetick
confidence:

_Samson_. --He, be sure,
Will not connive, or linger, thus provok'd,
But will arise and his great name assert:
Dagon must stoop, and shall ere long receive
Such a discomfit, as shall quite despoil him
Of all these boasted trophies won on me.

_Manoah_. With cause this hope relieves thee, and these words
I as a prophecy receive; for God,
Nothing more certain, will not long defer
To vindicate the glory of his name.

This part of the dialogue, as it might tend to animate or exasperate
Samson, cannot, I think, be censured as wholly superfluous; but the
succeeding dispute, in which Samson contends to die, and which his
father breaks off, that he may go to solicit his release, is only
valuable for its own beauties, and has no tendency to introduce any
thing that follows it.

The next event of the drama is the arrival of Dalila, with all her
graces, artifices, and allurements. This produces a dialogue, in a very
high degree elegant and instructive, from which she retires, after she
has exhausted her persuasions, and is no more seen nor heard of; nor has
her visit any effect but that of raising the character of Samson.

In the fourth act enters Harapha, the giant of Gath, whose name had
never been mentioned before, and who has now no other motive of coming,
than to see the man whose strength and actions are so loudly celebrated:

_Haraph_. --Much I have heard
Of thy prodigious might and feats perform'd,
Incredible to me, in this displeas'd,
That I was never present in the place
Of those encounters, where we might have tried
Each other's force in camp or listed fields;
And now am come to see of whom such noise
Hath walk'd about, and each limb to survey,
If thy appearance answer loud report.

Samson challenges him to the combat; and, after an interchange of
reproaches, elevated by repeated defiance on one side, and imbittered by
contemptuous insults on the other, Harapha retires; we then hear it
determined by Samson, and the chorus, that no consequence good or bad
will proceed from their interview:

_Chorus_. He will directly to the lords, I fear,
And with malicious counsel stir them up
Some way or other yet farther to afflict thee.

_Sams_. He must allege some cause, and offer'd fight
Will not dare mention, lest a question rise
Whether he durst accept the offer or not;
And, that he durst not, plain enough appear'd.

At last, in the fifth act, appears a messenger from the lords assembled
at the festival of Dagon, with a summons by which Samson is required to
come and entertain them with some proof of his strength. Samson, after a
short expostulation, dismisses him with a firm and resolute refusal;
but, during the absence of the messenger, having a while defended the
propriety of his conduct, he at last declares himself moved by a secret
impulse to comply, and utters some dark presages of a great event to be
brought to pass by his agency, under the direction of Providence:

_Sams_. Be of good courage, I begin to feel
Some rousing motions in me, which dispose
To something extraordinary my thoughts.
I with this messenger will go along,
Nothing to do, be sure, that may dishonour
Our Law, or stain my vow of Nazarite.
If there be aught of presage in the mind,
This day will be remarkable in my life
By some great act, or of my days the last.

While Samson is conducted off by the messenger, his father returns with
hopes of success in his solicitation, upon which he confers with the
chorus till their dialogue is interrupted, first by a shout of triumph,
and afterwards by screams of horrour and agony. As they stand
deliberating where they shall be secure, a man who had been present at
the show enters, and relates how Samson, having prevailed on his guide
to suffer him to lean against the main pillars of the theatrical
edifice, tore down the roof upon the spectators and himself:

--Those two massy pillars,
With horrible convulsion, to and fro
He tugg'd, he shook, till down they came, and drew
The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder
Upon the heads of all who sat beneath--
Samson, with these immixt, inevitably
Pull'd down the same destruction on himself.

This is undoubtedly a just and regular catastrophe, and the poem,
therefore, has a beginning and an end which Aristotle himself could not
have disapproved; but it must be allowed to want a middle, since nothing
passes between the first act and the last, that either hastens or delays
the death of Samson. The whole drama, if its superfluities were cut off,
would scarcely fill a single act; yet this is the tragedy which
ignorance has admired, and bigotry applauded.



No. 140. SATURDAY, JULY 20, 1751.

--_Quis tam Lucili fautor inepte est,
Ut non hoc fateatur? _ HOR. Lib. i. Sat. x. 2.

What doating bigot, to his faults so blind,
As not to grant me this, can Milton find?

It is common, says Bacon, to desire the end without enduring the means.
Every member of society feels and acknowledges the necessity of
detecting crimes, yet scarce any degree of virtue or reputation is able
to secure an informer from publick hatred. The learned world has always
admitted the usefulness of critical disquisitions, yet he that attempts
to show, however modestly, the failures of a celebrated writer, shall
surely irritate his admirers, and incur the imputation of envy,
captiousness, and malignity.

With this danger full in my view, I shall proceed to examine the
sentiments of Milton's tragedy, which, though much less liable to
censure than the disposition of his plan, are, like those of other
writers, sometimes exposed to just exceptions for want of care, or want
of discernment.

Sentiments are proper and improper as they consist more or less with the
character and circumstances of the person to whom they are attributed,
with the rules of the composition in which they are found, or with the
settled and unalterable nature of things.

It is common among the tragick poets to introduce their persons alluding
to events or opinions, of which they could not possibly have any
knowledge. The barbarians of remote or newly discovered regions often
display their skill in European learning. The god of love is mentioned
in Tamerlane with all the familiarity of a Roman epigrammatist; and a
late writer has put Harvey's doctrine of the circulation of the blood
into the mouth of a Turkish statesman, who lived near two centuries
before it was known even to philosophers or anatomists.

Milton's learning, which acquainted him with the manners of the ancient
eastern nations, and his invention, which required no assistance from
the common cant of poetry, have preserved him from frequent outrages of
local or chronological propriety. Yet he has mentioned Chalybean steel,
of which it is not very likely that his chorus should have heard, and
has made Alp the general name of a mountain, in a region where the Alps
could scarcely be known:

No medicinal liquor can assuage,
Nor breath of cooling air from snowy Alp.

He has taught Samson the tales of Circe, and the Syrens, at which he
apparently hints in his colloquy with Dalila:

--I know thy trains,
Though dearly to my cost, thy gins, and toils;
Thy fair _enchanted cup_, and _warbling charms_
No more on me have pow'r.

But the grossest errour of this kind is the solemn introduction of the
Phoenix in the last scene; which is faulty, not only as it is
incongruous to the personage to whom it is ascribed, but as it is so
evidently contrary to reason and nature, that it ought never to be
mentioned but as a fable in any serious poem:

--Virtue giv'n for lost,
Deprest, and overthrown, as seem'd,
Like that self-begotten bird
In the Arabian woods embost,
That no second knows nor third,
And lay ere while a holocaust,
From out her ashy womb now teem'd,
Revives, reflourishes, then vigorous most
When most unactive deem'd,
And though her body die, her fame survives
A secular bird, ages of lives.

Another species of impropriety is the unsuitableness of thoughts to the
general character of the poem. The seriousness and solemnity of tragedy
necessarily reject all pointed or epigrammatical expressions, all remote
conceits and opposition of ideas. Samson's complaint is therefore too
elaborate to be natural:

As in the land of darkness, yet in light,
To live a life half dead, a living death,
And bury'd; but, O yet more miserable!
Myself, my sepulchre, a moving grave,
Buried, yet not exempt,
By privilege of death and burial,
From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs.

All allusions to low and trivial objects, with which contempt is usually
associated, are doubtless unsuitable to a species of composition which
ought to be always awful, though not always magnificent. The remark
therefore of the chorus on good or bad news seems to want elevation:

_Manoah_. A little stay will bring some notice hither.
_Chor_. Of good _or_ bad so great, of bad the sooner;
For evil news _rides post_, while good news _baits_.

But of all meanness that has least to plead which is produced by mere
verbal conceits, which, depending only upon sounds, lose their existence
by the change of a syllable. Of this kind is the following dialogue:

_Chor_. But had we best retire? I see a _storm_.

_Sams_. Fair days have oft contracted wind and rain.

_Chor_. But this another kind of tempest brings.

_Sams_. Be less abstruse, my riddling days are past.

_Chor_. Look now for no enchanting voice, nor fear
The bait of honied words; a rougher tongue
Draws hitherward; I know him by his stride,
The giant _Harapha_. --

And yet more despicable are the lines in which Manoah's paternal
kindness is commended by the chorus:

Fathers are wont to _lay up_ for their sons,
Thou for thy son art bent to _lay out_ all.

Samson's complaint of the inconveniencies of imprisonment is not wholly
without verbal quaintness:

--I, a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw
The air, imprison'd also, close and damp.

From the sentiments we may properly descend to the consideration of the
language, which, in imitation of the ancients, is through the whole
dialogue remarkably simple and unadorned, seldom heightened by epithets,
or varied by figures; yet sometimes metaphors find admission, even where
their consistency is not accurately preserved. Thus Samson confounds
loquacity with a shipwreck:

How could I once look up, or heave the head,
Who, like a foolish _pilot_, have _shipwreck'd_
My _vessel_ trusted to me from above,
Gloriously _rigg'd_; and for a word, a tear,
Fool! have _divulg'd_ the _secret gift_ of God
To a deceitful woman? --

And the chorus talks of adding fuel to flame in a report:

He's gone, and who knows how he may _report_
Thy _words_, by _adding fuel to the flame_?

The versification is in the dialogue much more smooth and harmonious,
than in the parts allotted to the chorus, which are often so harsh and
dissonant, as scarce to preserve, whether the lines end with or without
rhymes, any appearance of metrical regularity:

Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he,
That heroic, that renown'd,
Irresistible Samson? whom unarm'd
No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast, could withstand;
Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid.

Since I have thus pointed out the faults of Milton, critical integrity
requires that I should endeavour to display his excellencies, though
they will not easily be discovered in short quotations, because they
consist in the justness of diffuse reasonings, or in the contexture and
method of continued dialogues; this play having none of those
descriptions, similies, or splendid sentences, with which other
tragedies are so lavishly adorned. Yet some passages may be selected
which seem to deserve particular notice, either as containing sentiments
of passion, representations of life, precepts of conduct, or sallies of
imagination. It is not easy to give a stronger representation of the
weariness of despondency, than in the words of Samson to his father:

--I feel my genial spirits droop,
My hopes all flat, Nature within me seems
In all her functions weary of herself,
My race of glory run, and race of shame,
And I shall shortly be with them that rest.

The reply of Samson to the flattering Dalila affords a just and striking
description of the stratagems and allurements of feminine hypocrisy:

--These are thy wonted arts,
And arts of every woman false like thee,
To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray,
Then as repentant to submit, beseech,
And reconcilement move with feign'd remorse,
Confess and promise wonders in her change;
Not truly penitent, but chief to try
Her husband, how far urg'd his patience bears,
His virtue or weakness which way to assail:
Then with more cautious and instructed skill
Again transgresses, and again submits.

When Samson has refused to make himself a spectacle at the feast of
Dagon, he first justifies his behaviour to the chorus, who charge him
with having served the Philistines, by a very just distinction: and then
destroys the common excuse of cowardice and servility, which always
confound temptation with compulsion:

_Chor_. Yet with thy strength thou serv'st the Philistines.

_Sams_. Not in their idol worship, but by labour
Honest and lawful to deserve my food
Of those, who have me in their civil power.

_Chor_. Where the heart joins not, outward acts defile not.

_Sams_. Where outward force constrains, the sentence holds.
But who constrains me to the temple of Dagon,
Not dragging? The Philistine lords command.
Commands are no constraints. If I obey them,
I do it freely, venturing to displease
God for the fear of Man, and Man prefer,
Set God behind.

The complaint of blindness which Samson pours out at the beginning of
the tragedy is equally addressed to the passions and the fancy. The
enumeration of his miseries is succeeded by a very pleasing train of
poetical images, and concluded by such expostulation and wishes, as
reason too often submits to learn from despair:

O first created Beam, and thou great Word
"Let there be light, and light was over all;"
Why am I thus bereav'd thy prime decree?
The sun to me is dark
And silent as the moon,
When she deserts the night
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
Since light so necessary is to life,
And almost life itself, if it be true
That light is in the soul,
She all in every part; why was the sight
To such a tender hall as the eye confin'd,
So obvious and so easy to be quench'd?
And not, as feeling, through all parts diffus'd,
That she may look at will through every pore?

Such are the faults and such the beauties of Samson Agonistes, which I
have shown with no other purpose than to promote the knowledge of true
criticism. The everlasting verdure of Milton's laurels has nothing to
fear from the blasts of malignity; nor can my attempt produce any other
effect, than to strengthen their shoots by lopping their luxuriance[g].
[Footnote g: This is not the language of an accomplice in Lauder's
imposition. --ED. ]



No. 141. TUESDAY, JULY 23, 1751.

_Hilarisque, tamen cum pondere, virtus_.