ON THE PROVINCE OF COMEDY.

VARIOUS are the methods which art and ingenuity have invented to exhibit a picture of human life and manners. Theſe have dif⯑fered from each other both in the mode of repreſenta⯑tion, and in the particular view of the ſubject which has been taken. With reſpect to the firſt, it is univer⯑ſally allowed that the dramatic form is by far the moſt perfect. The circumſtance of leaving every character to diſplay itſelf in its own proper language, with all the variations of tone and geſture which diſtinguiſh it from others, and which mark every emotion of the mind; and the ſcenic deluſions of dreſs, painting, and machinery, contribute to ſtamp ſuch an appearance of reality upon dramatic repreſentations as no other of the imitative arts can attain. Indeed, when in their per⯑fection, they can ſcarcely be called imitations, but the [3] Tragedy, and ſerious parts into that called a Comedy, yet it has ever been underſtood that what conſtitutes the eſſential and invariable character of each is ſome⯑thing which is expreſſed by the terms tragic and comic, and comes under the head of ſerious or ludicrous emo⯑tions. Referring therefore to a future conſideration, the propriety of introducing ſerious parts in a Comedy, I ſhall now lay down the character of Comedy as a dramatic compoſition exhibiting a ludicrous picture of human life and manners.

THERE are two ſources of ludicrous emotions which it is proper here to diſtinguiſh. One of theſe ariſes from character, the other from incident. The firſt is attached and appropriated to the perſon, and makes a part, as it were, of his compoſition. The other is merely accidental, proceeding from aukward ſituations, odd and uncommon circumſtances, and the like, which may happen indifferently to every perſon. If we com⯑pare theſe with regard to their dignity and utility, we ſhall find a further difference; ſince that proceeding from character belongs to a very reſpectable part of knowledge, that of human manners; and has for its end the correction of foibles: whereas that proceeding from incident is mean and trivial in its origin, and an⯑ſwers no other purpoſe than preſent mirth. 'Tis true, it is perfectly natural to be pleaſed with riſible objects even of the loweſt kind, and a faſtidious averſion to their exhibition may be accounted mere affected nicety; yet ſince we rank Comedy among the higher and more refined ſpecies of compoſition, let us aſſign it the more honourable office of exhibiting and correcting the ludi⯑crous part of characters; and leave to Bartholemew Fair the ingenious contrivances of facetious drollery, and handicraft merriment.

[4] THE following ſources may be pointed out from whence comic character is derived.

NATIONS, like individuals, have certain leading features which diſtinguiſh them from others. Of theſe there are always ſome of a ludicrous caſt which afford matter of entertainment to their neighbours. Comedy has at all times made very free with national peculiarities; and although the ridicule has often been conducted in a trivial and illiberal manner, by greatly overcharging the picture, and introducing idle and unjuſt accuſations, yet I think we need not go ſo far as entirely to reject this ſort of ludicrous painting; ſince it may be as im⯑portant to warn againſt the imitation of foreign follies, as thoſe of our own growth. Indeed, when a French⯑man or Iriſhman is brought upon our ſtage merely to talk broken Engliſh, or make bulls, there can be no plea either of wit or utility to excuſe the illiberal jeſt: but when the nicer diſtinctions of national character are expoſed with a juſt and delicate ridicule, the ſpectacle may be both intertaining and inſtructive. Amidſt the tribe of foreign valets to be met with on the Engliſh theatre, I would inſtance CANTON in the Clandeſtine Marriage as an admirable example of true national charac⯑ter, independent on language and grimace. The obſequi⯑ouſneſs and attentive flattery of the ſervile Swiſs-French⯑man are quite characteriſtic, as well as the careleſs in⯑ſolence and affected airs of Bruſh the Engliſh footman.I AM concerned to obſerve an inſtance of illiberal national ri⯑dicule without any merit of compoſition to palliate it, from a re⯑ſpectable dramatic writer; which is alſo rendered much more ob⯑noxious by the circumſtances. Mr. Voltaire's Ecoſſaiſe was purpoſe⯑ly written to exhibit a worthy Engliſh character; marked, indeed, with ſome whimſical peculiarities, but diſtinguiſhed by a ſtrong ſpirit of benevolence. It was impoſſible to expoſe national foibles more gently than by combining them with national virtues. When this piece was brought on our ſtage under the title of the Engliſh Merchant, a French valet was inſerted among the perſonae dra⯑matis, characteriſed by nothing but his falſe Engliſh, and for no other end but to be exhibited as a ſcoundrel! [5] O'FLAHERTY, the Iriſh ſoldier of fortune in the Weſt Indian, is an example of ſimilar merit; much more ſo, I think, than the character from which the piece has its title.

ALTHOUGH ſome part of the character of a na⯑tion is pretty uniform and conſtant, yet its manners and cuſtoms in many points are extremely variable. Theſe variations are the peculiar modes and faſhions of the age; and hence the age, as well as the nation, acquires a diſtinguiſhing character. Faſhion, in general, uſurps a dominion only over the ſmaller and leſs important part of manners; ſuch as dreſs, public diverſions, and other matters of taſte. The improprieties of faſhion are therefore of the abſurd and ludicrous kind, and conſe⯑quently fit ſubjects of comic ridicule. There is no ſource of Comedy more fertile and pleaſing than this; and none in which the end of reformation is likely to be ſo well anſwered. An extravagant faſhion is exhibited upon the ſtage with ſuch advantage of ridicule that it can ſcarcely ſtand long againſt it; and I make no doubt that Moliere's Marquis de Maſcarille, and Cibber's Lord Foppington had a conſiderable ſhare in reforming the prevailing foppery of the times. Faſhion has alſo too much interfered in ſome more ſerious matters, as the ſentiments and ſtudies of the age. Here too Comedy has made its attacks; and the Alchemiſt, the Virtuoſo, the Antiquary, the Belle Eſprit, have in their turns un⯑dergone the ridicule of the ſtage, when their reſpective [6] purſuits, by being faſhionable, were carried to a fanci⯑ful extravagance. It is well known that Moliere, in his comedies of the Femmes S [...]avantes, and the Precieuſes Ridicules, was as ſucceſsful againſt the pedantry and pretenſions to wit which infected the French nation, and particularly the ladies, at that period, as Cervantes in his attack upon knight-errantry.

THERE is another point of national or faſhionable folly in which Comedy might be very uſeful; yet the attempt has been found dangerous; and perhaps the ſubject is too delicate for the ſtage, conſidering the a⯑buſes to which it is liable. I mean popular ſuperſtition, and prieſtcraft Moliere, who with impunity had attack⯑ed every other ſpecies of folly, was almoſt ruined by expoſing a hypocrite and a devotee; and the licentious ridicule of Dryden, and others of that age, was gene⯑rally aimed not only againſt ſuperſtition, but religion. The Spaniſh Friar, however, is an inſtance in which, with exquiſite humour, the ridicule can hardly be blamed as improper; and it certainly did more hurt to Roman catholic ſuperſtition than he could ever remedy by his ſcholaſtic Hind and Panther. How far the Minor comes under the ſame deſcription would, probably, be a ſub⯑ject of diſpute.

PARTICULAR ranks and profeſſions of men have likewiſe characteriſtical peculiarities which are capable of being placed in a ludicrous view; and Comedy has made frequent uſe of this ſource of ridicule. In expoſing profeſſional, as well as national abſurdities, great illi⯑berality and unfairneſs have been ſhown; both, pro⯑bably, from the ſame cauſe; a want of ſufficient ac⯑quaintance with the whole characters, and taking a [7] judgment of them from a few external circumſtances. Yet, upon the whole, good effects may have ariſen even from this branch of Comedy; ſince by attacking a pro⯑feſſion on a ſide where it was really weak, the members of it have been made ſenſible of, and have reformed thoſe circumſtances which rendered them ridiculous. A good-natured phyſician can never be angry at Mo⯑liere's moſt laughable exhibitions of the faculty, when he reflects that the follies ridiculed, though exaggerated in the repreſentation, had a real exiſtence; and by being held up to public deriſion have been in a great meaſure reformed. The profeſſors of law, being ne⯑ceſſarily confined to forms and rules, have not been able to benefit ſo much from the comic ridicule of which they have enjoyed an equally plentiful ſhare.

BESIDES the arrangements which nation and pro⯑feſſion make of mankind, there are certain natural claſſes formed from the diverſities of perſonal character. Although the varieties of temper and diſpoſition in men are infinite, ſo that no two perſons probably ever ex⯑iſted in whom there was an exact conformity, yet there are certain leading features of character which produce a general reſemblance among numerous individuals. Thus the proud man, the vain, the ſanguine, the ſple⯑netic, the ſuſpicious, the covetous, the laviſh, and ſo forth, are a ſort of abſtract characters which divide the whole human race amongſt them. Now there are, be⯑longing to all theſe, objects of ridicule which it has been the buſineſs of Comedy to exhibit; and though, per⯑haps, no one individual of each claſs perfectly reſem⯑bled the perſon held to view on the ſtage, yet if all the circumſtances exhibited are contained in the general character, it appears ſufficiently natural. The Miſer [8] of Moliere is not a picture of any one miſer who ever lived, but of a miſer conſidered as forming a claſs of human characters. As theſe general claſſes, however, are few in number, they muſt be ſoon exhauſted by the writers of Comedy; who have been obliged, for the ſake of variety, to exhibit thoſe peculiarities which are more rare and ſingular. Hence have been derived many pictures of that character which we call an humouriſt; by which is meant a character diſtinguiſhed by certain ludicrous ſingularities from the reſt of mankind. The humouriſt is not without thoſe marks of diſtinction which he may acquire, like others, from rank, proſeſſi⯑on, or temper of mind; but all theſe are diſplayed in him after a manner peculiarly his own, and daſhed with his leading oddities. A love of what is uncommon and out of the way has often occaſioned ſuch extravagance in the repreſentation of theſe characters as to diſguſt from their want of probability; but where a due moderation is obſerved, and the peculiarities, though unuſual, are ſuch as really exiſt in nature, great entertainment may be derived from their exhibition. Of this kind are the admirable Miſanthrope and Malade Imaginaire of Mo⯑liere; and the Old Batchelor and Sir Sampſon Legend of Congreve.

FROM hence it appears but a ſmall gradation to the exhibition of individuals upon the ſtage; and yet the difference is important and eſſential. That which marks out the diſtinction between individuals of the ſame ſpecies is ſomething entirely uncommunicable; therefore the rational end of Comedy, which is the re⯑formation of folly, cannot take place in perſonal ridi⯑cule; for it will not be alledged that reforming the perſon himſelf is the object. Nor can it ſcarcely ever [9] be juſt to expoſe an individual to the ridicule of the ſtage; ſince folly, and not vice, being the proper ſub⯑ject of that ridicule, it is hardly poſſible any one can de⯑ſerve ſo ſevere a puniſhment. Indeed the expoſing of fol⯑ly can ſcarcely be the plea; for all the common, or even the rarer kinds of folly lie open to the attack of Comedy under fictitious characters, by means of which the fail⯑ing may be ridiculed without the perſon. Perſonal ri⯑dicule muſt therefore turn, as we find it always has done, upon bodily imperfections, aukward habits and uncouth geſtures; which the low arts of mimickry in⯑humanly drag forth to public view for the mean purpoſe of exciting preſent merriment. In the beſt hands per⯑ſonal Comedy would be a degradation of the ſtage, and an unwarrantable ſeverity; but in the hands it would be likely, if encouraged, to fall into, it would prove an intolerable nuiſance. I ſhould therefore, without heſitation, join thoſe who utterly condemn this ſpecies of comic ridicule. It is alſo to be conſidered that the author ſhows his talents to diſadvantage, and cannot lay any baſis of future fame, in this walk. For the re⯑ſemblance which depends ſo much upon mimickry is loſt upon thoſe of the audience who are not acquainted with the original, and upon every one who only reads the piece. Mr. Foote's works will aptly exemplify this matter; in which, the fund of genuine Comedy, de⯑rived from happy ſtrokes upon the manners of the times, and uncommon, but not entirely ſingular cha⯑racters, will ſecure a laſting admiration, when the mi⯑mickry which ſupported the parts of Squintum and Cad⯑wallader is deſpiſed or forgotten.

HAVING thus attempted to trace the different ſour⯑ces of what I conceive the eſſential part of true Co⯑medy, [8] [...] [9] [...] [10] the ridicule derived from character, it remains to ſay ſomewhat of the mixture of additional matter which it has received as a compoſition.

DURING a conſiderable period of modern literature, wit was a commodity in great requeſt, and frequently to be met with in all kinds of compoſition. It was no where more abundant than in Comedy, the genius of which it appeared peculiarly to ſuit from its gaiety and ſatyrical ſmartneſs. Accordingly, the language of Co⯑medy was a ſtring of repartees, in which a thought was bandied about from one to another, till it was quite run out of breath. This made a ſcene paſs off with great vivacity; but the misfortune was, that diſtinction of character was quite loſt in the conteſt. Every per⯑ſonage, from the lord to the valet, was as witty as the author himſelf; and provided good things enow were ſaid, it was no matter from whom they came. Con⯑greve, with the greateſt talents for true comic humour, and the delineation of ludicrous character, was ſo over⯑run with a fondneſs for brilliancy, as frequently to break in upon conſiſtency. Wit is an admirable orna⯑ment of Comedy, and judiciouſly applied is a high re⯑lief to humour; but ſhould never interfere with the more eſſential parts.

WE are now, however, happily free from all man⯑ner of danger of an inundation of wit. No Congreve ariſes to diſturb the ſententious gravity, and calm ſim⯑plicity of modern Comedy. A moraliſt may congratu⯑late the age on hearing from the theatre compoſitions, as pure, ſerious and delicate, as are given from the pulpit. When we conſider how much wit and humour, at the time they were moſt prevalent, were perverted [11] to vicious purpoſes, we may rejoice at the ſacrifice; yet we may be allowed to feel a regret at the loſs of an amuſement which might, certainly, have been re⯑conciled with innocence; nay might perhaps have plead⯑ed utility beyond what is ſubſtituted in its room. Senti⯑mental Comedy, as it is called, contains but very faint diſcrimination of character, and ſcarcely any thing of ridicule. Its principal aim is to introduce elegant and refined ſentiment, particularly of the benevolent caſt; and to move the heart by tender and intereſting ſitua⯑tions. Hence they are, in general, much more affect⯑ing than our modern Tragedies, which are formed up⯑on nearly the ſame plan, but labour under the diſad⯑vantage of a formal, ſtately ſtile, and manners remov⯑ed too far from the rank of common life. One would not, perhaps, wiſh altogether to baniſh from the ſtage pieces ſo moral and innocent; yet it is a pity they are not diſtinguiſhed by ſome appropriated name from a thing they ſo little reſemble as true Comedy.

I FEAR, a view of modern manners in other reſpects will ſcarcely allow us to flatter ourſelves that this change in the theatre chiefly proceeds from improved morality. It may, perhaps, be more juſtly attributed to a falſe delicacy of taſte, which renders us unable to bear the repreſentation of low life; and to a real de⯑ficiency in genius. With reſpect to the firſt, genuine Comedy knows no diſtinction of rank, but can as hear⯑tily enjoy a humourous picture in the common walks of life, where indeed the greateſt variety is to be found, as in the moſt cultivated and refined. Some have placed the diſtinction between Farce and Comedy in the rank from whence the characters are taken; but, I think, very improperly. If there is any real diſtinction beſides [12] the length of the pieces, I ſhould take it from the dif⯑ferent ſource of the humour; which in Farce is mere ludicrous incident, but in Comedy, ridiculous charac⯑ter. This criterion, however, will not at all agree with the titles under which each ſpecies has already appeared.

As to the other cauſe, deficiency of genius, it too plainly appears in many other productions. Cold cor⯑rectneſs has laid her repreſſing hand upon imagination, and damped all her powers. The example of the anci⯑cients has been thought to juſtify the gravity and ſim⯑plicity of modern Comedy. But great as they were in many qualities of the mind, in thoſe of wit and humour they were ſtill more defective than even ourſelves in the preſent age. They who would eagerly catch at a wretched pun, or a meagre piece of plot, were cer⯑tainly with-held from witticiſm and drollery by want of invention, not juſtneſs of taſte. I admire in the pure Latin of Terence the elegant ſentiment, and ſtill more the knowledge of the human heart with which he abounds; but I would not for them compare his ge⯑nius, at leaſt in Comedy, with Moliere and Congreve.

Moral ſentiment is the cheapeſt product of the mind. Novels, and Magazines, and even News-papers are full of it; but wit and humour threaten to leave us with Sterne and Cheſterfield.

STILL, however, I would hope the ſtate of Comedy is not deſperate. The Clandeſtine Marriage exhibits an example of comic merit, as various and perfect as per⯑haps [13] any piece in our language. All the ſources of ludicrous character have contributed to it. National ridicule appears in Canton, and profeſſional in Ster⯑ling. Lord Ogleby is an excellent humouriſt. Mrs. Heidelberg and her niece, beſides a comic pettiſhneſs of temper, have plenty of faſhionable follies, modifi⯑ed by city vulgariſm. Even the lovers of tender ſenti⯑ment have their ſhare in the entertainment; and I by no means would object to its occaſional introduction, when, as it were, offering itſelf from the circumſtances. Then, beſides Mr. Foote's comic theatre, we have ſeveral pieces, which, though ranged under the liſt of Farces, contain true and original Comedy. Of theſe we may inſtance the Citizen, Polly Honeycomb, the Upholſterer, the Apprentice, and the Oxonian in Town. It is a miſtake to ſuppoſe that the matter of Comedy can ever fail. Though general characters may be exhauſted, yet the prevailing follies and faſhions of the times, with the ſingularities ſtarting up in particular ranks and orders of men, muſt conſtantly ſupply food for the ridicule of the ſtage. This is lawful game; and the purſuit of it is well worthy the encouragement of the public, ſo long as it is unattended with the licentiouſneſs which diſgraced the wit of the laſt age. Let ridicule be ſacred to the intereſts of good ſenſe and virtue; let it never make a good character leſs reſpectable, nor a bad one leſs obnoxious. But let us not reſign its uſe to common⯑place maxim, and inſipid ſentiment.

THE HILL OF SCIENCE, A VISION.

IN that ſeaſon of the year when the ſerenity of the ſky, the various fruits which cover the ground, the diſcoloured foliage of the trees, and all the ſweet, but fading graces of inſpiring autumn, open the mind to benevolence, and diſpoſe it for contemplation, I was wandering in a beautiful and romantic country, till curioſity began to give way to wearineſs; and I ſat me down on the fragment of a rock overgrown with moſs, where the ruſtling of the falling leaves, the daſhing of waters, and the hum of the diſtant city, ſoothed my mind into the moſt perfect tranquility, and ſleep inſenſibly ſtole upon me, as I was indulging the agreeable reveries which the objects around me natural⯑ly inſpired.

I IMMEDIATELY found myſelf in a vaſt extended plain, in the middle of which aroſe a mountain higher than I had before any conception of. It was covered with a multitude of people, chiefly youth; many of whom preſſed forwards with the livelieſt expreſſion of ardor in their countenance, though the way was in many places ſteep and difficult. I obſerved, that thoſe who had but juſt begun to climb the hill, thought them⯑ſelves not far from the top; but as they proceeded, [15] new hills were continually riſing to their view, and the ſummit of the higheſt they could before diſcern, ſeem⯑ed but the foot of another, till the mountain at length appeared to loſe itſelf in the clouds. As I was gazing on theſe things with aſtoniſhment, my good genius ſud⯑denly appeared. The mountain before thee, ſaid he, is the HILL OF SCIENCE. On the top is the temple of Truth, whoſe head is above the clouds, and a veil of pure light covers her face. Obſerve the progreſs of her votaries; be ſilent and attentive.

I SAW that the only regular approach to the moun⯑tain was by a gate, called the gate of languages. It was kept by a woman of a penſive and thoughtful ap⯑pearance, whoſe lips were continually moving, as though ſhe repeated ſomething to herſelf. Her name was ME⯑MORY. On entering this firſt encloſure, I was ſtunned with a confuſed murmur of jarring voices, and diſſo⯑nant ſounds; which encreaſed on me to ſuch a degree, that I was utterly confounded, and could compare the noiſe to nothing but the confuſion of tongues at Babel. The road was alſo rough and ſtony; and rendered more difficult by heaps of rubbiſh, continually tumbled down from the higher parts of the mountain; and broken ruins of antient buildings, which the travellers were obliged to climb over at every ſtep; inſomuch that ma⯑ny, diſguſted with ſo rough a beginning, turned back and attempted the mountain no more: while others, having conquered this difficulty, had no ſpirits to aſcend further, and ſitting down on ſome fragment of the rub⯑biſh, harangued the multitude below with the greateſt marks of importance and ſelf-complacency.

ABOUT half way up the hill, I obſerved on each [16] ſide the path a thick foreſt covered with continual fogs, and cut out into labyrinths, croſs alleys, and ſerpentine walks, entangled with thorns and briars. This was called the wood of error: and I heard the voices of many who were loſt up and down in it, calling to one ano⯑ther, and endeavouring in vain to extricate themſelves. The trees in many places ſhot their boughs over the path, and a thick miſt often reſted on it; yet never ſo much but that it was diſcernable by the light which beamed from the countenance of Truth.

IN the pleaſanteſt part of the mountain were placed the bowers of the Muſes, whoſe office it was to cheer the ſpirits of the travellers, and encourage their faint⯑ing ſteps with ſongs from their divine harps. Not far from hence were the fields of fiction, filled with a variety of wild flowers ſpringing up in the greateſt luxuriance, of richer ſcents and brighter colours than I had obſerved in any other climate. And near them was the dark walk of allegory, ſo artificially ſhaded, that the light at noon⯑day was never ſtronger than that of a bright moon-ſhine. This gave it a pleaſingly romantic air for thoſe who delighted in contemplation. The paths and alleys were perplexed with intricate windings, and were all termi⯑nated with the ſtatue of a Grace, a Virtue, or a Muſe.

AFTER I had obſerved theſe things, I turned my eye towards the multitudes who were climbing the ſteep aſcent, and obſerved amongſt them a youth of a lively look, a piercing eye, and ſomething fiery and irregular in all his motions. His name was GENIUS. He darted like an eagle up the mountain, and left his compani⯑ons gazing after him with envy and admiration: but his progreſs was unequal, and interrupted by a thouſand [17] caprices. When Pleaſure warbled in the valley he mingled in her train. When Pride beckoned towards the precipice he ventured to the tottering edge. He delighted in devious and untried paths; and made ſo many excurſions from the road that his feebler compa⯑nions often outſtripped him. I obſerved that the Muſes beheld him with partiality; but Truth often frowned and turned aſide her face. While Genius was thus waſting his ſtrength in excentric flights, I ſaw a perſon of a very different appearance, named APPLICATION. He crept along with a ſlow and unremitting pace, his eyes fixed on the top of the mountain, patiently remov⯑ing every ſtone that obſtructed his way, till he ſaw moſt of thoſe below him who had at firſt derided his ſlow and toilſome progreſs. Indeed there were few who aſcended the hill with equal and uninterrupted ſteadineſs; for beſide the difficulties of the way, they were continually ſollicited to turn aſide by a numerous croud of Appe⯑tites, Paſſions, and Pleaſures, whoſe importunity, when they had once complied with, they became leſs and leſs able to reſiſt; and though they often returned to the path, the aſperities of the road were more ſeverely felt, the hill appeared more ſteep and rugged, the fruits which were wholſome and refreſhing ſeemed harſh and ill-taſted, their ſight grew dim, and their feet tript at every little obſtruction.

I SAW, with ſome ſurpriſe, that the Muſes, whoſe buſineſs was to cheer and encourage thoſe who were toiling up the aſcent, would often ſing in the bowers of Pleaſure, and accompany thoſe who were enticed away at the call of the Paſſions. They accompanied them, however, but a little way, and always forſook them when they loſt ſight of the hill. The tyrants then [18] doubled their chains upon the unhappy captives, and led them away without reſiſtance to the cells of Igno⯑rance, or the manſions of Miſery. Amongſt the innu⯑merable ſeducers, who were endeavouring to draw a⯑way the votaries of Truth from the path of Science, there was one, ſo little formidable in her appearance, and ſo gentle and languid in her attempts, that I ſhould ſcarcely have taken notice of her, but for the numbers ſhe had imperceptibly loaded with her chains. INDO⯑LENCE (for ſo ſhe was called) far from proceeding to open hoſtilities, did not attempt to turn their feet out of the path, but contented herſelf with retarding their pro⯑greſs; and the purpoſe ſhe could not force them to aban⯑don, ſhe perſuaded them to delay. Her touch had a power like that of the Torpedo, which withered the ſtrength of thoſe who came within its influence. Her unhappy captives ſtill turned their faces towards the temple, and always hoped to arrive there; but the ground ſeemed to ſlide from beneath their feet, and they found themſelves at the bottom before they ſuſpected they had changed their place. The placid ſerenity which at firſt appeared in their countenance, changed by degrees into a melancholy languor, which was tinged with deeper and deeper gloom as they glided down the ſtream of inſignificance; a dark and ſluggiſh water, which is curled by no breeze, and enlivened by no murmur, till it falls into a dead ſea, where the ſtart⯑led paſſengers are awakened by the ſhock, and the next moment buried in the gulph of oblivion.

OF all the unhappy deſerters from the paths of Sci⯑ence, none ſeemed leſs able to return than the followers of Indolence. The captives of Appetite and Paſſion could often ſeize the moment when their tyrants were [19] languid or aſleep to eſcape from their enchantment; but the dominion of Indolence was conſtant and unre⯑mitted, and ſeldom reſiſted till reſiſtance was in vain.

AFTER contemplating theſe things, I turned my eyes towards the top of the mountain, where the air was always pure and exhilerating, the path ſhaded with laurels and other ever-greens, and the effulgence which beamed from the face of the Goddeſs ſeemed to ſhed a glory round her votaries. Happy, ſaid I, are they who are permitted to aſcend the mountain!—but while I was pronouncing this exclamation with un⯑common ardour, I ſaw ſtanding beſide me a form of divi⯑ner features and a more benign radiance. Happier, ſaid ſhe, are thoſe whom VIRTUE conducts to the manſions of Content! What, ſaid I, does Virtue then reſide in the vale? I am found, ſaid ſhe, in the vale, and I illumi⯑nate the mountain. I cheer the cottager at his toil, and inſpire the ſage at his meditation. I mingle in the crowd of cities, and bleſs the hermit in his cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns my influence; and to him that wiſhes for me I am already preſent. Sci⯑ence may raiſe you to eminence, but I alone can guide you to felicity! While the Goddeſs was thus ſpeaking, I ſtretched out my arms towards her with a vehemence which broke my ſlumbers. The chill dews were fall⯑ing around me, and the ſhades of evening ſtretched o⯑ver the landſcape. I haſtened homeward, and reſigned the night to ſilence and meditation.

ON ROMANCES, AN IMITATION.

OF all the multifarious productions which the efforts of ſuperiour genius, or the labours of ſcholaſtic induſtry, have crowded upon the world, none are pe⯑ruſed with more inſatiable avidity, or diſſeminated with more univerſal applauſe, than the narrations of feigned events, deſcriptions of imaginary ſcenes, and delinea⯑tions of ideal characters. The celebrity of other au⯑thors is confined within very narrow limits. The Geo⯑metrician and Divine, the Antiquary and Critic, how⯑ever diſtinguiſhed by unconteſted excellence, can only hope to pleaſe thoſe whom a conformity of diſpoſition has engaged in ſimilar purſuits; and muſt be content to be regarded by the reſt of the world with the ſmile of frigid indifference, or the contemptuous ſneer of ſelf-ſufficient folly. The collector of ſhells and the anatomiſt of inſects is little inclined to enter into theolo⯑gical diſputes: the Divine is not apt to regard with veneration the uncouth diagrams and tedious calcula⯑tions of the Aſtronomer: the man whoſe life has been conſumed in adjuſting the diſputes of lexicographers, or elucidating the learning of antiquity, cannot eaſily bend his thoughts to recent tranſactions, or readily in⯑tereſt himſelf in the unimportant hiſtory of his contem⯑poraries: and the Cit, who knows no buſineſs but acquiring wealth, and no pleaſure but diſplaying it, [21] has a heart equally ſhut up to argument and fancy, to the batteries of ſyllogiſm, and the arrows of wit. To the writer of fiction alone, every ear is open, and every tongue laviſh of applauſe; curioſity ſparkles in every eye, and every boſom is throbbing with concern.

IT is however eaſy to account for this enchantment. To follow the chain of perplexed ratiocination, to view with critical ſkill the airy architecture of ſyſtems, to unravel the web of ſophiſtry, or weigh the merits of oppoſite hypotheſes, requires perſpicacity, and preſup⯑poſes learning. Works of this kind, therefore, are not ſo well adapted to the generality of readers as fa⯑miliar and colloquial compoſition; for few can rea⯑ſon, but all can feel; and many who cannot enter into an argument, may yet liſten to a tale. The writer of Romance has even an advantage over thoſe who en⯑deavour to amuſe by the plea of fancy; who from the fortuitous colliſion of diſſimilar ideas produce the ſcin⯑tillations of wit; or by the vivid glow of poetical imagery delight the imagination with colours of ideal radiance. The attraction of the magnet is only ex⯑erted upon ſimilar particles; and to taſte the beauties of Homer it is requiſite to partake his fire: but every one can reliſh the author who repreſents common life, becauſe every one can refer to the originals from whence his ideas were taken. He relates events to which all are liable, and applies to paſſions which all have felt. The gloom of ſolitude, the languor of inaction, the corroſions of diſappointment, and the toil of thought, induce men to ſtep aſide from the rugged road of life, and wander in the fairy land of fiction; where every bank is ſprinkled with flowers, and every gale loaded with perfume; where every event introduces a hero, [22] and every cottage is inhabited by a Grace. Invited by theſe flattering ſcenes, the ſtudent quits the inveſti⯑gation of truth, in which he perhaps meets with no leſs fallacy, to exhilerate his mind with new ideas, more agreeable, and more eaſily attained: the buſy relax their attention by deſultory reading, and ſmooth the agitation of a ruffled mind with images of peace, tranquility, and pleaſure: the idle and the gay relieve the liſtleſſneſs of leiſure, and diverſify the round of life by a rapid ſeries of events, pregnant with rap⯑ture and aſtoniſhment; and the penſive ſolitary fills up the vacuities of his heart by intereſting himſelf in the fortunes of imaginary beings, and forming connections with ideal excellence.

IT is, indeed, no ways extraordinary that the mind ſhould be charmed by fancy, and attracted by pleaſure; but that we ſhould liſten to the groans of miſery, and delight to view the exacerbations of complicated an⯑guiſh, that we ſhould chuſe to chill the boſom with imaginary fears, and dim the eyes with fictitious ſor⯑row, ſeems a kind of paradox of the heart, and only to be credited becauſe it is univerſally felt. Various are the hypotheſes which have been formed to account for the diſpoſition of the mind to riot in this ſpecies of intellectual luxury. Some have imagined that we are induced to acquieſce with greater patience in our own lot, by beholding pictures of life tinged with deeper horrors, and loaded with more excruciating calamities; as, to a perſon ſuddenly emerging out of a dark room, the ſainteſt glimmering of twilight aſ⯑ſumes a luſtre from the contraſted gloom. Others, with yet deeper refinement, ſuppoſe that we take upon ourſelves this burden of adſcititious ſorrows in order [23] to feaſt upon the conſciouſneſs of our own virtue. We commiſerate others (ſay they) that we may ap⯑plaud ourſelves; and the ſigh of compaſſionate ſym⯑pathy is always followed by the gratulations of ſelf⯑complacent eſteem. But ſurely they who would thus reduce the ſympathetic emotions of pity to a ſyſtem of refined ſelfiſhneſs, have but ill attended to the ge⯑nuine feelings of humanity. It would however exceed the limits of this paper, ſhould I attempt an accurate inveſtigation of theſe ſentiments. But let it be remem⯑bered, that we are more attracted by thoſe ſcenes which intereſt our paſſions, or gratify our curioſity, than thoſe which delight our fancy: and ſo far from being indifferent to the miſeries of others, we are, at the time, totally regardleſs of our own. And let not thoſe, on whom the hand of time has impreſſed the characters of oracular wiſdom, cenſure with too much acrimony, productions which are thus calculated to pleaſe the imagination, and intereſt the heart. They teach us to think, by inuring us to feel: they ven⯑tilate the mind by ſudden guſts of paſſion; and prevent the ſtagnation of thought, by a freſh infuſion of diſſi⯑milar ideas.

SELAMA; AN IMITATION OF OSSIAN.

WHAT ſoft voice of ſorrow is in the breeze?—what lovely ſun-beam of beauty trembling on the rock? Its bright hair is bathed in ſhowers; and it looks faint and dim, through its miſt on the ruſhy plain. Why art thou alone—maid of the mournful look? The cold dropping rain is on the rocks of Tor⯑léna—the blaſt of the deſart liſts thy yellow locks. Let thy ſteps be in the hall of ſhells, by the blue winding ſtream of Clutha:—let the harp tremble beneath thy fingers; and the ſons of heroes liſten to the muſic of ſongs.

SHALL my ſteps be in the hall of ſhells, and the aged low in the duſt? The father of Seláma is low behind this rock, on his bed of wither'd leaves:—the thiſtle's down is ſtrewed over him by the wind, and mixes with his grey hair. Thou art fallen—chief of Etha! without thy fame; and there is none to revenge thy death. But thy daughter will ſit, pale, beſide thee, till ſhe ſinks, a faded flower, upon thy lifeleſs form. Leave the maid of Clutha—ſon of the ſtranger! in the red eye of her tears!

How fell the car-borne Connal—blue-eyed mourner of the rock? Mine arm is not weak in battle; nor my ſword without its fame.

CONNAL was a fire in his youth, that lighten'd through fields of renown:—but the flame weakly glim⯑mered through grey aſhes of age. His courſe was like [25] a ſtar moving through the heavens:—it walketh in brightneſs, but leaveth no track behind;—its ſilver path cannot be found in the ſky. The ſtrength of Etha is rolled away like a tale of other years; and his eyes have failed. Feeble and dark, he ſits in his hall, and hears the diſtant tread of a ſtranger's ſteps—the haugh⯑ty ſteps of Tonthormo, from the roar of Duvranno's echoing ſtream. He ſtood in the hall like a pillar of darkneſs, on whoſe top is the red beam of fire:—wide rolled his eyes beneath the gloomy arch of his brow; as flames in two caves of a rock, over-hung with the black pine of the deſart. They had rolled on Seláma, and he aſked the daughter of Connal. Tonthormo! breaker of ſhields! thou art a meteor of death in war, whoſe fiery hair ſtreams on the clouds, and the nations are withered beneath its path. Dwell, Tonthormo! amidſt thy hundred hills, and liſten to thy torrent's roar; but the ſoft ſigh of the virgins is with the chief of Crono;—Hidallan is the dream of Seláma—the dweller of her ſecret thoughts. A ruſhing ſtorm in war—a breeze that ſighs over the fallen foe—pleaſant are thy words of peace, and thy ſongs at the moſſy brook. Thy ſmiles are like the moon-beams trembling on the waves—Thy voice is the gale of ſummer that whiſpers among the reeds of the lake, and awakens the harp of Moilena with all its lightly trembling ſtrings. O that thy calm light was around me! my ſoul ſhould not fear the gloomy chief of Duvranno. He came with his ſtately ſteps.—My ſhield is before thee, maid of my love! a wall of ſhelter from the lightning of ſwords. They fought. Tonthormo bends, in all his pride, before the arm of youth. But a voice was in the breaſt of Hidallan—ſhall I ſlay the love of Seláma? Seláma dwells in thy dark boſom—ſhall my ſteel enter there? Live, thou [26] ſtorm of war! He gave again his ſword. But—careleſs as he ſtrode away—rage aroſe in the troubled thoughts of the vanquiſh'd. He mark'd his time, and ſidelong pierced the heart of the generous ſon of Semo. His fair hair is ſpread on the duſt—his eyes are bent on the trem⯑bling beam of Clutha. Farewel, light of my ſoul! They are cloſed in darkneſs. Feeble waſt thou then, my father! and in vain didſt thou call for help.—Thy grey locks are ſcatter'd, as a wreath of ſnow on the top of a wither'd trunk; which the boy bruſhes away with his ſtaff; and careleſs ſingeth as he walks. Who ſhall defend thee, my daughter! ſaid the broken voice of Etha's chief. Fair flower of the deſart!—the tempeſt ſhall ruſh over thee; and thou ſhalt be low beneath the foot of the ſavage ſon of prey. But I will wither, my father! on thy tomb. Weak and alone I dwell amidſt my tears—there is no young warrior to lift the ſpear—no brother of love! Oh that mine arm were ſtrong!—I would ruſh amidſt the battle. Seláma has no friend!

BUT Seláma has a friend, ſaid the kindling ſoul of Reuthamir.—I will fight thy battles—lovely daughter of kings; and the ſun of Duvranno ſhall ſet in blood. But when I return in peace, and the ſpirits of thy foes are on my ſword, meet me with thy ſmiles of love—maid of Clutha! with thy ſlow-rolling eyes. Let the ſoft ſound of thy ſteps be heard in my halls, that the mother of Reuthamir may rejoice. Whence, ſhe will ſay, is this beam of the diſtant land?—Thou ſhalt dwell in her boſom.

MY thoughts are with him who is low in the duſt—ſon of Cormac! But lift the ſpear—thou friend of the unhappy! the light of my ſoul may return.

He ſtrode in his rattling arms. Tall—in a gloomy foreſt—ſtood the ſurly ſtrength of Duvranno. Gleaming [27] —behind the dark trees—was his broad ſhield; like the moon when it riſes in blood, and the duſky clouds ſail low, and heavy, athwart its path. Thoughts, like the troubled ocean, ruſh'd over his ſoul—and he ſtruck, with his ſpear, the ſounding pine. Starting, he mix'd in battle with the chief of woody Morna. Long was the ſtrife of arms; and the giant ſons of the foreſt trembled at their ſtrokes. At length Tonthormo fell—The ſword of Reuthamir wav'd—a blue flame—around him. He bites the ground in rage. His blood is poured—a dark red ſtream—into Oithona's trembling waves. Joy brigh⯑ten'd in the ſoul of Reuthamir; when a young warrior came, with his forward ſpear. He moved in the light of beauty; but his words were haughty and fierce. Is Tonthormo fallen in blood—the friend of my early years? Die—thou dark-ſoul'd chief! for never ſhall Seláma be thine—the maid of his love. Lovely ſhone her eyes, through tears, in the hall of her grief, when I ſtood by the chief of Duvranno, in the riſing ſtrife of Clutha.

RETIRE, thou ſwelling voice of pride! thy ſpear is light as the taper reed. Pierce the roes of the deſart; and call the hunter to the feaſt of ſongs—But ſpeak not of the daughter of Connal—ſon of the feeble arm! Seláma is the love of heroes.

TRY thy ſtrength with the feeble arm, ſaid the riſing pride of youth. Thou ſhalt vaniſh like a cloud of miſt before the ſun, when he looks abroad in the power of his brightneſs.

BUT thou thyſelf didſt fall before Reuthamir, in all thy boaſting words. As a tall aſh of the mountain—when the tempeſt takes its green head, and lays it level on the plain.

COME from thy ſecret cave, Seláma! thy foes are [28] ſilent and dark. Thou dove that hideſt in the clefts of the rocks! the ſtorm is over and paſt. Come from thy rock, Seláma! and give thy white hand to the chief—who never fled from the face of glory, in all its terrible brightneſs.

SHE gave her hand—but it was trembling and cold—for the ſpear was deep in her ſide. Red, beneath her mail, the current of crimſon wandered down her white breaſt—as the track of blood on Cromla's mountains of ſnow, when the wounded deer ſlowly croſſes the heath, and the hunters cries are in the breeze. Bleſt be the ſpear of Reuthamir! ſaid the faint voice of the lovely—I feel it cold in my heart. Lay me by the ſon of Semo. Why ſhould I know another love? Raiſe the tomb of the aged—his thin form ſhall rejoice, as he ſails on a low-hung cloud, and guides the wintry ſtorm. Open your airy halls, ſpirits of my love!

AND have I quench'd the light which was pleaſant to my ſoul? ſaid the chief of Morna. My ſteps moved in darkneſs—why were the words of ſtrife in thy tale? Sor⯑row, like a cloud, comes over my ſoul, and ſhades the joy of mighty deeds. Soft be your reſt in the narrow houſe, children of grief! The breeze in the long whiſtling graſs ſhall not awaken you. The tempeſt ſhall ruſh over you, and the bulruſh bow its head upon your tomb—but ſi⯑lence ſhall dwell in your habitation; long repoſe, and the peace of years to come. The voice of the bard ſhall raiſe your remembrance in the diſtant land; and mingle your tale of woe with the murmur of other ſtreams. Often ſhall the harp ſend forth a mournful found; and the tear dwell in the ſoft eyes of the daughters of Morna.

SUCH were the words of Reuthamir, while he raiſed the tombs of the fallen. Sad were his ſteps towards the tow⯑ers of his fathers, as—muſing—he croſs'd the dark heath of Lena, and ſtruck—at times—the thiſtle's beard.

AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPECTATIONS.

AS moſt of the unhappineſs in the world ariſes rather from diſappointed deſires, than from poſitive evil, it is of the utmoſt conſequence to attain juſt notions of the laws and order of the univerſe, that we may not vex ourſelves with fruitleſs wiſhes, or give way to ground⯑leſs and unreaſonable diſcontent. The laws of natural philoſophy, indeed, are tolerably underſtood and attend⯑ed to; and though we may ſuffer inconveniences, we are ſeldom diſappointed in conſequence of them. No [30] man expects to preſerve oranges through an Engliſh win⯑ter; or when he has planted an acorn, to ſee it become a large oak in a few months. The mind of man natu⯑rally yields to neceſſity; and our wiſhes ſoon ſubſide when we ſee the impoſſibility of their being gratified. Now, upon an accurate inſpection, we ſhall find, in the moral government of the world, and the order of the intellectual ſyſtem, laws as determinate, fixed, and in⯑variable as any in Newton's Principia. The progreſs of vegetation is not more certain than the growth of habit; nor is the power of attraction more clearly proved than the force of affection, or the influence of example. The man, therefore, who has well ſtudied the operations of nature in mind as well as matter, will acquire a certain moderation and equity in his claims upon Providence. He never will be diſappointed either in himſelf or others. He will act with preciſion; and expect that effect, and that alone, from his efforts, which they are naturally adapted to produce. For want of this, men of merit and integrity often cenſure the diſpoſitions of Provi⯑dence for ſuffering characters they deſpiſe to run away with advantages which, they yet know, are purchaſed by ſuch means as a high and noble ſpirit could never ſubmit to. If you refuſe to pay the price, why expect the purchaſe? We ſhould conſider this world as a great mart of commerce, where Fortune expoſes to our view various commodities, riches, eaſe, tranquility, fame, integrity, knowledge. Every thing is marked at a ſettled price. Our time, our labour, our ingenuity, is ſo much ready money which we are to lay out to the beſt advan⯑tage. Examine, compare, chuſe, reject; but ſtand to your own judgment; and do not, like children, when you have purchaſed one thing, repine that you do not poſſeſs another which you did not purchaſe. Such is [31] the force of well-regulated induſtry, that a ſteady and vigorous exertion of our faculties, directed to one end, will generally inſure ſucceſs. Would you, for inſtance, be rich; Do you think that ſingle point worth the ſa⯑crificing every thing elſe to? You may then be rich. Thouſands have become ſo from the loweſt beginnings by toil, and patient diligence, and attention to the mi⯑nuteſt articles of expence and profit. But you muſt give up the pleaſures of leiſure, of a vacant mind, of a free unſuſpicious temper. If you preſerve your integrity, it muſt be a coarſe-ſpun and vulgar honeſty. Thoſe high and lofty notions of morals which you brought with you from the ſchools muſt be conſiderably lowered, and mix⯑ed with the baſer alloy of a jealous and wordly-minded prudence. You muſt learn to do hard, if not unjuſt things; and for the nice embarraſſments of a delicate and ingenuous ſpirit, it is neceſſary for you to get rid of them as faſt as poſſible. You muſt ſhut your heart a⯑gainſt the Muſes, and be content to feed your under⯑ſtanding with plain, houſhold truths. In ſhort, you muſt not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or poliſh your taſte, or refine your ſentiments; but muſt keep on in one bea⯑ten track, without turning aſide either to the right hand or to the left. ‘"But I cannot ſubmit to drudgery like this—I feel a ſpirit above it."’ 'Tis well: be above it then; only do not repine that you are not rich.

Is knowledge the pearl of price? That too may be purchaſed—by ſteady application, and long ſolitary hours of ſtudy and reflection. Beſtow theſe, and you ſhall be wiſe. ‘"But (ſays the man of letters) what a hardſhip is it that many an illiterate fellow who cannot conſtrue the motto of the arms on his coach ſhall raiſe a fortune and make a figure, while I have little more than the common conveniences of life."’ Et tibi magna ſatis! [32] —Was it in order to raiſe a fortune that you conſumed the ſprightly hours of youth in ſtudy and retirement? Was it to be rich that you grew pale over the mid⯑night lamp, and diſtilled the ſweetneſs from the Greek and Roman ſpring? You have then miſtaken your path, and ill employed your induſtry. ‘"What reward have I then for all my labours?"’ What reward! A large comprehenſive ſoul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices; able to comprehend and interpret the works of man—of God. A rich, flouriſh⯑ing, cultivated mind, pregnant with inexhauſtible ſtores of entertainment and reflection. A perpetual ſpring of freſh ideas; and the conſcious dignity of ſuperior intelligence. Good heaven! and what reward can you aſk beſides?

‘"BUT is it not ſome reproach upon the oeconomy of Providence that ſuch a one, who is a mean dirty fellow, ſhould have amaſſed wealth enough to buy half a na⯑tion?"’ Not in the leaſt. He made himſelf a mean dirty fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his conſcience, his liberty for it; and will you envy him his bargain? Will you hang your head and bluſh in his preſence becauſe he outſhines you in equipage and ſhow? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, and ſay to yourſelf, I have not theſe things, it is true; but it is becauſe I have not ſought, becauſe I have not de⯑ſired them; it is becauſe I poſſeſs ſomething better. I have choſen my lot. I am content and ſatisfied.

YOU are a modeſt man—You love quiet and inde⯑pendence, and have a delicacy and reſerve in your tem⯑per which renders it impoſſible for you to elbow your way in the world, and be the herald of your own merits. Be content then with a modeſt retirement, with the e⯑ſteem of your intimate friends, with the praiſes of a blameleſs heart, and a delicate ingenuous ſpirit; but [33] reſign the ſplendid diſtinctions of the world to thoſe who can better ſcramble for them.

THE man whoſe tender ſenſibility of conſcience and ſtrict regard to the rules of morality makes him ſcrupu⯑lous and fearful of offending, is often heard to complain of the diſadvantages he lies under in every path of hon⯑our and profit. ‘"Could I but get over ſome nice points, and conform to the practice and opinion of thoſe about me, I might ſtand as fair a chance as others for dignities and preferment."’ And why can you not? What hin⯑ders you from diſcarding this troubleſome ſcrupuloſity of yours which ſtands ſo grievouſly in your way? If it be a ſmall thing to enjoy a healthful mind, ſound at the very core, that does not ſhrink from the keeneſt inſpection; inward freedom from remorſe and perturbation; unful⯑lied whiteneſs and ſimplicity of manners; a genuine in⯑tegrity, ‘"Pure in the laſt receſſes of the mind;"’ if you think theſe advantages an inadequate recompenſe for what you reſign, diſmiſs your ſcruples this inſtant, and be a ſlave-merchant, a director, or—what you pleaſe. If theſe be motives weak, break off betimes; and as you have not ſpirit to aſſert the dignity of virtue, be wiſe enough not to forego the emoluments of vice.

I MUCH admire the ſpirit of the antient philoſophers, in that they never attempted, as our moraliſts often do, to lower the tone of philoſophy, and make it conſiſtent with all the indulgences of indolence and ſenſuality. They never thought of having the bulk of mankind for their diſciples; but kept themſelves as diſtinct as poſſible from a worldly life. They plainly told men what ſacri⯑fices were required, and what advantages they were which might be expected.

[34] If you would be a philoſopher theſe are the terms. You muſt do thus and thus: There is no other way. If not, go and be one of the vulgar.

THERE is no one quality gives ſo much dignity to a character as conſiſtency of conduct. Even if a man's purſuits be wrong and unjuſtifiable, yet if they are pro⯑ſecuted with ſteadineſs and vigour, we cannot with-hold our admiration. The moſt characteriſtic mark of a great mind is to chuſe ſome one important object, and purſue it through life. It was this made Caeſar a great man. His object was ambition; he purſued it ſteadily, and was always ready to ſacrifice to it every interfering paſſion or inclination.

THERE is a pretty paſſage in one of Lucian's dia⯑logues, where Jupiter complains to Cupid that though he has had ſo many intrigues he was never ſincerely be⯑loved. In order to be loved, ſays Cupid, you muſt lay aſide your aegis and your thunder-bolts, and you muſt curl and perfume your hair, and place a garland on your head, and walk with a ſoft ſtep, and aſſume a winning obſequious deportment. But, replied Jupiter, I am not willing to reſign ſo much of my dignity. Then, returns Cupid, leave off deſiring to be loved—He wanted to be Jupiter and Adonis at the ſame time.

IT muſt be confeſſed, that men of genius are of all others moſt inclined to make theſe unreaſonable claims. As their reliſh for enjoyment is ſtrong, their views large and comprehenſive, and they feel themſelves lifted a⯑bove the common bulk of mankind, they are apt to ſlight that natural reward of praiſe and admiration which is ever largely paid to diſtinguiſhed abilities; and to ex⯑pect to be called forth to publick notice and favour: without conſidering that their talents are commonly very unfit for active life; that their excentricity and turn for [35] ſpeculation diſqualifies them for the buſineſs of the world, which is beſt carried on by men of moderate genius; and that ſociety is not obliged to reward any one who is not uſeful to it. The Poets have been a very unreaſonable race, and have often complained loudly of the neglect of genius and the ingratitude of the age. The tender and penſive Cowley, and the ele⯑gant Shenſtone, had their minds tinctured by this diſ⯑content; and even the ſublime melancholy of Young was too much owing to the ſtings of diſappointed am⯑bition.

THE moderation we have been endeavouring to in⯑culcate will likewiſe prevent much mortification and diſ⯑guſt in our commerce with mankind. As we ought not to wiſh in ourſelves, ſo neither ſhould we expect in our friends contrary qualifications. Young and ſanguine, when we enter the world, and feel our affections drawn forth by any particular excellence in a character, we immediately give it credit for all others; and are beyond meaſure diſguſted when we come to diſcover, as we ſoon muſt diſcover, the defects in the other ſide of the balance. But nature is much more frugal than to heap together all manner of ſhining qualities in one glaring maſs. Like a judicious painter ſhe endeavours to preſerve a certain unity of ſtile and colouring in her pieces. Models of abſolute perfection are only to be met with in romance; where exquiſite beauty, and bril⯑liant wit, and profound judgment, and immaculate vir⯑tue are all blended together to adorn ſome favourite character. As an anatomiſt knows that the racer can⯑not have the ſtrength and muſcles of the draught-horſe; and that winged men, gryffons, and mermaids muſt be mere creatures of the imagination; ſo the philoſopher is ſenſible that there are combinations of moral qualities [36] which never can take place but in idea. There is a different air and complexion in characters as well as in faces, though perhaps each equally beautiful; and the excellencies of one cannot be transferred to the other. Thus if one man poſſeſſes a ſtoical apathy of ſoul, acts independent of the opinion of the world, and fulfils every duty with mathematical exactneſs, you muſt not expect that man to be greatly influenced by the weakneſs of pity, or the partialities of friendſhip: you muſt not be offended that he does not fly to meet you after a ſhort abſence; or require from him the convivial ſpirit and honeſt effuſions of a warm, open, ſuſceptible heart. If another is remarkable for a lively active zeal, inflexible integrity, a ſtrong indignation againſt vice, and free⯑dom in reproving it, he will probably have ſome little bluntneſs in his addreſs not altogether ſuitable to poliſh⯑ed life; he will want the winning arts of converſation; he will diſguſt by a kind of haughtineſs and negligence in his manner, and often hurt the delicacy of his ac⯑quaintance with harſh and diſagreeable truths.

WE uſually ſay—that man is a genius, but he has ſome whims and oddities—ſuch a one has a very general knowledge, but he is ſuperficial; &c. Now in all ſuch caſes we ſhould ſpeak more rationally did we ſubſtitute therefore for but. He is a genius, therefore he is whim⯑ſical; and the like.

IT is the fault of the preſent age, owing to the freer commerce that different ranks and profeſſions now enjoy with each other, that characters are not marked with ſufficient ſtrength: the ſeveral claſſes run too much into one another. We have fewer pedants, it is true, but we have fewer ſtriking originals. Every one is expected to have ſuch a tincture of general knowledge as is in⯑compatible with going deep into any ſcience; and ſuch [37] a conformity to faſhionable manners as checks the free workings of the ruling paſſion, and gives an inſipid ſame⯑neſs to the face of ſociety, under the idea of poliſh and regularity.

THERE is a caſt of manners peculiar and becom⯑ing to each age, ſex and profeſſion; one, therefore, ſhould not throw out illiberal and common-place cen⯑ſures againſt another. Each is perfect in their kind. A woman as a woman: a tradeſman as a tradeſman. We are often hurt by the brutality and ſluggiſh conceptions of the vulgar; not conſidering that ſome there muſt be to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, and that cultivated genius, or even any great refinement and de⯑licacy in their moral feelings would be a real misfortune to them.

LET us then ſtudy the philoſophy of the human mind. The man who is maſter of this ſcience will know what to expect from every one. From this man, wiſe advice; from that, cordial ſympathy; from another, caſual en⯑tertainment. The paſſions and inclinations of others are his tools, which he can uſe with as much preciſion as he would the mechanical powers; and he can as readily make allowance for the workings of vanity, or the biaſs of ſelf-intereſt in his friends, as for the power of friction, or the irregularities of the needle.

THE CANAL AND THE BROOK. A REVERIE.

A Delightfully pleaſant evening ſucceeding a ſultry ſummer-day, invited me to take a ſolitary walk; and leaving the duſt of the highway, I fell into a path which led along a pleaſant little valley watered by a ſmall meandring brook. The meadow-ground on its banks had been lately mown, and the new graſs was ſpringing up with a lively verdure. The brook was hid in ſeveral places by ſhrubs that grew on each ſide, and intermingled their branches. The ſides of the valley were roughened by ſmall irregular thickets; and the whole ſcene had an air of ſolitude and retirement, un⯑common in the neighbourhood of a populous town. The Duke of Bridgewater's canal croſſed the valley, high raiſed on a mound of earth, which preſerved a level with the elevated ground on each ſide. An arched road was carried under it, beneath which the brook that ran along the valley was conveyed by a ſubterraneous paſ⯑ſage. I threw myſelf upon a green bank, ſhaded by a leafy thicket, and reſting my head upon my hand, after a welcome indolence had overcome my ſenſes, I ſaw, with the eyes of fancy, the following ſcene.

THE firm-built ſide of the aqueduct ſuddenly open⯑ed, and a gigantic form iſſued forth, which I ſoon diſ⯑covered to be the Genius of the Canal. He was clad in a cloſe garment of a ruſſet hue. A mural crown, in⯑dented with battlements, ſurrounded his brow. His [39] naked feet were diſcoloured with clay. On his left ſhoulder he bore a huge pick-ax; and in his right hand he held certain inſtruments, uſed in ſurveying and level⯑ling. His looks were thoughtful, and his features harſh. The breach through which he proceeded, inſtantly clo⯑ſed; and with a heavy tread he advanced into the val⯑ley. As he approached the brook, the Deity of the Stream aroſe to meet him. He was habited in a light green mantle, and the clear drops fell from his dark hair, which was encircled with a wreath of water-lily, inter⯑woven with ſweet ſcented flag. An angling rod ſup⯑ported his ſteps. The Genius of the Canal eyed him with a contemptuous look, and in a hoarſe voice thus began.

‘"HENCE, ignoble rill! with thy ſcanty tribute to thy lord, the Merſey; nor thus waſte thy almoſt ex⯑hauſted urn in lingring windings along the vale. Fee⯑ble as thine aid is, it will not be unacceptable to that maſter ſtream himſelf; for, as I lately croſſed his channel, I perceived his ſands loaded with ſtranded veſſels. I ſaw, and pitied him, for undertaking a taſk to which he is unequal. But thou, whoſe languid current is obſcured by weeds, and interrupted by miſhapen pebbles; who loſeſt thyſelf in endleſs mazes, remote from any ſound but thy own idle gurgling; how canſt thou ſupport an exiſtence ſo contemptible and uſeleſs? For me, the nobleſt child of art, who hold my unremitting courſe from hill to hill, over vales and rivers; who pierce the ſolid rock for my paſſage, and connect unknown lands with diſtant ſeas; wherever I appear I am viewed with aſtoniſhment, and exulting commerce hails my waves. Behold my channel thronged with capacious veſſels for the con⯑veyance of merchandiſe, and ſplendid barges for the [40] uſe and pleaſure of travellers; my banks crowned with airy bridges and huge warehouſes, and echoing with the buſy ſounds of induſtry. Pay then the ho⯑mage due from ſloth and obſcurity to grandour and utility."’

‘"I READILY acknowledge,"’ replied the Deity of the Brook, in a modeſt accent, ‘"the ſuperior magnifi⯑cence and more extenſive utility of which you ſo proudly boaſt; yet, in my humble walk, I am not void of a praiſe, leſs ſhining, but not leſs ſolid than yours. The nymph of this peaceful valley, rendered more fertile and beautiful by my ſtream; the neigh⯑bouring ſylvan deities, to whoſe pleaſure I contribute, will pay a grateful teſtimony to my merit. The wind⯑ings of my courſe, which you ſo much blame, ſerve to diffuſe over a greater extent of ground the refreſh⯑ment of my waters; and the lovers of nature and the Muſes, who are ſond of ſtraying on my banks, are bet⯑ter pleaſed that the line of beauty marks my way, than if, like yours, it were directed in a ſtraight, un⯑varied line. They prize the irregular wildneſs with which I am decked, as the charms of beauteous ſimpli⯑city. What you call the weeds which darken and ob⯑ſcure my waves, afford to the botaniſt a pleaſing ſpe⯑culation of the works of nature; and the poet and painter think the luſtre of my ſtream greatly improv⯑ed by glittering through them. The pebbles which diverſify my bottom, and make theſe ripplings in my current, are pleaſing objects to the eye of taſte; and my ſimple murmurs are more melodious to the learned ear, than all the rude noiſes of your banks, or even the muſick that reſounds from your ſlately barges. If the unfeeling ſons of wealth and commerce judge of me by the mere ſtandard of uſefulneſs, I may claim [41] no undiſtinguiſhed rank. While your waters, con⯑fined in deep channels, or lifted above the vallies, roll on, a uſeleſs burden to the fields, and only ſubſervi⯑ent to the drudgery of bearing temporary merchan⯑diſes, my ſtream will beſtow unvarying fertility on the meadows, during the ſummers of future ages. Yet I ſcorn to ſubmit my honours to the deciſion of thoſe, whoſe hearts are ſhut up to taſte and ſentiment. Let me appeal to nobler judges. The philoſopher and poet, by whoſe labours the human mind is elevated and refined, and opened to pleaſures beyond the con⯑ception of vulgar ſouls, will acknowledge, that the elegant deities who preſide over ſimple and natural beauty, have inſpired them with their charming and inſtructive ideas. The ſweeteſt and moſt majeſtic bard that ever ſung, has taken a pride in owning his affection to woods and ſtreams; and while the ſtupen⯑dous monuments of Roman grandeur, the columns which pierced the ſkies, and the aqueducts which poured their waves over mountains and vallies, are ſunk in oblivion, the gently winding Mincius ſtill re⯑tains his tranquil honours. And when thy glories, proud Genius! are loſt and forgotten; when the flood of commerce, which now ſupplies thy urn, is turned into another courſe, and has left thy channel dry and deſolate; the ſoftly flowing Avon ſhall ſtill murmur in ſong, and his banks receive the homage of all who are beloved by Phoebus and the Muſes."’

ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS.

I Happened the other day to take a ſolitary walk a⯑mongſt the venerable ruins of an old Abbey. The ſtillneſs and ſolemnity of the place were favourable to thought, and naturally led me to a train of ideas rela⯑tive to the ſcene; when, like a good proteſtant, I began to indulge a ſecret triumph in the ruin of ſo many ſtructures which I had always conſidered as the haunts of ignorance and ſuperſtition.

YE are fallen, ſaid I, ye dark and gloomy manſions of miſtaken zeal, where the proud prieſt and lazy monk fatten'd upon the riches of the land, and crept like ver⯑min from their cells to ſpread their poiſonous doctrines through the nation, and diſturb the peace of kings. Ob⯑ſcure in their origin, but daring and ambitious in their guilt! See how the pure light of heaven is clouded by the dim glaſs of the arched window, ſtained with the gaudy colours of monkiſh tales and legendary fiction; fit emblem how reluctantly they admitted the fairer light of truth amidſt theſe dark receſſes, and how much they have debaſed its genuine luſtre! The low cells, the long and narrow aiſles, the gloomy arches, the damp and ſecret caverns which wind beneath the hollow ground, far from impreſſing on the mind the idea of the God of truth and love, ſeem only fit for thoſe dark places of the earth in which are the habitations of cru⯑elty. Theſe maſſy ſtones and ſcattered reliques of the vaſt edifice, like the large bones and gigantick armour of a once formidable ruffian, produce emotions of ming⯑led [43] dread and exultation. Farewel, ye once venerated ſeats! enough of you remains, and may it always re⯑main, to remind us from what we have eſcaped, and make poſterity for ever thankful for this fairer age of liberty and light.

SUCH were for a while my meditations; but it is cruel to inſult a fallen enemy, and I gradually fell into a different train of thought. I began to conſider whether ſomething might not be advanced in favour of theſe in⯑ſtitutions during the barbarous ages in which they flou⯑riſhed; and though they have been productive of much miſchief and ſuperſtition, whether they might not have ſpread the glimmering of a feeble ray of knowledge, through that thick night which once involved the weſtern hemiſphere.

AND where, indeed, could the precious remains of claſſical learning, and the divine monuments of ancient taſte, have been ſafely lodged amidſt the ravages of that age of ferocity and rapine which ſucceeded the deſola⯑tion of the Roman empire, except in ſanctuaries like theſe, conſecrated by the ſuperſtition of the times beyond their intrinſic merit? The frequency of wars, and the licentious cruelty with which they were conducted, left neither the hamlet of the peaſant nor the caſtle of the baron free from depredation; but the church and mo⯑naſtery generally remained inviolate. There Homer and Ariſtotle were obliged to ſhroud their heads from the rage of gothic ignorance; and there the ſacred re⯑cords of divine truth were preſerved, like treaſure hid in the earth in troubleſome times, ſafe, but unenjoyed. Some of the barbarous nations were converted before their conqueſts, and moſt of them ſoon after their ſettle⯑ment in the countries they over-ran. Thoſe buildings which their new faith taught them to venerate, afforded [44] a ſhelter for thoſe voluable manuſcripts, which muſt o⯑therwiſe have been deſtroyed in the common wreck. At the revival of learning they were produced from their dormitories. A copy of the pandect of Juſtinian, that valuable remain of Roman law, which firſt gave to Europe the idea of a more perfect juriſprudence, and gave men a reliſh for a new and important ſtudy, was diſcovered in a monaſtery of Amalphi. Moſt of the claſſics were recovered by the ſame means; and to this it is owing, to the books and learning preſerved in theſe repoſitories, that we were not obliged to begin anew, and trace every art by ſlow and uncertain ſteps from its firſt origin. Science, already full grown and vigorous, awaked as from a trance, ſhook her pinions, and ſoon ſoared to the heights of knowledge.

NOR was ſhe entirely idle during her receſs; at leaſt we cannot but confeſs that what little learning remain⯑ed in the world was amongſt the prieſts and religious orders. Books, before the invention of paper, and the art of printing, were ſo dear, that few private perſons poſſeſſed any. The only libraries were in convents; and the monks were often employed in tranſcribing ma⯑nuſcripts, which was a very tedious, and at that time a very neceſſary taſk. It was frequently enjoined as a penance for ſome ſlight offence, or given as an exerciſe to the younger part of the community. The monks were obliged by their rules to ſpend ſome ſtated hours every day in reading and ſtudy; nor was any one to be choſen abbot without a competent ſhare of learning. They were the only hiſtorians; and though their ac⯑counts be interwoven with many a legendary tale, and darkened by much ſuperſtition, ſtill they are better than no hiſtories at all; and we cannot but think ourſelves [45] obliged to them for tranſmitting to us, in any dreſs, the annals of their country.

THEY were likewiſe almoſt the ſole inſtructors of youth. Towards the end of the tenth century there were no ſchools in Europe but the monaſteries, and thoſe which belonged to epiſcopal reſidences; nor any maſters but the Benedictines. It is true, their courſe of educa⯑tion extended no further than what they called the ſeven liberal arts, and theſe were taught in a very dry and un⯑intereſting manner. But this was the genius of the age, and it ſhould not be imputed to them as a reproach that they did not teach well, when no one taught better. We are guilty of great unfairneſs when we compare the ſchoolmen with the philoſophers of a more enlightened age: we ſhould contraſt them with thoſe of their own times; with a high-conſtable of France who could not read; with kings who made the ſign of the croſs in con⯑firmation of their charters, becauſe they could not write their names; with a whole people without the leaſt glimmering of taſte or literature. Whatever was their real knowledge, there was a much greater difference be⯑tween men of learning, and the bulk of the nation, at that time, than there is at preſent; and certainly, ſome of the diſciples of thoſe ſchools who, though now fallen into diſrepute, were revered in their day by the name of the ſubtle doctor, or the angelic doctor, ſhewed an acute⯑neſs and ſtrength of genius, which, if properly directed, would have gone far in philoſophy; and they only fail⯑ed becauſe their enquires were not the objects of the hu⯑man power. Had they exerciſed half that acuteneſs on facts and experiments, they had been truly great men. However, there were not wanting ſome, even in the darkeſt ages, whoſe names will be always remembered with pleaſure by the lovers of ſcience. Alcuin, the pre⯑ceptor [46] of Charlemagne; the firſt who introduced a taſte for polite literature into France, and the chief inſtru⯑ment that prince made uſe of in his noble endeavours for the encouragement of learning; to whom the univerſi⯑ties of Soiſſons, Tours and Paris owe their origin. The hiſtorians, Mathew Paris, William of Malmſbury. Sa⯑vanarola; the elegant and unfortunate Abelard; and, to crown the reſt, the Engliſh Franciſcan, Roger Ba⯑con.

IT may be here obſerved, that forbidding the vulgar tongue in the offices of devotion, and in reading the ſcriptures, though undoubtedly a great corruption in the Chriſtian Church, was of infinite ſervice to the intereſts of learning. When the eccleſiaſtics had locked up their religion in a foreign tongue, they would take care not to loſe the key. This gave an importance to the learn⯑ed languages; and every ſcholar could not only read, but wrote and diſputed in Latin, which without ſuch a motive would probably have been no more ſtudied than the Chineſe. And at a time when the modern languages of Europe were yet unformed and barbarous, Latin was of great uſe as a kind of univerſal tongue, by which learned men might converſe and correſpond with each other.

INDEED, the monks were almoſt the only ſet of men who had leiſure or opportunity to pay the leaſt attention to literary ſubjects. A learned education (and a very little went to that title) was reckoned peculiar to the religious. It was almoſt eſteemed a blemiſh on the ſa⯑vage and martial character of the gentry to have any tincture of letters. A man, therefore, of a ſtudious and retired turn, a verſe to quarrels, and not deſirous of the fierce and ſanguinary glory of thoſe times, beheld in the cloiſter a peaceful and honourable ſanctuary; where, [47] without the reproach of cowardice, or danger of inva⯑ſion, he might devote himſelf to learning, aſſociate with men of his own turn, and have free acceſs to libraries and manuſcripts. In this enlightened and poliſhed age, where learning is diffuſed through every rank, and many a merchant's clerk poſſeſſes more real knowledge than half the literati of that aera, we can ſcarcely conceive how groſs an ignorance overſpread thoſe times, and how totally all uſeful learning might have been loſt amongſt us, had it not been for an order of men, veſted with pe⯑culiar privileges, and protected by even a ſuperſtitious degree of reverence.

THUS the Muſes, with their attendant arts (in ſtrange diſguiſe indeed, and uncouth trappings) took re⯑fuge in the peaceful gloom of the convent. Statuary carved a Madona or a crucifix. Painting illuminated a miſſal. Eloquence made the panegyric of a ſaint; and Hiſtory compoſed a legend. Yet ſtill they breathed, and were ready at any happier period, to emerge from obſcurity with all their native charms and undiminiſhed luſtre.

BUT there were other views in which thoſe who de⯑voted themſelves to a monaſtic life might be ſuppoſed uſeful to ſociety. They were often employed either in cultivating their gardens, or in curious mechanical works; as indeed, the nuns are ſtill famous for many elegant and ingenious manufactures. By the conſtant communication they had with thoſe of their own order, and with their common head at Rome, they maintained ſome intercourſe between nations at a time when travel⯑ling was dangerous, and commerce had not, as now, made the moſt diſtant parts of the globe familiar to each other: and they kept up a more intimate bond of union amongſt learned men of all countries, who would other⯑wiſe [48] have been ſecluded from all knowledge of each o⯑ther. A monk might travel with more convenience than any one elſe; his perſon was ſafer, and he was ſure of meeting with proper accommodations. The in⯑tercourſe with Rome muſt have been peculiarly favour⯑able to theſe northern nations; as Italy for a long time led the way in every improvement of politeneſs or litera⯑ture: and if we imported their ſuperſtition, we likewiſe imported their manufactures, their knowledge, and their taſte. Thus Alfred ſent for Italian monks, when he wanted to civilize his people, and introduce amongſt them ſome tincture of letters. It may likewiſe be pre⯑ſumed that they tempered the rigour of monarchy. In⯑deed they, as well as the ſovereigns, endeavoured to enſlave the people; but ſubjection was not likely to be ſo abject and unlimited where the object of it was di⯑vided, and each ſhowed by turns that the other might be oppoſed. It muſt have been of ſervice to the cauſe of liberty to have a ſet of men, whoſe laws, privileges and immunities the moſt daring kings were afraid to trample on; and this, before a more enlightened ſpirit of freedom had ariſen, might have its effect in prevent⯑ing the ſtates of chriſtendom from falling into ſuch en⯑tire ſlavery as the Aſiatics.

SUCH an order would in ſome degree check the ex⯑ceſſive regard paid to birth. A man of mean origin and obſcure parentage ſaw himſelf excluded from almoſt every path of ſecular preferment, and almoſt treated as a being of an inferior ſpecies by the high and haughty ſpirit of the gentry; but he was at liberty to aſpire to the higheſt dignities of the church; and there have been many who, like Sextus V. and cardinal Wol⯑ſey, have by their induſtry and perſonal merit alone raiſed themſelves to a level with kings.

[49] IT ſhould likewiſe be remembered that many of the orders were charitable inſtitutions; as the knights of faith and charity in the thirteenth century, who were aſſociat⯑ed for the purpoſe of ſuppreſſing thoſe bands of robbers which infeſted the public roads in France; the brethren of the order of the redemption, for redeeming ſlaves from the Mahometans; the order of St. Anthony, firſt eſtabliſh⯑ed for the relief of the poor under certain diſorders; and the brethren and ſiſters of the pious and chriſtian ſchools, for educating poor children. Theſe ſupplied the place of hoſpitals and other ſuch foundations, which are now eſtabliſhed on the broader baſis of public bene⯑volence. To bind up the wounds of the ſtranger was peculiarly the office of the inhabitants of the convent; and they often ſhared the charities they received. The exerciſe of hoſpitality is ſtill their characteriſtic, and muſt have been of particular uſe formerly, when they had not the conveniences and accommodations for tra⯑velling which we now enjoy. The learned ſtranger was always ſure of an agreeable reſidence amongſt them; and as they all underſtood latin, they ſerved him for in⯑terpreters, and introduced him to a ſight of whatever was curious or valuable in the countries which he viſit⯑ed. They checked the ſpirit of ſavage fierceneſs, to which [...] warlike anceſtors were ſo prone, with the mildneſs and ſanctity of religious influences; they pre⯑ſerved ſome reſpect to law and order, and often decided controverſies by means leſs bloody than the ſword, though confeſſedly more ſuperſtitious.

A PROOF that theſe inſtitutions had a favourable aſpect towards civilization, may be drawn from a late hiſtory of Ireland. ‘"Soon after the introduction of chriſtianity into that kingdom"’ ſays Dr. Leland, ‘"the monks fixed their habitations in deſarts, which [50] they cultivated with their own hands, and ren⯑dered the moſt delightful ſpots in the kingdom. Theſe deſarts became well policed cities, and it is re⯑markable enough that to the monks we owe ſo uſeful an inſtitution in Ireland as the bringing great numbers together into one civil community. In theſe cities the monks ſet up ſchools, and taught, not only the youth of Ireland, but the neighbouring nations; fur⯑niſhing them alſo with books. They became umpires between contending chiefs, and when they could not confine them within the bounds of reaſon and religi⯑on, at leaſt terrified them by denouncing divine ven⯑geance againſt their exceſſes."’

LET it be conſidered too, that when the minds of men began to open, ſome of the moſt eminent reformers ſprung from the boſom of the church, and even of the convent. It was not the laity who began to think. The eccleſiaſtics were the firſt to perceive the errors they had introduced. The church was reformed from within, not from without; and like the ſilk-worm, when ripen⯑ed in their cells to maturer vigour and perfection, they pierced the cloud themſelves had ſpun, and within which they had ſo long been enveloped.

AND let not the good proteſtant be too much ſtart⯑led if I here venture to inſinuate, that the monaſteries were ſchools of ſome high and reſpectable virtues. Po⯑verty, chaſtity, and a renunciation of the world, were certainly intended in the firſt plan of theſe inſtitutions; and though, from the unavoidable frailty of human na⯑ture, they were not always obſerved, certain it is, that many individuals amongſt them have been ſtriking ex⯑amples of the ſelf-denying virtues: and as the influence they acquired was only built upon the voluntary ho⯑mage of the mind, it may be preſumed ſuch an aſcen⯑dancy [51] was not originally gained without ſome ſpecies of merit. The fondneſs for monkery is eaſily deduced from ſome of the beſt principles in the human heart. It was, indeed, neceſſity, that, in the third century, firſt drove the chriſtians to ſhelter themſelves from the Decian perſecution in the ſolitary deſerts of Thebais; but the humour ſoon ſpread, and numbers under the name of hermits, or eremites, ſecluded themſelves from the commerce of mankind, chuſing the wildeſt ſolitudes, living in caves and hollows of the rocks, and ſubſiſting on ſuch roots and herbs as the ground afforded them. About the fourth century, they were gathered into com⯑munities, and encreaſed with ſurpriſing rapidity. It was then that, by a great and ſudden revolution, the fu⯑ry of perſecution had ceaſed, and the governing powers were become friendly to chriſtianity. But the agitation of men's minds did not immediately ſubſide with the ſtorm. The chriſtians had ſo long experienced the ne⯑ceſſity of reſigning all the enjoyments of life, and were ſo detached from every tie which might interfere with the profeſſion of their faith, that upon a more favourable turn of affairs they hardly dared open their minds to pleaſurable emotions. They thought the life of a good man muſt be a continual warfare between mind and body; and having been long uſed to ſee eaſe and ſafety on the one ſide, and virtue on the other, no wonder if the aſſociation was ſo ſtrong in their minds, as to ſuggeſt the neceſſity of voluntary mortification, and lead them to inflict thoſe ſufferings upon themſelves, which they no longer apprehended from others. They had continu⯑ally experienced the amazing effects of chriſtianity in ſupporting its followers under hardſhip, tortures, and death; and they thought little of its influence in regu⯑lating the behaviour of life, if it produced none of thoſe [52] great exertions they had been uſed to contemplate. They were ſtruck with the change from heathen licen⯑tiouſneſs to the purity of the goſpel; and thought they could never be far enough removed from that bondage of the ſenſes which it had juſt coſt them ſo violent a ſtruggle to eſcape. The minds of men were working with newly received opinions, not yet mellowed into a rational faith; and the young converts, aſtoniſhed at the gran⯑deur and ſublimity of the doctrines which then firſt en⯑tered their hearts with irreſiſtable force, thought them worthy to engroſs their whole attention. The myſtic dreams of the Platoniſt mingled with the enthuſiaſin of the martyr; and it ſoon became the prevailing opinion, that ſilence, ſolitude, and contemplation were neceſſary for the reception of divine truth. Miſtaken ideas pre⯑vailed of a purity and perfection far ſuperiour to the rules of common life, which was only to be attained by thoſe who denied themſelves all the indulgences of ſenſe: and thus the aſcetic ſeverities of the cloiſter ſuc⯑ceeded in ſome degree to the philoſophic poverty of the Cynic ſchool, and the lofty virtues of the Stoic porch.

INDEED, it is now the prevailing taſte in morals to decry every obſervance which has the leaſt appearance of rigour; and to inſiſt only on the ſofter virtues. But let it be remembered, that ſelf-command and ſelf-denial are as neceſſary to the practice of benevolence, charity, and compaſſion, as to any other duty; that it is im⯑poſſible to live to others without denying ourſelves; and that the man who has not learned to curb his ap⯑petites and paſſions is ill qualified for thoſe ſacrifices which the friendly affections are continually requiring of him. The man who has that one quality of ſelf⯑command will find little difficulty in the practice of any other duty; as, on the contrary, he who has it not, [53] tho' poſſeſſed of the gentleſt feelings, and moſt refined ſenſibilities, will ſoon find his benevolence ſink into a mere companionable eaſineſs of temper, neither uſeful to others nor happy for himſelf. A noble enthuſiaſm is ſometimes of uſe to ſhew how far human nature can go. Though it may not be proper, or deſirable, that numbers ſhould ſeclude themſelves from the common duties and ordinary avocations of life, for the auſterer leſſons of the cloiſter, yet it is not unuſeful that ſome ſhould puſh their virtues to even a romantic height; and it is encouraging to reflect in the hour of tempta⯑tion that the love of eaſe, the averſion to pain, every appetite and paſſion, and even the ſtrongeſt propenſi⯑ties in our nature, have been controuled; that the em⯑pire of the mind over the body has been aſſerted in its fulleſt extent; and that there have been men in all ages, who voluntarily renounce all the world offers, voluntarily ſuffer all it dreads, and live independent, and unconnected with it. Nor was it a ſmall advan⯑tage, or ill calculated to ſupport the dignity of ſcience, that a learned man might be reſpectable in a coarſe gown, a leathern girdle, and bare-footed. Cardinal Ximenes preſerved the ſevere ſimplicity of a convent a⯑midſt the pomp and luxury of palaces; and to thoſe who thus thought it becoming in the higheſt ſtations to affect the appearance of poverty, the reality ſurely could not be very dreadful.

THERE is yet another light in which theſe inſtitu⯑tions may be conſidered. It is, ſurely, not improper to provide a retreat for thoſe, who ſtained by ſome deep and enormous crime, wiſh to expiate by ſevere and un⯑common penitence thoſe offences which render them unworthy of freer commerce with the world. Repen⯑tance is never ſo ſecure from a relapſe as when it breaks [54] off at once from every former connection, and entering upon a new courſe of life, bids adieu to every object that might revive the idea of temptations which have once prevailed. In theſe ſolemn retreats, the ſtillneſs and acknowledged ſanctity of the place, with the ſtrik⯑ing novelty of every thing around them, might have great influence in calming the paſſions; might break the force of habit, and ſuddenly induce a new turn of thinking. There are likewiſe afflictions ſo overwhelming to humanity, that they leave no reliſh in the mind for any thing elſe than to enjoy its own melancholy in ſilence and ſolitude; and to a heart torn with remorſe, or op⯑preſt with ſorrow, the gloomy ſeverities of La Trappe are really a relief. Retirement is alſo the favourite wiſh of age. Many a ſtateſman, and many a warriour, ſick of the buſtle of that world to which they had de⯑voted the prime of their days, have longed for ſome quiet cell where, like cardinal Wolſey or Charles V. they might ſhroud their grey hairs, and loſe ſight of the follies with which they had been too much tainted.

THOUGH there is, perhaps, leſs to plead for im⯑muring beauty in a cloiſter, and confining that part of the ſpecies who are formed to ſhine in families and ſweeten ſociety, to the barren duties and auſtere diſcip⯑line of a monaſtic life; yet, circumſtances might occur, in which they would, even to a woman, be a welcome refuge. A young female, whom accident, or war, had deprived of her natural protectors, muſt, in an age of barbariſm, be peculiarly expoſed and helpleſs. A con⯑vent offered her an aſylum where ſhe might be ſafe, at leaſt, if not happy; and add to the conſciouſneſs of unvi⯑olated virtue the flattering dreams of angelic purity and perfection. There were orders, as well amongſt the women, as the men, inſtituted for charitable pur⯑poſes, [55] ſuch as that of the Virgins of love, or Daughters of mercy, founded in 1660, for the relief of the ſick poor; with others for inſtructing their children. Theſe muſt have been peculiarly ſuited to the ſoftneſs and compaſſion of the ſex; and to this it is no doubt owing, that ſtill, in catholic countries, ladies of the higheſt rank often vi⯑ſit the hoſpitals and houſes of the poor; waiting on them with the moſt tender aſſiduity, and performing ſuch of⯑fices as our proteſtant ladies would be ſhocked at the thoughts of. We ſhould alſo conſider, that moſt of the fe⯑males who now take the veil, are ſuch as have no agree⯑able proſpects in life. Why ſhould not theſe be allow⯑ed to quit a world which will never miſs them? It is eaſier to retire from the public, than to ſupport its diſre⯑gard. The convent is to them a ſhelter from poverty and neglect. Their little community grows dear to them. The equality which ſubſiſts among theſe ſiſters of obſcurity, the ſimilarity of their fate, the peace, the leiſure they enjoy, give riſe to the moſt endearing friendſhips. Their innocence is ſhielded by the ſimpli⯑city of their life from even the idea of ill; and they are flattered by the notion of a voluntary renunciation of plea⯑ſures, which probably, had they continued in the world, they would have had little ſhare in.

AFTER all that can be ſaid, we have reaſon enough to rejoice that the ſuperſtitions of former times are now fallen into diſrepute. What might be a palliative at one time, ſoon became a crying evil in itſelf. When the ful⯑ler day of ſcience began to dawn, the monkiſh orders were willing to exclude its brightneſs, that the dim lamp might ſtill glimmer in their cell. Their growing vices have rendered them juſtly odious to ſociety, and they ſeem in a fair way of being for ever aboliſhed. But may we not ſtill hope that the world was better than it would have [56] have been without them; and that he, who knows to bring good out of evil, has made them, in their day, ſub⯑ſervient to ſome uſeful purpoſes. The corruptions of chri⯑ſtianity, which have been accumulating for ſo many ages, ſeem to be now gradually clearing away; and ſome fu⯑ture period may perhaps exhibit our religion in all its na⯑tive ſimplicity.

ON THE PLEASURE DERIVED FROM OBJECTS OF TERROR; WITH SIR BERTRAND, A FRAGMENT.

THAT the exerciſe of our benevolent feelings, as called forth by the view of human afflictions, ſhould be a ſource of pleaſure, cannot appear wonder⯑ful to one who conſiders that relation between the moral and natural ſyſtem of man, which has connected a degree of ſatisfaction with every action or emotion productive of the general welfare. The painful ſenſa⯑tion immediately ariſing from a ſcene of miſery, is ſo much ſoftened and alleviated by the reflex ſenſe of ſelf⯑approbation attending virtuous ſympathy, that we find, on the whole, a very exquiſite and refined pleaſure re⯑maining, which makes us deſirous of again being wit⯑neſſes to ſuch ſcenes, inſtead of flying from them with diſ⯑guſt and horror. It is obvious how greatly ſuch a provi⯑ſion muſt conduce to the ends of mutual ſupport and aſ⯑ſiſtance. But the apparent delight with which we dwell upon objects of pure terror, where our moral feelings are not in the leaſt concerned, and no paſſion ſeems to be excited but the depreſſing one of fear, is a paradox of the heart, much more difficult of ſolution.

THE reality of this ſource of pleaſure ſeems evident from daily obſervation. The greedineſs with which the [58] tales of ghoſts and goblins, of murders, earthquakes, fires, ſhipwrecks, and all the moſt terrible diſaſters at⯑tending human life, are devoured by every ear, muſt have been generally remarked. Tragedy, the moſt favourite work of fiction, has taken a full ſhare of thoſe ſcenes; ‘"it has ſupt full with horrors"’—and has, per⯑haps, been more indebted to them for public admiration than to its tender and pathetic parts. The ghoſt of Hamlet, Macbeth deſcending into the witches' cave, and the tent ſcene in Richard, command as ſorcibly the attention of our ſouls as the parting Jaffeir and Belvidera, the fall of Wolſey, or the death of Shore. The inſpi⯑ration of terror was by the antient critics aſſigned as the peculiar province of tragedy; and the Greek and Ro⯑man tragedians have introduced ſome extraordinary per⯑ſonages for this purpoſe: not only the ſhades of the dead, but the ſuries, and other fabulous inhabitants of the infernal regions. Collins, in his moſt poetical ode to Fear, has finely enforced this idea.

THE old Gothic romance and the Eaſtern tale, with their genii, giants, enchantments, and transformations, however a refined critic may cenſure them as abſurd and extravagant, will ever retain a moſt powerful in⯑fluence on the mind, and intereſt the reader indepen⯑dently of all peculiarity of taſte. Thus the great Mil⯑ton, who had a ſtrong biaſs to theſe wildneſſes of the imagination, has with ſtriking effect made the ſtories ‘"of foreſts and enchantments drear,"’ a favourite ſub⯑ject with his Penſeroſo; and had undoubtedly their awakening images ſtrong upon his mind when he breaks out,

How are we then to account for the pleaſure derived from ſuch objects? I have often been led to imagine that there is a deception in theſe caſes; and that the avidity with which we attend is not a proof of our re⯑ceiving real pleaſure. The pain of ſuſpence, and the irreſiſtible deſire of ſatisfying curioſity, when once raiſed, will account for our eagerneſs to go quite through an adventure, though we ſuffer actual pain during the whole courſe of it. We rather chuſe to ſuffer the ſmart pang of a violent emotion than the uneaſy craving of an un⯑ſatisfied deſire. That this principle, in many inſtances, may involuntarily carry us through what we diſlike, I am convinced from experience. This is the impulſe which renders the pooreſt and moſt inſipid narrative in⯑tereſting when once we get fairly into it; and I have frequently felt it with regard to our modern novels, which, if lying on my table, and taken up in an idle hour, have led me through the moſt tedious and diſ⯑guſting pages, while, like Piſtol eating his leek, I have ſwallowed and execrated to the end. And it will not only force us through dullneſs, but through actual tor⯑ture—through the relation of a Damien's execution, or an inquiſitor's act of faith. When children, therefore, liſten with pale and mute attention to the frightful ſto⯑ries of apparitions, we are not, perhaps, to imagine that they are in a ſtate of enjoyment, any more than the poor bird which is dropping into the mouth of the rattle⯑ſnake—they are chained by the ears, and faſcinated by curioſity. This ſolution, however, does not ſatisfy me with reſpect to the well-wrought ſcenes of artificial ter⯑ror which are formed by a ſublime and vigorous ima⯑gination. [60] Here, though we know before-hand what to expect, we enter into them with eagerneſs, in queſt of a pleaſure already experienced. This is the pleaſure conſtantly attached to the excitement of ſurpriſe from new and wonderful objects. A ſtrange and unexpect⯑ed event awakens the mind, and keeps it on the ſtretch; and where the agency of inviſible being is introduced, of ‘"forms unſeen, and mightier far than we,"’ our ima⯑gination, darting forth, explores with rapture the new world which is laid open to its view, and rejoices in the expanſion of its powers. Paſſion and fancy co-operat⯑ing elevate the ſoul to its higheſt pitch; and the pain of terror is loſt in amazement.

HENCE, the more wild, fanciful, and extraordinary are the circumſtances of a ſcene of horror, the more pleaſure we receive from it; and where they are too near common nature, though violently borne by curio⯑ſity through the adventure, we cannot repeat it or re⯑flect on it, without an over-balance of pain. In the Arabian nights are many moſt ſtriking examples of the terrible joined with the marvellous: the ſtory of Alad⯑din and the travels of Sinbad are particularly excellent. The Caſtle of Otranto is a very ſpirited modern attempt upon the ſame plan of mixed terror, adapted to the model of Gothic romance. The beſt conceived, and moſt ſtrongly worked-up ſcene of mere natural horror that I recollect, is in Smollet's Ferdinand count Fathom; where the hero, entertained in a lone houſe in a foreſt, finds a corpſe juſt ſlaughtered in the room where he is ſent to ſleep, and the door of which is locked upon him. It may be amuſing for the reader to compare his feel⯑ings upon theſe, and from thence form his opinion of the juſtneſs of my theory. The following fragment, in which both theſe manners are attempted to be in ſome [61] degree united, is offered to entertain a ſolitary winter's evening.

ON THE HEROIC POEM OF GONDIBERT.

A Perſon engaged in the purſuit of literary fame muſt be ſeverely mortified on obſerving the very ſpeedy neglect into which writers of high merit ſo fre⯑quently fall. The revolution of centuries, the extinc⯑tion of languages, the vaſt convulſions which agitate a whole people, are cauſes which may well be ſubmitted to in overwhelming an author with oblivion; but that in the ſame country, with little variation of language or manners, the delights of one age ſhould become utter ſtrangers in the next, is ſurely an immaturity of fate which conveys reproach upon the inconſtancy of nation⯑al taſte. That noble band, the Engliſh Poets, have am⯑ple reaſon for complaining to what unjuſt guardians they have entruſted their renown. While we crown the ſta⯑tue of Shakeſpeare as the prince of dramatic poets, ſhall we forget the works, and almoſt the names of his con⯑temporaries who poſſeſſed ſo much of a kindred ſpirit? Shall the Italian Paſtor Fido and Amyntas ſtand high in our eſtimation, and the Faithful Shepherdeſs, the moſt beautiful paſtcral that a poet's fancy ever formed, be ſcarcely known amongſt us? Shall we feel the fire of heroic poetry in tranſlations from Greece and Rome, and never ſearch for it in the native productions of our own country?

[67] THE capital work of Sir William D'avenant, which I now deſire to call forth from its obſcurity, may well be conſidered as in a ſtate of oblivion, ſince we no where meet with alluſions to it, or quotations from it, in our modern writers; and few, I imagine, even of the pro⯑feſſed ſtudents in Engliſh claſſics, would think their taſte diſcredited by confeſſing that they had never read GONDIBERT. A very learned and ingenious critic, in his well-known diſcourſe upon poetical imitation, has, in⯑deed, taken notice of this poem; but though he beſtows all due praiſe upon its author, yet the purpoſe for which it is mentioned being to inſtance an eſſential error, we cannot ſuppoſe that his authority has ſerved to gain it more readers. Having very judiciouſly laid it down as a general obſervation, that writers by ſtudiouſly avoid⯑ing the fancied diſgrace of imitation are apt to fall into improper methods, forced conceits, and affected ex⯑preſſion; he proceeds to introduce the work in queſtion after the following manner. ‘"And, that the reader may not ſuſpect me of aſſerting this without experience, let me exemplify what has been here ſaid in the caſe of a very eminent perſon, who, with all the advantages of art and nature that could be required to adorn the true poet, was ruined by this ſingle error. The per⯑ſon I mean was SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT, whoſe Gondibert will remain a perpetual monument of the miſchiefs which muſt ever ariſe from this affectation of originality in lettered and polite poets."’

A CONSIDERADLE degree of deference is undoubt⯑edly due to a critic of ſuch acknowledged taſte and abi⯑lities; yet, ſince it appears to me that in this inſtance he writes under the influence of ſyſtem and learned pre⯑judice, I ſhall venture to canvaſs the principles upon which he ſupports his cenſure.

[68] THE method of Gondibert is firſt objected to by Dr. Hurd, and upon two accounts. Firſt, that the compaſs of the poem is contracted from the limits of the ancient epic, to thoſe of the dramatic form; and by this means, purſuing a cloſe accelerated plot, the opportunity is loſt of introducing digreſſive ornaments, and of giving that minuteneſs of deſcription which confers an air of reality. Now, ſince the author ſets out with diſavowing the com⯑mon rules of epic poetry, it is certainly unjuſt to try him by thoſe rules. That effects are not produced which he never deſigned to produce can be no matter of blame; we have only to examine the juſtneſs of the deſign itſelf. It is wrong to expect incompatible qualities as well in compoſitions as in men. A work cannot at the ſame time poſſeſs force and diffuſiveneſs, rapidity and minute⯑neſs.

EVERY one who has read Homer without prejudice, will, I doubt not, confeſs that the effects which ſhould reſult from the great events of the ſtory are much bro⯑ken and impeded by that very minuteneſs of deſcription, and frequency of digreſſion which D'avenant is blamed for rejecting. The mind, warmed by an intereſting narration, either in hiſtory, poetry, or romance, re⯑quires the writer to keep up with its exertions, and can⯑not bear him to flag in his pace, or turn aſide in purſuit of other objects. The proper end of epic poetry, ac⯑cording to Dr. Hurd, is admiration. This, I imagine, would by no means have been allowed by our author, who ſeems rather to have placed it in intereſting the paſſions, inclucating noble ſentiments, and informing the under⯑ſtanding. Nor does it anſwer the Idea of Horace, who praiſes Homer for his moral leſſons, for teaching‘—quid ſit pulcrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non.’ [69] However, a due limitation of ſubject, and ſomething of rapidity in purſuing it, appear very neceſſary to the production of a conſiderable effect, of what kind ſoever; and a pompous diſplay of foreign circumſtances muſt al⯑ways debilitate more than adorn. It appears an ex⯑tremely bad compliment to an epic poem, to ſay that its chief beauty lies in the epiſodes. Indeed epic poetry as exiſting in the models of antiquity, or their copies, by no means, I think, deſerves the title given by cri⯑tics, of the higheſt ſpecies of poetical compoſition. The tedious compaſs of the ſubject, the neceſſity of em⯑ploying ſo large a ſhare of the work in the relation of trifling occurrences for the ſake of connexion, and the frequency of interruptions from collateral matter, inevitably cauſe both the poet's exertions and the rea⯑der's attention to intermit; and it is no wonder that Homer and Virgil too ſometimes nod over their la⯑bours. The author of Gondibert ſeems to have been ſenſible of theſe inconveniences, and upon fair com⯑pariſon of the epic and dramatic form, to have prefer⯑red the latter as capable of more ſpirit, and uniform dignity. We ſhall find, however, in reviewing the poem, that he has by no means reſtricted himſelf ſo narrowly as to preclude all ornamental deviations; and though they may not deſerve the title of epiſodes, yet in his ſhort and unfiniſhed piece, they have all the de⯑ſirable effect of a pleaſing variety.

THE ſecond objection which Dr. Hurd brings a⯑gainſt the method of this poem, is the rejection of all ſupernatural agency, or what conſtitutes the machinery of the antient epic poem. But, for this, the critic him⯑ſelf offers a vindication, when he commends the author for not running into the wild ſables of the Italian ro⯑mancers, [70] ‘"which had too ſlender a foundation in the ſerious belief of his age to juſtify a relation to them."’ Now by making this belief an eſſential rule of propriety with reſpect to the machinery, an author in an enligh⯑tened period, ſuch as that of D'avenant, is, in effect, prohibited from its uſe altogether; for the abſtracted nature of a pure and philoſophical religion renders it utterly unfit for the purpoſes of poetical fiction. The works of ſuch Chriſtian poets as have attempted to form a ſyſtem of machinery upon the ideas of ſaints, angels, and tutelary ſpirits, will ſufficiently prove that their religion, even with a mixture of popular ſuper⯑ſtition, was ill calculated to aſſiſt their imagination. Two writers, whom one would little expect to meet upon the ſame ground, Sir Richard Blackmore and Monſ. Voltaire, have given inſtances of the ſame faul⯑ty plan in this reſpect; and nothing in the good Knight's epic labours can more deſerve the attack of ridicule, than the divine miſſion in the Henriade for inſtructing his Majeſty in the ſublime myſteries of tran⯑ſubſtantiation.

IT was a very juſt charge which Plato brought a⯑gainſt Homer, that he had greatly contributed to de⯑baſe religion by the unworthy and abſurd repreſenta⯑tions he has given of the celeſtial beings, both with reſpect to their power, and their juſtice; and this is a fault which the poet muſt always in ſome meaſure be guilty of when he too familiarly mixes divine agen⯑cy with human events. Nor does it appear more fa⯑vourable to the greatneſs of the human perſonages that they are on all occaſions ſo beholden to the immediate interpoſition of divine allies. The refined and judici⯑ous Virgil, though he has tolerably kept up the dignity [71] of his Deities, has yet very much lowered his heroes from this cauſe. When we ſee Aeneas, the ſon of a Goddeſs, aided by a God, and covered with celeſtial armour, with difficulty vanquiſhing the gallant Turnus, we conclude that without ſuch odds the victory muſt have fallen on the other ſide. Under ſuch a ſyſtem of ſupernatural agency there was no other way of exalt⯑ing a man than making him, like Diomed, war againſt the Gods, or, like Cato, approve a cauſe which they had unjuſtly condemned. Surely a ‘"ſober intermix⯑ture of religion"’ can never be attributed to the antient epic. The poem of Gondibert is, indeed, without all this mixture of religious machinery, whether it be termed ſober or extravagant. Human means are brought to accompliſh human ends; and Cowley, in his recommendatory lines prefixed to the work, has thus expreſſed his approbation of this part of the plan.

WE ſhall ſee hereafter that the author has not ne⯑glected to introduce religious ſentiment, and that of a more noble and elevated kind than can eaſily be paral⯑lelled in poetry.

BUT as the Poet, in the Critic's opinion, did too much in baniſhing every thing ſupernatural in the events, ſo he did too little in retaining the fantaſtic notions of love and honour in the characters of his piece, which were [72] derived from the ſame ſource of fiction and romance. There is, however, an eſſential difference between the caſes. Artificial ſentiments, however unnatural at firſt, may, from the operation of particular cauſes, become ſo familiar as to be adopted into the manners of the age. Inſtances of faſhion in ſentiment are almoſt as frequent as of faſhion in dreſs. It is certain that the romantic ideas of love and honour did in fact prevail in a high degree during a conſiderable period of the later ages, owing to cauſes which the ſame ingenious critic has in a very curious manner inveſtigated, in his letters on Chivalry and Romance. They give the lead⯑ing tone to all poliſhed manners; and gallantry was as ſerious a principle in the Italian courts, as love to their country in the ſtates of Greece or old Rome. Su⯑pernatural agency in human events, on the other hand, however commonly pretended, or firmly believed, would never approach one ſtep nearer to reality. After all, the author of Gondibert could not intend to reduce his poem to mere hiſtory; but he choſe to take a poetical licence in the dignity and elevation of its ſentiments, rather than in the marvellouſneſs of its events. He thought he might attribute to the exalted perſonages of courts and camps the ſame nobleneſs of mind which himſelf, a courtier and a ſoldier, poſſeſſed. If his work be allowed leſs grand and entertaining from the want of ſuch ornaments as thoſe of his predeceſſors are de⯑corated with, it will yet be difficult to ſhow how, at his time, they could have been applied conſiſtently with good ſenſe and improved taſte.

So much in vindication of the general method of Sir W. D'avenant's poem. With reſpect to its execution, the juſtice of Dr. Hurd's cenſure cannot be contro⯑verted. That his ſentiments are frequently far-fetched [73] and affected, and his expreſſion, quaint and obſcure, is but too obviouſly apparent; and theſe faults, toge⯑ther with the want of harmony in verſification, will ſufficiently account for the neglect into which the work is fallen, though intereſting in its ſtory, and thick-ſown with beauties. Readers who take up a book merely for the indolent amuſement of a leiſure hour, cannot endure the labour of unharbouring a fine thought from the cover of perplexed expreſſion. The pleaſure ariſing from a flowing line or a rounded period is more engag⯑ing to them, becauſe more eaſily enjoyed, than that from a ſublime or witty conception. The author's faulty execution, however, aroſe from a ſource directly contrary to the ‘"dread of imitation."’ Imitation itſelf led him to it; for almoſt all the models of polite litera⯑ture exiſting in his own country, and indeed in the o⯑ther poliſhed nations of Europe, were characterized by the very ſame vitiation of taſte. Among our own wri⯑ters it is ſufficient to inſtance Donne, Suckling and Cowley for this conſtant affectation of wit and uncom⯑mon ſentiment, and for a conſequent obſcurity of ex⯑preſſion. Yet all theſe, and Sir W. D'avenant, perhaps, in a more eminent degree than the reſt, had for great oc⯑caſions, above the temptation of trifling, a majeſtic and nervous ſimplicity both of ſentiment and expreſſion; which, with our more refined taſte and language, we have never been able to equal.

I ſhould now hope that the reader would ſet out with me upon a nearer inſpection of this peom, with the general idea of its being the work of an elevated genius, pregnant with a rich ſtore of free and noble ſentiment, faſhioned by an intimate commerce with the great world, and boldly purſuing an original, but not an unſkilful plan.

[74] THE meaſure choſen for this poem is that which we now almoſt confine to elegy. This choice does not appear very judicious; for although our elegiac ſtanza poſſeſſes a ſtrength and fullneſs which renders it not unſuitable to heroic ſubjects, yet in a piece of conſider⯑able length, every returning meaſure muſt become tire⯑ſome from its frequent repetitions. And this is not the worſt effect of returning flanzas, in a long work. The neceſſity of comprizing a ſentence within the limits of the meaſure is the tyranny of Procruſtes to thought. For the ſake of a diſagreeable uniformity, expreſſion muſt conſtantly be cramped or extenuated. In general the latter expedient will be practiſed, as the eaſieſt; and thus both ſentiment and language will be enfeebled by unmeaning expletives. This, indeed, in ſome meaſure is the effect of rhyme couplets; and ſtill more of the latin hexameter and pentameter. In our author, a re⯑dundancy of thought, running out into parentheſes, ſeems to have been produced, or at leaſt encouraged by the meaſure. But I think he has generally preſerved a force and majeſty of expreſſion.

IT would have been highly injudicious for one who has rejected all poetical machinery, to have begun his poem with the antient from of invoking a Muſe. In⯑deed, in all modern writers this invocation appears little better than an unmeaning ceremony, practiſed by rote from antient cuſtom; and very properly makes a part of the receipt for an epic poem humourouſly laid down after the exact model of mechanical imitation, in the Specta⯑tor. Our author, with ſimple and unaffected dignity, thus opens at once into his ſubject:

[75] This conquering monarch, we are ſoon acquainted, was bleſt with an only child, the heroine of the ſtory,

DESCRIPTIONS of female beauty have engaged the powers of poets in every age, who have exhauſted all nature for imagery to heighten their painting; yet the picture has ever been extremely faint and inadequate. Our poet judiciouſly confines his deſcription of Rhoda⯑lind to the qualities of her mind, contenting himſelf with general praiſes, though in the high-flown gallantry of the times, of her perſonal charms.

[76] THE court of Aribert could not want men of high rank and accompliſhments to pay their devotions at ſuch a ſhrine. Among theſe ‘"OSWALD the great, and greater GONDIBERT"’ moved in the moſt exalted ſphere of renown. Theſe noble perſonages are characterized and contraſted with ſo maſterly a hand that it would be an injury not to tranſcribe the whole.

Of theſe great rivals, Gondibert was he whom the king had deſtined for his ſon-in-law, and the heir of his throne; and Rhodalind too, in the privacy of her own breaſt, had made the ſame choice. This is related in a manner little inferior to Shakeſpear's famous deſcription of concealed love.

GONDIBERT, however, though of a nature by no means unſuſceptible of the tender paſſion, had not as yet felt it for a particular object; and Oſwald, who ſtood forth as the public ſuitor to the princeſs, was incited by no other motive than ambition. Not Rhodalind herſelf (ſays the Poet)‘[78] Could he affect but ſhining in her throne.’

HIS cauſe was powerfully pleaded with the princeſs by his ſiſter Gartha, with whom we are next brought acquainted. A bold, full, majeſtic beauty; and a cor⯑reſponding mind, high, reſtleſs, and aſpiring, are her diſtinguiſhing features. The Prince and Duke were ur⯑ged on to ambitious purſuits by their reſpective armies, which, juſt returned from conqueſt, lay encamped, the one at Breſcia, and the other at Bergamo. That of Gondibert was compoſed of hardy youth whom he had ſelected from his father's camp, and educated in martial diſcipline under his own inſpection. Temperance, chaſti⯑ty, vigilance, humanity, and all the high virtues of chival⯑ry remarkably diſtinguiſh theſe young ſoldiers from thoſe of later times. Beauty, indeed, commanded no leſs regard amongſt them than in a modern camp; but it was an object of paſſion, and not of appetite; and was the powerful engine in their education which inſpired them with noble and exalted ſentiments. This is an idea on which our author, true to the principles of chivalry, ve⯑ry frequently enlarges, and always with peculiar force and dignity. In the preſent inſtance it is thus finely ex⯑preſſed.

INDEED, the influence of this paſſion in its pureſt and moſt exalted ſtate, during the courſe of education, is a ſubject that might, perhaps, ſhine as much in the hands of a moraliſt as of a poet.

THE ſoldiers of Oſwald were his father's brave vete⯑rans, in whoſe arms he had been bred. The ſtory thus opened, and our attention awakened to the expectation of important events, the firſt canto is cloſed.

THE ſecond canto introduces us to a ſolemn annual hunting, held by Duke Gondibert in commemoration of a great victory gained on this day by his grandſire. His train was adorned by many gallant and noble perſons, the friends of his family, and commanders in his army. The hunting, which is deſcribed with much poetical ſpirit, terminates in a combat. As Gondibert and his party are returning weary homeward, an ancient ranger haſtily brings the tidings that Oſwald, who had lain in ambuſh with a body of choſen horſe, is advancing up⯑on them. The Duke, rejecting all counſels of flight, prepares to receive his foes; and with an account of their principal leaders, and the order of their march, the canto concludes.

A PARLEY between the chiefs now ſucceeds, in which the character of each is well preſerved. Oſwald warmly accuſes his rival for uſurping his claims on the princeſs and the kingdom. Gondibert defends himſelf with temper, and diſavows all ambitious deſigns. The other diſdains accommodation; and the conference ends in a generous agreement to decide their differences in ſingle fight.

[80] WHEN every thing is prepared for the combat, Hu⯑bert, the brother of Oſwald, ſteps forth with a general challenge to the oppoſite party. This is inſtantly ac⯑cepted, and ſerves for a prelude to ſo many others, that a general engagement ſeems likely to enſue; when Oſwald reproves their diſobedient ardour: and, upon Hubert's inſiſting to ſhare his fate from the rights of bro⯑therhood, it is at length decided that three perſons of each party ſhould enter the liſts along with their gene⯑rals. The duel then comes on, in the fourth canto; in which Oſwald, Hubert, Paradine and Dargonet, are ſeverally matched with Gondibert: Hurgonil, the lover of Orna, the Duke's ſiſter; and Arnold and Hugo, ge⯑nerous rivals in Laura. Deſcriptions of battle are ſo frequent in epic poetry that ſcarcely any circumſtances of variety are left to diverſify them. Homer and his imitators have attempted novelty in the multiplicity of their combats by every poſſible variation of wea⯑pon, poſture, and wound. They conſidered the hu⯑man body with anatomical nicety; and dwelt with a ſavage pleaſure upon every idea of pain and horror that ſtudied butchery could excite. I ſhall leave it to the profeſſed admirers of antiquity to determine under what head of poetical beauty ſuch objects are to be ranged. The terrible is certainly a principal ſource of the ſublime; but a ſlaughter-houſe or a ſurgery would not ſeem proper ſtudies for a poet. D'ave⯑nant has drawn little from them. His battles are rendered intereſting chiefly by the character and ſitu⯑ation of the combatants. When Arnold, the favour⯑ed lover of Laura, is ſlain by Paradine, Hugo, who had overthrown his antagoniſt, ſprings to avenge his rival, with theſe truly gallant expreſſions.

HIS generoſity, however, was fatal both to his foe and himſelf.

HUBERT, diſabled by a wound in his arm, is diſho⯑noured by receiving his life from his conqueror; upon which occaſion the poet thus beautifully apoſtrophiſes.

THE two chiefs are ſtill left cloſely engaging; and when Hurgonil approaches to aſſiſt his lord, he is warmly commanded to retire. At length, after many mutual wounds, Oſwald falls.

THE death of the Prince at the ſame time takes off all reſtraint from his party, and incites them to revenge. Led by the wounded Hubert, old Vaſco, and Borgio, they attack the hunters, who, beſides the fatigue of the chace, are repreſented as ſomewhat inferior in num⯑ber. A furious battle, the ſubject of the fifth canto, now enſues. Gondibert ſhines forth in all the ſplendor of a hero. By his proweſs his friends are reſcued, and [] the oppoſite leaders overthrown in various ſeparate en⯑counters; and by his military ſkill the brave veterans of Oſwald are defeated. The whole deſcription of the battle is warm and animated.

IN Gondibert's generous lamentation over the fallen, every heart muſt ſympathize with the following pathetic tribute to the rival lovers.

THE Duke now draws off his remaining friends to⯑wards Bergamo: but on the journey, overcome by fa⯑tigue and loſs of blood, he falls into a deadly ſwoon. His attendants, amidſt their anxiety and confuſion upon this event, are ſurpriſed, in the ſixth canto, with the approach of a ſquadron of horſe. This, however proves to be a friendly body, led by old Ulſin; who, after recovering the Duke by a cordial, declares himſelf to have been a page to his grandſire, and gives a noble re⯑lation of the character and exploits of his great maſter. [83] The rumour of Oſwald's attack brought him to the re⯑lief of Gondibert; and we have a deſcription, which will be thought too much bordering upon the ludicrous, of the ſtrange confuſion among his maimed veterans, who in their haſte had ſeized upon each others artificial limbs. This unſightly troop, with the deficiences of hands, arms, legs, and eyes, can ſcarcely, with all the poet's art, be rendered a reſpectable object. Such in⯑ſtances of faulty judgment are frequent in the writings of an age which was characterized by vigour of imagi⯑nation rather than correctneſs of taſte. Ulfin leads the Duke to the houſe of the ſage Aſtragon, where with the approach of night, the canto and the firſt book con⯑clude.

IN the beginning of the ſecond book, the poet car⯑ries us with Hurgonil and Tybalt and their noble dead, to Verona. The diſtant turrets firſt appearing, and then the great objects opening, one by one; the river, the palace, the temple, and the amphitheatre of Flaminius, form a landſcape truly noble and pictureſque. The view of the temple gives occaſion to one of thoſe eleva⯑ted religious ſentiments which dignify this poem.

WE have then a lively deſcription of a city mourning; with the various and uncertain rumours of the late event, among the people. The reſt of the canto is employed in a debate, rather tedious, though intermixed with fine ſentiments, concerning the propriety of granting funeral rites to thoſe who had periſhed in the quarrel.

[84] THE progreſs of the fatal news is traced in the next canto. Aribert appears ſitting in council in all the regal dignity. Tybalt relates the ſtory. The king in a ma⯑jeſtic ſpeech complains of the toils and cares of empire, and predicts the baneful conſequences likely to enſue. A more intereſting ſcene is then diſcloſed, in which Ty⯑balt declares the melancholy events of the combat to Rhodalind and the other ladies of the court. Great art is ſhown in the delicate ambiguity by which they are prepared to receive the tidings. Laura is overpowered by her loſs; and calling on Arnold's name, is conveyed away by her female attendants. This tender ſcene of ſorrow is finely contraſted by the abrupt entrance of Gar⯑tha, in all the wild pomp of mingled rage and grief.

IN the fury of her paſſion ſhe breaks out into execra⯑tions againſt the innocent.

[85] AT length ſhe mounts her chariot, and flies with the wings of revenge to the veteran camp at Breſcia. The terror impreſſed on the people by her haſty departure is imaged with great ſublimity.

THE third canto brings us to Breſcia, where Hubert's arrival with the dead body of Oſwald excites every emo⯑tion of ſurprize, grief and fury in the breaſts of the brave veterans. They ſpend the night in this ſtorm of contending paſſions; and at day-break aſſemble round the tent of Hubert, who by a noble harangue gives ad⯑ditional fire to their revenge. They inſtantly arm, and demand to be led to Bergamo; when Gartha arrives. She turns their vengeance againſt the court, where ſhe repreſents the triumph of Gondibert's faction, and the diſhonour caſt upon their own. The rage diſcovered in her countenance, overpowering the ſymptoms of grief, is painted with amazing grandeur in the following ſi⯑mile:

THIS tempeſt is, however, allayed in the next canto by the arrival of the wife Hermegild; who, though grown aged in war and politics, is poſſeſſed with a youth⯑ful paſſion for Gartha. He ſolemnly binds his ſervices to their party, for the reward of Gartha's love; but perſuades them to ſubmit to more cautious and pacific [86] meaſures. Gartha returns with him to the court; and the funeral of Oſwald with Roman rites, ‘"Which yet the world's laſt law had not forbid,"’ is deſcribed in the remaining part of the canto.

FROM ſcenes of rage and tumult the poet then leads us to the quiet ſhades of philoſophy in the houſe of A⯑ſtragon. This change is not better calculated for the reader's relief, than for a diſplay of the richneſs and e⯑levation of the writer's mind. That the friend of Hobbes ſhould deſpiſe the learned lumber of the ſchools will not be thought extraordinary; but that he ſhould diſtinctly mark out ſuch plans of acquiring knowledge as have ſince been purſued with the greateſt ſucceſs, may well be deemed a remarkable proof of high and comprehenſive genius. In Aſtragon's domain is a retired building, upon which is written in large letters, GREAT NATURE'S OFFICE. Here ſit certain venerable ſages, ſtiled Na⯑ture's Regiſters, buſied in recording what is brought them by a throng called their Intelligencers. Theſe men are diverſly employed in exploring the haunts of beaſts, of birds, and of fiſhes, and collecting obſervations of their manners, their prey, their increaſe, and every cir⯑cumſtance of their oeconomy. Near this place is NA⯑TURE'S NURSERY, ſtocked with every ſpecies of plants, of which the ſeveral properties and virtues are diligently examined. Is it not ſtriking to find in the houſe of Aſtragon ſo exact a model of the ſchool of Linnaeus?

WE are next led to the CABINET OF DEATH; a receptacle for ſkeletons and anatomical curioſities of e⯑very kind: and from thence, by a pleaſing analogy, to the library, or, as it is termed, the MONUMENT OF BANISH'D MINDS. THE feelings of his gueſts on entering this room are thus deſcribed;

THE poet then goes through a particular ſurvey of the authors, diſtinguiſhed into their ſeveral periods, countries, and profeſſions; in which he exhibits a great extent of learning, and, much more to his honour, a ſound and liberal judgment of what is truly valuable in learning. Of this, his account of the polemic divines will be thought no unfavourable ſpecimen.

IF the ſubjects of this canto appear more noble and elevated than thoſe which uſually employ the epiſodes of heroic poetry, that of the enſuing one muſt ſtrike with ſtill ſuperior dignity. Having acquainted us with the philoſophy of his admired ſage, the poet now, by a beau⯑tiful kind of allegory, inſtructs us in his religion. A⯑ſtragon had dedicated three temples, to PRAYER, to PENITENCE, and to PRAISE. The temple of Prayer is deſcribed as a building quite plain, open, and with⯑out [88] bells; ſince nothing ſhould tempt or ſummon to an office to which our own wants invite us. The duty of Penitence being a ſeverity unpleaſing to nature, its temple is contrived, by its ſolemn and uncommon appearance, to catch the ſenſe. It is a vaſt building of black mar⯑ble, hung with black, and furniſhed with that ‘"dim religious light"’ which poets have ſo finely employed to excite kindred ideas of gloom and melancholy: but none, I think, have painted it with ſuch ſtrength of co⯑louring as our author:

A tolling bell calls to the temple; and every other circumſtance belonging to it is imagined with great pro⯑priety and beauty.

BUT the poet's greateſt exertions are reſerved for his favourite temple of Praiſe. A general ſhout of joy is the ſummons to it. The building in its materials and archi⯑tecture is gay and ſplendid beyond the moſt ſumptuous palace. The front is adorned with figures of all kinds of muſical inſtruments; all, as he moſt beautifully ex⯑preſſes it,

The ſtatues without, the pictures within, the decorations, and the choir of worſhippers, are all ſuited with nice judgment, and deſcribed with genuine poetry. This diſtinguiſhed canto concludes with theſe noble ſtanzas, the ſum and moral, as it were, of the whole.

The laſt thought will be termed, in this cold age, a conceit; and ſo may every thing that diſtinguiſhes wit and poetry from plain ſenſe and proſe.

THE wonders of the houſe of Aſtragon are not yet ex⯑hauſted.

THIS maid, her father's humble diſciple and aſſiſt⯑ant, educated in the boſom of rural ſimplicity, is render⯑ed a more charming object than even the renowned Rho⯑dalind upon her throne.

[90] BUT I check my deſire of copying more from this exquiſitely pleaſing picture. My intention is to excite curioſity, not to gratify it. I hope I have already done enough for that purpoſe; and ſince the reſt of this un⯑finiſhed ſtory may be comprized in a ſhort compaſs, I ſhall proceed, with but few interruptions, to con⯑clude a paper already ſwelled to an unexpected bulk.

THAT the unpractiſed Birtha ſhould entertain an unreſiſted paſſion for the nobleſt of his ſex; and that Gondibert, whoſe want of ambition alone had ſecured him from the charms of Rhodalind, ſhould bow to thoſe of his lovely hoſteſs and handmaid, will be thought a very natural turn in the ſtory; upon which, how⯑ever, the reader may foreſee the moſt intereſting e⯑vents depending. The progreſs of their love, though ſcarcely known to themſelves, is ſoon diſcovered by the ſage Aſtragon. This is expreſſed by the poet with a very fine turn of a common thought.

THE remainder of this poem, conſiſting of a third book written during the author's impriſonment, is com⯑poſed of ſeveral detached ſcenes, in which the main plot lies ripening for future action. Rivals are raiſed in Birtha. Flattering advances from the court, and more open declarations of love from Rhodalind, are in vain employed to aſſail the conſtancy of Gondibert. Various conflicts of paſſion ariſe, and intereſting ſituations, well imagined and painted in lively colours. Much is given, as in the former parts, to the introduction of elevated ſen⯑timent; with one example of which I ſhall finiſh my quo⯑tations. [91] Several well-born youths are placed about the perſon of Gondibert as his pages, whoſe education con⯑ſiſts of the following great leſſons from their lord.

THE plot is at length involved in ſo many intricate and apparently unſurmountable difficulties, that it is ſcarce poſſible to conceive a ſatisfactory termination. Perhaps the poet was ſenſible of a want of power to extricate himſelf, and choſe thus to ſubmit to a volun⯑tary bankruptcy of invention, rather than hazard his [92] reputation by going further. In his poſtſcript, indeed, he excuſes himſelf on account of ſickneſs and approach⯑ing diſſolution. However diſappointed we may be by his abrupt departure from ſcenes which he has filled with confuſion, we ought not to forget the pleaſures al⯑ready received from them. ‘"If (ſays he to his reader, with more than the ſpirit of a dying man) thou art one of thoſe who has been warmed with poetic fire, I reve⯑rence thee as my judge."’ From ſuch a judicature, this NOBLE FRAGMENT would, I doubt not, acquire for him what the critic laments his having loſt, ‘"the poſ⯑ſeſſion of that true and permanent glory of which his large ſoul appears to have been full."’ ^*

AN ENQUIRY INTO THOSE KINDS OF DISTRESS WHICH EXCITE AGREEABLE SENSATIONS.

IT is undoubtedly true, though a phaenomenon of the human mind difficult to account for, that the repreſen⯑tation of diſtreſs frequently gives pleaſure; from which general obſervation many of our modern writers of tra⯑gedy and romance ſeem to have drawn this inference, that in order to pleaſe they have nothing more to do than to paint diſtreſs in natural and ſtriking colours. With this view, they heap together all the afflicting e⯑vents and diſmal accidents their imagination can fur⯑niſh; and when they have half broke the reader's heart, they expect he ſhould thank them for his agree⯑able entertainment. An author of this claſs ſits down, pretty much like an inquiſitor, to compute how much ſuffering he can inflict upon the hero of his tale before he makes an end of him: with this difference, indeed, that the inquiſitor only tortures thoſe who are at leaſt reputed criminals; whereas the writer generally chooſes the moſt excellent character in his piece for the ſubject of his perſecution. The great criterion of excellence [94] is placed in being able to draw tears plentifully; and concluding we ſhall weep the more, the more the picture is loaded with doleful events, they go on tell⯑ing

A MONARCH once propoſed a reward for the diſco⯑very of a new pleaſure; but if any one could find out a new torture, or non-deſcript calamity, he would be more entitled to the applauſe of thoſe who fabricate books of entertainment.

BUT the ſprings of pity require to be touched with a more delicate hand; and it is far from being true that we are agreeably affected by every thing that ex⯑cites our ſympathy. It ſhall therefore be the buſineſs of this Eſſay to diſtinguiſh thoſe kinds of diſtreſs which are pleaſing in the repreſentation, from thoſe which are really painful and diſguſting.

THE view or relation of mere miſery can never be pleaſing. We have, indeed, a ſtrong ſympathy with all kinds of miſery; but it is a feeling of pure unmix⯑ed pain, ſimilar in kind, though not equal in degree to what we feel for ourſelves on the like occaſions; and never produces that melting ſorrow, that thrill of ten⯑derneſs, to which we give the name of pity. They are two diſtinct ſenſations, marked by very different exter⯑nal expreſſion. One cauſes the nerves to ſingle, the fleſh to ſhudder, and the whole countenance to be thrown into ſtrong contractions; the other relaxes the frame, opens the features, and produces tears. When we cruſh a noxious or loathſome animal, we may ſym⯑pathize ſtrongly with the pain it ſuffers, but with far [95] different emotions from the tender ſentiment we feel for the dog of Ulyſſes, who crawled to meet his long loſt maſter, looked up, and died at his feet. Extreme bo⯑dily pain is perhaps the moſt intenſe ſuffering we are capable of, and if the fellow-feeling with miſery alone was grateful to the mind, the exhibition of a man in a fit of the tooth-ach, or under a chirurgical operation, would have a fine effect in a tragedy. But there muſt be ſome other ſentiment combined with this kind of in⯑ſtinctive ſympathy, before it becomes in any degree plea⯑ſing, or produces the ſweet emotion of pity. This ſentiment is love, eſteem, the complacency we take in the contemplation of beauty, of mental or moral excel⯑lence, called forth and rendered more intereſting, by circumſtances of pain and danger. Tenderneſs is, much more properly than ſorrow, the ſpring of tears; for it affects us in that manner whether combined with joy or grief; perhaps more in the former caſe than the lat⯑ter. And I believe we may venture to aſſert that no diſtreſs which produces tears is wholly without a mix⯑ture of pleaſure. When Joſeph's brethren were ſent to buy corn, if they had periſhed in the deſart by wild beaſts, or been reduced (as in the horrid adventures of a Pierre de Vaud) to eat one another, we might have ſhudder⯑ed, but we ſhould not have wept for them. The guſh of tears is when Joſeph made himſelf known to his bre⯑thren, and fell on their neck, and kiſſed them. When Hubert prepares to burn out prince Arthur's eyes, the ſhocking circumſtance, of itſelf, would only affect us with horror; it is the amiable ſimplicity of the young prince, and his innocent affection to his intended mur⯑derer that draws our tears, and excites that tender ſor⯑row which we love to feel, and which refines the heart while we do feel it.

[96] WE ſee, therefore, from this view of our internal feelings, that no ſcenes of miſery ought to be exhibit⯑ed which are not connected with the diſplay of ſome moral excellence or agreeable quality. If fortitude, power, and ſtrength of mind are called forth, they pro⯑duce the ſublime feelings of wonder and admiration: if the ſofter qualities of gentleneſs, grace, and beauty, they inſpire love and pity. The management of theſe latter emotions is our preſent object.

AND let it be remembered, in the firſt place, that the misfortunes which excite pity muſt not be too hor⯑rid and overwhelming. The mind is rather ſtunned than ſoftened by great calamities. They are little cir⯑cumſtances that work moſt ſenſibly upon the tender feelings. For this reaſon, a well written novel gene⯑rally draws more tears than a tragedy. The diſtreſſes of tragedy are more calculated to amaze and terrify, than to move compaſſion. Battles, torture and death are in every page. The dignity of the characters, the importance of the events, the pomp of verſe and ima⯑gery intereſt the grander paſſions, and raiſe the mind to an enthuſiaſm little favourable to the weak and lan⯑guid notes of pity. The tragedies of Young are in a fine ſtrain of poetry, and the ſituations are worked up with great energy, but the pictures are in too deep a ſhade: all his pieces are full of violent and gloomy paſſions, and ſo over-wrought with horror, that inſtead of awakening any pleaſing ſenſibility, they leave on the mind an impreſſion of ſadneſs mixed with terror. Shake⯑ſpear is ſometimes guilty of preſenting ſcenes too ſhock⯑ing. Such is the trampling out of Gloſter's eyes; and ſuch is the whole play of Titus Andronicus. But Lee, beyond all others, abounds with this kind of images. He delighted in painting the moſt daring crimes, and [97] cruel maſſacres; and though he has ſhewn himſelf ex⯑tremely capable of raiſing tenderneſs, he continually checks its courſe by ſhocking and diſagreeable expreſſi⯑ons. His pieces are in the ſame taſte with the pictures of Spagnolet, and there are many ſcenes in his trage⯑dies which no one can reliſh who would not look with pleaſure on the flaying of St. Bartholomew. The fol⯑lowing ſpeech of Marguerité, in the maffacre of Paris, was, I ſuppoſe, intended to expreſs the utmoſt tender⯑neſs of affection.

IMAGLS like theſe will never excite the ſofter paſſi⯑ons. We are leſs moved at the deſcription of an Indian tortured with all the dreadful ingenuity of that ſavage people, than with the fatal miſtake of the lover in the Spectator, who pierced an artery in the arm of his miſ⯑treſs as he was letting her blood. Tragedy and ro⯑mance-writers are likewiſe apt to make too free with the more violent expreſſions of paſſion and diſtreſs, by which means they loſe their effect. Thus an ordinary author does not know how to expreſs any ſtrong emotion otherwiſe than by ſwoonings or death; ſo that a perſon experienced in this kind of reading, when a girl faints away at parting with her lover, or a hero kills him⯑ſelf for the loſs of his miſtreſs, conſiders it as the eſta⯑bliſhed etiquette upon ſuch occaſions, and turns over the pages with the utmoſt coolneſs and unconcern; whereas real ſenſibility and a more intimate knowledge of human [98] nature would have ſuggeſted a thouſand little touches of grief, which though ſlight are irreſiſtible. We are to gloomy a people. Some of the French novels are re⯑markable for little affecting incidents, imagined with delicacy and told with grace. Perhaps they have a better turn than we for this kind of writing.

A JUDICIUS author will never attempt to raiſe pity by any thing mean or diſguſting. As we have already obſerved, there muſt be a degree of complacence mix⯑ed with our ſorrows to produce an agreeable ſympathy; nothing, therefore, muſt be admitted which deſtroys the grace and dignity of ſuffering; the imagination muſt have an amiable figure to dwell upon; there are cir⯑cumſtances ſo ludicrous or diſguſting, that no character can preſerve a proper decorum under them, or appear in an agreeable light. Who can read the following de⯑ſcription of Polypheme without finding his compaſſion entirely deſtroyed by averſion and loathing?

Or that of Scylla,

Deformity is always diſguſting, and the imagination cannot reconcile it with the idea of a favourite cha⯑racter; [99] therefore the poet and romance-writer are fully juſtified in giving a larger ſhare of beauty to their prin⯑cipal figures than is uſually met with in common life. A late genius indeed, in a whimſical mood, gave us a lady with her noſe cruſhed for the heroine of his ſto⯑ry; but the circumſtance ſpoils the picture; and though in the courſe of the ſtory it is kept a good deal out of ſight, whenever it does recur to the imagination we are hurt and diſguſted. It was an heroic inſtance of virtue in the nuns of a certain abbey, who cut off their noſes and lips to avoid violation; yet this would make a very bad ſubject for a poem or a play. Something akin to this is the repreſentation of any thing unnatu⯑ral; of which kind is the famous ſtory of the Roman charity, and for this reaſon I cannot but think it an un⯑pleaſing ſubject for either the pen or the pencil.

POVERTY, if truly repreſented, ſhocks our nicer feelings; therefore whenever it is made uſe of to a⯑waken our compaſſion, the rags and dirt, the ſqualid appearance and mean employments incident to that ſtate muſt be kept out of ſight, and the diſtreſs muſt ariſe from the idea of depreſſion, and the ſhock of falling from higher fortunes. We do not pity Beliſarius as a poor blind Beggar; and a painter would ſucceed very ill who ſhould ſink him to the meanneſs of that con⯑dition. He muſt let us ſtill diſcover the conqueror of the Vandals, the general of the imperial armies, or we ſhall be little intereſted. Let us look at the picture of the old woman in Otway;

Here is the extreme of wretchedneſs, and inſtead of melting into pity we turn away with averſion. Indeed the author only intended it to ſtrike horror. But how different are the ſentiments we feel for the lovely Bel⯑videra! We ſee none of thoſe circumſtances which ren⯑der poverty an unamiable thing. When the goods are ſeized by an execution, our attention is turned to the piles of maſſy plate, and all the antient moſt domeſtic orna⯑ments, which imply grandeur and conſequence; or to ſuch inſtances of their hard fortune as will lead us to pity them as lovers: we are ſtruck and affected with the general face of ruin, but we are not brought near enough to diſcern the uglineſs of its features. Belvi⯑dera ruined, Belvidera deprived of friends, without a home, abandoned to the wide world—we can contem⯑plate with all the pleaſing ſympathy of pity; but had ſhe been repreſented as really ſunk into low life, had we ſeen her employed in the moſt ſervile offices of po⯑verty, our compaſſion would have given way to con⯑tempt and diſguſt. Indeed, we may obſerve in real life that poverty is only pitied ſo long as people can keep themſelves from the effects of it. When in com⯑mon language we ſay a miſerable object, we mean an object of diſtreſs which, if we relieve, we turn away from at the ſame time. To make pity pleaſing, the object of it muſt not in any view be diſagreeable to the imagination. How admirably has the author of Clariſſa managed this point? Amidſt ſcenes of ſuffer⯑ing [101] which rend the heart, in poverty, in a priſon, un⯑der the moſt ſhocking outrages, the grace and delica⯑cy of her character never ſuffers even for a moment: there ſeems to be a charm about her which prevents her receiving a ſtain from any thing which happens; and Clariſſa, abandoned and undone, is the object not only of complacence but veneration.

I WOULD likewiſe obſerve, that if an author would have us feel a ſtrong degree of compaſſion, his cha⯑racters muſt not be too perfect. The ſtern fortitude and inflexible reſolution of a Cato may command e⯑ſteem, but does not excite tenderneſs; and faultleſs rectitude of conduct, though no rigour be mixed with it, is of too ſublime a nature to inſpire compaſſion. Vir⯑tue has a kind of ſelf-ſufficiency; it ſtands upon its own baſis, and cannot be injured by any violence. It muſt therefore be mixed with ſomething of helpleſſneſs and imperfection, with an exceſſive ſenſibility, or a ſimpli⯑city bordering upon weakneſs, before it raiſes, in any great degree, either tenderneſs or familiar love. If there be a fault in the maſterly performance juſt now mentioned, it is that the character of Clariſſa is ſo in⯑flexibly right, her paſſions are under ſuch perfect com⯑mand, and her prudence is ſo equal to every occaſion, that ſhe ſeems not to need that ſympathy we ſhould beſtow upon one of a leſs elevated character: and per⯑haps we ſhould feel a livelier emotion of tenderneſs for Lovelace's Roſe-bud, but that the ſtory of Clariſſa is ſo worked up by the ſtrength of colouring and the force of repeated impreſſions, as to command all our ſorrow.

[102] PITY ſeems too degrading a ſentiment to be offered at the ſhrine of faultleſs excellence. The ſufferings of martyrs are rather beheld with admiration and ſympa⯑thetic triumph than with tears; and we never feel much for thoſe whom we conſider as themſelves raiſed above common feelings.

THE laſt rule I ſhall inſiſt upon is, that ſcenes of diſtreſs ſhould not be too long continued. All our finer feelings are in a manner momentary, and no art can carry them beyond a certain point, either in intenſe⯑neſs or duration. Conſtant ſuffering deadens the heart to tender impreſſions; as we may obſerve in ſailors, and others who are grown callous by a life of continual hardſhips. It is therefore highly neceſſary in a long work to relieve the mind by ſcenes of pleaſure and gaiety: and I cannot think it ſo abſurd a practice as our modern delicacy has repreſented it, to intermix wit and fancy with the pathetic, provided care be taken not to check the paſſions while they are flowing. The tranſition from a pleaſurable ſtate of mind to tender ſorrow is not ſo difficult as we imagine. When the mind is opened by gay and agreeable ſcenes, every impreſſion is felt more ſenſibly. Perſons of a lively temper are much more ſuſceptible of that ſudden ſwell of ſenſibility which occaſions tears, than thoſe of a grave and ſaturnine caſt: for this reaſon women are more eaſily moved to weeping than men. Thoſe who have touched the ſprings of pity with the fineſt hand have mingled light ſtrokes of pleaſantry and mirth in their moſt pathetic paſſages. Very different is the conduct of many novel writers, who by plunging us into ſcenes of diſtreſs without end or limit, exhauſt the powers, and [103] before the concluſion either render us inſenſible to every thing, or fix a real ſadneſs upon the mind. The uni⯑form ſtile of tragedies is one reaſon why they affect ſo little. In our old plays all the force of language is reſerved for the more intereſting parts; and in the ſcenes of common life there is no attempt to riſe above com⯑mon language: whereas we, by that pompous manner and affected ſolemnity which we think it neceſſary to preſerve through the whole piece, loſe the force of an elevated or paſſionate expreſſion where the occaſion real⯑ly ſuggeſts it.

HAVING thus conſidered the manner in which ficti⯑tious diſtreſs muſt be managed to render it pleaſing, let us reflect a little upon the moral tendency of ſuch re⯑preſentations. Much has been ſaid in favour of them, and they are generally thought to improve the tender and humane feelings; but this, I own, appears to me very dubious. That they exerciſe ſenſibility is true, but ſenſibility does not increaſe with exerciſe. By the conſtitution of our frame our habits increaſe, our emo⯑tions decreaſe, by repeated acts; and thus a wiſe pro⯑viſion is made, that as our compaſſion grows weaker, its place ſhould be ſupplied by habitual benevolence. But in theſe writings our ſenſibility is ſtrongly called forth without any poſſibility of exerting itſelf in virtuous action, and thoſe emotions, which we ſhall never feel again with equal force, are waſted without advantage. Nothing is more dangerous than to let virtuous impreſ⯑ſions of any kind paſs through the mind without pro⯑ducing their proper effect. The awakenings of re⯑morſe, virtuous ſhame and indignation, the glow of moral approbation, if they do not lead to action, grow [104] leſs and leſs vivid every time they recur, till at length the mind grows abſolutely callous. The being affect⯑ed with a pathetic ſtory is undoubtedly a ſign of an a⯑miable diſpoſition, but perhaps no means of increaſing it. On the contrary, young people, by a courſe of this kind of reading, often acquire ſomething of that apa⯑thy and indifference which the experience of real life would have given them without its advantages.

ANOTHER reaſon why plays and romances do not improve our humanity is, that they lead us to require a certain elegance of manners and delicacy of virtue which is not often found with poverty, ignorance, and meanneſs. The objects of pity in romance are as dif⯑ferent from thoſe in real life as our huſbandmen from the ſhepherds of Arcadia; and a girl who will ſit weep⯑ing the whole night at the delicate diſtreſſes of a lady Charlotte or lady Julia, ſhall be little moved at the complaint of her neighbour, who, in a homely phraſe and vulgar accent, laments to her that ſhe is not able to get bread for her family. Romance-writers like⯑wiſe make great misfortunes ſo familiar to our ears, that we have hardly any pity to ſpare for the common accidents of life: but we ought to remember, that miſery has a claim to relief, however we may be diſ⯑guſted with its appearance; and that we muſt not fancy ourſelves charitable, when we are only pleaſing our ima⯑gination.

IT would perhaps be better, if our romances were more like thoſe of the old ſtamp, which tended to raiſe human nature, and inſpire a certain grace and dignity of man⯑ners of which we have hardly the idea. The high no⯑tions [105] of honour, the wild and fanciful ſpirit of adven⯑ture and romantic love, elevated the mind; our novels tend to depreſs and enfeeble it. Yet there is a ſpecies of this kind of writing which muſt ever afford an exqui⯑ſite pleaſure to perſons of taſte and ſenſibility; where noble ſentiments are mixed with well fancied inci⯑dents, pathetic touches with dignity and grace, and invention with chaſte correctneſs. Such will ever in⯑tereſt our ſweeteſt paſſions. I ſhall conclude this paper with the following tale.