THE OBSERVER: BEING A COLLECTION OF MORAL, LITERARY AND FAMILIAR ESSAYS.
—MULTORUM PROVIDUS URBES
ET MORES HOMINUM INSPEXIT.—
(HORAT).
VOL. IV.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR C. DILLY IN THE POULTRY. M.DCC.LXXXVIII.
CONTENTS OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.
NUMBER XCIV. A REVIEW of the present state of society in this country, as dependent upon laws, religion, manners and arts; the same compared with antecedent periods, and murmurers against the present times reprehended and confuted
Page
1
NUMBER XCV. Advantages of a great fortune well applied, and the contrary consequences resulting from it's abuse exemplified in the author's visit to Attalus: A poetic rhapsody in the manner of
The Task
upon the first view of Attalus's country mansion
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12
NUMBER XCVI. The visit to Attalus concluded; observations resulting from that visit
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24
NUMBER XCVII. The contemptible character of a proud man displayed; a contrast given of humility
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35
NUMBER. XCVIII. Advantages of a happy talent for discerning times and seasons; rules and observations on this subject; defaulters against these rules characterized in a variety of particulars
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46
NUMBER XCIX. Discovery of a curious Greek fragment, describing the paintings of Apelles, Parrhasius and Timanthes, taken from certain dramas of Aeschylus the tragic poet
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55
NUMBER C. Of the midddle comedy of the Greeks; anecdotes of Alexis; fragments of that dramatic poet collected
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62
NUMBER CI. The same collection continued and concluded. Anecdotes of Antiphanes
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72
NUMBER CII. Collection of fragments from the comedies of Antiphanes
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80
NUMBER CIII. Anecdotes of Anaxandrides: Of Aristophon, with fragments of that poet: Of Axionicus, Bathon, Chaeremon, Clearchus, Criton, Crobylus, Demoxenus, Demetrius, and Diodorus, with fragments of the latter: Of Dionysius and Ephippus
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87
NUMBER CIV. Fragment of the comic poet Epicrates: Of Eriphus and Eubulus, with fragments of the latter: Of Euphron, Heniochus, Mnesimachus, and fragments of each
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95
NUMBER. CV. Fragments of the poet Moschion: Of Nicostratus, Philippus, Phaenicides, Sotades and Straton, with various fragments of their respective comedies
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105
NUMBER CVI. Fragments of Theophilus, Timocles and Xenarchus: Conclusion of the catalogue of writers of the middle comedy: General observation upon these poets and the author's address to his readers upon this portion of his work
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113
NUMBER CVII. The notion of a certain humourist that death might be avoided at will; remarks consequent thereto, and serious reflections upon that necessary event recommended to mankind in general
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120
NUMBER CVIII. Short review of events in the reign of King Charles the First introductory of the great rebellion. Of the education of a prince, heir apparent to a throne; it's importance, difficulty and duties described
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127
NUMBER CIX. Ben Jonson's imitations of Philostratus compared with the original passages: his satirical glances at Shakespear instanced; his hags in the masque of the Queens compared with Shakespear's witches in Macbeth
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136
NUMBER CX. Review of Ben Jonson's comedy of the Fox
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147
NUMBER. CXI. Review of the Samson Agonistes of Milton; the criticisms of Dr. Samuel Johnson upon that drama examined and opposed
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157
NUMBER CXII. Letter from H. Posthumous complaining of a certain writer, who had published a collection of his memoirs and remarkable sayings with an account of his last will and testament; asserting the account to be false in all particulars. A letter also from H. B. to the author, offering to supply him with a collection of witty sayings for posthumous publication
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167
NUMBER CXIII. An argument for the evidences of the Christian religion: A variety of passages from the antient heathen writers adduced to shew how far natural religion had enlightened mankind before revelation took place
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176
NUMBER CXIV. Observations upon these several instances of right reason in the heathen world; modes of reasoning, by which natural religion might deduce the probability of a future state of rewards and punishments. Confusion of systems in the philosophy of the heathens. Of the peculiar nation of the Jews; their character, history, government and religion
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184
NUMBER CXV. Reasons offered
à priori
for the necessity of a Mediator: The appearance of Christ on earth accompanied with such evidences as put it out of doubt that he was the true Messias: Arguments of David Levi in a pamphlet lately published from the non-accordance of the evangelical genealogies examined. The gospel account of the birth of Christ vindicated
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193
NUMBER CXVI. Argument of David Levi for the superiority of the miracles wrought by Moses over those, which the evangelists record of Christ: His cavils against two particular miracles of Christ examined and opposed
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202
NUMBER CXVII. Further defence of the miracles objected to by David Levi; his charge of contradiction against the evangelical historians answered; and his further attempts for sinking the character of Christ below that of Moses fairly considered; the whole argument recapitulated, summed up and concluded
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213
NUMBER CXVIII. The story of Ned Drowsy
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222
NUMBER CXIX. The same continued
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234
NUMBER CXX. The same continued
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246
NUMBER CXXI. The same continued
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259
NUMBER CXXII. The same continued, in which Abraham Abrahams gives his own history
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269
NUMBER CXXIII. Remarks upon the present taste for acting private plays. A short poem annexed, founded upon reflections resulting from that subject
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280
NUMBER CXXIV. Observations upon the passions, addressed to the ladies
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296
NUMBER CXXV. The author's explanation of his motives, in an address to his readers upon the conclusion of the volume
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306
THE OBSERVER.
No XCIV.
A GOOD man will live with the world as a wise man lives with his wife; he will not let himself down to be a dupe to it's humours, a devotee to it's pleasures, or a flatterer of it's faults; he will make himself as happy as he can in the connection for his own sake, reform where he is able, and complain only when he cannot help it. I am sick of that conversation which spends itself in railing at the times we live in; I am apt to think they are not made better by those complaints, and I have oftentimes occasion to know they are made worse by those very people who are loudest to complain of them. If this be really one of the habits of age, it is high time for every man, who grows old, to guard against it; for there is no occasion to invite more peevish companions for the last hours of life, than time and decrepitude will bring in their train: Let us look back upon things past with what content we can, salute time present with the best grace we are able, and resign ourselves to futurity with calmness and a patient mind: If we do not wish to be banished from society before death withdraws us from it, don't let us trust to the world's respect only, let us strive also to conciliate it's love.
But I do not wish to argue this point with the sect of
the Murmurers
merely upon the ground of good policy; I should be sorry for the world, if I could give no better reason for keeping well with it than in self-defence: I really think it a world very easy to live with upon passable good terms; I am free to confess it has mended me since I have lived with it, and I am fully of opinion it has mended itself: I don't deny but it has it's failings; it still cuts out work for the moralists, and I am in no fear of finding subject matter for three more volumes of essays, before I have exhausted the duty of an
Observer.
However, though I have presumed upon taking up this character late in life, yet I feel no provocation from what I
observe
in others, or in myself, to turn
Murmurer
; I can call the time past under my review, as far back as my experience will go, and comfort myself by the comparison of it with the time present; I can turn to the authors, who have delineated the manners of ages antecedent to my own, without being ashamed of my contemporaries, or entertaining a superior respect for their's. I cannot look back to any period of our own annals, of which I can conscientiously pronounce, according to such judgment as I am possessed of, that the happiness of society was better secured, and more completely provided for than at the present moment.
This may appear so hardy an assertion, that if the
Murmurers
take the field against me, I suspect that I shall find myself, as I frequently have done, in a very decided minority; for let the reader take notice, I know the world too well to think of getting popularity by defending it; if ever I make that my object, I must run counter to my own principles, and abuse many, that all may read me: In the mean time I shall make a shew of some of my defences, if it be only to convince the
Murmurers,
that I shall not capitulate upon the first summons; and I will keep some strong posts masked from their view, that if they repeat their assault, I may still have resources in my reach.
Society is cemented by laws, upheld by religion, endeared by manners, and adorned by arts.
Let us now enquire what is the present state of these great fundamentals of social happiness, and whether any better period can be pointed out, compared to which their present state may be justly pronounced a state of declension.
The constitution of England has undergone many changes: The monarch, the nobles and the people, have each in their turn for a time destroyed that proper balance, in which it's excellence consists. In feudal times the aristocratic power preponderated, and the kingdom was torn to pieces with civil distractions. From the accession of Henry the Seventh to the breaking out of the great rebellion the power of the sovereign was all but absolute; the rapacity of that monarch, the brutality of his successor, the persecuting spirit of Mary, and the imperious prerogative of Elizabeth left scarce a shadow of freedom in the people; and, in spite of all the boasted glories of Elizabeth's golden days, I must doubt if any nation can be happy, whose lives and properties were no better secured than those of her subjects actually were: In all this period the most tranquil moments are to be found in the peaceful reign of James the First; yet even then the king's
jus divinum
was at it's height, and totally overturned the scale and equipoise of the constitution. What followed in Charles's day I need not dwell upon; a revolution ensued; monarchy was shaken to it's foundations, and in the general fermentation and concussion of affairs the very dregs of the people were thrown up into power, and all was anarchy, slaughter and oppression. From the Restoration to the Revolution we contemplate a period full of trouble, and, for the most part, stained with the deepest disgrace; a pensioned monarch, an abandoned court, and a licentious people: The abdication, or, more properly, the expulsion of a royal bigot, set the constitution upon it's bottom, but it left the minds of men in a ferment that could not speedily subside; antient loyalty and high monarchical principles were not to be silenced at once by the peremptory fiat of an act of parliament; men still harboured them in their hearts, and popery, three times expelled, was still upon the watch, and secretly whetting her weapons for a fourth attempt. Was this a period of social happiness?—The succession of the house of Hanover still left a pretender to the throne; and though the character of the new sovereign had every requisite of temper and judgment for conciliating his government, yet the old leaven was not exhausted, fresh revolutions were attempted and the nation felt a painful repetition of it's former sorrows.
So far therefore as the happiness of society depends upon the secure establishment of the constitution, the just administration of the laws, the strict and correct ascertainment of the subjects rights, and those sacred and inviolable privileges as to person and property, which every man amongst us can now define, and no man living dares to dispute, so far we must acknowledge that the times we live in are happier times, than ever fell to the lot of our ancestors, and if we complain of them, it must be on account of something, which has not yet come under our review; we will therefore proceed to the next point, and take the present state of religion into our consideration.
Religious feuds are so terrible in their consequences, and the peace of this kingdom has been so often destroyed by the furiousness of zealots and enthusiasts, struggling for church-establishment, and persecuting in their turns the fallen party without mercy, that the tranquillity we now enjoy, (greater as I believe than in any time past, but certainly as great) is of itself sufficient to put the modern
murmurer
to silence. To substantiate my assertion, let me refer to the rising spirit of toleration; wherever that blessed spirit prevails, it prevails for the honour of man's nature, for the enlargement of his heart, and for the augmentation of his social happiness. Whilst we were contending for our own rights, self-defence compelled us to keep off the encroachments of others, that were hostile to those rights; but these being firmly established, we are no longer warranted to hang the sword of the law over the head of religion, and oppress our seceding fellow-subjects. Is there any just reason to complain of our established clergy in their collective character? If they do not stun us with controversies, it is because they understand the spirit of their religion better than to engage in them: The publications of the pulpit are still numerous, and if they have dropt their high inflammatory tone, it is to the honour of Christianity that they have so done, and taken up a milder, meeker language in it's stead. As for the practice of religion, it is not in my present argument to speak of that; my business is only to appeal to it as an establishment, essential to the support and happiness of society; and when we reflect how often in times past it has been made an engine for subverting that tranquillity and good order in the state, which it now peaceably upholds, I think it will be clear to every candid man that this cannot be one of the causes of complaint and murmur against the present times.
The
Manners
of the age we live in is the next point I am to review; and if I am to bring this into any decent compass, I must reject many things out of the account, that would make for my argument, and speak very briefly upon all others.
To compare the manners of one age with those of another we must begin by calling to remembrance the changes that may have been made in our own time, (if we have lived long enough to be witnesses of any) or we must take them upon tradition, or guess at them by the writings of those who describe them: The comic poets are in general good describers of the living manners, and of all dramatic painters in this class Ben Jonson is decidedly the best. In the mirror of the stage we have the reflection of the times through all their changes from the reign of Elizabeth to that of Anne, with an exception to the days of Oliver; of which interval if there was no other delineation of the reigning manners, than what we find in the annals of Whitelocke and Clarendon, we should be at no loss to form our judgment of them. I stopt at the age of queen Anne, because it was then that Sir Richard Steele and Mr. Addison began to spread their pallets, and when they had compleated
The Spectator,
nobody will dispute their having given a very finished pourtrait of the age they lived in. Where they stop tradition may begin; so that I think an observing man, with all these aids and no short experience of his own to help them out, may form a pretty close comparison in his own thoughts upon the subject.
Here I must remind the reader that I am speaking of manners as they respect society. Now we can readily refer to certain times past, when the manners of men in this country were insufferably boisterous and unpolished; we can point to the period, when they were as notoriously reserved, gloomy, dark and fanatical; we know when profligacy threw off all appearances, and libertinism went naked as it were into all societies; we can tell when pedantry was in general fashion, when duelling was the rage, and the point of honour was to be defined by a chain of logic that would have puzzled Aristotle; we can turn to the time, when it was reputable to get drunk, and when the fine gentleman of the comedy entertains his mistress with his feats over the bottle, and recommends himself to her good graces by swearing, blustering, and beating up the watch: We know there are such words in the language as fop and beau, and some can remember them in daily use; many are yet living, who have had their full-bottomed wigs brought home in a chair, and many an old lady now crowds herself into a corner, who once hooped herself in a circle hardly less than Arthur's round table: Here I may be told that dress is not manners; but I must contend that the manners of a man in a full-bottomed wig must partake something of the stiffness of the barber's buckle; nor do I see how he can walk on foot at his ease, when his wig goes in a chair. How many of us can call to mind the day, when it was a mark of good-breeding to cram a poor furfeited guest to the throat, and the most social hours of life were thrown away in a continual interchange of solicitations and apologies? What a stroke upon the nerves of a modest man was it then to make his first approaches, and perform his awkward reverences to a solemn circle all rising on their legs at the awful moment of his entry! and what was his condition at departing, when, after having performed the same tremendous ceremonies, he saw his retreat cut off by a double row of guards in livery, to every one of whom he was to pay a toll for free passage! A man will now find his superiors more accessible, his equals more at their ease, and his inferiors more mannerly than in any time past. The effects of public education, travel and a general intercourse with mankind, the great influx of foreigners, the variety of public amusements, where all ranks and degrees meet promiscuously, the constant resort to bathing and water-drinking places in the summer, and above all the company of the fair sex, who mix so much more in society than heretofore, have with many other conspiring causes altogether produced such an ease and suavity of manners throughout the nation, as have totally changed the face of society, and levelled all those bars and barriers, which made the approaches to what was called good company so troublesome, and obstructed the intercourse between man and man. Here then I shall conclude upon this topic, and pass to the Arts, which I said were the ornaments of society.
As I am persuaded my argument will not be contested in this quarter, I need spend few words upon so clear a point. If ever this country saw an age of artists, it is the present; Italy, Spain, Flanders and France have had their turn, but they are now in no capacity to dispute the palm, and England stands without a rival; her painters, sculptors and engravers are now the only schools, properly so called, in Europe; Rome will bear witness that the English artists are as superior in talents as they are in numbers to those of all nations besides. I reserve the mention of her architects as a separate class, that I may for once break in upon my general rule by indulging myself in a prediction, (upon which I am willing to stake all my credit with the reader) that when the modest genius of a
Harrison
shall be brought into fuller display, England will have to boast of a native architect, which the brightest age of Greece would glory to acknowledge.
No XCV.
(MENANDER.
Circulatore.
)
Abundance is a blessing to the wise;
The use of riches in discretion lies:
Learn this, ye men of wealth—a heavy purse
In a fool's pocket is a heavy curse.
THERE are so many striking advantages in the possession of wealth, that the inheritance of a great estate, devolving upon a man in the vigour of mind and body, appears to the eye of speculation as a lot of singular felicity.
There are some countries, where no subject can properly be said to be independant; but in a constitution so happily tempered as our's, that blessing seems peculiarly annexed to affluence. The English landed gentleman, who can set his foot upon his own soil, and say to all the world—
This is my freehold; the law defends my right: Touch it who dare!
—is surely as independant as any man within the rules of society can be, so long as he encumbers himself by no exceedings of expence beyond the compass of his income: If a great estate therefore gives a man independance, it gives him that, which all, who do not possess it, seem to sigh for.
When I consider the numberless indulgencies, which are the concomitants of a great fortune, and the facility it affords to the gratification of every generous passion, I am mortified to find how few, who are possessed of these advantages, avail themselves of their situation to any worthy purposes: That happy temper, which can preserve a medium between dissipation and avarice, is not often to be found, and where I meet one man, who can laudably acquit himself under the test of prosperity, I could instance numbers, who deport themselves with honour under the visitations of adversity. Man must be in a certain degree the artificer of his own happiness; the tools and materials may be put into his hands by the bounty of Providence, but the workmanship must be his own.
I lately took a journey into a distant county, upon a visit to a gentleman of fortune, whom I shall call
Attalus.
I had never seen him since his accession to a very considerable estate; and as I have met with few acquaintance in life of more pleasant qualities, or a more social temper than Attalus, before this great property unexpectedly devolved upon him, I flattered myself that fortune had in this instance bestowed her favours upon one who deserved them; and that I should find in Attalus's society the pleasing gratification of seeing all those maxims, which I had hitherto revolved in my mind as matter of speculation only, now brought forth into actual practice; for amongst all my observations upon human affairs, few have given me greater and more frequent disappointment, than the almost general abuse of riches. Those rules of liberal oeconomy, which would make wealth a blessing to it's owner and to all he were connected with, seem so obvious to me, who have no other interest in the subject than what meditation affords, that I am apt to wonder how men can make such false estimates of the true enjoyments of life, and wander out of the way of happiness, to which the heart and understanding seem to point the road too plainly to admit of a mistake.
With these sanguine expectations I pursued my journey towards the magnificent seat of Attalus, and in my approach it was with pleasure I remarked the beauty of the country about it; I recollected how much he used to be devoted to rural exercises, and I found him situated in the very spot most favorable to his beloved amusements; the soil was clean, the hills easy, and the downs were chequered with thick copses, that seemed the finest nurseries in nature for a sportsman's game: When I entered upon his ornamented demesne, nothing could be more enchanting than the scenery; the ground was finely shaped into hill and vale; the horizon every where bold and romantic, and the hand of art had evidently improved the workmanship of nature with consummate taste; upon the broken declivity stately groves of beech were happily disposed; the lawn was of the finest verdure gently sloping from the house; a rapid river of the purest transparency ran through it and fell over a rocky channel into a noble lake within view of the mansion; behind this upon the northern and eastern flanks I could discern the tops of very stately trees, that sheltered a spacious enclosure of pleasure-ground and gardens, with all the delicious accompaniments of hothouses and conservatories.
It was a scene to seize the imagination with rapture; a poet's language would have run spontaneously into metre at the sight of it;
"What a subject,"
said I within myself,
"is here present for those ingenious bards, who have the happy talent of describing nature in her fairest forms! Oh! that I could plant the delightful author of
The Task
in this very spot! Perhaps, whilst his eye—
in a fine phrensy rolling
—glanced over this enchanting prospect, he might burst forth into the following, or something like the following, rhapsody—"
Blest above men, if he perceives and feels
The blessings he is heir to, He! to whom
His provident forefathers have bequeath'd
In this fair district of their native isle
A free inheritance, compact and clear.
How sweet the vivifying dawn to him,
Who with a fond paternal eye can trace
Beloved scenes, where rivers, groves and lawns
Rise at the touch of his Orphéan hand,
And Nature, like a docile child, repays
Her kind disposer's care! Master and friend
Of all that blooms or breathes within the verge
Of this wide-stretcht horizon, he surveys
His upland pastures white with fleecy flocks,
Rich meadows dappled o'er with grazing herds
And vallies waving thick with golden grain.
Where can the world display a fairer scene?
And what has Nature for the sons of men
Better provided than this happy isle?
Mark! how she's girded by her watery zone,
Whilst all the neighb'ring continent is trench'd
And furrow'd with the ghastly seams of war:
Barriers and forts and arm'd battalions stand
On the fierce confines of each rival state,
Jealous to guard, or eager to invade;
Between their hostile camps a field of blood,
Behind them desolation void and drear,
Where at the summons of the surly drum
The rising and the setting sun reflects
Nought but the gleam of arms, now here, now there
Flashing amain, as the bright phalanx moves:
Wasteful and wide the blank in Nature's map,
And far far distant where the scene begins
Of human habitation, thinly group'd
Over the meager earth; for there no youth,
No sturdy peasant, who with limbs and strength
Might fill the gaps of battle, dares approach;
Old age instead, with weak and trembling hand
Feebly solicits the indignant soil
For a precarious meal, poor at the best.
Oh, Albion! oh, blest isle, on whose white cliffs
Peace builds her halcyon nest, thou, who embrac'd
By the uxorious ocean sit'st secure,
Smiling and gay and crown'd with every wreath,
That Art can fashion or rich Commerce waft
To deck thee like a bride, compare these scenes
With pity not with scorn, and let thy heart,
Not wanton with prosperity, but warm
With grateful adoration, send up praise
To the great Giver—thence thy blessings come.
The soft luxurious nations will complain
Of thy rude wintry clime, and chide the winds
That ruffle their fine forms; trembling they view
The boisterous barrier that defends thy coast,
Nor dare to pass it till their pilot bird,
The winter-sleeping swallow, points the way;
But envy not their suns, and sigh not thou
For the clear azure of their cloudless skies;
The same strong blast, that beds the knotted oak
Firm in his clay-bound cradle, nerves the arm
Of the stout hind, who fells him to the ground.
These are the manly offspring of our isle;
Their's are the pure delights of rural life,
Freedom their birth-right and their dwelling peace;
The vine, that mantles o'er their cottage roof,
Gives them a shade no tyrant dares to spoil.
Mark! how the sturdy peasant breasts the storm,
The white snow sleeting o'er his brawny chest;
He heeds it not, but carols as he goes
Some jocund measure or love-ditty, soon
In sprightlier key and happier accent sung
To the kind wench at home, whose ruddy cheeks
Shall thaw the icy winter on his lips,
And melt his frozen features into joy.
But who, that ever heard the hunter's shout,
When the shrill fox-hound doubles on the scent,
Which of you, sons and fathers of the chace,
Which of your hardy, bold, adventurous band
Will pine and murmur for Italian skies?
Hark! from the covert-side your game is view'd!
Music, which none but British dryads hear,
Shouts, which no foreign echoes can repeat,
Ring thro' the hollow wood and sweep the vale.
Now, now, ye joyous sportsmen, ye, whose hearts
Are unison'd to the ecstatic cry
Of the full pack, now give your steeds the rein!
Your's is the day—mine was, and is no more;
Yet ever as I hear you in the wind,
Tho' chill'd and hovering o'er my winter hearth,
Forth, like some Greenwich veteran, if chance
The conqu'ring name of
Rodney
meets his ear,
Forth I must come to share the glad'ning sound,
To shew my scars and boast of former feats.
They say our clime's inconstant, changeful—True!
It gives the lie to all astrology,
Makes the diviner mad and almost mocks
Philosophy itself; Cameleon-like
Our sky puts on all colours, blushing now,
Now louring like a froward pettish child;
This hour a zephyr, and the next a storm,
Angry and pleas'd by fits—Yet take our clime,
Take it for all in all and day by day,
Thro' all the varying seasons of the year,
For the mind's vigour and the body's strength,
Where is it's rival?—Beauty is it's own:
Not the voluptuous region of the Nile,
Not aromatic India's spicy breath,
Nor evening breeze from Tagus, Rhone or Loire
Can tinge the maiden cheek with bloom so fresh.
Here too, if exercise and temperance call,
Health shall obey their summons; every fount,
Each rilling stream conveys it to our lips;
In every zephyr we inhale her breath;
The shepherd tracks her in the morning dew,
As o'er the grassy down or to the heath
Steaming with fragrance he conducts his flock.
But oh! defend me from the baneful east,
Screen me, ye groves! ye interposing hills,
Rise up and cover me! Agues and rheums,
All Holland's marshes strike me in the gale;
Like Egypt's blight his breath is all alive;
His very dew is poison, honey-sweet,
Teeming with putrefaction; in his fog
The locust and the caterpillar swarm,
And vegetable nature falls before them:
Open, all quarters else, and blow upon me,
But bar that gate, O regent of the winds!
It gives the food that melancholy doats on,
The quick'ner that provokes the slanderer's spleen,
Makes green the eye of Jealousy and feeds
The swelling gorge of Envy till it bursts:
'Tis now the poet's unpropitious hour;
The student trims his midnight lamp in vain,
And beauty fades upon the painter's eye;
Hang up thy pallet,
Romney!
and convene
The gay companions of thy social board;
Apelles' self would throw his pencil by,
And swear the skies conspir'd against his art.
But what must Europe's softer climes endure,
Thy coast, Calabria! or the neighbouring isle,
Of antient Ceres once the fruitful seat?
Where is the bloom of Enna's flowery field,
Mellifluous Hybla, and the golden vale
Of rich Panormus, when the fell
Siroc,
Hot from the furnace of the Libyan sands,
Breathes all it's plagues upon them? Hapless isle!
Why must I call to mind thy past renown?
Is it this desolating blast alone,
That strips thy verdure? Is it in the gulph
Of yawning earthquakes that thy glory sinks?
Or hath the flood that thund'ring Aetna pours
From her convuls'd and flaming entrails whelm'd
In one wide ruin every noble spark
Of pristine virtue, genius, wisdom, wit?
Ah no! the elements are not in fault;
Nature is still the same: 'Tis not the blast
From Afric's burning sands, it is the breath
Of Spain's despotic master lays thee low;
'Tis not alone the quaking earth that reels
Under thy tottering cities, 'tis the fall
Of freedom, 'tis the pit which slavery digs,
That buries every virtue; 'tis the flood
Of superstition, the insatiate fires
Of persecuting zealots that devour thee;
These are the Titans who disturb thy peace,
This is thy grave, O Sicily! the hell
Deeper than that, which heathen poets feign'd
Under thy burning mountain, that engulphs
Each grace and every muse, arts, arms and all
That elegance inspires or fame records.
Return, ye victims of caprice and spleen,
Ye summer friends, daughters more fitly call'd
Than sons of Albion, to your native shores
Return, self-exiles as you are, and face
This only tyrant which our isle endures,
This hoary-headed terror of the year,
Stern winter—What, tho' in his icy chains
Imprison'd for a time e'en father Thames
Checks his imperial current, and beholds
His wealthy navigation in arrest,
Yet soon, like Perseus on his winged steed,
Forth from the horns of the celestial Ram
Spring, his deliverer, comes—down, down at once
The frighted monster dives into the earth,
Or bursts asunder with a hideous crash,
As thro' his stubborn ribs th' all-conqu'ring sun
Drives his refulgent spear: The ransom'd floods,
As at a signal, rise and clap their hands;
The mountains shout for joy; the laughing hours
Dance o'er the eastern hills and in the lap
Of marriageable earth their odours fling,
Wreaths of each vernal flowret, whilst the choir
Of feather'd songsters make the groves resound
With Nature's hy
enaeals—all is joy.
Hail, bounteous Spring! primaeval season, hail!
Nature's glad herald! who to all the tribes
That link creation's scale, from lordly man
To the small insect, that eludes his sight,
Proclaims that universal law of life,
The first great blessing of the new-born world,
Increase and multiply!
—No sooner heard
By sultry climes, than strait the rebel sun
Mounts his bright throne, and o'er the withering earth
Scatters his bold Titanian fires around,
And cancels Heaven's high edict; Nature feels
Quick growth and quick decay; the verdant scene
Glitters awhile and vanishes at once.
Not such the tints that Albion's landscape wears,
Her mantle dipt in never-fading green,
Keeps fresh its vernal honours thro' the year;
Soft dew-drops nurse her rose's maiden bloom,
And genial showers refresh her vivid lawn.
Thro' other lands indignant of delay
Spring travels homeward with a stranger's haste;
Here he reposes, dwells upon the scene
Enamour'd, native here prolongs his stay,
And when his fiery successor at length
Warns him from hence, with ling'ring step and slow,
And many a stream of falling tears he parts,
Like one, whom surly creditors arrest
In a fond consort's arms and force him thence.
But now, my Muse, to humbler themes descend!
'Tis not for me to paint the various gifts
Which freedom, science, art, or fav'ring Heav'n
Shower on my native isle; quench'd are the fires,
Which young ambition kindled in my breast;
Morning and noon of life's short day are past,
And what remains for me ere night comes on,
But one still hour perchance of glimmering eve
For sober contemplation? Come, my Muse,
Come then! and as from some high mountain's top
The careful shepherd counts his straggling flock,
So will we take one patient last survey
Of this unquiet, babbling, anxious world;
We'll scan it with a calm but curious eye;
Silence and solitude are all our own;
Their's is the tumult, their's the throng; my soul
Is fitted to the task—for, oh fair truth!
Yet I am thine, on thy perennial base
I will inscribe my monumental verse,
And tho' my heart with kindred ardor beats
To every brave compatriot, yet no ties,
Tho dignified with friendship's specious name,
Shall shackle my free mind, nor any space
Less than the world's wide compass bound my love.
No more; for now the hospitable gates
Of wealthy
Attalus
invite their guest;
I paus'd and look'd, and yielding to the wish
That fortune had bequeath'd me such a lot,
A momentary sigh surpriz'd my heart:
Flocks, herds, and fields of golden grain, of these
I envied not the owner; but I saw
The curiing smoke from cottages ascend,
And heard the merry din of childish sports;
I saw the peasant stooping to his plough
And whistling time away; I met a form,
Fair as a fabled nymph; Nature had spread
Her toilette, health her handmaid dealt the bloom,
Simplicity attir'd her; by the copse
Skirting the horn-beam row, where violets bud
And the first primrose opens to the spring,
With her fond lover arm in arm she walk'd,
Not with the stealthy step and harlot leer
Of guilty assignation, nor unnerv'd
By midnight feast or revel, but in prime
Of youth and health and beauty's genuine glow:
I mark'd the conscious look of honest truth,
That greets the passenger with eye direct,
Nor fears nor meditates surprize; my heart
Yearn'd at the sight and as they pass'd I cried—
" Why was it not my fortune to have said
" Go, and be happy?"—On a rising slope
Full to the south the stately mansion stands,
Where dwells the master of this rich domain;
Plain and of chaste proportion the device,
Not libell'd and bedawb'd with tawdry frize
Or lac'd pilaster, patcht with refuse scraps,
Like that fraternal pile on Thames's bank,
Which draws it's title not it's taste from Greece.
Happy! if there in rural peace he dwells,
Untortur'd by ambition, and enjoys
An eye for nature and a heart for man.
No XCVI.
(Theognis.)
I ask not wealth; let me enjoy
An humble lot without annoy!
UPON my arrival at the house I was shewn into a small room in the base-story, which the owner of this fine place usually occupied and in which he now received me: here I had been but a very few minutes before he proposed to shew me the house, and for that purpose conducted me up stairs to the grand apartment, and from thence made the entire tour, without excepting any one of the bedchambers, offices or even closets in the house: I cannot say my friend Attalus consulted
times and seasons
in chusing so early a moment after my arrival for parading me about in this manner; some of the apartments were certainly very splendid; a great deal of rich furniture and many fine pictures solicited my notice; but the fatigue of so ill-timed a perambulation disabled me from expressing that degree of admiration, which seemed to be expected on this occasion, and which on any other I should have been forward to bestow: I was sorry for this, because I believe he enjoyed little other pleasure in the possession of his house, besides this of shewing it; but it happened to my host, as it does too frequently to the owners of fine places, that he missed the tribute of flattery by too great eagerness in exacting it.
It appeared to me that Attalus was no longer the gay lively man he was formerly; there was a gloom upon his countenance and an inquietude in his manner, which seemed to lay him under a constraint that he could not naturally get rid of: Time hung heavy on our hands till the hour of dinner, and it was not without regret I perceived he had arranged his family meals upon the fashionable system of London hours, and at the distance of two hundred miles from the capital had by choice adopted those very habits, which nothing but the general custom of late assemblies and long sittings in Parliament can excuse upon the plea of necessity: It was now the midst of summer, which made the absurdity of such a disposition of our time more glaring, for whilst the best hours of the afternoon were devoted to the table, all exercise and enjoyment out of doors were either to be given up, or taken only in the meridian heat of the day. I discovered a further bad consequence of these habits upon society and good-fellowship, for such of the neighbouring gentry, who had not copied his example, were deterred from making him any visits, not presuming to disturb him at unsuitable hours, and yet not able, without a total disarrangement of their own comforts, to make their time conform to his. Attalus himself, I must acknowledge, both saw and confessed the bad system he was upon, he found himself grown unpopular amongst his country neighbours on this very score, and was piqued by their neglect of him:
"It was a villainous custom,"
he observed,
"and destructive both of health and pleasure; but all people of fashion dined at five, and what could he do? He must live as other great families lived; if indeed he was a mere private gentleman, he might do as he liked best."
If it be so, thought I, this man's great fortune is an incumbrance to him; if it robs him of health and pleasure, what does it give him, nay what can it give him, in compensation for the loss of such blessings? If fashion takes away from Attalus the liberty of doing what he best likes, and is best for him, I must have been mistaken in supposing independance was the result of affluence; I suspect there are not all the advantages in his conditon which I supposed there were—I will examine this more narrowly.
The next morning, after a late breakfast, the consequence I had foreseen ensued, for we were advanced into the hottest hours of the day, when Attalus, being impatient to shew me the beauties of his park and grounds, gave orders for the equipages and horses to be made ready, and we were to set out upon the survey in a burning sun. When the train was in waiting at the door, we sallied forth, but here a discussion began, in which so many things required a new arrangement, that a long stop was put to our march, whilst the scrutinizing eye of Attalus was employed in a minute examination of every thing appertaining to the cavalry and carriages; the horses were wrong harnessed, they were to be changed from the off-side to the near-side, saddles were to be altered, and both groom and coachman were heartily recommended to repeated damnation for their stupidity and inattention—
"Never any man was so plagued with rascally servants as I am,"
cried Attalus;
"they are the curse and vexation of my life; I wish I could live without them; no man can be happy, who has to do with them."
—Is it so? (said I within myself) then I have the advantage over you in that respect, for I have but one man and one horse, and both are always ready at a moment's warning.
I mounted a phaeton with Attalus and we set forward in a broiling day: My conductor immediately began to vent his angry humour upon the wrong object, and plied his thong at such a furious rate upon his unoffending horses, that the high-mettled animals so resented the unjust correction, that after struggling and kicking under the lash for some time, one of them reared across the pole of the chaise and snapped it: This produced a storm of passion more violent than the first, and though it was evident the servant had put the horses on their proper sides at first, the fault was charged upon him with vehement imprecations, and this produced a second halt longer and more disagreeable than our setting out had been: Our purpose however was not to be defeated and we must positively proceed; Attalus was not in a humour to submit with patience to disappointments, so that having ordered two of his servants to dismount, we took their horses and set off upon our tour; the beauties of nature were before us, but that serenity of mind which should ever accompany the contemplation of those beauties, was wanting; Attalus was one of fortune's spoilt children, and his temper, grown irritable by indulgence and humoursome by prosperity, had lost it's relish for simplicity and was wholly given up to a silly passion for ostentation and parade; he immediately began to harangue upon the many evil qualities of servants, a topic at the best unedifying and commonly most disgusting to the hearers; he bewailed his own ill-fortune in that respect very bitterly, and so much of the way passed off before this philippic was concluded, that I began to think I had been carried out for no better purpose than to hear a declamation in the open air: I brought him at last to a stop by observing he had a paradise about him, and that it was a pity his vexations did not suffer him to enjoy it—Upon this hint he seemed to recollect himself and proceeded to expatiate upon his own improvements, pointing out to me what he had done, and what he had more in mind to do, if his overseer had obeyed his instructions, and proper people had been found to execute his designs.
I took notice of a group of neat cottages, which had a very picturesque and pleasing appearance, for they were deliciously situated, and had all the air, as I observed, of happy habitations—
"No matter for that,"
replied Attalus,
"down they must all come, for they are cruelly in my eye, and I purpose to throw all that hill into wilderness with plantations of pine, where you see the rock and broken ground, which will be a bold and striking contrast to the ornamented grounds about it—I am surprised,"
added he,
"you can see any beauty in those paltry huts."
—Before I could make reply, an old peasant had approached us, and humbly enquired of Attalus, when he was to be dislodged from his cottage—
"I have ordered the workmen to take it down next week,"
said he,
"the season is favorable for your removal and you must seek out elsewhere."
The decree was heard without an effort to reply; a sigh was all the plea the poor man offered, and with that sigh he sent a look to heaven, that in its passage rent my heart: I determined to be gone next morning.
We proceeded in our circuit till we were crossed by a high enclosure, which awkwardly enough separated a pasture of about three acres, in which was a brick-kiln too conspicuously placed not to annoy the sight, and at that very moment too furiously employed in the act of duty, not to be excessively offensive to the smell; we found ourselves involved in columns of thick smoke, which were not of the most grateful odour in the world; I confess I was not a little surprised at the location of this flaming nuisance, and as we were making our way through the smothering cloud, remarked to Attalus that ornament must give place to use—
"I brought you hither,"
says he,
"purposely to shew you how I am treated by a surly obstinate fellow in my neighbourhood, who has not another foot of land in the world, but this cursed patch of ground, and which the rascal keeps on purpose to spite me, though I have bidden three times the value of it: indeed it is indispensably necessary to me, as you may well believe by the annoyance it produces in his hands; I have tried all means to get it from him, rough and smooth, and if a prosecution would have laid against it, I would have driven him out of it by the expences of a suit; but all to no purpose; I am so tormented by the fellow's obstinacy, and my comforts are so sacrificed by the nuisance, that I have no longer any enjoyment in my place; nay I have stopped most of my works and discharged my labourers, for what signifies carrying on improvements, when I can no longer live in my house with that cursed brick-kiln for ever in my eye, and with little intermission in my nostrils also?"
A new theme of discontent was now started, which the unhappy Attalus pursued with heavy complaints as we travelled down a stream of smoke, which seemed as if maliciously to pursue us, determined not to quit it's execrator, till he left off his execrations; at last they both ceased in the same moment and parted by consent. As soon as Attalus desisted from his invectives I took up my reflections, and if a wish could have purchased his possessions, encumbered with the vexations of their owner, I would not have taken them at the price. Down sunk the vision of prosperity; swifter than the shifting of a playhouse scene vanished all the enchanting prospect; a naked lodge in a warren with content had been more enviable in my eye than his palace haunted with disgust; I saw Attalus, the veriest darling of fortune, sickening and surfeited with prosperity; peevish with his servants, unsociable to his neighbours, a slave to fashions, which he obeyed and disapproved, unfeeling to the poor, tired with the splendor of a magnificent house, and possessing an extensive territory, yet sighing after a small nook of land, the want of which poisoned all his comforts.—And what then are riches? said I within myself. The disturbers of human happiness; the corrupters of human nature. I remember this Attalus in his youth; I knew him intimately at school and college; he was of a joyous, social temper; placid, accommodating, full of resource; always in good humour with himself and the world, and he had a heart as liberal and compassionate as it was sincere and open; this great estate was then out of sight; it must be this estate then, which has wrought the unhappy change in his manners and disposition; and if riches operate thus upon a nature like his, where is the wonder if we meet so many wretches, who derive their wants from their abundance?
How beautiful is the maxim of
Menander!
—
—
enrich your mind! Riches,
says the same elegant and moral dramatist,
are no better than an actor's wardrobe,
the paltry tinsel, that enables him to glitter for a few minutes in a counterfeited character—
To fret and strut his hour upon the stage,
And then be heard no more.
In another place he says,
they transform a man into a different kind of being from what he was originally
—
and then concludes with that Attic simplicity, so neatly turned and elegantly expressed as to distance all translation.
Better to choose, if you would choose the best,
A chearful poverty, than wealth unblest.
No XCVII.
(MENANDER.
Gubernatoribus.
)
Oh wretched mortals! by false pride betroy'd,
Ye know not of what nature man is made.
THOUGH I think our nation can never be accused of want of charity, yet I have observed with much concern a poor unhappy set of men amongst us, whose case is not commiserated as it ought to be;—and as I would gladly contribute any thing in my power towards their relief, the best proof I can give them of my good will is by endeavouring to convince them of a certain truth, which all the world except themselves has discovered long ago,
viz.—That a proud man is the most contemptible being in nature.
—Now if these proud men, to whom I address myself and for whose miserable situation I have such compassion, shall once find a friend to convince them, that they are truly
the most contemptible beings in nature,
it can never be supposed they will persist to entertain a companion in their bosoms, who affords them so little pleasure, and yet involves them in so much disgrace. I must consider them therefore as mistaken rather than obstinate, and treat them accordingly; for how can I suppose there would be such an absurdity in the world as a proud man, if the poor creature was not behind hand with the rest of mankind in a discovery that concerns himself so materially? I admit indeed that pride is a very foolish thing, but I contend that wise men are sometimes surprized into very foolish things, and if a little friendly hint can rescue them, it would be an ill-natured action to withhold the information:
"If you are proud, you are a fool"
—says an old Greek author called
Sotades
—
—but I hope a little plain English, without the help of
Sotades,
will serve to open the eyes of a plain Englishman, and prevent him from strutting about the world merely to make sport for his neighbours; for I declare in truth, that so far from being annoyed and made splenetic as some folks are, when I fall into company with a proud fellow creature, I feel no other impulse than of pity, with now and then a small propensity to titter, for it would be downright rudeness to laugh in a man's face on such an occasion, and it hurts me to see an honest gentleman, who may have many more natural good qualities, than he himself is aware of, run about from house to house only to make sport for the scoffers, and take a world of pains and put on an air of gravity and importance for no better purpose than to provoke ridicule and contempt—
Why is earth and ashes proud?
says the Son of Sirach;
Pride was not made for men.
As I am determined to put these poor men upon their guard in all points, I shall remind them of another error they are in, which sadly aggravates their misfortunes, and which arises from a circumstance of a mere local nature, viz.
That England is the worst country a proud man can exhibit himself in.
—I do really wish they would well consider the land they live in; if they do not know, they ought to be told, that we are a free people; that freedom tends to make us independent of one another, fearless in our persons, warm in our resentments, bold of tongue and vindictive against insult; England is the place upon earth, where a proud stomach finds the least to feed upon; indeed it is the only stomach, that can here complain of its entertainment: if the proud man thinks it will be sufficient to pay his fine of affability to his neighbours once in seven years upon a parliamentary canvass, he is cruelly mistaken; the common people in this country have such a share of intuition, understand their own strength so well, and scrutinize into the weaknesses of their superiors so acutely, that they are neither to be deceived nor intimidated; and on that account, (as the proud man's character is compounded of the impostor and the bully) they are the very worst people he can deal with. A man may strut in Spain, vapour in France, or kick and cuff the vulgar as he likes in Russia; he may sit erect in his palanquin in India without dropping his eyes upon the earth he moves over; but if he carries his head in the air here, and expects the crowd to make way for him, he will soon run foul of somebody that will make him repent of his stateliness. Pride then, it seems, not only exposes a man to contempt, but puts him in danger; it is also a very expensive frolick, if he keeps it up as it should be kept, for what signifies his being proud, if there is not somebody always present to exercise his pride upon? He must therefore of necessity have a set of humble cousins and toad-eaters about him, and as such cattle cannot be had for nothing in this country, he must pay them according to the value of their services; common trash may be had at a common price, but clever fellows know their own consequence, and will stand out upon terms: If Nebuchadnezzar had not had
all people, nations and languages
at his command, he might have called till he was hoarse before any one would have come to worship his
image in the plain of Dura
; let the proud man take notice withal that Nebuchadnezzar's
image
was made of
gold,
and if he expects to be worshipped by all people after this fashion, and casts himself in the same mould, he must also cast himself in the same metal. Now if I am right in my assertion, that sycophants bear a higher price in England than elsewhere (and, if scarcity makes things dear, I trust they do) let the proud man consider if it be worth his while to pay dear for bad company, when he may have good-fellowship at an easy rate: Here then is another instance of his bad policy, and sure it is a sorrowful thing to be poor and proud.
That I may thoroughly do my duty to an order of men, to whose service I dedicate this short essay, I must not omit to mention, that it behoves a proud man in all places and on all occasions to preserve an air of gloominess and melancholy, and never to suffer so vulgar an expression as mirth or laughter to disarrange the decorum of his features: other men will be apt to make merry with his humour, but he must never be made merry by their's: In this respect he is truly to be pitied, for if once he grows sociable he is undone. On the contrary, he must for ever remain in the very predicament of the proud man described in the fragment of Euripides's Ixion—
—
Urbi atque amicis pariter insociabilis:
He must have no friend, for that would be to admit an equal; he must take no advice, for that would be to acknowledge a superior: Such society as he can find in his own thoughts, and such wisdom as he was sent into the world with, such he must go on with: as wit is not absolutely annexed to pedigree in this country, and arts and sciences sometimes condescend to throw their beams upon the low-born and the humble, it is not possible for the proud man to descend amongst them for information and society; if truth does not hang within his reach, he will never dive into a well to fetch it up: His errors, like some arguments, move
in a circle
; for his pride begets ignorance, and his ignorance begets pride; and thus in the end he has more reasons for being
melancholy
than
Master Stephen
had, not only because it is
gentleman-like,
but because he can't help it, and don't know how to be merry.
I might enumerate many more properties of this contemptible character, but these are enough, and a proud man is so dull a fellow at best that I shall gladly take my leave of him; I confess also that I am not able to treat the subject in any other than a vague and desultory manner, for I know not how to define it myself, and at the same time am not reconciled to any other definition of pride, which I have met in Mr. Locke's essay or elsewhere. It is called a passion, and yet it has not the essentials of a passion; for I can bring to mind nothing under that description, which has not reference either to God, to our fellow-creatures, or to ourselves.—The sensual passions for instance of whatever sort have their end in selfish gratification; the generous attributes, such as valour, friendship, public spirit, munificence and contempt of danger have respect to our fellow-creatures; they look for their account in an honorable fame, in the enjoyment of present praise and in the anticipation of that, which posterity shall bestow; whilst the less ostentatious and purer virtues of self-denial, resignation, humility, piety, forbearance and many others are addressed to God alone, they offer no gratification to self, they seek for no applause from man. But in which of these three general classes shall we discover the passion of pride? I have indeed sometimes seen it under the cloak of religion, but nothing can be more opposite to the practice of it: It is in vain to enquire for it amongst the generous and social attributes, for it's place is no where to be found in society; and I am equally at a loss to think how that can be called a selfish gratification, which brings nothing home to a man's heart but mortification, contempt, abhorrence, secret discontent and public ridicule. It is composed of contraries, and founded in absurdity; for at the same time that it cannot subsist without the world's respect, it is so constituted as never to obtain it. Anger is proverbially termed a short madness, but pride methinks is a perpetual one; if I had been inclined to use a softer word, I would have called it folly; I do confess I have often seen it in that more venial character, and therefore not to decide upon the point too hastily, I shall leave the proud man to make his choice between folly and madness, and take out his commission from which party he sees fit.
Good heaven! how pleasant, how complacent to itself and others is an humble disposition! To a soul so tempered how delightfully life passes in brotherly love and simplicity of manners! Every eye bestows the chearing look of approbation upon the humble man; every brow frowns contempt upon the proud. Let me therefore advise every gentleman, when he finds himself inclined to take up the character of pride, to consider well whether he can be quite proud enough for all purposes of life; whether his pride reaches to that pitch as to meet universal contempt with indifference; whether it will bear him out against mortification, when he finds himself excluded from society, and understands that he is ridiculed by every body in it; whether it is convenient to him always to walk with a stiff back and a stern countenance; and lastly, whether he is perfectly sure, that he has that strength and self-support in his own human nature, as may defy the power and set at nought the favor of God,
who resisteth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble.
There is yet another little easy process, which I would recommend to him as a kind of probationary rehearsal before he performs in public: I am persuaded it will not be amiss if he first runs over a few of his airs and graces by himself in his own closet: Let him examine himself from head to foot in his glass, and if he finds himself no handsomer, no stronger, no taller than all the rest of his fellow-creatures, he may venture without risque to conclude that he like them is a man, and nothing more: Having settled this point, and taken place in the human creation, he may next proceed to consider what that place ought to be; for this purpose he may consult his pedigree and his rent-roll, and if upon a careful perusal of these documents he shall find, (as most likely he will) that he is not decidedly the noblest and the richest man in the world, perhaps he will see no good cause, why he should strut over the face of it, as if it was his own: I would then have him go back to his glass, and set his features in order for the very proudest and most arrogant look he can put on; let him knit his brow, stretch his nostrils and bite his lips with all the dignity he can summon, and after this, when he has reversed the experiment by softening them into a mild complacent look, with as much benignity as he can find in his heart to bestow upon them, let him ask himself honestly and fairly, which character best becomes him, and whether he does not look more like a man with some humanity than without it: I would in the next place have him call his understanding to a short audit, and upon casting up the sum total of his wit, learning, talents and accomplishments, compute the balance between others and himself, and if it shall turn out that his stock of all these is not the prodigious thing it ought to be, and even greater than all other men's, he will do well to husband it with a little frugal humility: The last thing he must do, (and if he does nothing else I should hope it would be sufficient) is to take down his bible from the shelf, and look out for the parable of the Pharisee and Publican; it is a short story and soon read, but the moral is so much to his purpose, that he may depend upon it, if that does not correct his pride, his pride is incorrigible, and all the
Observers
in the world will be but waste paper in his service.
No XCVIII.
Non erat his locus.
THERE is a certain delicacy in some men's nature, which though not absolutely to be termed a moral attribute, is nevertheless so grateful to society at large and so recommendatory of those who possess it, that even the best and worthiest characters cannot be truly pleasing without it: I know not how to describe it better than by saying it consists in a happy discernment of
times and seasons.
Though this engaging talent cannot positively be called a virtue, yet it seems to be the result of many virtuous and refined endowments of the mind, which produces it; for when we see any man so tenderly considerate of our feelings, as to put aside his own for our accommodation and repose, and to consult opportunities with a respectful attention to our ease and leisure, it is natural to us to think favorably of such a disposition, and although much of his discernment may be the effect of a good judgment and proper knowledge of the world, yet there must be a great proportion of sensibility, candor, diffidence and natural modesty in the composition of a faculty so conciliating and so graceful. A man may have many good qualities, and yet if he is unacquainted with the world, he will rarely be found to understand those apt and happy moments, of which I am now speaking; for it is a knowledge not to be gained without a nice and accurate observation of mankind, and even when that observation has given it, men, who are wanting in the natural good qualities above described, may indeed avail themselves of such occasions to serve a purpose of their own, but without a good heart no man will apply his experience to general practice.
But as it is not upon theories that I wish to employ these papers, I shall now devote the remainder of my attention to such rules and observations as occur to me upon the subject of
the times and seasons.
Men, who in the fashionable phrase
live out of the world,
have a certain awkwardness about them, which is for ever putting them out of their place in society, whenever they are occasionally drawn into it. If it is their studies which have sequestered them from the world, they contract an air of pedantry, which can hardly be endured in any mixed company without exposing the object of it to ridicule; for the very essence of this contracted habit consists in an utter ignorance
of times and seasons.
Most of that class of men who are occupied in the education of youth, and not a few of the young men themselves, who are educated by them, are of this description: We meet with many of
Jack Lizard
's cast in the Spectator, who will learnedly maintain
there is no heat in fire.
There is a disputatious precision in these people, which lets nothing pass in free conversation, that is not mathematically true; they will confute a jest by syllogism, canvass a merry tale by cross-examination and dates, work every common calculation by X
the unknown quantity,
and in the festive sallies of imagination convict the witty speaker of false grammar, and nonsuit all the merriment of the table.
The man of form and ceremony, who has shaped his manners to the model of what is commonly called
The Old Court,
is another grand defaulter against
times and seasons:
His entrances and exits are to be performed with a stated regularity; he measures his devoirs with an exactitude that bespeaks him a correct interpreter of
The Red Book
; pays his compliments with a minuteness, that leaves no one of your family unnamed, enquires after the health of your child who is dead, and desires to be kindly remembered to your wife, from whom you are divorced: Nature formed him in strait lines, habit has stiffened him into an unrelenting rigidity, and no familiarity can bend him out of the upright. The uneducated squire of rustic manners forms a contrast to this character, but he is altogether as great an intruder upon
times and seasons,
and his total want of form operates to the annoyance of society as effectually as the other's excess. There cannot be in human nature a more terrible thing than vulgar familiarity; a low-bred fellow, who affects to put himself at his ease amongst his superiors and be pleasant company to them, is a nuisance to society; there is nothing so ill understood by the world in general as familiarity; if it was not for the terror, which men have of the very troublesome consequences of condescension to their inferiors, there would not be a hundredth part of that pride and holding-back amongst the higher ranks, of which the low are so apt to complain. How few men do we meet with, who when the heart is open and the channel free, know how to keep their course within the buoys and marks, that true good-manners have set up for all men to steer by! Jokes out of season, unpleasant truths touched upon incautiously,
plump questions
(as they are called) put without any preface or refinement, manual caresses compounded of hugs and slaps and squeezes, more resembling the gambols of a bear than the actions of a gentleman, are sure to follow upon the overflowing ebullitions of a vulgar familiarity broke loose from all restraints. It is a painful necessity men of sensibility are under, when they find themselves compelled to draw back from the eager advances of an honest heart, only because the shock of it's good-humour is too violent to be endured; it is very wounding to a social nature to check festivity in any degree, but there is nothing sinks the spirits so effectually as boisterous mirth, nobody so apt to overact his character as a jolly fellow, and stunned with the vociferation of his own tongue to forget that every other man is silent and suffering: In short it is a very difficult thing to be properly happy and well pleased with the company we are in, and none but men of good education, great discernment and nice feelings know how to be familiar. These rural gentry are great dealers in long stories of their own uninteresting atchievements, they require of you to attend to the narrative of their paltry squabbles and bickerings with their neighbours; they are extremely eloquent upon the laws against poachers, upon turnpike roads and new enclosures, and all these topicks they will thrust in by the neck and shoulders to the exclusion of all others.
Plain-speaking, if we consider it simply as a mark of truth and honesty, is doubtless a very meritorious quality, but experience teaches that it is too frequently under bad management, and obtruded on society out of
time and season
in such a manner as to be highly inconvenient and offensive. People are not always in a fit humour to be told of their faults, and these plain-speaking friends sometimes perform their office so clumsily, that we are inclined to suspect they are more interested to bring us to present shame than future reformation: It is a common observation with them, when things turn out amiss, to put us in mind how they dissuaded us from such and such an undertaking, that they foresaw what would happen, and that the event is neither more nor less than they expected and predicted. These retorts, cast in our teeth in the very moment of vexation, are what few tempers, when galled with disappointment, can patiently put up with; they may possibly be the pure result of zeal and sincerity, but they are so void of contrivance and there is so little delicacy in the timing of them, that it is a very rare case indeed, when they happen to be well understood and kindly taken. The same want of sensibility towards human infirmities, that will not spare us in the moments of vexation, will make no allowances for the mind's debility in the hours of grief and sorrow: If a friend of this sort surprises us in the weakness of the soul, when death perhaps has robbed us of some beloved object, it is not to contribute a tear, but to read us a lecture, that he comes; when the heart is agonised, the temper is irritable, and as a moraliser of this sort is almost sure to find his admonitions take the contrary effect from what he intended, he is apt to mistake an occasional impatience in us for a natural one, and leaves us with the impression that we are men, who are ill prepared against the common vicissitudes of life, and endowed with a very small share of fortitude and resignation; this early misconception of our character in the course of time leads him to another, for he no sooner finds us recovered to a proper temper of mind, than he calls to mind our former impatience and comparing it with our present tranquillity concludes upon appearances, that we are men of light and trivial natures, subject indeed to sits and starts of passion, but incapable of retention, and as he has then a fine subject for displaying his powers of plain-speaking, he reminds us of our former inattention to his good advice and takes credit for having told us over and over again that we ought not to give way to violent sorrow, and that we could not change the course of things by our complaining of them. Thus for want of calculating
times and seasons
he begins to think despisingly of us, and we in spite of all his sincerity grow tired of him and dread his company.
Before I quit this subject I must also have a word with the valetudinarians, and I wish from my heart I could cure them of their
complaints,
—that species I mean which comes under my notice as an
Observer,
without intruding upon the more important province of the physician. Now as this island of our's is most happily supplied with a large and learned body of professors under every medical description and character, whether operative or deliberative, and all these stand ready at the call and devoted to the service of the sick or maimed, whether it be on foot, on horseback or on wheels to resort to them in their distresses, it cannot be for want of help that the valetudinarian states his case to all companies so promiscuously. Let the whole family of death be arrayed on one side, and the whole army of physic, regulars and irregulars, be drawn out on the other, and I will venture to say that for every possible disease in the ranks of the besieger, there shall be a champion in the garrison ready to turn out and give him battle: Let all who are upon the sick list in the community be laid out between the camps, and let the respective combatants fight it out over the bodies, but let the forces of life and health have no share in the fray: Why should their peace be disturbed, or their society contaminated by the infectious communication? It is as much out of
time and place
for a man to be giving the diary of his disease in company, who are met for social purposes, as it is for a doctor to be talking politics or scandal in a sick man's chamber; yet so it is that each party are for ever out of character; the chatterer disgusts his patient by an inattention to his complaints, and the valetudinarian disgusts his company by the enumeration of them, and both are equally out of season.
Every man's observation may furnish him with instances not here enumerated, but if what I have said shall seem to merit more consideration than I have been able to give it in the compass of this paper, my readers may improve upon the hint and society cannot fail to profit by their reflections.
No XCIX.
Cuncti adsint, meritaeque expectent praemia palmae!
A CURIOUS Greek fragment has been lately discovered by an ingenious traveller at Constantinople, which is supposed to have been saved out of the famous Alexandrian library, when set on fire by command of the Caliph. There is nothing but conjecture to guide us to the author: Some learned men, who have examined it, give it to
Pausanias,
others to
Aelian
; some contend for
Suidas,
others for
Libanius
; but most agree in ascribing it to some one of the Greek sophists, so that it is not to be disguised that just doubts are to be entertained of it's veracity in point of fact. There may be much ingenuity in these discussions, but we are not to expect conviction; therefore I shall pass to the subject-matter, and not concern myself with any previous argumentation on a question, that is never likely to be settled.
This fragment says that some time after the death of the great dramatic poet Aeschylus, there was a certain citizen of Athens named
Philoteuchus,
who by his industry and fair character in trade had acquired a plentiful fortune, and came in time to be actually chosen one of the Areopagites: This man in an advanced period of his life engaged in a very splendid undertaking for collecting a series of pictures to be composed from scenes in the tragedies of the great poet above-mentioned, and to be executed by the Athenian artists, who were then both numerous and eminent.
The old Areopagite with a spirit, that would have done honour to
Pisistratus
or
Pericles,
constructed a spacious lyceum for the reception of these pictures, which he laid open to the resort both of citizens and strangers, and the success of the work reflected equal credit upon the undertaker and the artists, whom he employed.
The chain of the narration is here broken by a loss of part of the fragment, which however is fortunately resumed in that place, where the writer gives some account of the masters, who painted for this collection, and of the scenes they made choice of for their several pictures.
He tells us that
Apelles
was then living and in the vigour of his genius, though advanced in years; he describes the scene chosen for his composition minutely, and it appears to have been taken from that suite of dramas, which we know
Aeschylus
composed from the story of the
Atridae,
and of which we have still such valuable remains. He represents
Aegisthus,
after the murder of
Agamemnon
by the instigation of
Clytemnestra,
in the act of consulting certain Sybils, who by their magical spells and incantations have raised the ghost of
Agamemnon,
which is attended by a train of phantoms, emblematic of eight successive kings of Argos, his immediate descendants: The spectre is made
pointing
to his posterity, and at the same time looking on his murderer with a smile, in which
Apelles
contrived to give the several expressions of contempt, exultation and revenge with such a character of ghastly pain and horror, as to make the beholders shrink. Amongst these Sybils he introduces the person of
Cassandra
the prophetess, whom
Agamemnon
brought captive from the destruction of Troy. The light, he says, proceeds only from a flaming cauldron, in which the Sybils have been making their libations to the infernal deities or furies, and he speaks of the reflected, ruddy tints, which by this management of the artist were cast upon the figures, as producing a wonderful effect, and giving an amazing horror and magnificence to the group. Upon the whole he states it as the most capital performance of the master, and that he got such universal honour thereby, that he was afterwards employed to paint for the Persian monarch, and had a commission even from the queen of Scythia, a country then emerging from barbarity.
Parrhasius,
though born in the colony of Miletus on the coast of Asia, was an adopted citizen of Athens and in great credit there for his celebrated picture on the death of
Epaminondas:
He contributed to this collection by a very capital composition taken from a tragedy, which was the third in a series of dramas, founded by
Aeschylus
on the well-known story of
Oedipus,
all which are lost. The miserable monarch, whose misfortunes had overturned his reason, is here depicted taking shelter under a wretched hovel in the midst of a tremendous storm, where the elements seem conspiring against a helpless being in the last stage of human misery. The painter has thrown a very touching character of insanity into his features, which plainly indicates that his loss of reason has arisen from the tender rather than the inflammatory passions; for there is a majestic sensibility mixed with the wildness of his distraction, which still preserves the traces of the once benevolent monarch. In this desolate scene he has a few forlorn companions in his distress, which form a very peculiar group of personages; for they consist of a venerable old man in a very piteous condition, whose eyes have been torn from their sockets, together with a naked maniac, who is starting from the hovel, where he had housed himself during the tempest: The effect of this figure is described with rapture, for he is drawn in the prime of youth, beautiful and of a most noble air; his naked limbs display the finest proportions of the human figure, and the muscular exertion of the sudden action he is thrown into furnish ample scope to the anatomical science of the artist. The fable feigns him to be the son of the blind old man above described, and the fragment relates that his phrensy being not real but assumed,
Parrhasius
availed himself of that circumstance, and touched the character of his madness with so nice and delicate a discrimination from that of
Oedipus,
that an attentive observer might have discovered it to be counterfeited even without the clue of the story. There are two other attendant characters in the group: One of these is a rough, hardy veteran, who seems to brave the storm with a certain air of contemptuous petulance in his countenance, that bespeaks a mind superior to fortune, and indignant under the visitation even of the gods themselves. The other is a character, that seems to have been a kind of imaginary creature of the poet, and is a buffoon or jester upon the model of Homer's Thersites, and was employed by
Aeschylus
in his drama upon the old burlesque system of the Satyrs, as an occasional chorus or parody upon the severer and more tragic characters of the piece.
The next picture in our author's catalogue was by the hand of
Timanthes:
This modest painter, though residing in the capital of
Attica,
lived in such retirement from society, and was so absolutely devoted to his art, that even his person was scarce known to his competitors. Envy never drew a word from his lips to the disparagement of a contemporary, and emulation could hardly provoke his diffidence into a contest for fame, which so many bolder rivals were prepared to dispute.
Aeschylus,
it is well known, wrote three plays on the fable of
Prometheus
; the second in this series is the
Prometheus chained,
which happily survives; the last was
Prometheus delivered,
and from the opening scene of this drama
Timanthes
formed his picture.
Prometheus
is here discovered on the sea-shore upon an island inhabited only by himself and his daughter, a young virgin of exquisite beauty, who is supposed to have seen none other of the human species but her father, besides certain imaginary beings, whom
Prométheus
had either created by his stolen fire, or whom he employed in the capacity of familiars for the purposes of his enchantments, for the poet very justifiably supposes him endowed with supernatural powers, and by that vehicle brings to pass all the beautiful and surprising incidents of his drama. One of these aërial spirits had by his command conjured up a most dreadful tempest, in which a noble ship is represented as sinking in the midst of the breakers on this enchanted shore. The daughter of
Prometheus
is seen in a supplicating attitude imploring her father to
allay
the storm, and save the sinking mariners from destruction. In the back ground of the picture is a cavern, and at the entrance of it a mishapen savage being, whose evil nature is depicted in the deformity of his person and features, and who was employed by
Prometheus
in all servile offices, necessary for his accommodation in this solitude. The aërial spirit is in the clouds, which he is driving before him at the
behest
of his great master. In this composition therefore, although not replete with characters, there is yet such diversity of stile and subject, that we have all, which the majesty and beauty of real nature can furnish, with beings out of the regions of nature, as strongly contrasted in form and character, as fancy can devise: The scenery also is of the sublimest cast, and whilst all Greece resounded with applauses upon the exhibition of this picture,
Timanthes
alone was silent, and startled at the very echo of his own fame, shrunk back again to his retirement.
As this fragment is now in the hands of an ingenious translator, I forbear for the present to intrude upon his work by any further anticipation of it, conscious withal as I am that the public curiosity will shortly be gratified with a much more full and satisfactory delineation of this interesting narrative, than I am able to give.
No C.
I SHALL now resume the plan I have pursued in the foregoing volumes and proceed with my review of the writers of the Greek stage.
In No LXXVIII. I took leave of what is properly called
The Old Comedy
; I am next to speak of that class of authors, who are generally stiled writers of
The Middle Comedy.
The spirit of a free people will discover itself in the productions of their stage; the comic drama, being a professed representation of living manners, will paint these likenesses in stronger or in fainter colours according to the degree of licence or restraint, which may prevail in different places, or in the same place at different periods. We are now upon that particular aera in the Athenian constitution, when it began to feel such a degree of controul under the rising power of the Macedonian princes, as put a stop to the personal licentiousness of the comic poets: If we are to consider Athens only as the capital seat of genius, we must bewail this declension from her former state of freedom, which had produced so brilliant a period in the annals of her literature; but speak of her in a political sense, and it must be acknowledged that whatever restraints were put upon her liberty, and however humbling the disgraces were which she incurred, they could not well be more than she merited by her notorious abuse of public prosperity and most ingrateful treatment of her best and most deserving citizens. When the thunder of oratory was silenced, the flashes of wit were no longer displayed; death stopped the impetuous tongue of Demosthenes, and the hand of power controuled the acrimonious muse of Aristophanes; obedient to the rein, the poet checked his career of personality, and composed his
Aeolosicon
upon the plan of what we now denominate the
Middle Comedy.
Cratinus also, though the bitterest of all the old writers, began to sweeten his gall, and, conforming to the necessity of the times, condescended to take up with the resource of parody, and wrote his
Ulysses
upon the same system of reform; no longer permitted to vent his satire upon living characters, he took post on the boldest ground, that was left for him to stand on, and opened his attack upon the dead by ridiculing the immortal Odyssey of Homer. The chorus was now withdrawn, and the poet no longer spoke his own sentiments or harangued his audience by proxy; parody is satire of so inferior a species, that if comedy did not very sensibly decline in it's middle aera (which there is no reason to think was the case), it must have been upheld by a very strong exertion of talents, or by collateral resources of a better stamp than this, which we are speaking of. Some, who are ranked in the old class of comic writers, continued to compose for the stage, as we have already instanced; it may well be presumed that they at least drooped the wing, and flagged under the pressure of unexperienced restraints; but if I may form a conjecture of the comparative spirit and excellence of the
Middle Comedy
from the samples and fragments of those dramatists, who properly and exclusively belong to it, I find nothing which disposes me to suspect that it had in the least declined from the merit of the first writers, but on the contrary should conceive, that it advanced in perfection no less than it did in time by the revolution which took place.
I shall now produce some specimens of the comedies, which fall under this class, and such accounts as I have been able to collect of their authors, whom I have ranged alphabetically; the first therefore, which I shall speak of, will be the poet Alexis.
ALEXIS.
This poet was a native of Thurium in Magna Graecia, a town celebrated for being the birthplace of Herodotus; he was great uncle by the father's side to Menander, and was the first to discover and encourage the early genius of that admired writer. Alexis lived to a great age, and we have the authority of Plutarch for saying that the vigour of his faculties was preserved to the last;
"The comic poets Alexis and Philemon,"
says that author,
"continued to write for the stage to the latest period of their lives, and when death at length surprised them, he found them crowned with the trophies of success and triumphing in the plaudits of the theatre."
The numerous productions of our poet confirm this assertion of Plutarch, for Suidas says he was author of no less than two hundred and forty-five dramas, and I find the titles of one hundred and thirteen of this collection even now upon record; this proves that he possessed a very copious vein of invention, and the fragments, which remain out of the general wreck of his works, indicate the richness as well as copiousness of that vein. The works of such a master were of themselves a study, and as Menander formed himself upon his instructions, we cannot fail to conceive very highly of the preceptor from the acknowledged excellence of the pupil. I discover a comedy of Alexis intitled
Adelphi
; it is generally supposed that Terence copied his comedy of that name from Menander, but unless his commentators have given some better reason, than I have yet met with, for the fact, it will bear a doubt at least whether that elegant copy may not have been as much indebted to the uncle as to the nephew for the charms of it's dialogue and the delicacy of it's character.
Agellius informs us that Alexis formed the plot of one of his comedies upon the life and actions of Pythagoras; posterity will give him credit for his choice, as we cannot conceive a happier fable for an ingenious author to work upon, nor any that would afford a more fruitful field for facetious raillery than the extravagant and juggling tricks and contrivances, which that impostor's story teems with. Amongst his fragments I discover one little scrap, which, though a very small one, seems to have been a splinter of the wreck, wherein he ridicules a certain gluttonous Pythagorean, named Epicharides, for evading the abstemious rule of his sect for eating nothing that has life, by swearing that his meat is killed before it is cooked; there can be no doubt but the tenour of the piece was altogether satirical, for it cannot be supposed that the same man, who lampooned Plato, would spare Pythagoras; and that he did treat Plato in this contemptuous strain we have the word of Laertius, who refers to no less than four of his comedies, in which he ridicules him very severely; there is one short passage still remaining, which conveys a sneer at this philosopher, and so far as it goes confirms the anecdote, which Laertius gives us; but the biographer does more than the admirers of the divine Plato will thank him for, when he informs us of the grace and comeliness of Alexis's person, and of Plato's partiality to him on that account; and amongst many other gallantries of the like nature we find some verses addressed to Alexis in praise of his beauty by the enamoured philosopher, whose muse seems to have visited him pretty frequently on these occasions: There is no great point in his love-epigram to Alexis, but in that to a certain young man named Stella, who was his fellow-student in astrology, he seems to have been as extravagant in imagination, as Juliet's
concetto
of cutting Romeo
into little stars,
for I question if the whole school of Epicurus can furnish a more ridiculous start of rhapsodical bombast than the following—
Oh! that I were that heaven on which you gaze,
To dart upon thee with a thousand rays!
What a plunge is this for Pegasus to make with a grave philosopher on his back! Whether it was successful or not with the young stargazer I am not curious to enquire; if he was in the humour to be tickled with nonsense I should think such an address must have been irresistibly charming; but we may be very sure that Alexis was not so complying, and that, instead of being pleased with the flattery, he turned the flatterer into ridicule upon all occasions, first in his
Meropis,
again in his
Ancylion,
his
Olympiodorus,
and most of all in his celebrated comedy intitled
The Parasite.
Aristotle records an answer made by Alexis to an inquisitive fellow, who observed him in his latter years slowly crawling along the streets of Athens, and demanded
what he was doing—Nothing
; replied the feeble veteran,
and of that very disease I am dying.
—Stobaeus has the same anecdote, and I think it unlikely for a man, who preserved so vigorous a mind, as Plutarch says he did, to extreme old age, to be what Athenaeus calls him
, a glutton; I conclude therefore that the Deipnosophist was in the mistake of Congreve's Jeremy, who suspected Epictetus was a real cook, whereas he only wrote receipts. I have one of these now before me from the pen of Alexis, which does not seem to speak of the Epicurean
summum bonum
with all that respect and approbation, which a glutton would naturally profess for it—This it is—
I sigh'd for ease, and, weary of my lot,
Wish'd to exchange it: In this mood I stroll'd
Up to the citadel three several days;
And there I found a bevy of preceptors
For my new system, thirty in a group;
All with one voice prepar'd to tutor me—
Eat, drink and revel in the joys of love!
For pleasure is the wise man's sovereign good.
I think it will also bear a doubt whether a voluptuary could find in his heart to vent such irony as the following against the great supporters of his system, harlots and procuresses; I confess it shews Alexis to have been deep in the secrets of their vocation, but a libertine in practice would be branded for a traitor, if he was to tell such tales of the academy he belonged to—He is speaking of the commodious sisterhood of procuresses—
They fly at all, and, as their funds encrease,
With fresh recruits they still augment their stock,
Moulding the young novitiate to her trade;
Form, feature, manners, every thing so chang'd,
That not a trace of former self is left.
Is the wench short? a triple sole of cork
Exalts the pigmy to a proper size.
Is she too tall of stature? a low chair
Softens the fault, and a fine easy stoop
Lowers her to standard-pitch—If narrow-hipt,
A handsome wadding readily supplies
What Nature stints, and all beholders cry,
See what plump haunches!—Hath the nymph perchance
A high round paunch, stuft like our comic drolls,
And strutting out foreright? a good stout busk
Pushing athwart shall force th' intruder back.
Hath she red brows? a little soot will cure 'em.
Is she too black? the ceruse makes her fair:
Too pale of hue? the opal comes in aid.
Hath she a beauty out of sight? Disclose it!
Strip nature bare without a blush—Fine teeth?
Let her affect one everlasting grin,
Laugh without stint—But ah! if laugh she cannot,
And her lips won't obey, take a fine twig
Of myrtle, shape it like a butcher's skewer,
And prop them open, set her on the bitt
Day after day when out of sight, till use
Grows second nature, and the pearly row,
Will she or will she not, perforce appears.
This passage I have literally rendered, and I suspect it describes the artifices of an impure toilet with precision enough to shew that these Grecian models are not absolutely antiquated by the intervention of so many centuries. Our modern puffers in perfumery may have carried artificial complexions and Circassian bloom to a higher state of perfection; I dare say they have more elaborate means of staining carrotty eyebrows than with simple soot, and cannot think of comparing a little harmless opal with their poisonous farrago of pastes, pomatums and pearl powders; but I would have my fair and virtuous countrywomen take notice that the substitution of stuft hips originated with the Athenian prostitutes, with this advantage on the side of good sense, that the inventors of the fashion never applied false bottoms to those, whom Nature had provided with true ones; they seem to have had a better eye for due proportion than to add to a redundancy, because in some cases it was convenient to fill up a vacuum.
As I address this friendly hint to the plumper part of the fair sex, I shall rely upon the old proverb for their good-humour, and hope they will kindly interpret it as a proof that my eye is sometimes directed to objects, which their's cannot superintend, and as they generally agree to keep certain particulars out of sight, a real friend to decency will wish they would consent to keep them a little more out of mind also.
No CI.
WE are indebted to Vitruvius for a quotation in the beginning of his Sixth Book, taken from one of the dramas of Alexis, to the following effect—
"Whereas all the other states of Greece compel the children of destitute parents without exception to provide for the support of them who begot them, we of Athens,"
says the poet,
"make the law binding upon such children only, who are beholden to their parents for the blessing of a liberal education."
—The proviso was certainly a wise one, and it is with justice that the poet gives his countrymen credit for being the authors of it.
Alexis in one of his comedies very appositely remarks—
"that the nature of man in some respects resembles that of wine, for as fermentation is necessary to new wine, so is it also to a youthful spirit; when that process is over and it comes to settle and subside, we may then and not till then expect to find a permanent tranquillity."
This allusion he again takes up, probably in the same scene, though under a different character, and cries out—
"I am now far advanced in the evening of life's day, and what is there in the nature of man, that I should liken it to that of wine, seeing that old age, which recommends the latter, mars the former? Old wine indeed exhilarates, but old men are miserable to themselves and others."
Antiphanes the comic poet has struck upon the same comparison but with a different turn—
"Old age and old wine,"
says he,
"may well be compared; let either of them exceed their date ever so little, and the whole turns sour."
Julius Pollux says that Alexis named one of his comedies
, and there are some passages, which we may presume are reliques of this piece, of a very bitter cast, for he makes one of his female characters roundly assert—
No animal in nature can compare
In impudence with woman; I myself
Am one, and from my own experience speak.
I flatter myself an English audience would not hear such calumny; the modern stage encourages more respectful sentiments—
Oh! woman, lovely woman! nature made thee
To temper man; we had been brutes without thee.
Our poet must have been in an ill-humour with the sex, when he wrote this comedy, or else the Athenian wives must have been mere Xantippes to deserve what follows—
Nor house, nor coffers, nor whatever else
Is dear and precious, should be watch'd so closely,
As she whom you call wife. Sad lot is our's,
Who barter life and all it's free delights,
To be the slaves of woman, and are paid
Her bridal portion in the luckless coin
Of sorrow and vexation. A man's wrath
Is milk and honey to a woman's rage;
He can be much offended and forgive,
She never pardons those she most offends:
What she should do she slights, what she should not
Hotly pursues; false to each virtuous point,
And only in her wickedness sincere.
Who but a lunatic would wed and be
Wilfully wretched? better to endure
The shame of poverty and all it's taunts
Rather than this. The reprobate, on whom
The Censor set his brand, is justly doom'd
Unfit to govern others, but the wretch,
Who weds, no longer can command himself,
Nor hath his woe a period but in death.
So much for matrimony according to our author's picture of it! he has left us a description of love, which he has sketched in more pleasing colours—
The man, who holds true pleasure to consist
In pampering his vile body, and defies
Love's great divinity, rashly maintains
Weak impious war with an immortal God.
The gravest master that the schools can boast
Ne'er train'd his pupils to such discipline,
As love his votaries, unrivall'd power,
The first great deity—and where is he,
So stubborn and determinedly stiff,
But shall at some time bend the knee to love,
And make obeisance to his mighty shrine?
One day as slowly sauntering from the port,
A thousand cares conflicting in my breast,
Thus I began to commune with myself—
Methinks these painters misapply their art,
And never knew the being which th
y draw;
For mark! their many false conceits of love.
Love is nor male nor female, man nor god,
Nor with intelligence nor yet without it,
But a strange compound of all these, uniting
In one mixt essence many opposites;
A manly courage with a woman's fear,
The madman's phrensy in a reasoning mind,
The strength of steel, the fury of a beast,
The ambition of a hero—something 'tis,
But by Minerva and the gods I swear!
I know not what this nameless something is.
This riddling description of love I consider as a very curious fragment of the Greek comedy, as it has more play of words and less simplicity of thought and stile, than I can recollect in any writer of this age and country. In general I think I can discover more antithesis in the authors of the Middle Comedy than in any others, and I take it to have been one of the consequences of parody. Phaedria's picture of love in the opening scene of Terence's Eunuch is something in the stile of this fragment of Alexis, and the particular expression of—
ut cum ratione insanias
—seems of a piece with—
. Which I have rendered—
A madman's phrensy in a reasoning mind.
Our Shakespear is still closer to it, when Romeo describing love calls it
A madness most discreet.
And again—
Why then, O brawling Love! O loving Hate!
Oh! any thing of nothing first create;
Oh, heavy Lightness! serious Vanity!
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is.
Before I take leave of Alexis I shall subjoin one more passage from his remains, which conveys the strongest marks of detestation, that language can supply, of that very vice, which Athenaeus would persuade us he was addicted to; but I will never be persuaded that a glutton wrote the following lines in the face of his own example, nor would it be an easy matter to convince me, that if any glutton had the will, he would possess the wit, to write them.
You, Sir, a Cyrenean as I take you,
Look at your sect of desperate voluptuaries;
There's Diodorus—beggary is too good for him—
A vast inheritance in two short years,
Where is it? Squander'd, vanish'd, gone for ever:
So rapid was his dissipation.—Stop!
Stop, my good friend, you cry; not quite so fast!
This man went fair and softly to his ruin;
What talk you of two years? As many days,
Two little days were long enough to finish
Young Epicharides; he had some soul,
And drove a merry pace to his undoing—
Marry! if a kind surfeit wou'd surprise us,
Ere we sit down to earn it, such prevention
Wou'd come most opportune to save the trouble
Of a sick stomach and an aching head:
But whilst the punishment is out of sight,
And the full chalice at our lips, we drink,
Drink all to-day, to-morrow fast and mourn,
Sick, and all o'er opprest with nauseous fumes;
Such is the drunkard's curse, and Hell itself
Cannot devise a greater—Oh that nature
Might quit us of this overbearing burthen,
This tyrant-god, the belly! take that from us,
With all it's bestial appetites, and man,
Exonerated man, shall be all soul.
ANTIPHANES.
Antiphanes of Smyrna, or, as some will have it, of Rhodes, was born in or about Olymp. XCIII.: His father's name was Demophanes, and his mother's Oenoe, people of servile degree; yet our poet, thus ignoble in his birth, lived to signalize himself by his genius, and was held in such respect by his Athenian patrons, that a public decree was made for the removal of his remains from the isle of Chios, where he died at the age of seventy-four, and for depositing them in the city of Athens, where his funeral honours were sumptuously performed at the charge of the state.
Various accounts are given of the number of his comedies, but of all the Greek dramatists he appears to have been the most prolifick, for the lowest list of his plays amounts to two hundred and ninety, and some contend that he actually composed three hundred and sixty-five, a number almost incredible if we had not the instances of Calderon and De Vega too well authenticated to admit of a doubt in modern times to refer to. Antiphanes bore off the prize with thirty comedies; and if these successes appear disproportioned to his attempts, yet they were brilliant, inasmuch as he had to contend with such respectable rivals. We have now no other rule, whereby to measure his merit, but in the several fragments selected from his comedies by various authors of the lower ages, and these, though tolerably numerous, will scarce suffice to give such an insight into the original, as may enable us to pronounce upon it's comparative excellence with any critical precision: True it is, even these small reliques have agitated the curiosity of the learned moderns, to whom so many valuable authors are lost, but we cannot contemplate them without a sensible regret to find how few amongst them comprise any such portion of the dialogue, as to open the character, stile and manner of the writer, and not often enough to furnish a conjecture at the fable they appertain to; they are like small crevices, letting in one feeble ray of light into a capacious building; they dart occasionally upon some rich and noble part, but they cannot convey to us a full and perfect idea of the symmetry and construction of the majestic whole.
I have the titles of one hundred and four comedies under the name of this author.
No CII.
WHEN I find the Middle Comedy abounding with invectives against women, I am tempted to think it was the aera of bad wives. Antiphanes wrote two plays of a satirical cast, one intitled
Matrimony,
and the other
The Nuptials
; we may venture to guess that the following passages have belonged to one or both of these plays—
Ye foolish husbands, trick not out your wives;
Dress not their persons fine, but cloath their minds,
Tell 'em your secrets!—Tell 'em to the crier,
And make the market-place your confidante!—
Nay, but there's proper penalties for blabbing.—
What penalties! they'll drive you out of them;
Summon your children into court, convene
Relations, friends, and neighbours to confront
And nonsuit your complaint, till in the end
Justice is hooted down, and guilt prevails.
The second is in a more animated strain of comedy.
For this, and only this, I'll trust a woman,
That if you take life from her she will die,
And being dead she'll come to life no more;
In all things else I am an infidel.
Oh! might I never more behold a woman!
Rather than I should meet that object, Gods!
Strike out my eyes—I'll thank you for your mercy.
We are indebted to Athenaeus for part of a dialogue, in which Antiphanes has introduced a traveller to relate a whimsical contrivance, which the king of Cyprus had made use of for cooling the air of his banquetting-chamber, whilst he sate at supper.
You say you've pass'd much of your time in Cyprus.
All; for the war prevented my departure.
In what place chiefly, may I ask?
In Paphos;
Where I saw elegance in such perfection,
As almost mocks belief.
Of what kind, pray you?
Take this for one—The monarch, when he sups,
Is fann'd by living doves.
You make me curious
How this is to be done; all other questions
I will put by to be resolv'd in this.
There is a juice drawn from the Carpin tree,
To which your dove instinctively is wedded
With a most loving appetite; with this
The king anoints his temples, and the odour
No sooner captivates the silly birds,
Than strait they flutter round him, nay, would fly
A bolder pitch, so strong a love-charm draws them,
And perch, O horror! on his sacred crown,
If that such prophanation were permitted
Of the bye-standers, who with reverend care
Fright them away, till thus, retreating now
And now advancing, they keep such a coil
With their broad vans, and beat the lazy air
Into so quick a stir, that in the conflict
His royal lungs are comfortably cool'd,
And thus he sups as Paphian monarchs should.
An old man in the comedy, as it should seem, of the
, reasons thus—
I grant you that an old fellow like myself, if he be a wise fellow withal, one that has seen much and learnt a great deal, may be good for something and keep a shop open for all customers, who want advice in points of difficulty. Age is as it were an altar of refuge for human distresses to fly to. Oh! longevity, coveted by all who are advancing towards thee, curs'd by all who have attained thee; railed at by the wise, betray'd by them who consult thee, and well spoken of by no one.—And yet what is it we old fellows can be charged with? We are no spendthrifts, do not consume our means in gluttony, run mad for a wench, or break locks to get at her; and why then may not old age, seeing such discretion belongs to it, be allowed it's pretensions to happiness?
A servant thus rallies his master upon a species of hypocrisy natural to old age.
Ah! good my master, you may sigh for death,
And call amain upon him to release you,
But will you bid him welcome when he comes?
Not you. Old Charon has a stubborn task
To tug you to his wherry and dislodge you
From your rich tables, when your hour is come:
I muse the Gods send not a plague amongst you,
A good, brisk, sweeping, epidemic plague:
There's nothing else can make you all immortal.
Surely there is good comedy in this raillery of the servant—The following short passages have a very neat turn of expression in the original.
An honest man to law makes no resort;
His conscience is the better rule of court.
The man, who first laid down the pedant rule,
That love is folly, was himself the fool;
For if to life that transport you deny,
What privilege is left us—but to die?
Cease, mourners, cease complaint, and weep no more!
Your lost friends are not dead, but gone before,
Advanc'd a stage or two upon that road,
Which you must travel in the steps they trode;
In the same inn we all shall meet at last,
There take new life and laugh at sorrows past.
When I meet these and many other familiar sentiments, which these designers after nature abound in, I ask myself where originality is to be sought for; not with these poets it is clear, for their sickles are for ever in each other's corn; nor even with the founders of the Greek drama, for they all leant upon Homer, as he perhaps on others antecedent to his aera. As for the earliest writers of our own stage, the little I have read of their rude beginnings seems to be a dull mass of second-hand pedantry coarsely daubed with ribaldry: In Shakespear you meet originality of the purest cast, a new creation, bright and beaming with unrivalled lustre; his contemporary Jonson did not seem to aim at it.
Though I have already given a Parasite from Eupolis, and compared him with Jonson's admirable Mosca, yet I cannot refuse admission to a very pleasant, impudent fellow, who gives name to a comedy of Antiphanes, and in the following spirited apology for his life and actions takes upon him the office of being his own historian.
What art, vocation, trade or mystery
Can match with your fine Parasite?—The Painter?
He! a mere dauber: A vile drudge the Farmer:
Their business is to labour, our's to laugh,
To jeer, to quibble, faith Sirs! and to drink,
Aye, and drink lustily. Is not this rare?
'Tis life, my life at least: The first of pleasures
Were to be rich myself, but next to this
I hold it best to be a Parasite,
And feed upon the rich. Now mark me right!
Set down my virtues one by one: Imprimis,
Good-will to all men—Would they were all rich
So might I gull them all: Malice to none;
I envy no man's fortune, all I wish
Is but to share it: Would you have a friend,
A gallant, steady friend? I am your man:
No striker I, no swaggerer, no defamer,
But one to bear all these and still forbear:
If you insult, I laugh, unruffled, merry,
Invincibly good-humour'd still I laugh:
A stout good soldier I, valorous to a fault,
When once my stomach's up and supper serv'd:
You know my humour, not one spark of pride,
Such and the same for ever to my friends:
If cudgell'd, molten iron to the hammer
Is not so malleable; but if I cudgel,
Bold as the thunder: Is one to be blinded?
I am the lightning's flash: to be puff'd up,
I am the wind to blow him to the bursting:
Choak'd, strangled?—I can do't and save a halter:
Would you break down his doors? Behold an earthquake:
Open and enter them?—A battering-ram:
Will you sit down to supper? I'm your guest,
Your very
Fly
to enter without bidding:
Would you move off? You'll move a well as soon:
I'm for all work, and tho' the job were stabbing,
Betraying, false-accusing, only say
Do this, and it is done! I stick at nothing;
They call me Thunder-bolt for my dispatch;
Friend of my friends am I: Let actions speak me;
I'm much too modest to commend myself.
I must consider this fragment as a very striking specimen of the author, and the only licence I have used is to tack together two separate extracts from the same original, which meet in the break of the tenth line, and so appositely that it is highly probable they both belong to the same speech; more than probable to the same comedy and character. Lucian's Parasite seems much beholden to this of Antiphanes.
Antiphanes was on a certain occasion commanded to read one of his comedies in the presence of Alexander the Great; he had the mortification to find that the play did not please the royal critic; the moment was painful, but the poet, addressing the monarch as follows, ingeniously contrived to vindicate his own production at the same time he was passing a courtly compliment to the prince, at whose command he read it—
"I cannot wonder, O king! that you disapprove of my comedy; for he, who could be entertained by it, must have been present at the scenes it represents; he must be acquainted with the vulgar humours of our public ordinaries, have been familiar with the impure manners of our courtesans, a party in the beating-up of many a brothel, and a sufferer as well as an actor in those unseemly frays and riots: Of all these things, you, Great Sir! are not informed, and the fault lies more in my presumption for intruding them upon your hearing, than in any want of fidelity, with which I have described them."
No CIII.
ANAXANDRIDES.
ANAXANDRIDES of Rhodes, son of Anaxander, was author of sixty-five comedies, with ten of which he bore away the prizes from his competitors. Nature bestowed upon this poet not only a fine genius, but a most beautiful person; his stature was of the tallest, his air elegant and engaging, and, whilst he affected an effeminate delicacy in his habit and appearance, he was a victim to the most violent and uncontroulable passions, which, whenever he was disappointed of the prize he contended for, were vented upon every person and thing that fell in his way, not excepting even his own unfortunate dramas, which he would tear in pieces and scatter amongst the mob, or at other times devote them to the most ignominious uses he could devise: Of these he would preserve no copy, and thus it came to pass that many admirable comedies were actually destroyed and lost to posterity. His dress was splendid and extravagant in the extreme, being of the finest purple richly fringed with gold, and his hair was not coiled up in the Athenian fashion, but suffered to fall over his shoulders at it's full length: His muse was no less wanton and voluptuous than his manners, for it is recorded of him, that he was the first comic poet, who ventured to introduce upon the scene incidents of the grossest intrigue: He was not only severe upon Plato and the Academy, but attacked the magistracy of Athens, charging them with the depravity of their lives in so daring and contemptuous a stile, that they brought him to trial, and by one of the most cruel sentences upon record condemned the unhappy poet to be starved to death.
Zarottus and some other commentators upon Ovid interpret that distich in his
Ibis
to allude to Anaxandrides, where he says, ver. 525-6.
Utve parum stabili qui carmine laesit Athenas,
Invisus pereas deficiente cibo.
Or meet the libeller's unpitied fate,
Starv'd for traducing the Athenian state.
I know this interpretation of Zarottus is controverted upon the authority of Pausanias, and Ovid is supposed by some to point at Maevius, by others at Hipponax; but as the name of the sufferer is not given, those, who incline to the construction of Eustathius as well as Zarottus, will apply it to our author.
Of the titles of his comedies eight and twenty remain, but for his fragments, which are few in number, I discover none, which seem to merit a translation; had he spared those which his passion destroyed, happy chance might perhaps have rescued something worth our notice.
ARISTOPHON.
This poet has left us more and better remembrancers of his muse, though fewer of his history: That he was a writer of the Middle Comedy is all I can collect, which personally concerns him: The titles of four of his comedies are in my hands, but though Plutarch, Athenae us, Laertius in his Pythagoras, Stobaeus and Gyraldus all make mention of his name, none of them have given us any anecdotes of his history.
Love and matrimony, which are subjects little touched upon by the writers of the Old Comedy, became important personages in the Middle Drama; the former seems to have opened a very flowery field to fancy, the last appears generally to have been set up as the butt of ridicule and invective.—Our author for instance tells us—
A man may marry once without a crime,
But curst is he, who weds a second time.
On the topic of love he is more playful and ingenious—
Love, the disturber of the peace of heaven,
And grand fomenter of Olympian feuds,
Was banish'd from the synod of the Gods:
They drove him down to earth at the expence
Of us poor mortals, and curtail'd his wings
To spoil his soaring and secure themselves
From his annoyance—Selfish, hard decree!
For ever since he roams th' unquiet world,
The tyrant and despoiler of mankind.
There is a fragment of his comedy of the
Pythagorista,
in which he ridicules that philosopher's pretended visit to the regions of the dead—
I've heard this arrogant impostor tell,
Amongst the wonders which he saw in hell,
That Pluto with his scholars sate and fed,
Singling them out from the inferior dead:
Good faith! the monarch was not over-nice,
Thus to take up with beggary and lice.
In another passage of the same satirical comedy he thus humorously describes the disciples of Pythagoras—
So gaunt they seem, that famine never made
Of lank Philippides so mere a shade;
Of salted tunny-fish their scanty dole,
Their beverage, like the frog's, a standing pool,
With now and then a cabbage, at the best
The leavings of the caterpillar's feast:
No comb approaches their dishevell'd hair
To rout the long-establish'd myriads there;
On the bare ground their bed, nor do they know
A warmer coverlid than serves the crow;
Flames the meridian sun without a cloud?
They bask like grasshoppers and chirp as loud:
With oil they never even feast their eyes;
The luxury of stockings they despise,
But bare-foot as the crane still march along
All night in chorus with the screech-owl's song.
Of AXIONICUS the comic poet I have nothing to relate but that he was a writer of reputation in the period we are describing, and that we have the titles of six of his comedies with a small parcel of uninteresting fragments, chiefly to be found in Athenaeus.
BATHON I must also pass over like the former, no records of his history and only a few fragments of his comedies with three of their titles remaining.
Though I class CHAEREMON amongst the writers of the Middle Comedy, I have some doubt if he should not have been in the list of Old Dramatists, being said to have been the scholar of Socrates: He is celebrated by Aristotle, Athenaeus, Suidas, Stobaeus, Theophrastus and others, and the titles of nine of his comedies are preserved in those authors with some scraps of his dialogue. Aristotle relates that in his comedy of
The Hippocentaur
he introduced a rhapsody, in which he contrived to mix every species of metre, inventing as it should seem a characteristic measure for a compound monster out of nature.
Of CLEARCHUS we have a few fragments and the titles of three comedies preserved by Athenaeus; the same author gives us the title of one comedy by CRITON, of four by CROBYLUS and of two by DEMOXENUS, one of which is
The Self-Tormentor,
or
Heautontimorumenos
; this poet was an Athenian born, and seems to have been a voluminous writer. Of DEMETRIUS there remains only one fragment, yet we have testimony of his having been a comic poet of this period in great reputation.
DIODORUS was a native of Sinope, a city of Pontus, and the birth-place of many eminent poets and philosophers; we have the titles of three of his comedies, and from the few fragments of his works now existing I have selected these which follow—
This is my rule, and to this rule I'll hold,
To chuse my wife by merit not by gold;
For on that one election must depend
Whether I wed a fury or a friend.
When your foe dies let all resentment cease,
Make peace with death, and death shall give you peace.
I meet with another fragment of this author, which is so far curious, as it contains a bold blasphemy against the supreme of the heathen deities, and marks the very loose hold, which the established religion had upon the minds of the common people of Athens at this period, who must have been wonderfully changed by the new philosophy from the times of Aeschylus and Aristophanes, who both incurred their resentment in a very high degree for daring to affront the Gods, though it is probable neither went the length of Diodorus's Parasite, who asserts the superior dignity, authority and even divinity of his vocation with the following hardy allusion to Jupiter himself—
"All other arts,"
says he,
"have been of man's invention without the help of the Gods, but Jupiter himself, who is our partner in the trade, first taught us how to play the parasite, and he without dispute is of all Gods the greatest. 'Tis his custom to make himself welcome in every house he enters, rich or poor, no matter which; wherever he finds the dinner-table neatly spread, the couches ready set, and all things in decent order, down sits he without ceremony; eats; drinks and makes merry, and all at free cost, cajoling his poor host; and in the end, when he has filled his belly and bilked his club, coolly walks home at his leisure."
DIONYSIUS the comic poet was also a native of Sinope, the countryman as well as contemporary of Diodorus. I have nothing but a short sentence from this author, which conveys an excellent maxim so neatly turned, that I shall set it down in the original—
Either. say something better than nothing, or say nothing!
The noted tyrant of Sicily of the above name was also a writer both of tragedy and comedy.
EPHIPPUS, a writer of comedy in this period, was a native of Athens, and one of the most celebrated poets of his age; we have the titles of twelve of his comedies, of all which that intitled
Philyra
was the most admired; this
Philyra
was the mother of Chiron the Centaur.
No CIV.
EPICRATES.
EPICRATES was a native of the city of Ambrasia, the capital of Epirus; his reputation is high amongst the writers of the class under our present review; he was somewhat junior in point of time to Antiphanes before mentioned, and, if we are to give credit to Athenaeus, was an imitator of that poet's manner; it is said that he went so far as to copy certain passages out of his comedies and introduce them into his own. Five of his comedies are named, and the following remnant of a dialogue ridicules the frivolous disquisitions of the Academy in so pleasant a stile of comic irony, that I think myself happy in the discovery of it. The learned reader will acknowledge a striking similitude in the manner to Aristophanes's remarks upon the occupations of Socrates's scholars in the comedy of
The Clouds.
I pray you, Sir (for I perceive you learn'd
In these grave matters) let my ignorance suck
Some profit from your courtesy, and tell me
What are your wise philosophers engag'd in,
Your Plato, Menedemus and Speasippus?
What mighty mysteries have they in projection?
What new discoveries may the world expect
From their profound researches? I conjure you,
By Earth, our common mother, to impart them!
Sir, you shall know at our great festival
I was myself their hearer, and so much
As I there heard will presently disclose,
So you will give it ears, for I must speak
Of things perchance surpassing your belief,
So strange they will appear; but so it happen'd,
That these most sage Academicians sate
In solemn consultation—on a cabbage.
A cabbage! what did they discover there?
Oh sir! your cabbage hath it's sex and gender,
It's provinces, prerogatives and ranks,
And nicely handled breeds as many questions
As it does maggots. All the younger fry
Stood dumb with expectation and respect,
Wond'ring what this same cabbage should bring forth:
The Lecturer ey'd them round, whereat a youth
Took heart, and breaking first the awful silence,
Humbly crav'd leave to think—that it was round:
The cause was now at issue, and a second
Opin'd it was an herb—A third conceiv'd
With due submission it might be a plant—
The difference methought was such, that each
Might keep his own opinion and be right;
But soon a bolder voice broke up the council,
And, stepping forward, a Sicilian quack
Told them their question was abuse of time,
It was a cabbage, neither more nor less,
And they were fools to prate so much about it—
Insolent wretch! amazement seiz'd the troop,
Clamor and wrath and tumult rag'd amain,
Till Plato, trembling for his own philosophy,
And calmly praying patience of the court,
Took up the cabbage and adjourn'd the cause.
ERIPHUS was also a writer of the Middle Comedy, and like the poet last reviewed is charged by Athenaeus with being a copyist of Antiphanes. Three small fragments, and the titles of three plays, are every thing which now remains of this author.
EUBULUS.
Eubulus, the son of Euphranor, and a native of Atarna in Lesbos, ranks with the most celebrated poets of this aera, and though Suidas enumerates only four and twenty of his comedies, Athenaeus contends that he was the author of fifty, and the names of all these are still upon the list. He flourished in Olymp. CI, which is so high in the period now under review, as to make it matter of doubt whether the Old Comedy has not a joint claim to his productions with the Middle: Ammonius however expressly classes Eubulus amongst the latter, and quotes his comedy of
The Cup Bearers
; it is from this very comedy as it should seem, that the famous passage was taken, in which he introduces Bacchus in person laying down to mankind these temperate and moral rules against the abuse of his blessings—
Three cups of wine a prudent man may take;
The first of-these for constitution's sake;
The second to the girl he loves the best;
The third and last to lull him to his rest,
Then home to bed!—but if a fourth he pours,
That is the cup of folly and not ours;
Loud noisy talking on the fifth attends;
The sixth breeds feuds and falling-out of friends;
Seven beget blows and faces stain'd with gore;
Fight
and the watch-patrole breaks ope the door;
Mad with the ninth, another cup goes round,
And the twill'd sot drops senseless to the ground.
When such maxims of moderation proceed from the mouth of Bacchus, it argues great impiety in his votaries not to obey them.
The most elegant epigrammatist might be proud to father the following ingenious turn upon the emblem of Love addressed to a painter—
Why, foolish painter, give those wings to Love?
Love is not light, as my sad heart can prove:
Love hath no wings, or none that I can see;
If he can fly—oh! bid him fly from me!
EUPHRON.
Euphron is another poet of our Middle list, and one whose fame has outlived the works on which it was founded. Six of his comedies only have bequeathed their names to us, and a very scanty portion of their contents. One of these was intitled
Adelphi,
another claimant perhaps upon Terence. Athenaeus and Stobaeus, (thanks to their passion for quotations and fragments!) have favoured us with a few small reliques.—There is something in the following distich of a melancholy and touching simplicity—
Tell me, all-judging Jove, if this be fair
To make so short a life so full of care?
What next ensues I recommend to the gentlemen, who amuse themselves with cutting out work for Doctors-Commons:
Hence, vile adulterer, I scorn to gain
Pleasures extorted from another's pain!
The antients had a notion, that a man, who took no care of his own affairs, was not the fittest person in the world to be entrusted with those of others; writers for the stage must make the most of vulgar errors, whilst they are in fashion, and this may have betrayed our poet into a sentiment, which modern wits will not give him much credit for—
Let not his fingers touch the public chest,
Who by his own profusion is distrest;
For long long years of care it needs must take
To heal those wounds, which one short hour will make.
I think the reader will acknowledge a very spirited and striking turn of thought in this short apostrophe.
Wretch! find new gods to witness to new lies,
Thy perjuries have made the old too wise!
HENIOCHUS.
Heniochus, the author of a numerous collection of comedies, was born at Athens, a writer of a grave sententious cast, and one, who scrupled not to give a personal name to one of his comedies, written professedly against the character of
Thorucion,
a certain military prefect in those times, and a notorious traitor to his country. The titles of fifteen comedies are upon the list of this poet's works: from one of these a curious fragment has been saved, and though it seems rather of a political than a dramatic complexion, I think it's good sense is sufficient to recommend it to a place in this collection.
I will enumerate to you several cities, which in the course of time have fallen into egregious folly and declension: You may demand why I instance them at this time and in this place—I answer that we are now present in the city of Olympia, and you may figure to yourself a kind of Pythian solemnity in the scene before us—Granted! you'll say, and what then?—Why then I may conceive these several cities here assembled by their representatives for the purpose of celebrating their redemption from slavery by solemn sacrifices to the Genius of Liberty: This performed, they deliver themselves over to be governed at the discretion of two certain female personages, whom I shall name to you—the one Democracy, Aristocracy the other—From this fatal moment universal anarchy and misrule inevitably fall upon those cities, and they are lost.
MNESIMACHUS.
This poet is recorded by Aelian and Athenaeus, and by the samples we have of his comedy, few as they are, we may see that he was a minute describer of the familiar manners and characters of the age he lived in: I take him to have been a writer of a peculiar cast, a dealer in low and loquacious dialogue, a strong coarse colourist, and one, who, if time had spared his works, would probably have imparted to us more of the
Costuma,
as it is called, than any of his contemporaries: I persuade myself that the samples I am about to produce will justify these surmises with respect to Mnesimachus.
Jonson could not describe, nor Mortimer delineate, a company of banditti or bravos at their meal in bolder caricature, than what the following sketch displays.
Dost know whom thou'rt to sup with, friend?—I'll tell thee;
With gladiators, not with peaceful guests;
Instead of knives we're arm'd with naked swords,
And swallow firebrands in the place of food:
Daggers of Crete are serv'd us for confections,
And for a plate of pease a fricassee
Of shatter'd spears: the cushions we repose on
Are shields and breast-plates, at our feet a pile
Of slings and arrows, and our foreheads wreath'd
With military ensigns, not with myrtle.
There remains a very curious fragment of a dialogue between a master and his slave, which lays open to the reader the whole catalogue of an Athenian fish-market, and after all the pains it has occasioned me in the decyphering, leaves me under the necessity of setting down a few of the articles in their original names, not being able to find any lexicon or grammarian in the humour to help me out of my difficulty.
Harkye, fellow! make the best of your way to Phidon's riding-school (your road lies through the cypress-grove burying-place to the forum by the public baths, where our tribunes hold their meetings) and tell those pretty gentlemen, who are there at their exercises of vaulting on their horses and off their horses (you know well enough whom I mean) tell 'em I say that their supper is grown cold, their liquor hot, their pastry dry, their bread stale, their roast done to powder, their salt-meat stript from the very bones, their tripes, chitterlings, sausages and stuft-puddings mangled and devoured by guests, who are before-hand with 'em: The glass has gone round, and the wine is nearly out; the company are at their frolicks, and the house thrown out of windows—Now mark and remember every syllable I have said to you—Dost yawn, rascal?—Let me hear if you can repeat the message I have given you.
From the first word to the last, as you shall witness.—I am to bid those sparks come home and not loiter till the cook makes plunder of the broken victuals; I am to say the boil'd and the roast are ready; I am to reckon up their bill of fare, their onions, olives, garlick, coleworts, gourds, beans, lettuce, knot-grass; their salted tunny-fish, their shad, sturgeon, soals, conger, purple-fish and blackfish (both whole ones) their anchovy, mackarel, fresh tunny, gudgeons, rock-fish, dog-fish tails, cramp-fish, frog-fish, perch, baccalao, sardin, seaweed-fish, sea-urchin, surmullet, cuckow-fish, pastinaca, lamprey, barbel, grey-muliet,
Lebias, Sparus,
char, Aelian-fish, Thracian-fish, swallow-fish, prawns, calamary, flounder, shrimps, polypody, cuttle-fish,
Orphus,
lobster, crab, bleak, needle-fish, sprats, sea-scorpion and grigg—I am to put them in mind of their roasts without number, of their goose, pork, beef, lamb, mutton, goat, kid, pullet, duck, swan, partridge, bergander, and a thousand more—I am to warn them that their messmates are already fast by the teeth, chewing, gnawing, cutting, carving, boiling, roasting, laughing, playing, dancing, junketting, drinking, mobbing, scuffling, boxing, battling,—that the pipers are at their sport; every body singing, chorussing, clamouring, whilst the house smoaks with the odours of cinnamon, frankincense, myrrh, sweet-cane, storax, aloes, ambergrise, musk, camphire, cassia and a flood of all other exquisite perfumes—
No CV.
MOSCHION.
MOSCHION stands upon the authority of Clemens Alexandrinus and Stobaeus as a writer of the Middle Comedy, and a dramatist of a very moral and pathetic turn; his fragments fully verify that character. A person in one of his dramas relates the following melancholy circumstance.
I met a lamentable example of fortune's instability—A prince of Argos begging his bread—The man, awhile ago so celebrated for his great talents, high birth, and exalted rank, was now reduced to the lowest state of human wretchedness, an object of commiseration to every body who beheld him: Such of us as reached out the hand to him, or consoled him with the words of pity for his miserable condition, could not leave him without abundance of tears; surely such a dismal revolution of worldly fortune can never be contemplated but with sympathy and condolence.
The tender and religious sentiments conveyed in the next fragment, which we owe to Clemens, certainly demand a place of honour, (was such honour in my power to bestow) in this collection.
Let the earth cover and protect it's dead!
And let man's breath thither return in peace
From whence it came; his spirit to the skies,
His body to the clay of which 'twas form'd,
Imparted to him as a loan for life,
Which he and all must render back again
To earth, the common mother of mankind.
Again, in a strain yet more elevated—
Wound not the soul of a departed man!
'Tis impious cruelty; let justice strike
The living, but in mercy spare the dead.
And why pursue a shadow that is past?
Why slander the deaf earth, that cannot hear,
The dumb that cannot utter? When the soul
No longer takes account of human wrongs,
Nor joys nor sorrows touch the mouldering heart,
As well you may give feeling to the tomb,
As what it covers—both alike defy you.
NICOSTRATUS comes next under our review, a poet in his class of great reputation, as Athenaeus, Suidas, Laertius and others testify. His comedies were found after his death in a chest, where they had been long missing and much regretted; we have to the amount of fourteen of their titles, and are further informed that he was so excellent an actor, that it became a proverb of honour to pronounce upon any capital performer, that
He played in the stile of Nicostratus.
It is with regret I discover nothing in the few small fragments of this eminent author and actor worth translating; however, that I may not pass over his remains without the grateful ceremony of bestowing one small tribute to his memory, I have rendered this short epigrammatic distich into our language—
If this incessant chattering be your plan,
I would ye were a swallow, not a man!
The talents of the greatest actor at best can survive him by tradition only, but when Nature to those rare attributes adds the gift of a poetic genius, it gives a double poignancy to our regret, that time should not have left a relique even of these more considerable than the above.
Of PHILIPPUS the comic poet I have no anecdotes to record, and nothing but the names of three comedies to refer to.
PHOENICIDES.
We are beholden to this poet for a very pleasant narrative made by a lady of easy virtue, in which she describes certain of her keepers with a great deal of comic humour, and it is humour of a sort, that has not evaporated by the intervention of twenty centuries; she was tired of her trade, and therefore, though the theme be a loose one, the moral of it is good: The lady is in conversation with a man named Pythias, but whether the friend of Damon the Pythagorean, or some other, does not appear: The noble professions of arms, physic, and philosophy had taken their turns in her good graces, but for the credit they gained by the account, I think it is pretty equally divided amongst them—
So help me, Venus! as I'm fairly sick,
Sick to the soul, my Pythias, of this trade:—
No more on't! I'll be no man's mistress, I:
Don't talk to me of Destiny; I've done with't;
I'll hear no prophecies—for mark me well—
No sooner did I buckle to this business,
Than strait behold a Man of War assail'd me—
He told me of his battles o'er and o'er,
Shew'd me good stock of scars, but none of cash,
No, not a doit—but still he vapour'd much
Of what a certain Prince would do, and talk'd
Of this and that commission—in the clouds,
By which he gull'd me of a twelvemonth's hope,
Liv'd at free cost, and fed me upon love.
At length I sent my man of valour packing,
And a grave son of Physic fill'd his place:
My house now seem'd an hospital of Lazars,
And the vile beggar mangled without mercy,
A very hangman bath'd in human gore.
My Soldier was a prince compar'd to this,
For his were merry fibs; this son of Death
Turn'd every thing he touch'd into a corpse.
When Fortune, who had yet good store of spite,
Now coupled me to a most learn'd Philosopher;
Plenty of beard he had, a cloak withal,
Enough to spare of each, and moral maxims
More than I could digest, but money—none;
His sect abhorr'd it; 'twas a thing proscrib'd
By his philosophy, an evil root,
And when I ask'd him for a taste, 'twas poison;
Still I demanded it, and for the reason
That he so slightly priz'd it—all in vain—
I could not wring a drachma from his clutches—
Defend me, Heaven! from all philosophers!
SOTADES.
Sotades was a native Athenian, an elegant writer and in great favour with the theatre. I shall present the reader with one of his fragments, which will be a strong contrast to the foregoing one, and which seems to prove, amongst many other instances, how much the grave and sentimental comedy now began to be in fashion with the Athenians.
Is there a man, just, honest, nobly born?—
Malice shall hunt him down. Does wealth attend him?
Trouble is hard behind—Conscience direct?—
Beggary is at his heels: Is he an Artist?—
Farewell, repose! An equal upright Judge?—
Report shall blast his virtues: Is he strong?—
Sickness shall sap his strength; account that day,
Which brings no new mischance, a day of rest;
For what is man? what matter is he made of?
How born? what is he and what shall he be?
What an unnatural parent is this world,
To foster none but villains, and destroy
All, who are benefactors to mankind!
What was the fate of Socrates?—A prison,
A dose of poison; tried, condemn'd and kill'd:
How died Diogenes?—As a dog dies,
With a raw morsel in his hungry throat:
Alas for Aeschylus! musing he walk'd,
The soaring eagle dropt a tortoise down,
And crush'd that brain, where Tragedy had birth:
A paltry grape-stone choak'd the
Athenian Bee:
Mastiffs of Thrace devour'd Euripides,
And god-like Homer, woe the while! was starv'd—
Thus life, blind life teems with perpetual woes.
There is a melancholy grandeur in these sentiments with a simplicity of expression, which prove to us that these authors occasionally digressed from the gay spirit of comedy into passages not only of the most serious, but sublimest cast; and I am persuaded this specimen of the poet Sotades, notwithstanding the disadvantages of translation, will strike the reader as an instance in point. Where but one fragment is to be found of a writer's works, and that one of so elevated a character, must it not impress the mind with deep regret to think how many noble strains of poetry, how many elegant and brilliant turns of wit these compositions would have furnished, had they come down to us entire? and may I not flatter myself, that as many as feel this regret, will look with candour upon these attempts?
STRATON.
This poet supplies us with the names of two comedies and the small bequest of one fragment; it is however an acceptable one, being interesting as recounting part of a dialogue, which to a certain degree gives some display of character, and also as being of a facetious, comic cast in the character of familiar life. The speaker is some master of a family, who is complaining to his companion in the scene of the whimsical, conceited humour of his cook—
I've harbour'd a He-Sphinx and not a Cook,
For by the Gods he talk'd to me in riddles
And coin'd new words that pose me to interpret.
No sooner had he enter'd on his office,
Than, eyeing me from head to foot, he cries—
How many m
rtals hast thou bid to supper?
Mortals! quoth I, what tell you me of mortals?
Let Jove decide on their mortality;
You
ure; none by that name are bidden.
No Table-Usher? no one to officiate
As Master of the Courses?
—No such person;
Moschion and Niceratus and Philinus;
These are my guests and friends, and amongst these
You'll find no table-decker as I take it.
Gods! is it possible?
cried he: Most certain
I patiently replied; He swell'd and huff'd,
As if forsooth I had done him heinous wrong,
And robb'd him of his proper dignity;
Ridiculous conceit!—
What offering mak'st thou
To Erysichthon?
he demanded: None—
Shall not the wide-horn'd ox be fell'd?
cries he;
I sacrifice no ox—
Nor yet a wether?
Not I, by Jove; a simple sheep perhaps
And what's a wether but a sheep?
cries he.
I'm a plain man, my friend, and therefore speak
Plain language:—
What! I speak as Homer does
;
And sure a cook may use like privilege
And more than a blind poet
—Not with me;
I'll have no kitchen-Homers in my house;
So pray discharge yourself!—This said, we parted.
No CVI.
THEOPHILUS.
THE fragments of this poet supply me with a passage upon the fertile subject of love, which is of very lively cast, and in a miscellaneous collection like this certainly deserves to be received as one of the beauties of the Greek stage—
If love be folly as the schools wou'd prove,
The man must lose his wits who falls in love;
Deny him love, you doom the wretch to death,
And then it follows he must lose his breath.
Good sooth! there is a young and dainty maid
I dearly love, a minstrel she by trade;
What then? must I defere to pedant rule,
And own that love transforms me to a fool?
Not I, so help me! By the Gods I swear,
The nymph I love is fairest of the fair;
Wise, witty, dearer to her poet's sight,
Than piles of money on an author's night;
Must I not love her then? Let the dull sot,
Who made the law, obey it! I will not.
We have the names of seven comedies ascribed to this author.
TIMOCLES.
Of this name we have two comic poets upon record, one of whom was an Athenian born, and to him Suidas ascribes six comedies; of the other's birth-place we have no account, but of his plays we have eleven titles, and the fragments of both are quoted indiscriminately: Amongst these I have selected one, which is so far matter of curiosity as it gives some description of the illustrious orator Demosthenes—
Bid me say any thing rather than this;
But on this theme Demosthenes himself
Shall sooner check the torrent of his speech
Than I—Demosthenes! that angry orator,
That bold Briareus, whose tremendous throat,
Charg'd to the teeth with battering-rams and spears,
Beats down opposers; brief in speech was he,
But, crost in argument, his threat'ning eyes
Flash'd fire, whilst thunder vollied from his lips.
To one of the poets of the name of Timocles, but to which I know not, we are also indebted for a complimentary allusion to the powers of Tragedy; it is the only instance of the sort, which the Greek Comedy now furnishes, and I am gratified by the discovery, not only for the intrinsic merit of the passage, but for the handsome tribute which it pays to the moral uses of the tragic drama.
Nay, my good friend, but hear me! I confess
Man is the child of sorrow, and this world,
In which we breathe, hath cares enough to plague us,
But it hath means withal to sooth these cares,
And he, who meditates on other's woes,
Shall in that meditation lose his own:
Call then the tragic poet to your aid,
Hear him, and take instruction from the stage:
Let Telephus appear; behold a prince,
A spectacle of poverty and pain,
Wretched in both.—And what if you are poor?
Are you a demi-god? are you the son
Of Hercules? begone! complain no more.
Doth your mind struggle with distracting thoughts?
Do your wits wander? are you mad? Alas!
So was Alcmaeon, whilst the world ador'd
His father as their God. Your eyes are dim;
What then? the eyes of Oedipus were dark,
Totally dark. You mourn a son; he's dead;
Turn to the tale of Niobe for comfort,
And match your loss with her's. You're lame of foot;
Compare it with the foot of Philoctetes,
And make no more complaint. But you are old,
Old and unfortunate; consult Oëneus;
Hear what a king endur'd, and learn content.
Sum up your miseries, number up your sighs,
The tragic stage shall give you tear for tear,
And wash out all afflictions but it's own.
With the poet XENARCHUS, author of eight dramas, I conclude my catalogue of the writers of the Middle Comedy; one short but spirited apostrophe I collect from this poet, and I offer it in it's naturalized state as a small remembrance of my zeal to catch at every relique of his shipwrecked muse.
Ah faithless women! when you swear
I register your oaths in air.
I have now produced a list of comic poets, thirty-two in number, who were celebrated writers for the Athenian stage within the period we have been reviewing, and in these translations the reader has before him every thing that time has spared of their productions except a few short and insignificant sentences, which had nothing to recommend them: The imperfect anecdotes here given of the several authors may be thought to contain very little interesting matter, but it has been no slight task to collect even these, and I am persuaded that my search has left nothing behind, which can give any further elucidation to the subject; if I were as secure of not having trespassed upon the public patience through too much diligence and minuteness, I should dismiss my anxiety.
The period of the Middle Comedy was of short duration, and thirty-two comic authors are no inconsiderable number to have flourished within that aera; yet we may well suppose others, and probably many others, did exist within the time, of whom no memorial whatever now survives: Most of these names, which I have now for the first time brought together, will I dare say be new even to my learned readers, for not many men of a studious turn, and fewer still of classical taste, will dedicate their time to those dry and deterring books, in which these scattered reliques were deposited, and on which they have hitherto depended for their almost desperate chance of being rescued from extinction. I mention this not ostentatiously as taking credit on the score of industry and discovery, but hoping that the labour of the task will be some apology on my behalf to such of my readers (if any such to my sorrow shall be found) who, having purchased these volumes with an eye to amusement only, may have been tired by the perusal of these papers, or, not caring to peruse them, have been cashiered of the just proportions of a volume.
To the candour of all those monthly publications, which are concerned in the review of new books, I profess myself to be very highly indebted; that they have admitted and commended the sincere and moral motives of my undertaking, is above measure gratifying to me; in this particular I know I have a just claim to their good report, because they cannot credit me for more real love to mankind and more cordial zeal for their social interests, than I truly have at heart, but for my success as an author, (which has so much exceeded my expectations) I cannot deceive myself so far as to ascribe it wholly to my own merits, when I must know how great a share of it was the natural result of their recommending me to the world.
As I have not found any hints in these Reviews, nor in the reports which have come home to me, that have tended to discourage me in the prosecution of these researches into the characters and remains of the Greek dramatists, I have gone on with ardour, and shall go on, if life is granted me, to the end; the writers therefore of
The New Comedy
will come next under my review, and as we descend in time, we shall encrease in matter; the celebrated names of Menander, Philemon, Diphilus, Apollodorus and some few besides, are not wholly left without record, every fragment that bears their stamp has been accounted so venerable, that some of the greatest scholars of modern times have thought it an office of honour to be employed in the collection of them; none of these however have found their way into our language, and as I flatter myself these of the
Middle Comedy
have risen upon their predecessors, I hope what is next to follow will not baulk the climax; my best care and fidelity shall be applied to the translations of such as I shall select for the purpose, and as I have generally found the simplicity of their stile and sentiment accord best to the easy metre of our old English dramatists, I shall mostly endeavour to cloathe them in the dress of those days, when Jonson, Fletcher and Massinger supported the stage. To these I shall probably add some selections from Aristophanes, which I would not insert in their place, being aware that extracts upon a large scale would comparatively have extinguished their contemporaries, when set beside them upon a very contracted one.
Upon the whole it will be my ambition to give to the world what has never yet been attempted, a compleat collection of the beauties of the Greek stage in our own language from the remains of more than fifty comic poets.
No CVII.
Omnes eodem cogimur; omnium
Versatur urna serius ocius
Sors exitura.—
HORAT. CARM.
All to the same last home are bound;
Time's never-weary wheel runs round;
And life at longest or at shortest date
Snaps like a thread betwixt the shears of Fate.
I REMEMBER to have been told of a certain humourist, who set up a very singular doctrine upon the subject of death, asserting that he had discovered it to be not a necessary and inevitable event, but an act of choice and volition; he maintained that he had certain powers and resources within himself sufficient to support him in his resolution of holding out against the summons of death, till he became weary of life; and he pledged himself to his friends, that he would in his own person give experimental proof of his hypothesis.
What particular address death made use of, when this ingenious gentleman was prevailed upon to step out of the world, I cannot take upon myself to say; but certain it is, that in some weak moment he was over-persuaded to lay his head calmly on the pillow and surrender up his breath.
Though an event, so contrary to the promise he had given, must have been a staggering circumstance to many, who were interested in the success of his experiment, yet I see good reason to suspect that his hypothesis is not totally discredited, and that he has yet some surviving disciples, who are acting such a part in this world as nobody would act but upon a strong presumption, that they shall not be compelled to go out of it and enter upon another.
Mortality, it must be owned, hath means of providing for the event of death, though none have yet been discovered of preventing it: Religion and virtue are the great physicians of the soul; patience and resignation are the nursing-mothers of the human heart in sickness and in sorrow; conscience can smooth the pillow under an aching head, and Christian hope administers a cordial even in our last moments, that lulls the agonies of death: But where is the need of these had this discovery been established? why call in physicians and resort to cordials, if we can hold danger at a distance without their help? I am to presume therefore, that every human being, who makes his own will his master, and goes all lengths in gratifying his guilty passions without restraint, must rely upon his own will for keeping him out of all danger of future trouble, or he would never commit himself so confidentially and entirely to a master, which can give him no security in return for his blind obedience and devotion: All persons of this description I accordingly set down in the lump as converts to the doctrine of the learned gentleman, who advanced the interesting discovery above-mentioned, but who unluckily missed some step in the proof, that was to have established it.
To what lengths of credulity they may really go is hard to say, but some such hopes as these must buoy them up, because I cannot think that any man would be wilfully wicked, fraudulent, perfidious, avaricious, cruel, or whatever else is detestable in the eye of God, if he saw death, his messenger, at the door; and I am even unwilling to believe, that he would be wantonly guilty, was he only convinced, that when death shall come to the door, he must be obliged to admit him; for if this be so, and if admission may not be denied, then hath death a kind of visitatorial power over us, which makes him not a guest to be invited at our pleasure, but a lord and master of the house, to enter in at his own, and (which is worst of all) without giving notice to us to provide for his entertainment. What man is such a fool in common life, as to take up his abode in a tenement, of which he is sure to be dispossessed, and yet neglect to prepare himself against a surprise, which he is subject to every moment of the day and night? We are not apt to overlook our own interests and safety in worldly concerns, and therefore when the soul is given up to sin, I must suspect some error in the brain.
What shall I say to persuade the inconsiderate that they exist upon the precarious sufferance of every moment, that passes over them in succession? how shall I warn a giddy fool not to play his antick tricks and caper on the very utmost edge of a precipice? Who will guide the reeling drunkard in his path, and teach him to avoid the grave-stones of his fellow-lots, set up by death as marks and signals to apprise him of his danger? If the voice of nature, deposing to the evidence of life's deceitful tenure from the beginning of things to the moment present, will neither gain audience nor belief, what can the moralist expect?
Which of all those headlong voluptuaries, who seem in such haste to get to the end of life, is possessed of the art of prolonging it at pleasure? to whom has the secret been imparted? Either they are deceived by a vain hope of evading death, or there is something in a life of dissipation not worth preserving. I am astonished at the stupidity of any man, who can deny himself the gratification of conscious integrity: The proud man must be a consummate blockhead to take such wearisome pains for a little extorted flattery of the most servile sort, and overlook the ready means of gaining general respect upon the noblest terms: Is it not an abuse of language and an insult to common sense for a silly fellow to announce himself to the world as a man of pleasure, when there is not an action in his life, but leaves a sting behind it to belye the character he professes? Can one fellow-creature find amusement in tormenting another? Is it possible there can be a recreation in malice, when it slanders the innocent; in fraud, when it cheats the unsuspecting; in perfidy, when it betrays a benefactor? If any being, who does me wrong, will justify himself against the wrong by confessing, that he takes delight in injury, I will own to one instance of human depravity, which till that shall happen I will persist to hope is not in existence: The fact is that all men have that respect for justice, that they attempt to shelter their very worst actions under it's defence; and even those contemptible pilferers of reputation, who would be as much unknown by their names as they are by the concealment of them, qualify (I am persuaded) the dirty deed they are about by some convenient phantom of offence in the character they assault; even their hands cannot be raised to strike without prefacing the blow by saying to themselves—
This man deserves to die.
—Foolish wretches, what computation must they make of life, who devote so great a portion of it to miseries and reproaches of their own creating!
Let a rational creature for once talk common sense to himself, and if no better words than the following occur to his thoughts, let him make use of them; he is heartily welcome to the loan.
I know there is a period in approach, when I must encounter an enemy to my life, whose power is irresistible: This is a very serious thing for me to reflect upon, and knowing it to be a truth infallible, I am out of hope, that I can so far forget the terms of my existence, as totally to expel it from my thoughts: If I could foresee the precise hour, when this enemy will come, I would provide against it as well as I am able, and fortify my mind to receive him with such complacency as I could muster: But of this hour I have alas! no foresight; it may be this moment, or the next, or years may intervene before it comes to pass: It behoves me then to be upon my guard: He may approach in terrors, that agonise me to think of; he may seize my soul in the commission of some dreadful act and transport it to a place, whose horrors have no termination: I will not then commit that dreadful act, because I will not expose myself to that dreadful punishment: It is in my own choice to refrain from it, and I am not such a desperate fool to make choice of misery: If I act with this precaution, will he still appear in this shape of terror? Certainly he will not, nor can he in justice transport me to a place of punishment, when I have committed nothing to deserve it: Whither then will he convey me? To the mansions of everlasting happiness: Where are my fears? What is now become of his terrors? He is my passport, my conductor, my friend: I will welcome him with embraces; I will smile upon him with gratitude, and accompany him with exultation.
No CVIII.
HOWEVER disposed we may be to execrate the bloody act of the regicides, yet we must admit the errors and misconduct of Charles's unhappy reign to be such as cannot be palliated; in our pity for his fate we must not forget the history of his failings, nor, whilst we are sympathising in the pathos of the tragedy, overlook it's moral.
Four successive parliaments, improvidently dissolved, were sufficient warnings for the fifth to fall upon expedients for securing to themselves a more permanent duration by laying some restraints upon a prerogative so wantonly exerted.
Let us call to mind the inauspicious commencement of this monarch's reign; before the ceremony of his coronation had taken place, he espoused a sister of France and set a catholic princess on the throne of a protestant kingdom, scarce cool from the ferment of religious jealousies, recently emancipated from the yoke of Rome and of course intolerant through terror, if not by principle: The most obnoxious man in the kingdom was Montagu, author of the proscribed tract, intitled
Apello Caesarem,
and him Charles enrolled in his list of royal chaplains: By throwing himself incontinently into the hands of Buckingham he shewed his people they were to expect a reign of favoritism, and the choice of the minister marked the character of the monarch: He levied musters for the Palatinate of twelve thousand men, exacted contributions for coat and conduct-money, declared martial law in the kingdom and furnished his brother of France with a squadron of ships for the unpopular reduction of Rochelle, and the mariners refused the service: These measures stirred the parliament then sitting to move for a redress of grievances, before they provided for his debts, and their remonstrances provoked him upon the instant to dissolve them.
Every one of these proceedings took place before his coronation, and form the melancholy prelude to his misguided government.
A second parliament was called together, and to intimidate them from resuming their redress of grievances and divert their attempts from the person of his favorite, he haughtily informs them,
that he cannot suffer an enquiry even on the meanest of his servants.
What was to be expected from such a menacing declaration? They, disdaining
illam osculari, quâ sunt oppressi, manum,
proceed to impeach Buckingham; the king commits the managers of that process to the Tower, and resorting to his prerogative, dissolves his second parliament as suddenly, and more angrily, than his first.
A third parliament meets, and in the interim new grievances of a more awakening sort had supplied them with an ample field for complaint and remonstrance; in the intermission of their sittings, he had exacted a loan, which they interpreted a tax without parliament, and of course a flagrant violation of the constitution; this he enforced with so high a hand, that several gentlemen of name in their counties had been committed to close imprisonment for refusing payment; ship-money also at this time began to be questioned as an intolerable grievance, and being one of the resources for enabling the crown to govern without a parliament, it was considered by many as a violation of their rights, an inequitable and oppressive tax, which ought to be resisted, and accordingly it was resisted: This parliament therefore after a short and inefficient sitting shared the sudden fate of it's predecessors.
The same precipitancy, greater blindness, a more confirmed habit of obstinacy and a heightened degree of aggravation marked this period of intermission from parliaments, for now the leading members of the late house were sent to close imprisonment in the Tower, and informations were lodged against them in the Star-Chamber.
The troubles in Scotland made it necessary for the king once more to have resort to a parliament; they met for the fourth time on the thirteenth of April 1640, and the fifth day of the following month sent them back to their constituents to tell those grievances in the ears of the people, which their sovereign disdained to listen to. Ill-counselled sovereign! but will that word apologize for conduct so intemperate? It cannot: A mind, so flexible towards evil counsel, can possess no requisites for government: What hope now remained for moderate measures, when the people's representatives should again assemble? In this fatal moment the fuel was prepared and the match lighted, to give life to the flames of civil war; already Scotland had set those sparks into a blaze; the king unable to extinguish the conflagration by his own power and resources, for the fifth and last time convenes his parliament; but it was now too late for any confidence or mutual harmony to subsist between the crown and commons; on the third of November following their last dissolution the new-elected members take possession of their seats and the house soon resounds with resolutions for the impeachment of the minister Strafford and the primate Laud: The humbled monarch confirms the fatal bill of attainder and sends Stafford to the scaffold; he ratifies the act for securing parliament against future dissolution, and subscribes to his own death-warrant with the same pen.
The proceedings of this famous parliament are of a mixed nature; in many we discern the true spirit of patriotism, and not a few seem dictated by revenge and violence: The Courts of High Commission and Star-Chamber are abolished, and posterity applauds their deliverers; the city-crosses are pulled down, the bishops sent to the Tower and their whole order menaced with expulsion from parliament, and here we discover the first dawnings of fanatic phrensy: An incurable breach is made in the constitution; it's branches are dissevered, and the axe of rebellion is laid to the root of the tree: The royal standard is set up; the father of his people becomes the general of a party, and the land is floated with the blood of it's late peaceable inhabitants: Great characters start forth in the concussion, great virtues and great vices: Equal courage and superior conduct at length prevail for the leaders of the people; a fanatic champion carries all before him; the sovereign surrenders himself weakly, capitulates feebly, negotiates deceitfully and dies heroically.
And this is the reign, this the exit of a king! Let kings ponder it, for it is a lesson, humbling perhaps to their pride of station, but pointedly addressed to their instruction.
If there is a trust in life, which calls upon the conscience of the man who undertakes it more strongly than any other, it is that of the education of an heir-apparent to a crown: The training such a pupil is a task indeed; how to open his mind to a proper knowledge of mankind without letting in that knowledge, which inclines to evil; how to hold off flattery and yet admit familiarity; how to give the lights of information and shut out the false colours of seduction, demands a judgment for distinguishing and an authority for controuling, which few governors in that delicate situation ever possess, or can long retain: To educate a prince, born to reign over an enlightened people, upon the narrow scale of secret and sequestered tuition, would be an abuse of common sense; to let him loose upon the world is no less hazardous in the other extreme, and each would probably devote him to an inglorious destiny: That he should know the leading characters in the country he is to govern, be familiar with it's history, it's constitution, manners, laws and liberties, and correctly comprehend the duties and distinctions of his own hereditary office, are points that no one will dispute: That he should travel through his kingdom I can hardly doubt, but whether those excursions should reach into other states, politically connected with, or opposed to, his own, is more than I will presume to lay down as a general rule, being aware that it must depend upon personal circumstances: Splendor he may be indulged in, but excess in that, as in every thing else, must be avoided, for the mischiefs cannot be numbered, which it will entail upon him; excess in expence will subject him to obligations of a degrading sort; excess in courtesy will lay him open to the forward and assuming, raise mountains of expectation about him, and all of them undermined by disappointment, ready charged for explosion, when the hand of presumption shall set fire to the train: Excess in pleasure will lower him in character, destroy health, respect, and that becoming dignity of mind, that conscious rectitude, which is to direct and support him, when he becomes the dispenser of justice to his subjects, the protector and defender of their religion, the model for their imitation and the sovereign arbiter of life and death in the execution of every legal condemnation: To court popularity is both derogatory and dangerous, nor should he, who is destined to rule over the whole, condescend to put himself in the league of a party: To be a protector of learning and a patron of the arts, is worthy of a prince, but let him beware how he sinks himself into a pedant or a virtuoso: It is a mean talent, which excels in trifles; the fine arts are more likely to flourish under a prince, whose ignorance of them is qualified by general and impartial good-will towards their professors, than by one, who is himself a dabbler; for such will always have their favorites, and favoritism never fails to irritate the minds of men of genius concerned in the same studies, and turns the spirit of emulation into the gall of acrimony.
Above all things let it be his inviolable maxim to distinguish strongly and pointedly in his attentions between men of virtuous morals and men of vicious: There is nothing so glorious and at the same time nothing so easy; if his countenance is turned to men of principle and character, if he bestows his smile upon the worthy only, he need be at little pains to frown upon the profligate, all such vermin will crawl out of his path and shrink away from his presence: Glittering talents will be no passport for dissolute morals, and ambition will then be retained in no other cause, but that of virtue; men will not chuse crooked passages and bye-alleys to preferment, when the broad highway of honesty is laid open and strait before them. A prince, though he gives a good example in his own person, what does he profit the world, if he draws it back again by the bad examples of those, whom he employs and favors? Better might it be for a nation, to see a libertine on it's throne surrounded by virtuous counsellors, than to contemplate a virtuous sovereign, delegating his authority to unprincipled and licentious servants.
The king, who declares his resolution of countenancing the virtuous only amongst his subjects, speaks the language of an honest man; if he makes good his declaration, he performs the functions of one, and earns the blessings of a righteous king; a life of glory in this world, and an immortality of happiness in the world to come.
No CIX.
I WAS surprised the other day to find our learned poet Ben Jonson had been poaching in an obscure collection of love-letters, written by the sophist Philostratus in a very rhapsodical stile merely for the purpose of stringing together a parcel of unnatural, far-fetched conceits, more calculated to disgust a man of Jonson's classic taste, than to put him upon the humble task of copying them, and then fathering the translation. The little poem he has taken from this despicable sophist is now become a very popular song, and is the ninth in his collection intitled
The Forest.
I will take the liberty of inserting Jonson's translation, and compare it with the original, stanza by stanza—
I.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine,
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
PHILOSTRATUS, Letter XXIV.
—Drink to me with thine eyes only.
. Or if thou wilt, putting the cup to thy lips, fill it with kisses and so bestow it upon me.
II.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,
Demands a drink divine,
But might I of Jove's nectar sip,
I wou'd not change for thine.
PHIL. Letter XXV.
. I, as soon as I behold thee, thirst, and taking hold of the cup, do not indeed apply that to my lips for drink, but thee.
III.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It might not withered be.
PHIL. Letter XXX.
. I send thee a rosy wreath, not so much honoring thee (though this also is in my thoughts) as bestowing favor upon the roses, that so they might not be withered.
IV.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,
Since when it grows and smells I swear
Not of itself, but thee.
PHIL. Letter XXXI.
. If thou would'st do a kindness to thy lover, send back the reliques of the roses [I gave thee], for they will smell no longer of themselves only, but of thee.
When the learned poet published his lovesong without any acknowledgment to Philostratus, I hope the reason of his omitting it was because he did not chuse to call the public curiosity to a perusal of such unseemly and unnatural rhapsodies, as he had condescended to copy from.
Now I am upon the subject of Ben Jonson I shall take notice of two passages in
The Induction on the Stage,
prefixed to his play of
Bartholomew
Fair,
in which he gives a sly glance at Shakespear—
And then a substantial watch to have stolen in upon them, and taken them away with mistaking words, as the fashion is in the stage practice.
—It is plain he has
Dogberry
and
Verges
in his eye, and no less so in the following, that he points his ridicule against
Caliban
and the romance of
The Tempest—If there be never a
servant-monster
in the fair who can help it,
he says,
nor a nest of anticks? He is loth to make nature afraid in his plays, like those that beget tales,
Tempests
and such like drolleries, to mix his head with other mens heels.
—If any of our commentators upon Shakespear have anticipated my remark upon these instances of Jonson's propensities to carp at their favorite poet, I have overlooked the annotation, but when I find him recommending to his audience such a
farago
of vulgar ribaldry as
Bartholomew Fair,
by pretending to exalt it above such exquisite productions as
The Tempest
and
Much Ado about Nothing,
it is an act of warrantable retaliation to expose his vanity.
It is not always however that he betakes himself to these masked attacks upon that sublime genius, which he professed to admire almost to idolatry, it must be owned he sometimes meets him upon equal ground, and nobly contends with laudable emulation for the chaplet of victory: What I now particularly have in my eye is his
Masque of the Queens.
Many ingenious observations have been given to the public upon Shakespear's
Imaginary Beings
; his Caliban, Ariel and all his family of witches, ghosts and fairies have been referred to as examples of his creative fancy, and with reason has his superiority been asserted in the fabrication of these praeternatural machines, and as to the art, with which he has woven them into the fables of his dramas, and the incidents he has produced by their agency, he is in these particulars still more indisputably unrivalled; the language he has given to Caliban, and no less characteristically to his Ariel, is so original, so inimitable, that it is more like magic than invention, and his fairy poetry is as happy as it can be: It were a jest to compare Aeschylus's ghost of Darius, or any ghost that ever walked with the
perturbed spirit
of Hamlet: Great and merited encomiums have also been passed upon the
weird sisters
in that wonderful drama, and a decided preference given them over the famous
Erichtho
of Lucan: Preferable they doubtless are, if we contemplate them in their dramatic characters, and take into our account the grand and awful commission, which they bear in that scene of tragic terror; but of their poetical superiority, simply considered, I have some doubts; let me add to this, that when the learned commentator was instancing Lucan's Erichtho, it is matter of some wonder with me, how he came to overlook Jonson's witches in the
Masque of the Queens.
As he has not however prevented me of the honour of bringing these two poetic champions together into the lists, I will avail myself of the occasion, and leave it with the spectators to decide upon the contest. I will only, as their herald, give notice that the combatants are enchanters, and he that has no taste for necromancy, nor any science in the terms of the art, has no right to give his voice upon the trial of skill.
SHAKESPEAR.
Where has thou been, sister?
Killing swine.
A sailor's wife had chesnuts in her lap,
And mouncht, and mouncht, and mouncht—Give me, quoth I!
A
oint thee, witch, the rump-fed ronyon cries.
Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' th' Tyger;
But in a sieve I'll thither sail,
And like a cat without a tail,
I'll do—I'll do—I'll do.
I'll give thee a wind.
Thou art kind.
And I another.
I myself have all the other,
And the very points they blow,
All the quarters that they know
I' th' shipman's card.
I will drain him dry as hay,
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his pent-house lid;
He shall live a man forbid;
Weary sev'n-nights nine times nine
Shall he dwindle, peak and pine;
Tho' his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-tost.
Look, what I have.
Shew me, shew me.
Here I have a pilot's thumb,
Wreckt as homeward he did come.
A drum, a drum!
Macbeth doth come.
The weird sisters hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about,
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine,
And thrice again to make up nine.
Peace! the charm's wound up.
JONSON.
Well done, my hags!—
But first relate me what you have sought,
Where you have been and what you have brought.
I have been all day looking after
A raven feeding upon a quarter;
And soon as she turn'd her beak to the south,
I snatcht this morsel out of her mouth.
I last night lay all alone
O' th' ground to hear the mandrake grone,
And pluckt him up, tho' he gew full low,
And as I had done the cock did crow.
I had a dagger; what did I with that?
Kill'd an infant, to have his fat;
A piper it got at a church-ale,
I bade him again blow wind in it's tail.
A murderer yonder was hung in chains,
The sun and the wind had shrunk his veins;
I bit off a sinew, I clipt his hair,
I brought off his rags that danc'd in the air.
The scrich-owl's eggs and the feathers black,
The blood of the frog, and the bone in his back,
I have been getting, and made of his skin
A purset to keep
Sir Cranion
in.
And I ha'been plucking (plants among)
Hemlock, henbane, adder's tongue,
Night-shade, moon-wort, libbard's-bane,
And twice by the dogs was like to be ta'en.
I went to the toad, breeds under the wall,
I charm'd him out, and he came at my call,
I scratcht out the eyes of the owl before,
I tore the bat's wing—What wou'd you have more?
Yes, I have brought (to help our vows)
Horned poppy, cypress boughs,
The fig-tree wild, that grows on tombs,
And juice that from the larch-tree comes,
The basilisk's blood, and the viper's skin—
And now our orgies let's begin!
SHAKESPEAR's Charm.
Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.
Twice and once the hedgo-pig whin'd.
Harper cries, 'tis time, 'tis time!
Round about the cauldron go,
In the poison'd entrails throw.
—Toad, that under the cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' th' charmed pot.
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble!
Fillet of a fenny snake
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and owlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble!
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble!
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witch's mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravening salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock, digg'd i'th' dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse.
Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe,
Ditch-deliver'd of a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab;
Add thereto a tyger's chawdron
For th' ingredients of our cauldron.
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble!
Cool it with a baboon's blood—
Then the charm is firm and good.
JONSON's Charm.
The owl is abroad, the bat and the toad,
And so is the cat-a-mountain,
The ant and the mole sit both in a hole,
And frog peeps out of the fountain:
The dogs they do bay and the timbrels play,
The spindle is now a-turning,
The moon it is red and the stars are fled,
And all the sky is a burning.
2d Charm.
Deep, oh deep, we lay thee to sleep,
We leave thee drink by, if thou chance to be dry,
Both milk and blood, the dew and the flood.
We breathe in thy bed, at the foot and the head;
We cover thee warm, that thou take no harm,
And when thou dost wake, dame earth shall quake, &c.
3d Charm.
A cloud of pitch, a spur and a switch,
To haste him away, and a whirlwind play
Before and after, with thunder for laughter,
And storms of joy, of the roaring boy,
His head of a drake, his tail of a snake.
4th Charm.
About, about and about!
Till the mists arise and the lights fly out;
The images neither be seen nor felt,
The woollen burn and the waxen melt;
Sprinkle your liquors upon the ground,
And into the air: Around, around!
Around, around!
Around, around!
Till a music sound,
And the pace be found
To which we may dance
And our charms advance.
I should observe that these quotations from Jonson are selected partially and not given in continuation, as they are to be found in the Masque, which is much too long to be given entire: They are accompanied with a commentary by the author full of daemonological learning, which was a very courtly study in the time of James the first, who was an author in that branch of superstitious pedantry.
I am aware there is little to gratify the reader's curiosity in these extracts, and still less to distract his judgment in deciding between them: They are so far curious however as they shew how strongly the characters of the poets are distinguished even in these fantastic specimens; Jonson dwells upon authorities without fancy, Shakespear employs fancy and creates authorities.
No CX.
Usus vetusto genere, sed rebus novis.
PROLOG. PHAED. FAB. lib. v.
BEN JONSON in his prologue to the comedy of
The Fox
says that he wrote it in the short space of five weeks, his words are—
To these there needs no lie but this his creature,
Which was two months since no feature;
And tho' he dares give them five lives to mend it,
'Tis known five weeks fully penn'd it.
This he delivers in his usual vaunting stile, spurning at the critics and detractors of his day, who thought to convict him of dulness by testifying in fact to his diligence. The magic movements of Shakespear's muse had been so noted and applauded for their surprising rapidity, that the public had contracted a very ridiculous respect for hasty productions in general, and thought there could be no better test of a poet's genius than the dispatch and facility with which he wrote; Jonson therefore affects to mark his contempt of the public judgment for applauding hasty writers in the couplet preceding those above quoted—
And when his plays come out, think they can flout 'em
With saying, He was a year about them.
But at the same time that he shews this contempt very justly, he certainly betrays a degree of weakness in boasting of his poetical dispatch, and seems to forget that he had noted Shakespear with something less than friendly censure for the very quality, he is vaunting himself upon.
Several comic poets since his age have seemed to pride themselves on the little time they expended on their productions; some have had the artifice to hook it in as an excuse for their errors, but it is no less evident what share vanity has in all such apologies: Wycherley is an instance amongst these, and Congreve tells of his expedition in writing the
Old Bachelor,
yet the same man afterwards in his letter to Mr. Dryden pompously pronounces that to write one perfect comedy should be the labour of one entire life produced from a concentration of talents, which hardly ever met in any human person.
After all it will be confessed that the production of such a drama as
The Fox
in the space of five weeks is a very wonderful performance; for it must on all hands be considered as the master-piece of a very capital artist, a work, that bears the stamp of elaborate design, a strong and frequently a sublime vein of poetry, much sterling wit, comic humour, happy character, moral satire and unrivalled erudition; a work—
Quod non imber edax, non aquilo impotens
Possit diruere, aut innumerabilis
Annorum series et fuga temporum.
In this drama the learned reader will find himself for ever treading upon classic ground; the foot of the poet is so fitted and familiarized to the Grecian sock, that he wears it not with the awkwardness of an imitator, but with all the easy confidence and authoritative air of a privileged Athenian: Exclusive of Aristophanes, in whose volume he is perfect, it is plain that even the gleanings and broken fragments of the Greek stage had not escaped him; in the very first speech of Volpone's, which opens the comedy, and in which he rapturously addresses himself to his treasure, he is to be traced most decidedly in the fragments of Menander, Sophocles and Euripides, in Theognis and in Hesiod, not to mention Horace. To follow him through every one would be tedious, and therefore I will give a sample of one passage only; Volpone is speaking to his gold—
Thou being the best of things and far transcending
All stile of joy in children, parents, friends—
Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe,
They should have given her twenty thousand Cupids,
Such are thy beauties and our loves—
Let the curious reader compare this with the following fragment of Euripides's Bellerophon and he will find it almost a translation.
Cicero made a selection of passages from the Greek dramatic authors, which he turned into Latin verse for the purpose of applying them, as occasion should offer, either in his writings or pleadings, and our learned countryman seems on his part to have made the whole circle of Greek and Roman poets his own and naturalized them to our stage. If any learned man would employ his leisure in following his allusions through this comedy only, I should think it would be no unentertaining task.
The Fox
is indubitably the best production of it's author, and in some points of substantial merit yields to nothing, which the English stage can oppose to it; there is a bold and happy spirit in the fable, it is of moral tendency, female chastity and honour are beautifully displayed and punishment is inflicted on the delinquents of the drama with strict and exemplary justice: The characters of the
Haeredipetae,
depicted under the titles of birds of prey,
Voltore, Corbacoio
and
Corvino,
are warmly coloured, happily contrasted and faithfully supported from the outset to the end:
Volpone,
who gives his name to the piece, with a fox-like craftiness deludes and gulls their hopes by the agency of his inimitable Parasite, or (as the Greek and Roman authors expressed it) by his
Fly,
his
Mosca
; and in this finished portrait Jonson may throw the gauntlet to the greatest masters of antiquity; the character is of classic origin; it is found with the contemporaries of Aristophanes, though not in any comedy of his now existing; the Middle Dramatists seem to have handled it very frequently, and in the New Comedy it rarely failed to find a place; Plautus has it again and again, but the aggregate merit of all his Parasites will not weigh in the scale against this single
Fly
of our poet: The incident of his concealing
Bonario
in the gallery, from whence he breaks in upon the scene to the rescue of Celia and the detection of
Volpone,
is one of the happiest contrivances, which could possibly be devised, because at the same time that it produces the catastrophe, it does not sacrifice
Mosca's
character in the manner most villains are sacrificed in comedy by making them commit blunders, which do not correspond with the address their first representation exhibits and which the audience has a right to expect from them throughout, of which the
Double Dealer
is amongst others a notable instance. But this incident of
Bonario
's interference does not only not impeach the adroitness of the Parasite, but it furnishes a very brilliant occasion for setting off his ready invention and presence of mind in a new and superior light, and serves to introduce the whole machinery of the trial and condemnation of the innocent persons before the court of
Advocates:
In this part of the sable the contrivance is inimitable, and here the poet's art is a study, which every
otarist of the dramatic muses ought to pay attention and respect to; had the same address been exerted throughout, the construction would have been a matchless piece of art, but here we are to lament the haste of which he boasts in his prologue, and that rapidity of composition, which he appeals to as a mark of genius, is to be lamented as the probable cause of incorrectness, or at least the best and most candid plea in excuse of it: For who can deny that nature is violated by the absurdity of
Volpone
's unseasonable insults to the very persons, who had witnessed falsely in his defence, and even to the very
Advocate,
who had so successfully defended him? Is it in character for a man of his deep cunning and long reach of thought to provoke those, on whom his all depended, to retaliate upon him, and this for the poor triumph of a silly jest? Certainly this is a glaring defect, which every body must lament, and which can escape nobody. The poet himself knew the weak part of his plot and vainly strives to bolster it up by making
Volpone
exclaim against his own folly—
I am caught in my own noose—
And again—
To make a snare for mine own neck, and run
My head into it wilfully with laughter!
When I had newly 'scap'd, was free and clear,
Out of mere wantonness! Oh, the dull devil
Was in this brain of mine, when I devis'd it,
And Mosca gave it second—
—These are my fine conceits!
I must be merry, with a mischief to me!
What a vile wretch was I, that cou'd not bear
My fortune soberly! I must have my crotchets,
And my conundrums!—
It is with regret I feel myself compelled to protest against so pleasant an episode, as that which is carried on by
Sir Politic Wou'd-be
and
Peregrine,
which in fact produces a kind of double plot and catastrophe; this is an imperfection in the fable, which criticism cannot overlook, but
Sir Politic
is altogether so delightful a fellow, that it is impossible to give a vote for his exclusion; the most that can be done against him is to lament that he has not more relation to the main business of the fable.
The judgment pronounced upon the criminals in the conclusion of the play is so just and solemn, that I must think the poet has made a wanton breach of character and gained but a sorry jest by the bargain, when he violates the dignity of his court of judges by making one of them so abject in his flattery to the Parasite upon the idea of matching him with his daughter, when he hears that Volpone has made him his heir; but this is an objection, that lies within the compass of two short lines, spoken aside from the bench, and may easily be remedied by their omission in representation; it is one only, and that a very slight one, amongst those venial blemishes—
—quas incuria fudit.
It does not occur to me that any other remark is left for me to make upon this celebrated drama, that could convey the slightest censure; but very many might be made in the highest strain of commendation, if there was need of any more than general testimony to such acknowledged merit.
The Fox
is a drama of so peculiar a species, that it cannot be dragged into a comparison with the production of any other modern poet whatsoever; it's construction is so dissimilar from any thing of Shakespear's writing, that it would be going greatly out of our way, and a very gross abuse of criticism to attempt to settle the relative degrees of merit, where the characters of the writers are so widely opposite: In one we may respect the profundity of learning, in the other we must admire the sublimity of genius; to one we pay the tribute of understanding, to the other we surrender up the possession of our hearts; Shakespear with ten thousand spots about him dazzles us with so bright a lustre, that we either cannot or will not see his faults; he gleams and flashes like a meteor, which shoots out of our sight before the eye can measure it's proportions, or analyse it's properties—but Jonson stands still to be surveyed, and presents so bold a front, and levels it so fully to our view, as seems to challenge the compass and the rule of the critic, and defy him to find out an error in the scale and composition of his structure.
Putting aside therefore any further mention of Shakespear, who was a poet out of all rule, and beyond all compass of criticism, one whose excellencies are above comparison, and his errors beyond number, I will venture an opinion that this drama of
The Fox
is, critically speaking, the nearest to perfection of any one drama, comic or tragic, which the English stage is at this day in possession of.
No CXI.
IN my foregoing paper when I remarked that Jonson in his comedy of
The Fox
was a close copier of the antients, it occurred to me to say something upon the celebrated drama of
The Sampson Agonistes,
which, though less beholden to the Greek poets in it's dialogue than the comedy above-mentioned, is in all other particulars as compleat an imitation of the Antient Tragedy, as the distance of times and the difference of languages will admit of.
It is professedly
built according to antient rule and example,
and the author by taking Aristotle's definition of tragedy for his motto, fairly challenges the critic to examine and compare it by that test. His close adherence to the model of the Greek tragedy is in nothing more conspicuous than in the simplicity of his diction; in this particular he has curbed his fancy with so tight a hand, that, knowing as we do the fertile vein of
is genius, we cannot but lament the fidelity of his imitation; for there is a harshness in the metre of his Chorus, which to a certain degree seems to border upon pedantry and affectation; he premises that
the measure is indeed of all sorts,
but I must take leave to observe that in some places it is no measure at all, or such at least as the ear will not patiently endure, nor which any recitation can make harmonious. By casting out of his composition the strophe and antistrophe, those stanzas which the Greeks appropriated to singing, or in one word by making his Chorus monostrophic, he has robbed it of that lyric beauty, which he was capable of bestowing in the highest perfection; and why he should stop short in this particular, when he had otherwise gone so far in imitation, is not easy to guess; for surely it would have been quite as natural to suppose those stanzas, had he written any, might be sung, as that all the other parts, as the drama now stands with a Chorus of such irregular measure, might be recited or given in representation.
Now it is well known to every man conversant in the Greek theatre, how the Chorus, which in fact is the parent of the drama, came in process of improvement to be woven into the fable, and from being at first the whole grew in time to be only a part: The fable being simple, and the characters few, the striking part of the spectacle rested upon the singing and dancing of the interlude, if I may so call it, and to these the people were too long accustomed and too warmly attached, to allow of any reform for their exclusion; the tragic poet therefore never got rid of his Chorus, though the writers of the Middle Comedy contrived to dismiss their's, and probably their fable being of a more lively character, their scenes were better able to stand without the support of music and spectacle, than the mournful fable and more languid recitation of the tragedians. That the tragic authors laboured against the Chorus will appear from their efforts to expel Bacchus and his Satyrs from the stage, in which they were long time opposed by the audience, and at last by certain ingenious expedients, which were a kind of compromise with the public, effected their point: This in part was brought about by the introduction of a fuller scene and a more active fable, but the Chorus with it's accompaniments kept it's place, and the poet, who seldom ventured upon introducing more than three speakers on the scene at the same time, qualified the sterility of his business by giving to the Chorus a share of the dialogue, who at the same time that they furnished the stage with numbers, were not counted amongst the speaking characters according to the rigour of the usage above-mentioned. A man must be an enthusiast for antiquity, who can find charms in the dialogue-part of a Greek Chorus, and reconcile himself to their unnatural and chilling interruptions of the action and pathos of the scene: I am fully persuaded they came there upon motives of expediency only, and kept their post upon the plea of long possession, and the attractions of spectacle and music: In short nature was sacrificed to the display of art, and the heart gave up it's feelings that the ear and eye might be gratified.
When Milton therefore takes the Chorus into his dialogue, excluding from his drama the lyric strophe and antistrophe, he rejects what I conceive to be it's only recommendation, and which an elegant contemporary in his imitations of the Greek tragedy is more properly attentive to; at the same time it cannot be denied that Milton's Chorus subscribes more to the dialogues, and harmonizes better with the business of the scene, than that of any Greek tragedy we can now refer to.
I would now proceed to a review of the performance itself, if it were not a discussion, which the author of
The Rambler
has very ably prevented me in; respect however to an authority so high in criticism must not prevent me from observing, that, when he says—
This is the tragedy,
which ignorance has admired and bigotry applauded,
he makes it meritorious in any future critic to attempt at following him over the ground he has trode, for the purpose of discovering what those blemishes are, which he has found out by superior sagacity, and which others have so palpably overlooked, as to merit the disgraceful character of
ignorance and bigotry.
The principal, and in effect the only, objection, which he states, is that
the poem wants a middle, since nothing passes between the first act and the last, that either hastens or delays the death of Sampson.
This demands examination: The death of Sampson I need not describe; it is a sudden, momentary event; what can hasten or delay it, but the will of the person, who by an exertion of miraculous strength was to bury himself under the ruins of a structure, in which his enemies were assembled? To determine that will depends upon the impulse of his own spirit, or it may be upon the inspiration of Heaven: If there are any incidents in the body of the drama, which lead to this determination, and indicate an impulse, either natural or praeter-natural, such must be called leading incidents, and those leading incidents will constitute a middle, or in more diffusive terms the middle business of the drama. Manoah in his interview with Sampson, which the author of the Rambler denominates the second act of the tragedy, tells him
This day the Philistines a popular feast
Here celebrate in Gaza, and proclaim
Great pomp and sacrifice and praises loud
To Dagon, as their God—
Here is information of a meeting of his enemies to celebrate their idolatrous triumphs; an incident of just provocation to the servant of the living God, an opportunity perhaps for vengeance, either human or divine; if it passes without notice from Sampson, it is not to be stiled an incident, if on the contrary he remarks upon it, it must be one—but Sampson replies
Dagon must stoop, and shall ere long receive
Such a discomfit, as shall quite despoil him
Of all these boasted trophies won on me,
And with confusion blank his worshippers.
Who will say the expectation is not here prepared for some catastrophe, we know not what, but awful it must be, for it is Sampson which denounces the downfal of the idol, it is God who inspires the denunciation; the crisis is important, for it is that which shall decide whether God or Dagon is to triumph, it is in the strongest sense of the expression—
dignus vindice
nodus
—and therefore we may boldly pronounce
Deus intersit!
That this interpretation meets the sense of the author is clear from the remark of Manoah, who is made to say that
he receives these words as a prophecy.
Prophetic they are, and were meant to be by the poet, who in this use of his sacred prophecy imitates the heathen oracles, on which several of their dramatic plots are constructed, as might be shewn by obvious examples. The interview with Manoah then is conducive to the catastrophe, and the drama is not in this scene devoid of incident.
Dalilah next appears, and if whatever tends to raise our interest in the leading character of the tragedy, cannot rightly be called episodical, the introduction of this person ought not to be accounted such, for who but this person is the cause and origin of all the pathos and distress of the story? The dialogue of this scene is moral, affecting and sublime; it is also strictly characteristic.
The next scene exhibits the tremendous giant Harapha, and the contrast thereby produced is amongst the beauties of the poem, and may of itself be termed an important incident: That it leads to the catastrophe I think will not be disputed, and if it is asked in what manner, the Chorus will supply us with an answer—
He will directly to the Lords I fear,
And with malicious counsel stir them up
Some way or other further to afflict thee.
Here is another prediction connected with the plot and verified by it's catastrophe, for Sampson is commanded to come to the festival and entertain the revellers with some feats of strength: These commands he resists, but obeys an impulse of his mind by going afterwards and thereby fulfils the prophetic declaration he had made to his father in the second act. What incident can shew more management and address in the poet, than this of Sampson's refusing the summons of the idolaters and obeying the visitation of God's spirit.
And now I may confidently appeal to the judicious reader, whether the
Sampson Agonistes
is so void of incident between the opening and conclusion as fairly to be pronounced
to want a middle.
Simple it is from first to last, simple perhaps to a degree of coldness in some of it's parts, but to say that nothing passes between the first act and the last,
which hastens or delays the death of Sampson,
is not correct, because the very incidents are to be found, which conduce to the catastrophe, and but for which it could not have come to pass.
The author of the Rambler professes to examine
The Sampson Agonistes
according to the rule laid down by Aristotle for the disposition and perfection of a tragedy, and this rule he informs us is that it should have
a beginning, a middle, and an end.
And is this the mighty purpose for which the authority of Aristotle is appealed to? If it be thus the author of the Rambler has read
The Poetics,
and this be the best rule he can collect from that treatise, I am afraid he will find it too short a measure for the poet he is examining, or the critic he is quoting. Aristotle had said
that every whole hath not amplitude enough for the construction of a tragic fable; now by a whole,
(adds he in the way of illustration)
I mean that, which hath beginning, middle and end.
This and no more is what he says upon beginning, middle and end; and this, which the author of the Rambler conceives to be a rule for tragedy, turns out to be merely an explanation of the word
whole,
which is only one term amongst many employed by the critic in his professed and compleat definition of tragedy. I should add that Aristotle gives a further explanation of the terms, beginning, middle and end, which the author of the Rambler hath turned into English, but in so doing he hath inexcusably turned them out of their original sense as well as language; as any curious critic may be convinced of, who compares them with Aristotle's words in the eighth chapter of the
Poetics.
Of the poetic diction of
The Sampson Agonistes
I have already spoken in general; to particularize passages of striking beauty would draw me into too great length; at the same time, not to pass over so pleasing a part of my undertaking in absolute silence, I will give the following reply of Sampson to the Chorus—
Wherever fountain or fresh current flow'd
Against the eastern ray, translucent, pure
With touch ethereal of heaven's fiery rod,
I drank, from the clear milky juice allaying
Thirst, and refresh'd; nor envy'd them the grape,
Whose heads that turbulent liquor fills with fumes.
Of the character I may say in few words, that Sampson possesses all the terrific majesty of
Prometheus chained,
the mysterious distress of
Oedipus
and the pitiable wretchedness of
Philoctetes.
His properties, like those of the first, are something above human; his misfortunes, like those of the second, are derivable from the displeasure of heaven and involved in oracles; his condition, like that of the last, is the most abject, which human nature can be reduced to from a state of dignity and splendor.
Of the catastrophe there remains only to remark, that it is of unparalleled majesty and terror.
No CXII.
To the OBSERVER.
Etiam mortuus loquitur.
SIR,
IF I am rightly advised, the laws of England have provided no remedy for an injury, which I have received from a certain gentleman, who sets me at defiance, and whom I am not conscious of having offended in the smallest article in life. My case is as follows: Some time ago I went into the South of France for the recovery of my health, which (thank God) I have so far effected, that I should think I was at this very moment enjoying as good a stock of spirits and strength, as I have enjoyed for many years of my life past, if I was not outfaced by the gentleman in question, who swears I am dead, and has proceeded so far as to publish me dead to all the world with a whole volume of memoirs, which I have no remembrance of, and of sayings, which I never said.
I think this is very hard upon me, and if there is no redress for such proceedings, but that a man must be printed dead, whenever any fanciful fellow chuses to write a book of memoirs, I must take the freedom to say this is no country to live in; and let my ingenious biographer take it how he will, I shall still maintain to his face that I am alive, and I do not see why my word in such a case should not go as far as his.
There is yet another thing I will venture to say, that I did never in the whole course of my life utter one half or even one tenth part of the smart repartees and bon-mots he is pleased to impute to me: I don't know what he means by laying such things at my door; I defy any one of my acquaintance to say I was a wit, which I always considered as another name for an ill-tempered fellow. I do acknowledge that I have lived upon terms of acquaintance with my biographer, and have passed some social hours in his company, but I never suspected he was minuting down every foolish thing, that escaped my lips in the unguarded moments of convivial gaiety; if I had, I would have avoided him like the pestilence. It is hard upon a man, let me tell you, Sir, very hard indeed to find his follies upon record, and I could almost wish his words were true, and that I were dead in earnest, rather than alive to read such nonsense, and find myself made the father of it.
Judge of my surprise, when passing along Vigo-lane upon a friendly call, as I intended it, to this very gentleman, of whom I complain, I took up a volume from a stall in a whitey-brown paper binding, and opening it at the title-page met my own face, staring me out of countenance full in the front: I started back with horror; nature never gave me any reason to be fond of my own features; I never survey my face but when I shave myself, and then I am ashamed of it; I trust it is no true type of my heart, for it is a sorry sample of nature's handywork, to say no worse of it. What the devil tempted him to stick it there I cannot guess, any more than I can at his publishing a bundle of nonsensical sayings and doings, which I detest and disavow. As for his printing my last will and testament, and disposing of my poor personals at pleasure, I care little about it; if he had taken only my money and spared my life, I would not have complained.
And now what is my redress? I apply myself to you in my distress as an author, whose book is in pretty general circulation, and one, as I perceive, who assaults no man's living fame and character; I desire therefore you will take mine into your protection, and if you can think of any thing to deter the world in future from such flippancies, you are welcome to make what use you please of this letter; for as I have always strove to do what little service I could to the living, when I was allowed to be one of their number, so now I am voted out of their company, I would gladly be of some use to the dead.
Your's, whilst I lived, H. POSTHUMOUS.
P. S. I am sorry I did not leave you something in my will, as I believe you deserve it as well, and want it more than some that are in it. If I live to die a second time, I will be sure to remember you.
As I am not versed in the law of libels, I know not what advice to give in Posthumous's case, whom I would by no means wish to see entangled in further difficulties; though I think he might fairly say to his biographer with a courtly poet of this century,
Oh! libel me with all things but thy praise!
The practice, which some of our public newswriters are in, of treating their readers with a farrago of puerile anecdotes and scraps of characters, has probably led the way to a very foolish fashion, which is gaining ground amongst us: No sooner does a great man die, than the small wits creep into his coffin, like the swarm of bees in the carcase of Sampson's lion, to make honey from his corpse. It is high time that the good sense of the nation should correct this impertinence.
I have availed myself of Posthumous's permission to publish his letter, and I shall without scruple subjoin to it one of a very different sort, which I have received from a correspondent, whose name I do not mean to expose; it is with some reluctance I introduce it into this work, because it brings a certain person on the stage, whom I have no desire to exhibit oftener than I can help; but as I think it will be a consolation to Posthumous to shew him others in the same hazard with himself, I hope my readers will let it pass with this apology.
To the OBSERVER.
SIR,
I am a man, who say a great many good things myself, and hear many good things said by others; for I frequent clubs and coffee-rooms in all parts of the town, attend the pleadings in Westminster Hall, am remarkably fond of the company of men of genius and never miss a dinner at the Mansion House upon my Lord Mayor's day.
I am in the habit of committing to paper every thing of this sort, whether it is of my own saying, or any other person's, when I am convinced I myself should have said it, if he had not: These I call my conscientious witticisms, and give them a leaf in my common-place book to themselves.
I have the pleasure to tell you that my collection is now become not only considerable in bulk, but, (that I may speak humbly of it's merit) I will also say, that it is to the full as good, and far more creditable to any gentleman's character, than the books, which have been published about a certain great wit lately deceased, whose memory has been so completely dissected by the operators in Stationer's Hall.
Though I have as much respect for posterity as any man can entertain for persons he is not acquainted with, still I cannot understand how a post-obit of this sort can profit me in my life, unless I could make it over to some purchaser upon beneficial conditions. Now, as there are people in the world, who have done many famous actions without having once uttered a real good thing, as it is called, I should think my collection might be an acceptable purchase to a gentleman of this description, and such an one should have it a bargain, as I would be very glad to give a finishing to his character, which I can best compare to a coat of Adams's plaister on a well-built house.
For my own part, being neither more nor less than a haberdasher of small wares, and having scarcely rambled beyond the boundaries of the bills of mortality, since I was out of my apprenticeship, I have not the presumption to think the anecdotes of my own life important enough for posthumous publication; neither do I suppose my writings, (though pretty numerous, as my books will testify, and many great names standing amongst them, which it is probable I shall never cross out,) will be thought so interesting to the public, as to come into competition with the lively memoirs of a
Bellamy
and a
Baddeley,
who furnish so many agreeable records of many noble families, and are the solace of more than half the toilets in town and country.
But to come more closely to the chief purport of this letter—It was about a fortnight ago, that I crossed upon you in the Poultry near the shop-door of your worthy bookseller: I could not help giving a glance at your looks, and methought there was a morbid sallowness in your complexion and a sickly languor in your eye, that indicated speedy dissolution: I watched you for some time, and as you turned into the shop remarked the total want of energy in your step. I know whom I am saying this to, and therefore am not afraid of startling you by my observations, but if you actually perceive those threatening symptoms, which I took notice of, it may probably be your wish to lay in some store for a journey you are soon to take. You have always been a friend and customer to me, and there is nobody I shall more readily serve than yourself: I have long noticed with regret the very little favor you receive from your contemporaries, and shall gladly contribute to your kinder reception from posterity; now I flatter myself, if you adopt my collection, you will at least be celebrated for your sayings, whatever may become of your writings.
As for your private history, if I may guess from certain events, which have been reported to me, you may with a little allowable embellishment make up a decent life of it. It was with great pleasure I heard t'other day, that you was stabbed by a monk in Portugal, broke your limbs in Spain and was poisoned with a sallad at Paris; these with your adventures at sea, your sufferings at Bayonne and the treatment you received from your employers on your return, will be amusing anecdotes, and as it is generally supposed you have not amassed any very great fortune by the plunder of the public, your narrative will be read without raising any envy in the reader, which will be so much in your favor. Still your chief dependance must rest upon the collection I shall supply you with, and when the world comes to understand how many excellent things you said, and how much more wit you had than any of your contemporaries gave you credit for, they will begin to think you had not fair play whilst you was alive, and who knows but they may take it in mind to raise a monument to you by subscription amongst other merry fellows of your day?
I am your's, H. B.
I desire my correspondent will accept this short but serious answer: If I am so near the end of life, as he supposes, it will behove me to wind it up in another manner from what he suggests: I therefore shall not treat with my friend the haberdasher for his small wares.
No CXIII.
DARK and erroneous as the minds of men in general were before the appearance of Christ, no friend to Revelation ever meant to say, that all the gross and glaring absurdities of the heathen system, as vulgarly professed, were universally adopted, and that no thinking man amongst them entertained better conceptions of God's nature and attributes, juster notions of his superintendance and providence, purer maxims of morality and more elevated expectations of a future state, than are to be found in the extravagant accounts of their established theology. No thinking man could seriously subscribe his belief to such fabulous and chimerical legends, and indeed it appears that opinions were permitted to pass without censure, very irreconcileable to the popular faith, and great latitude given to speculation in their reasonings upon natural religion; and what can be more gratifying to philanthropy, than to trace these efforts of right reason, which redound to the honour of man's nature, and exhibit to our view the human understanding, unassisted by the lights of revelation and supported only by it's natural powers, emerging from the darkness of idolatry, and breaking forth into the following description of the Supreme Being, which is faithfully translated from the fragment of an antient Greek tragic poet?—
Let not mortal corruption mix with your idea of God, nor think of him as of a corporeal being, such as thyself; he is inscrutable to man, now appearing like fire, implacable in his anger; now in thick darkness, now in the flood of waters; now he puts on the terrors of a ravening beast, of the thunder, the winds, the lightning, of conflagrations, of clouds: Him the seas obey, the savage rocks, the springs of fresh water, and the rivers that flow along their winding channels; the earth herself stands in awe of him; the high tops of the mountains, the wide expanse of the caerulean ocean tremble at the frown of their Lord and Ruler.
This is a strain in the sublime stile of the Psalmist, and similar ideas of the Supreme Being may be collected from the remains of various heathen writers.
Antiphanes,
the Socratic philosopher, says,
"That God is the resemblance of nothing upon earth, so that no conception can be derived from any effigy or likeness of the Author of the universe."
Xenophon
observes,
"That a Being, who controuls and governs all things, must needs be great and powerful, but being by his nature invisible, no man can discern what form or shape he is of."
Thales,
being asked to define the Deity, replied that
"He was without beginning and without end."
Being further interrogated,
"If the actions of men could escape the intelligence of God?"
he answered,
"No, nor even their thoughts."
Philemon,
the comic poet, introduces the following question and answer in a dialogue:
"Tell me, I beseech you, what is your conception of God?—As of a Being, who, seeing all things, is himself unseen."
Menande
says, that
"God, the lord and father of all things, is alone worthy of our humble adoration, being at once the maker and the giver of all blessings."
Melanippidas,
a writer also of comedy, introduces this solemn invocation to the Supreme Being,
"Hear me, O Father, whom the whole world regards with wonder and adores! to whom the immortal soul of man is precious."
Euripides
in a strain of great sublimity exclaims,
"Thee I invoke, the self-created Being, who framed all nature in thy ethereal mould, whom light and darkness and the whole multitude of the starry train encircle in eternal chorus."
Sophocles
also in a fragment of one of his tragedies asserts the unity of the Supreme Being;
"Of a truth there is one, and only one God, the maker of heaven and earth, the sea and all which it contains."
These selections, to which however many others might be added, will serve to shew what enlightened ideas were entertained by some of the nature of God. I will next adduce a few passages to shew what just conceptions some had formed of God's providence and justice, of the distribution of good and evil in this life, and of the expectation of a future retribution in the life to come.
Ariston,
the dramatic poet, hath bequeathed us the following part of a dialogue—
Take heart; be patient! God will not fail to help the good, and especially those, who are as excellent as yourself; where would be the encouragement to persist in righteousness, unless those, who do well, are eminently to be rewarded for their well-doing?
I would it were as you say! but I too often see men, who square their actions to the rules of rectitude, oppressed with misfortunes; whilst they, who have nothing at heart but their own selfish interest and advantage, enjoy prosperity unknown to us.
For the present moment it may be so, but we must look beyond the present moment and await the issue, when this earth shall be dissolved: For to think that chance governs the affairs of this life, is a notion as false as it is evil, and is the plea, which vicious men set up for vicious morals: But be thou sure that the good works of the righteous shall meet a reward, and the iniquities of the unrighteous a punishment; for nothing can come to pass in this world, but by the will and permission of God.
Epicharmus,
the oldest of the comic poets, says in one of the few fragments, which remain of his writings,
"If your life hath been holy, you need have no dread of death, for the spirit of the blest shall exist for ever in heaven."
Euripides
has the following passage,
"If any mortal flatters himself that the sin, which he commits, can escape the notice of an avenging Deity, he indulges a vain hope, deceiving himself in a false presumption of impunity, because the divine justice suspends for a time the punishment of his evil actions; but hearken to me, ye who say there is no God, and by that wicked infidelity enhance your crimes, There is, there is a God! Let the evil doer then account the present hour only as gain, for he is doomed to everlasting punishment in the life to come."
The Sibylline verses hold the same language, but these I have taken notice of in a former volume.
I reserve myself for one more extract, which I shall recommend to the reader as the finest, which can be instanced from any heathen writer, exhibiting the most elevated conceptions of the being and superintendance of one, supreme, all-seeing, ineffable God, and of the existence of a future state of rewards and punishments, by the just distribution of which to the good and evil all the seeming irregularities of moral justice in this life shall hereafter be set strait; and this, if I mistake not, is the summary of all that natural religion can attain to. The following is a close translation of this famous fragment—
Thinkest thou, O Niceratus, that those departed spirits, who are satiated with the luxuries of life, shall escape as if from an oblivious God? The eye of justice is wakeful and allseeing; and we may truly pronounce that there are two several roads conducting us to the grave; one proper to the just, the other to the unjust; for if just and unjust fare alike, and the grave shall cover both to all eternity—Hence! get thee hence at once! destroy, lay waste, defraud, confound at pleasure! But deceive not thyself; there is a judgment after death, which God, the lord of all things, will exact, whose tremendous name is not to be uttered by my lips, and He it is, who limits the appointed date of the transgressor.
It is curious to discover sentiments of this venerable sort in the fragment of a Greek comedy, yet certain it is that it has either
Philemon
or
Diphilus
for it's author, both writers of the New Comedy and contemporaries. Justin, Clemens and Eusebius have all quoted it, the former from
Philemon,
both the latter from
Diphilus:
Grotius and Le Clerc follow the authority of Justin, and insert it in their collection of
Philemon
's fragments; Hertelius upon the joint authorities of Clemens and Eusebius gives it to
Diphilus,
and publishes it as such in his valuable and rare remains of the Greek comic writers. I conceive there are now no
data,
upon which criticism can decide for either of these two claimants, and the honour must accordingly remain suspended between them.
Sentences of this sort are certainly very precious reliques, and their preservation is owing to a happy custom, which the Greeks had of marking the margins of their books opposite to any passage, which particularly struck them, and this mark was generally the letter χ, the initial of
, [useful] and the collection afterwards made of these distinguished passages they called
.
It would be a curious and amusing collation of moral and religious sentences, extracted from heathen writers, with corresponding texts, selected from the holy scriptures: Grotius hath done something towards it in his preface to the
Collectanea
of Stobaeus; but the quotations already given will suffice to shew in a general point of view what had been the advances of human reason before God enlightened the world by his special Revelation.
No CXIV.
IF the deist, who contends for the all-sufficiency of natural religion, shall think that in these passages, which I have quoted in the preceding number, he has discovered fresh resources on the part of human reason as opposed to divine revelation, he will find himself involved in a very false conclusion. Though it were in my power to have collected every moral and religious sentence, which has fallen from the pens of the heathen writers antecedent to Christianity, and although it should thereby appear that the morality of the gospel had been the morality of right reason in all ages of the world, he would still remain as much unfurnished as ever for establishing his favorite position, that the scriptures reveal nothing more than man's understanding had discovered without their aid. We may therefore console ourselves without scruple in discovering that the heathen world was not immersed in total darkness, and the candid mind, however interested for Christianity, may be gratified with the reflection that the human understanding was not so wholly enslaved, but that in certain instances it could surmount the prejudices of system, and, casting off the shackles of idolatry, argue up to that supreme of all things, which the historian Tacitus emphatically defines,
summum illud et aeternum neque mutabile neque interiturum.
Now when the mind is settled in the proof of One Supreme Being, there are two several modes of reasoning, by which natural religion may deduce the probability of a future state: one of these results from an examination of the human soul, the other from reflecting on the unequal distribution of happiness in the present life.
Every man, who is capable of examining his own faculties, must discern a certain power within him, which is neither coaeval with, nor dependant upon his body and it's members; I mean that power of reflection, which we universally agree to seat in the soul: It is not coaeval with the body, because we were not in the use and exercise of it, when we were infants; it is not dependant on it, because it is not subject to the changes, which the body undergoes in it's passage from the womb to the grave; for instance, it is not destroyed, or even impaired, by amputation of the limbs or members, it does not evaporate by the continual flux and exhalation of the corporeal humours, is not disturbed by motion of the limbs, nor deprived of it's powers by their inaction; it is not necessarily involved in the sickness and infirmity of the body, for whilst that is decaying and dissolving away by an incurable disease, the intellectual faculties shall in many cases remain perfect and unimpaired: Why then should it be supposed the soul of a man is to die with his body, and accompany it into the oblivious grave, when it did not make it's entrance with it into life, nor partook of it's decay, it's fluctuations, changes and casualties?
If these obvious reflections upon the nature and properties of the soul lead to the persuasion of a future state, the same train of reasoning will naturally discover that the condition of the soul in that future state must be determined by the merits or demerits of it's antecedent life. It has never been the notion of heathen or of deist, that both the good and the evil shall enter upon equal and undistinguished felicity or punishment; no reasoning man could ever conceive that the soul of Nero and the soul of Antoninus in a future state partook of the same common lot; and thus it follows upon the evidence of reason, that the soul of man shall be rewarded or punished hereafter according to his good or evil conduct here; and this consequence is the more obvious, because it does not appear in the moral government of the world, that any such just and regular distribution of rewards and punishments obtains on this side the grave; a circumstance no otherwise to be reconciled to our suitable conceptions of divine justice, than by referring things to the final decision of a judgment to come.
Though all these discoveries are open to reason, let no man conclude that what the reason of a few discovered were either communicated to, or acknowledged by all: No; the world was dark and grossly ignorant; some indeed have argued well and clearly; others confusedly, and the bulk of mankind not at all; the being of a God, and the unity of that Supreme Being struck conviction to the hearts of those, who employed their reason coolly and dispassionately in such sublime enquiries; but where was the multitude meanwhile? Bewildered with a mob of deities, whom their own fables had endowed with human attributes, passions and infirmities; whom their own superstition had deified and enrolled amongst the immortals, till the sacred history of Olympus became no less impure than the journals of a brothel: Many there were no doubt, who saw the monstrous absurdity of such a system, yet not every one, who discerned error, could discover truth; the immortality of the soul, a doctrine so harmonious to man's nature, was decried by system and opposed by subtilty; the question of a future state was hung up in doubt, or bandied between conflicting disputants through all the quirks and evasions of sophistry and logic: Philosophy, so called, was split into a variety of sects, and the hypothesis of each enthusiastic founder became the standing creed of his school, from which it was an inviolable point of honour never to desert: In this confusion of systems men chose for themselves not according to conviction, but by the impulse of passion, or from motives of convenience; the voluptuary was interested to dismiss the gods to their repose, that his might not be interrupted by them; and all, who wished to have their range of sensuality in this world without fear or controul, readily enlisted under the banners of Epicurus, till his followers outnumbered all the rest; this was the court-creed under the worst of the Roman emperors, and the whole body of the nation, with few exceptions, adopted it; for what could be more natural, than for the desperate to bury conscience in the grave of atheism, or rush into annihilation by the point of the poniard, when they were weary of existence and discarded by fortune? With some it was the standard principle of their sect to doubt, with others to argue every thing; and when we recollect that Cicero himself was of the
New Academy,
we have a clue to unravel all the seeming contradictions of his moral and metaphysical sentiments, amidst the confusion of which we are never to expect his real opinion, but within the pale of his own particular school, and that school professed controversy upon every point. I will instance one passage, which would have done honour to his sentiments, had he spoke his own language as well as that of the Platonists, whom he is here personating—
Nec vero Deus, qui intelligitur a nobis, alio modo intelligi potest, quam mens soluta quaedam et libena, segregata ab omni concretione mortali, omnia sentiens et movens.
Whilst the purest truths were thrown out only as themes for sophistry to cavil at, the mass of mankind resembled a chaos, in which if some few sparks of light glimmered, they only served to cast the general horror into darker shades.
It must not however be forgotten, that there was a peculiar people then upon earth, who professed to worship that one Supreme Being, of whose nature and attributes certain individuals only amongst the Gentile nations entertained suitable conceptions.
Whilst all the known world were idolaters by establishment, the Jews alone were Unitarians upon system. Their history was most wonderful, for it underook to give a relation of things, whereof no human records could possibly be taken, and all, who received it for truth, must receive it as the relation of God himself, for how else should men obtain a knowledge of the Creator's thoughts and operations in the first formation of all things? Accordingly we find their inspired historian, after he has brought down his narration to the journal of his own time, holding conferences with God himself, and receiving through his immediate communication certain laws and commandments, which he was to deliver to the people, and according to which they were to live and be governed. In this manner Moses appears as the commissioned legislator of a Theocracy, impowered to work miracles in confirmation of his vicegerent authority, and to denounce the most tremendous punishments upon the nation, so highly favoured, if in any future time they should disobey and fall off from these sacred statutes and ordinances.
A people under such a government, set apart and distinguished from all other nations by means so supernatural, form a very interesting object for our contemplation, and their history abounds in events no less extraordinary and miraculous than the revelation itself of those laws, upon which their constitution was first established: Their tedious captivities, their wonderful deliverances, the administration of their priests and prophets, their triumphs and successes, whilst adhering to God's worship, and their deplorable condition, when they corrupted his service with the impurities of the idolatrous nations, whom they drove from their possessions, form a most surprizing chain of incidents, to which the annals of no other people upon earth can be said to bear resemblance.
Had it suited the all-wise purposes of God, when he revealed himself to this peculiar people, to have made them the instruments for disseminating the knowledge of his true religion and worship over the Gentile world, their office and administration had been glorious indeed; but this part was either not allotted to them, or justly forfeited by their degenerate and abandoned conduct; disobedient and rebellious against God's ordinances, they were so far from propagating these imparted lights to the neighbouring nations, that they themselves sunk into their darkness, and whilst all the land was overrun with idols, few were the knees, which bowed to the living, true and only God.
Moses, their inspired lawgiver, judge and prophet, is generally said to have delivered to them no doctrine of a future state: I am aware there is a learned author now living, one of their nation,
David Levi
by name, who controverts this assertion; it is fit therefore I should leave it in reference to his future proofs, when he shall see proper to produce them; in the mean time I may fairly state it upon this alternative, that if Moses did not impart the doctrine above-mentioned, it was wholly reserved for future special revelation; if he did impart it, there must have been an obstinate want of faith in great part of the Jewish nation, who knowingly professed a contrary doctrine, or else there must have been some obscurity in Moses's account, if they innocently misunderstood it: The Sadducees were a great portion of the Jewish community, and if they were instructed by their lawgiver to believe and expect a future state, it is high matter of offence in them to have disobeyed their teacher; on the other hand, if they were not instructed to this effect by Moses, yet having been taught the knowledge of one all-righteous God, it becomes just matter of surprize, how they came to overlook a consequence so evident.
No CXV.
FROM the review we have taken of the state of mankind in respect to their religious opinions at the Christian aera it appears, that the Gentile world was systematically devoted to idolatry, whilst the remnant of the Jewish tribes professed the worship of the true God; but at the same time there did not exist on earth any other temple dedicated to God's service, save that at Jerusalem. The nation so highly favoured by him, and so enlightened by his immediate revelations, was in the lowest state of political and religious declension; ten out of their twelve tribes had been carried away into captivity, from which there has to this hour been no redemption, and the remaining two were brought under the Roman yoke, and divided into sects, one of which opposed the opinion of the other, and maintained that there was to be no resurrection of the dead: The controversy was momentous, for the eternal welfare of mankind was the object of discussion, and who was to decide upon it? The worshippers of the true God had one place only upon earth, wherein to call upon his name; the groves and altars of the idols occupied all the rest; who was to restore his worship? Who was to redeem mankind from almost total ignorance and corruption? Where was
the light,
that was
to lighten the Gentiles?
Reason could do no more; it could only argue for the probability of a future state of rewards and punishments, but demonstration was required; an evidence, that might remove all doubts, and this was not in the power of man to furnish: Some Being therefore must appear of more than human talents to instruct mankind, of more than human authority to reform them: The world was lost, unless it should please God to interpose, for the work was above human hands, and nothing but the power, which created the world, could save the world.
Let any man cast his ideas back to this period, and ask his reason, if it was not natural to suppose, that the Almighty Being, to whom this general ruin and disorder must be visible, would in mercy to his creatures send some help amongst them; unless it had been his purpose to abandon them to destruction, we may presume to say he surely would: Is it then with man to prescribe in what particular mode and form that redemption should come? Certainly it is not with man, but with God only; he, who grants the vouchsafement, will direct the means: Be these what they may, they must be praeternatural and miraculous, because we have agreed that it is beyond the reach of man by any natural powers of his own to accomplish: A special inspiration then is requisite; some revelation it should seem, we know not what, we know not how, nor where, nor whence, except that it must come from God himself: What if he sends a Being upon earth to tell us his immediate will, to teach us how to please him and to convince us of the reality of a future state? That Being then must come down from him, he must have powers miraculous, he must have qualities divine and perfect, he must return on earth from the grave, and personally shew us that he has survived it, and is corporeally living after death: Will this be evidence demonstrative? Who can withstand it? He must be of all men most obstinately bent upon his own destruction, who should attempt to hold out against it; he must prefer darkness to light, falsehood to truth, misery to happiness, hell to heaven, who would not thankfully embrace so great salvation.
Let us now apply what has been said to the appearance of that person, whom the Christian church believes to have been the true Messias of God, and let us examine the evidences, upon which we assert the divinity of his mission and the completion of it's purposes.
In what form and after what manner was he sent amongst us? was it by natural or praeternatural means? if his first appearance is ushered in by a miracle, will it not be an evidence in favour of God's special revelation? If he is presented to the world in some mode superior to and differing from the ordinary course of nature, such an introduction must attract to his person and character a more than ordinary attention: If a miraculous and mysterious Being appears upon earth, so compounded of divine and human nature as to surpass our comprehension of his immediate essence, and at the same time so levelled to our earthly ideas, as to be visibly born of a human mother, not impregnated after the manner of the flesh, but by the immediate Spirit of God, in other words the son of a pure virgin, shall we make the mysterious incarnation of such a praeternatural being a reason for our disbelief in that revelation, which without a miracle we had not given credit to? We are told that the birth of Christ was in this wise; the fact rests upon the authority of the evangelists who describe it: The Unitarians, who profess Christianity with this exception, may dispute the testimony of the sacred writers in this particular, and the Jews may deny their account
in toto,
but still if Christ himself performed miracles, which the Jews do not deny, and if he rose from the dead after his crucifixion, which the Unitarians admit, I do not see how either should be staggered by the miracle of his birth: for of the Jews I may demand, whether it were not a thing as credible for God to have wrought a miracle at the birth of Moses for instance, as that he should afterwards empower that prophet to perform, not one only, but many miracles? To the Unitarians I would candidly submit, if it be not as easy to believe the incarnation of Christ as his resurrection, the authorities for each being the same? Let the authorities therefore be the test!
I am well aware that the silence of two of the evangelists is stated by the Unitarians amongst other objections against the account, and the non-accordance of the genealogies given by Saint Matthew and Saint Luke is urged against the Christian church by the author of
Lingua Sacra,
in a pamphlet lately published, in the following words—
The Evangelist Saint Matthew in the first chapter of his gospel gives us the genealogy of Christ, and Luke in the third chapter of his gospel does the same; but with such difference, that an unprejudiced person would hardly think
they belonged to one and the same person; for the latter not only differs from the former in almost the whole genealogy from Joseph to David, but has also added a few more generations, and likewise made Jesus to descend from Nathan the son of David instead of Solomon.
—(
Levi's Letter to Dr. Priestley, p.
81.)
The learned Jew is founded in his observation upon the non-accordance of these pedigrees, but not in applying that to Christ, which relates only to Joseph. Saint Matthew gives the genealogy of Joseph, whom he denominates
the husband of Mary, of whom was born Jesus, who is called Christ. C.
1.
v.
16. Saint Luke with equal precision says, that
Jesus himself began to be about thirty years of age, being, as was supposed, the son of Joseph.
Now when it is thus clear that both these genealogies apply to Joseph, and both these evangelists expressly assert that Jesus was born of an immaculate virgin, I do not think it a fair statement to call it the genealogy of Christ for the purpose of discrediting the veracity of these evangelists in points of faith or doctrine, merely because they differ in a family catalogue of the generations of Joseph, one of which is carried up to Adam, and the other brought down from Abraham. The gospel historians, as I understand them, profess severally to render a true account of Christ's mission, comprising only a short period of his life; within the compass of this period they are to record the doctrines he preached, the miracles he performed, and the circumstances of his death, passion, and resurrection; to this undertaking they are fairly committed; this they are to execute as faithful reporters, and if their reports shall be found in any essential matter contradictory to each other or themselves, let the learned author late mentioned, or any other opponent to Christianity point it out, and candour must admit the charge; but in the matter of a pedigree, which appertains to Joseph, which our church universally omits in it's service, which comprises no article of doctrine, and which, being purely matter of family record, was copied probably from one roll by Matthew, and from another by Luke, I cannot in truth and sincerity see how the sacred historians are impeached by the nonagreement of their accounts. We call them the
inspired
writers, and when any such trivial contradiction as the above can be fixed upon them by the enemies of our faith, the word is retorted upon us with triumph; but what has inspiration to do with the genealogy of Joseph,
the supposed,
not the real, father of Jesus? And indeed what more is required for the simple narration of any facts than a faithful memory, and sincere adherence to truth?
Let this suffice for what relates to the birth of Christ and the different ways, in which men argue upon that mysterious event: If his coming was foretold, and if his person and character fully answer to those predictions, no man will deny the force of such an evidence: If we are simply told that a
virgin did conceive and bear a son,
it is a circumstance so much out of the ordinary course of nature to happen, that it requires great faith in the veracity of the relater to believe it; but if we are possessed of an authentic record of high antecedent antiquity, wherein we find it expressly predicted, that such a circumstance shall happen, and that
a virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
it is such a confirmation of the fact, that, wonderful as it is, we can no longer doubt the truth of the historians who attest it. Now it is not one, but many prophets, who concur in foretelling the coming of the Messias; his person, his office, his humility and sufferings, his ignominious death and the glorious benefits resulting from his atonement are not merely glanced at with aenigmatic obscurity, but pointedly and precisely announced. Had such evidences met for the verification of any historical event unconnected with religion, I suppose there is no man, who could compare the one with the other, but would admit it's full concordance and completion; and is it not a strange perverseness of mind, if we are obstinate in doubting it, only because we are so deeply interested to believe it?
I have said there was but one temple upon earth, where the only true and living God was worshipped, the temple at Jerusalem: The Jews had derived and continued this worship from the time of Abraham, and to him the promises were made, that
in his seed all the nations of the world should be blessed.
Where then are w
naturally to look for the Messias but from the stock of Abraham, from the descendants of that family, in which alone were preserved the knowledge and worship of the only true God? If therefore the religion, which Christ founded, does in fact hold forth that blessing to all the nations of the world, then was that promise fulfilled in the person of Christ,
who took upon him the seed of Abraham.
No CXVI.
WE are next to enquire if the character and commission of the Messias were marked by such performances, as might well be expected from a person, whose introduction into the world was of so extraordinary a nature.
We are told by one of the sacred historians, that
the Jews came round about him and said unto him, How long dost thou make us to doubt? If thou be the Christ, tell us plainly: Jesus answered them, I told you, and ye believed not; the works that I do in my father's name, they bear witness of me.
In this passage Christ himself appeals to his works done in the name of God to witness against all cavils for his being the true Messias. The same question was put to him by the disciples of the Baptist,
Art thou he that should come, or do we look for another?
The same appeal is made to his works in the reply he gives to these enquirers.
It follows next in order that we should ask what these works were, and it so happens, that the person who performed them, has himself enumerated them in the following words:
The blind receive their sight and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up and the poor have the gospel preached unto them.
These are works it must be acknowledged of a most benevolent sort; they are not indeed so splendid as the miraculous act of dividing the Red Sea for the people of Israel to march through it, and again commanding it to close upon their pursuers in the rear and swallow up the army of Pharaoh; they are not of so tremendous a character as those afflicting plagues with which Moses punished the Egyptians; but would these, or such as these, have been characteristic of a mediator? Christ came to save and not to destroy the world, and the works above described are no less merciful in their nature, than miraculous.
When the Jews therefore tauntingly assert the superior magnificence of the miracles wrought by Moses, which we admit to have been in all respects suitable to the commission which Moses was encharged with, they should with equal candor admit, that the less splendid, but more salutary, miracles of Christ, were no less suited to the merciful commission, which he came amongst us to perform. There is indeed more horrible grandeur in the spectacle of a vast army swallowed up by the sea, miraculously divided into a wall on each side of those who passed through it; but who will say that God's power is not as wonderfully and conspicuously displayed in restoring dead Lazarus to life, as in drowning Pharaoh and his host? Surely it is as great a miracle to give life to the dead, as it is to put the living to death.
The miracles of Christ were performed without ostentation and display, yet they were of such general notoriety, that the Jews themselves did not, and do not even now, deny their being wrought by him, but ascribed them to the aid and agency of the Devil: A miserable subterfuge indeed! But this is not all: A contemporary writer of that nation,
David Levi,
in his letter to Dr. Priestley asserts, that there was not only
no such necessity
for the miracles of Jesus as for those of Moses, but
that they were scarcely just or rational, and consequently cannot be offered as proofs of his divine mission in comparison with that of Moses, p.
67. 68.
In support of this assertion the learned controversialist observes,
that as to the miracles of Moses, there was the greatest necessity for them; for instance, the plagues he brought upon the Egyptians were necessary for the redemption of the
Jewish nation; as was the dividing of the Red Sea, and the drowning the Egyptians for their further deliverance from them; the manna from heaven and the water from the rock were necessary for their subsistence in the wilderness; the same of all the rest.
This we may admit in it's full force; but as the miracles, which Christ wrought were altogether as
necessary
for the proof of his divine mission, as these of Moses for the proof of his; a man must be very partial to his own nation, who will assert, that the deliverance of the Jews from their captivity in Egypt was a more important object than the redemption of lost mankind. We will not doubt but it was
necessary
the Egyptian host should be drowned, because it seemed good to God so to punish their obduracy, and extricate the Jewish tribes; but it is no less
necessary,
that mankind should believe in Christ, if they are to be saved through his means, and for the confirmation of that
necessary
faith, these miracles were performed: The author of the objection, who himself asserts that Moses delivered the important doctrine of a future state, will not deny that the belief of a future state is a
necessary
belief; and if it be so, it must follow that Christ's resurrection and appearance upon earth after his crucifixion, (a miracle I presume as great and striking as any wrought by the hand of Moses) was as pertinent to that general end, as the wonders in the land of Egypt and at the Red Sea were to the particular purpose of rescuing the Jews out of their captivity.
If we grant that Moses, as this objector intimates, did impart the doctrine of a future state, Christ did more by exemplifying it in his own person, and against such evidence we might presume even a Sadducee would not hold out. Now as so large a portion of the Jewish nation were still in the avowed disbelief of that doctrine, which our opponent believes was taught them by their great prophet and lawgiver himself, surely he must of force allow, that the resurrection of Christ was to them at least, and to all who like them did not credit the doctrine of a life to come, a
necessary
miracle.
Where such a teacher as Moses had failed to persuade, what less than a miracle could conquer their infidelity? Unless indeed, our author shall join issue with Abraham in his reply to Dives, as recorded in the words of Christ, and maintain with him, that as they would not believe the word of Moses,
neither would they be persuaded, though one actually rose from the dead.
And now I will more closely animadvert upon the bold assertion of
David Levi,
the Jew, (whose hostile opinions we tolerate) that the miracles of Christ, the Savior of the world (whose religion we profess) were
scarcely just or rational.
Our faith is at issue; our established church falls to the ground, our very sovereign becomes no longer the
defender of our faith,
but rather the defender of our folly, if this contemner of Christ, this alien, who assaults our religion, whilst he is living under the protection of our laws, shall, with one stroke of an audacious pen, undermine the strong foundation of our belief.
Let us hear how this modern caviller confutes those miracles, which his forefathers saw and did not dare to deny.
He takes two out of the number, and if there is any merit in the selection, he is beholden to his correspondent for it: These are, first,
the driving the devils out of the man possessed, and sending them into the herd of swine; Mat. viii.
28. Secondly,
the curse pronounced upon the barren fig-tree; Mark xi.
13.
Upon the first of these he has the following stricture—
This I think was not strictly just, for as according to your
[Dr. Priestley's]
opinion, he was but a man and a prophet, I would willingly be informed what right he had to destroy another man's property in the manner he did by sending the devils
into them, and so causing them to run violently into the sea and perish?
This miracle is recorded also by Saint Mark, v.1. and again by Saint Luke, viii.26. What Saint Matthew calls the country of the Gergesenes, the other two evangelists call the country of the Gadarenes, and St. Luke adds that it is over against Galilee; this country, as I conceive, was within the boundaries of the half tribe of Manasseh, on the other side of Jordan, and is by Strabo called
Gadarida,
lib. 16. Now Moses both in Leviticus xi. and Deuteronomy xiv. prohibits swine, as one of the unclean beasts:
Of their flesh shall ye not eat, and their carcase shall ye not touch; they are unclean to you.
Isaiah also states it as a particular sin and abomination in the Jews, whom he calleth
a rebellious people, a people that provoketh me to anger continually to my face; which remain among the graves and lodge in the monuments, which eat swine's flesh. lxv.
2, 3, 4. And again,
They that sanctify themselves and purify themselves in the gardens, behind one tree in the midst, eating swine's flesh, &c. shall be consumed together, saith the Lord. lxvi.
17. Eleazar the scribe,
when constrained to open his mouth and eat swine's flesh, chose rather to die gloriously, than to live stained with such an abomination.
2
Macc. vi.
18.19. The seven brethren also, who were compelled to the like abomination, declared,
They were ready to die rather than to transgress the laws of their fathers.
This being the law of Moses with respect to this proscribed animal, and such being the corruptions of the people in violating that law, I am at a loss to discover the
injustice
of the miracle; seeing what abominations these creatures had occasioned amongst the Jews, so as to draw down the denunciations of the prophet Isaiah, repeatedly urged in the passages abov
quoted; and it is with particular surprize I m
the charge from one, who is himself a Jew, and who, I must presume, would die the death of Eleazar rather than be defiled with such abominable food. It would be hard indeed if Christ, whom he arraigns for abolishing the Mosaical dispensation in one part of his argument, should in another be accused of wrong and injury for conforming to it: But any wretched shift shall be resorted to for matter of railing against Christ, and rather than not feed his spleen at all, he will feed it upon swine's flesh: Let the learned Jew first prove to me that a hog was not an abomination to his countrymen, and it will then be time enough to debate upon the
injustice
of destroying them; meanwhile I shall not be disposed to allow of any damages for the swine in question at the suit and prosecution of a Jew.
His second attack is pointed against the miracle of the fig-tree, which was blasted at the word of Christ.
Though Saint Matthew as well as Saint Mark, records this miracle, yet, for reasons sufficiently obvious, he refers to the latter, who says,
that when Christ came to it he found nothing but leaves; for the time of figs was not yet.
His argument upon this passage is as follows:
Hence it is manifest, that he required the tree to produce fruit out of season, and which would have been contrary to the intent of it's creator; and therefore he, as a dutiful son, curses the innocent and guiltless tree for doing that, which his father had commanded it to do, viz. to bear fruit in it's proper season:
In this paragraph our Jew has quickened his argument with some facetious irony, and he follows it with an air of exultation as well as insult:
If, after this, Christians should still persist in the miracle, according to the letter of the story, much good may it do them; but I am sure it will never be the means of converting the unbelieving Jews to the Christian faith.
I close with him in opinion that this miracle will not be the means of converting his unbelieving brethren to Christianity; for how can I hope, that what their fathers saw and yet believed not, should at this distant period gain belief from their posterity? I also join with him in saying (and I suspect I say it with somewhat more sincerity)
much good may it do
to all those Christians, who persist in their belief of it! A descendant of those who murdered Christ, may act in character, when he insults his miracles and ridicules his person, but a believer in Christ will be an imitator of his patience.
It is now time to dismiss the irony and apply to the argument. This simply turns upon Saint Mark's interjectional observation, not noticed by Saint Matthew in his account, viz.
that the time of figs was not yet:
He says, that Jesus being hungry saw a fig-tree afar off, having leaves, and came if haply he might find any thing thereon: By this it appears that the tree was in leaf, and Jesus approached it with the expectation of finding something thereon; but when he found nothing but leaves, he said unto it,
No man eat fruit of thee hereafter for ever!
And his disciples heard it; These came again the next morning, and passing by the fig-tree saw it dried up from the roots; which when Peter remarked as a completion of the miracle, Jesus said to them all, HAVE FAITH IN GOD!
In these important words we have the moral of the act. The tree, which this reviler takes upon himself to say, was
commanded
by God
to bear fruit in it's proper season,
was on the contrary commanded by God to bear fruit no more, but serve a nobler purpose by witnessing to the miraculous power of Christ; and now if
an innocent and guiltless tree
was blasted out of season by the word of Christ for the purpose of inspiring the beholders with
Faith in God,
the benefit conferred upon human nature may well atone for the injury done to vegetable nature; though I am free to acknowledge to it's pathetic advocate, that, as a Jew, he has undertaken a more cleanly cause, than when he before stood forth in defence of the hogs: As well may he bewail
the innocent and guiltless trees
and grain of Egypt, which were smitten by the hail, when Moses called it down upon the land, if such be his tender feelings toward the productions of the earth, as this single fig-tree: Till he can convince us that the deliverance of the Jews from their Egyptian bondage was a more important object than the redemption of the world, he will find it hard to make a reasoning man allow, that this single fig-tree, even though it had no right to bear fruit, hath a stronger appeal to justice against the miracle of Christ, than
every herb of the field that was smitten, every
guiltless and innocent
tree of the field that was broken
by the stretching forth of the rod of Moses.
Thus then stands the account between Christ and his accuser; the Jewish nation lost a tree, and mankind gained—a Savior!
No CXVII.
IF it were necessary to enter into a more literal defence of the miracle of the blasted fig-tree, I see no absolute reason to conclude with the caviller, that Christ required the tree to produce fruit out of season and act against it's nature; for if
the time of figs
be the gathering or harvest of figs, it was more reasonable to expect fruit from this tree before the time of plucking, than after it; and as this fruit was no small article in the produce and traffick of Judaea, we may well conclude
the time of figs,
mentioned by Saint Mark, was like the vintage in the wine countries; and I apprehend it would not be an unreasonable expectation to find a cluster of grapes on a vine, before the time of vintage was come. This construction of the words will seem the more reasonable, when we remark that Saint Matthew, who records the miracle, takes no account of this circumstance, and that Saint Mark, who states it, states also that Christ in his hunger applied to the tree,
if haply he might find any thing thereon,
which implies expectation.
But our Jew hath suggested a better method of performing the miracle by commanding fruit from a withered tree instead of blasting a living one; which, says he,
if Jesus had done, it would have been such an instance of his power, as to have rendered the proof of the miracle indisputable.
Here let him stand to his confession, and I take him at his word: I agree with him in owning that the miracle, as he states it, would have been indisputable, had Christ given liffe and fruit to a withered tree; and I demand of him to agree with me, that the miracle was indisputable, when the same Christ gave breath and life to dead Lazarus.
But alas! I can hardly expect that the raising a dead tree to life would have been thus successful, though even infidelity asserts it, when the miracle of restoring a dead man to life hath not silenced his cavils, but left him to quibble about hogs and figs, and even in the face of his own confession to arraign the Savior of the world as
unjust and irrational
through the channel of a Christian press: Neither am I bound to admit, that his correction of the miracle would in any respect have amended it; for, as an instance of Christ's miraculous power, I can see no greater energy in the act of enlivening a dead tree, than in destroying a living one by the single word of his command.
I must yet ask patience of the reader, whilst I attend upon this objector to another cavil started against this miracle of the fig-tree, in the account of which he says there is a contradiction of dates between Saint Matthew and Saint Mark, for that in the former it appears
Christ first cast the buyers and sellers out of the temple, and on the morrow cursed the fig-tree; whereas according to Saint Mark it was transacted before the driving them out of the temple, and such a manifest contradiction must greatly affect the credibility of the history.
Whether or not a day's disagreement in the dates would so
greatly affect the credibility of the history
we are not called upon to argue, because it will be found that no such contradiction exists.
Saint Mark agrees with Saint Matthew in saying that
Jesus entered into Jerusalem and into the temple,
and on the morrow cursed the fig-tree; he then adds that he returned to Jerusalem and drove the buyers and sellers out of the temple: Again, the next morning he and his disciples passed by the fig-tree and saw it dried up from the roots: This is told in detail.
Saint Matthew agrees with Saint Mark in saying Jesus went into the temple the day before he destroyed the fig-tree, but he does not break the narrative into detail, as Saint Mark does; for as he relates the whole miracle of the fig-tree at once, comprising the events of two days in one account, so doth he give the whole of what passed in the temple at once also.
Both Evangelists agree in making Christ's entrance into the temple antecedent to his miracle; but Saint Matthew with more brevity puts the whole of each incident into one account, Saint Mark more circumstantially details every particular: And this is the mighty contradiction, which David Levi hath discovered in the sacred historians, upon which he exultingly pronounces, that
he is confident there are a number of others as glaring as this; but which he has not at present either time or inclination to point out.
These menaces I shall expect he will make good, for when his time serves to point them out, I dare believe his inclination will not stand in the way.
In the meantime let it be remembered that David Levi stands pledged as the author of an unsupported charge against the veracity of the Evangelists, and let every faithful Christian, to whom those holy records are dear, but most of all the proper guardians of our church, be prepared to meet their opponent and his charge.
But our caviller hath not yet done with the Evangelists, for he asserts that
they are not only contradictory to each other, but are inconsistent with themselves; for what can be more so than Matthew
i. 18.
with Matthew
xiii. 55.?
Now mark the contradiction!
The birth of Jesus was on this wise; When as his mother Mary was espoused to Joseph, before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost. Chap.
i.18. The other text is found in
Chap.
xiii.55:
Is not this the carpenter's son? is not his mother Mary? and his brethren James and Joses and Simon and Judas?
Need any child be told, that in the first text Saint Matthew speaks, and in the second the cavilling Jews? who then can wonder if they disagree? as well we might expect agreement between truth and falsehood, between the Evangelist and
David Levi,
as between two passages of such opposite characters. Is this the man, who is to confute the holy scriptures? Weak champion of an unworthy cause!
What he means by an inconsistency between
Luke
i.34, 35. and
Luke
xiv.22. I cannot understand, and conclude there must be an error of the press, of which I think no author can have less reason to complain, than
David Levi.
These two unprosperous attacks being the whole of what he attempts upon the inconsistency of the sacred historians with themselves, I shall no longer detain my readers, than whilst I notice one more cavil, which this author points against the divine mission of Christ, as compared with that of Moses, viz.
That God speaking with Moses face to face in the presence of six hundred thousand men, besides women and children, as mentioned in Exod.
xix.9.
was such an essential proof of the divine mission of Moses, as is wanting on the part of Jesus
; and therefore he concludes, that taking the miracles of Moses and this colloquy with the Supreme Being together, the evidences for him are much stronger than for Christ.
A man, who does not instantly discern the futility of this argument, must forget all the several incidents in the history of Christ, where the voice of God audibly testifies to his divine mission; for instance
Matth.
iii.16, 17.
And Jesus, when he was baptized, went up straitway out of the water, and lo! the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him; and lo! a voice from heaven, saying, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.
The same is repeated by
Mark,
i.10, 11.; again by
Luke,
iii.21, 22.; again by
John,
i.32, 33, 34.
If these supernatural signs and declarations do not evince the superiority of Christ's mission above that of Moses, if Christ, to whom angels ministered, when the devil in despair departed from him, Christ, who was transfigured before his disciples,
and his face did shine as the sun, and his raiment was white as the light, and behold! there appeared unto them Moses and Elias talking with him
; Christ, at whose death
the vail of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom, and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent, and the graves were opened, and many bodies of saints, which slept, arose, and came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many
; in conclusion, if Christ, whose resurrection was declared by angels, seen and acknowledged by many witnesses, and whose ascension into heaven crowned and completed the irrefragable evidences of his divine mission; if Christ, whose prophecies of his own death and resurrection, of the destruction of Jerusalem and of the subsequent dispersion of the Jews, have been and now are so fully verified, cannot, as our caviller asserts, meet the comparison with Moses, then is the Redeemer of lost mankind a less sublime and important character than the legislator of the Jews.
I have now attempted in the first place to discover how far the world was illuminated by right reason before the revelation of Christ took place; for had men's belief been such, and their practice also such as Christianity teaches, the world had not stood in need of a Redeemer.
The result of this enquiry was, that certain persons have expressed themselves well and justly upon the subject of God and religion in times antecedent to the Christian aera, and in countries where idolatry was the established worship:
That the nation of the Jews was a peculiar nation, and preserved the worship of the true and only God, revealed in very early time to their fathers, but that this worship from various circumstances and events, in which they themselves were highly criminal, had not been propagated beyond the limits of a small tract, and that the temple of Jerusalem was the only church in the world, where God was worshipped, when Christ came upon earth:
That from the almost universal diffusion of idolatry, from the unworthy ideas men had of God and religion, and the few faint notions entertained amongst them of a future state of rewards and punishments, the world was in such deplorable error, and in such universal need of an instructor and redeemer, that the coming of Christ was most seasonable and necessary to salvation:
That there were a number of concurrent prophecies of an authentic character in actual existence, which promised this salvation to the world, and depicted the person of the Messias, who was to perform this mediatorial office in so striking a manner, that it cannot be doubted but that all those characteristics meet and are fulfilled in the person of Christ:
That his birth, doctrines, miracles, prophecies, death and passion with other evidences are so satisfactory for the confirmation of our belief in his divine mission, that our faith as Christians is grounded upon irrefragable proofs:
Lastly, That the vague opinions of our own dissenting brethren, and the futile cavils of a recent publication by a distinguished writer of the Jewish nation, are such weak and impotent assaults upon our religion, as only serve to confirm us in it the more.
If I have effected this to the satisfaction of the serious reader I shall be most happy, and as for those, who seek nothing better than amusement in these volumes, I will apply myself without delay to the easier task of furnishing them with matter more suited to their taste, and if the following pages shall introduce another Jew to their acquaintance, I can promise them he shall be one, of whom no honest man need be ashamed.
No CXVIII.
APOLLODORUS ADELPHIS.
A life from cares and business free,
Is of all lives the life for me.
NED DROWSY
came into possession of a good estate at a time of life, when the humours and habits contracted by education, or more properly by the want of it, become too much a part of the constitution to be conquered but by some extraordinary effort or event. Ned's father had too tender a concern for his health and morals to admit him of a public school, and the same objections held against an university: Not that Ned was without his pretensions to scholarship, for it is well known that he has been sometimes found asleep upon his couch with a book open in his hand, which warrants a presumption that he could read, though I have not met any body yet, who has detected him in the act itself. The literature of the nursery he held in general contempt, and had no more passion for the feats of
Jack the Giant-killer,
when he was a child, than he had for the labours of Hercules in his more adult years: I can witness to the detestation, in which he held the popular allegory of
the Pilgrim's Progress,
and when he has been told of the many editions that book has run through, he has never failed to reply, that there is no accounting for the bad taste of the vulgar: At the same time, I speak it to his honour, I have frequently known him express a tender fellow-feeling for
the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood,
and betray more partiality, than he was apt to be guilty of, to the edifying story of
the Seven Dreamers,
whom I verily believe he held in more respect than the Seven Wonders of the World.
Rural sports were too boisterous for Ned's spirits; neither hares nor partridges could lay their deaths at his door, so that all his country neighbours gave him their good word, and poached his manors without mercy: There was a canal in front of his house, where he would sometimes take up with the placid amusement of angling from an alcove by the side of it, with a servant in attendance for the purpose of baiting his hook, or calling upon him to pull, if by chance he was surprized with a bite; happily for his repose this very rarely was the case, though a tradition runs in the family of his having once snapped an officious perch of extraordinary size.
There was a learned practitioner in the law, one
Mr. Driver,
who had a house in his parish, and him Ned appointed manager of his estate; this worthy gentleman was so considerate as seldom if ever to give him any trouble about his accounts, well knowing his aversion from items and particulars and the little turn he had to the drudgery of arithmetic and calculations. By the kind offices of Mr. Driver Ned was relieved from an infinite deal of disagreeable business, and Mr. Driver himself suddenly became a man of considerable property, and began to take a lead in the county. Ned together with his estate had succeeded to a Chancery suit, which was pending at the death of the late possessor: This suit was for a time carried on so prosperously by Mr. Driver, that nothing more seemed requisite to bring it to a favorable issue, than for Ned to make his appearance in Court for some purposes I am not able to explain: This was an undertaking so insurmountable, that he could never be prevailed upon to set about it and the suit was deserted accordingly. This suit and the circumstance of a copper mine on his estate, which his agent never could engage him to work, were the only things that ever disturbed his tranquillity, and upon these topics he was rather sore, till Mr. Driver found it convenient to give up both points, and Ned heard no more of his Chancery suit or his copper mine.
These few traits of my friend's character will suffice to make my readers acquainted with him before I relate the particulars of a visit I paid him about three months ago. It was in compliance with the following letter, which I was favoured with from Mr. Driver.
Sir,
These are to inform you that Mr. Drowsy desires the favour of your company at Poppy-Hall, which he has ordered me to notify to you, not doubting but you will take it in good part, as you well know how his humour stands towards writing. He bids me say that he has something of consequence to consult you upon, of which more when we meet: Wishing you health and a safe journey I remain in all reasonable service,
Your's to command, DANIEL DRIVER.
In consequence of this summons I set off for Poppy-Hall, and arrived there early in the evening of the second day. I found my friend Drowsy in company with my correspondent the attorney, the reverend Mr. Beetle curate of the parish, and two gentlemen, strangers to me, who, as I understood from Mr. Driver, were Mr. Sparkle senior, an eminent auctioneer in London, and Billy Sparkle his son, a city beau. My friend was in his easy chair turned towards the fire; the rest were sitting round the table at some distance, and engaged, as I soon discovered, in a very interesting conversation upon beauty, which my entrance for a while put a stop to. This intermission however lasted no longer than whilst Mr. Drowsy paid his compliments to me, which he performed in few words, asking me however if I came on horseback, which having answered in the affirmative, he sententiously observed, that he never rode. And now the elder Mr. Sparkle resumed the conversation in the following manner—What I was going to observe to you, when this gentleman came in, upon the article of beauty is peremptorily and precisely this: Beauty, gentlemen, is in the eye, I aver it to be in the eye of the beholder and not in the object itself; my beauty for instance is not your beauty, your's is not mine; it depends upon fancy and taste, fancy and taste are nothing but caprice: A collection of fine women is like a collection of fine pictures; put them up to auction, and bidders will be found for every lot.—But all bidders, cries the attorney, are not
bonâ fide
buyers; I believe you find many an article in your sales sent back upon the owner's hands, and so it is with beauty; all, that is bidden for, is not bought in—Here the curate interposed, and turning to his lay-brother of the pulpit, reminded him that beauty was like a flower of the field; here to-day, and gone tomorrow; whereas virtue was a hardy plant and defied the scythe of time; virtue was an evergreen and would bloom in the winter of life; virtue would flourish, when beauty was no more.—I believe it seldom makes any considerable shoots till that is the case, cried Billy Sparkle, and followed up his repartee with a laugh, in which he was himself the only performer.—It is high time now, says the attorney, directing his discourse to me, to make you acquainted with the business we are upon, and how we came to fall upon this topic of beauty. Your friend Mr. Drowsy does not like the trouble of talking, and therefore with his leave I shall open the case to you, as I know he wishes to take your opinion upon it—Here the attorney seeming to pause for his cue, Drowsy nodded his head and bade him go on. We are in consultation, rejoined he, upon a matter of no less moment than the choice of a wife for the gentleman in that easy chair.—And if he is easy in it, demanded I, what need he wish for more?—Alackaday! he has no heir, and till that event takes place, he is only tenant for life subject to empeachment of waste; he cannot be called master of his own estate; only think of that, Sir. That was for him to do, I replied; how does Mr. Drowsy himself think of it? I don't think much about it, answered Ned. And how stands your mind towards matrimony?—No answer.—There's trouble in it, added I. There is so, replied he with a sigh; but Driver says I want an heir. There's trouble in that too, quoth I; have you any particular lady in your eye? That is the very point we are now upon, cried Mr. Sparkle senior; there are three lots up for Mr. Drowsy or his friends to chuse from, and I only wait his signal for knocking down the lot, that he likes best. This I could not perfectly understand in the terms of art, which Mr. Sparkle made use of, and therefore desired he would express himself in plain language. My father means to say, cries Billy, there are three girls want husbands, and but one man that wishes to be married. Hold your tongue, puppy, said old Sparkle, and proceeded. You shall know, Sir, that to accommodate Mr. Drowsy in the article of a wife and save him the trouble of looking out for himself, we some time ago put an advertisement in the papers; I believe I have a copy of it about me: Aye, here it is!
WANTED
A young, healthy, unmarried woman, of a discreet character, as wife to a gentleman of fortune, who loves his ease and does not care to take upon himself the trouble of courtship: she must be of a placid domestic turn, and not one that likes to hear herself talk. Any qualified person, whom this may suit, by applying to Mr. Sparkle auctioneer, may be informed of particulars. A short trial will be expected.
N. B. Maids of Honor need not apply, as none such will be treated with.
I told Mr. Sparkle I thought his advertisement a very good one, and properly guarded and I wished to know the result of it: He said that very many applicants had presented themselves, but for want of full credentials he had dismissed all but three, whom I will again describe, added he, not only for your information, but in hopes Mr. Drowsy will give some attention to the catalogue, which I am sorry to say has not yet been the case.
He then drew a paper of minutes from his pocket-book and read as follows—
Katherine Cumming, spinster, aged twenty-five, lodges at Gravesend in the house of Mr. Duffer, a reputable slop-seller of that place, can have an undeniable character from two gentlemen of credit, now absent, but soon expected in the next arrivals from China: Her fortune, which she ingenuously owns is not capital, is for the present invested in certain commodities, which she has put into the hands of the gentlemen above-mentioned, and for which she expects profitable returns on their arrival. This young lady appeared with a florid blooming complexion, fine long ringlets of dark hair in the fashionable dishevel, eyes uncommonly sparkling, is tall of stature, strait and in good case. She wore a locket of plaited hair slung in a gold chain round her neck, and was remarkably neat and elegant about the feet and ancles: Is impatient for a speedy answer, as she has thoughts of going out in the next ships to India.
Let her go! cried Ned, I'll have nothing to say to Kitty Cumming.—I'll bet a wager she is one of us, exclaimed the city beau, for which his father gave him a look of rebuke and proceeded to the next.
Agnes de Crapeau, daughter of a French protestant clergyman in the Isle of Jersey, a comely young woman, but of a pensive air and downcast look; lived as a dependant upon a certain rich trader's wife, with whom her situation was very unpleasant; flattered herself she was well practised in submission and obedience, should conform to any humours which the advertiser might have, and, should he do her the honour to accept her as his wife, she would do
her possible
to please him with all humble duty, gratitude and devotion.
Ned Drowsy now turned himself in his chair, and with a sigh whispered me in the ear, Poor thing! I pity her, but she won't do: Go on to the last.
The lady I am next to describe, said Sparkle, is one of whom I can only speak by report, for as yet I have not set eyes on her person, nor is she acquainted with a syllable of these proceedings, being represented to me as a young woman, whose delicacy would not submit to be the candidate of an advertisement. The account I have had of her is from a friend, who, though a man of a particular way of thinking, is a very honest honourable person, and one whose word will pass for thousands: He called at my office one day, when this advertisement was lying on my desk, and casting his eye upon the paper asked me, if that silly jest was of my inventing; I assured him it was no jest, but a serious advertisement; that the party was a man of property and honor, a gentleman by birth and principle, and one every way qualified to make the married state happy. Hath he lost his understanding, said my friend, that he takes this method of convening all the prostitutes about the town, or doth he consult his ease so much, as not trouble himself whether his wife be a modest woman or not? Humph! cried Ned, what signifies what he said? go on with your story. To make short of it then, resumed Sparkle, my friend grew serious upon the matter, and after a considering time addressed himself to me as follows; If I were satisfied your principal is a man, as you describe him, qualified by temper and disposition to make an amiable and virtuous girl happy, I would say something to you on the subject; but as he chuses to be concealed, and as I cannot think of blindly sacrificing my fair charge to any man, whom she does not know and approve, there is an end of the matter. And why so? exclaimed Ned with more energy than I had ever observed in him; I should be glad to see the gentleman and lady both; I should be glad to see them.
At this instant a servant entered the room and announced the arrival of a stranger, who wished to speak with the elder Mr. Sparkle.
No CXIX.
MY friend Ned Drowsy is a man, who hath indeed neglected nature's gifts, but not abused them; he is as void of vice, as he is of industry, his temper is serene, and his manners harmless and inoffensive; he is avaricious of nothing but of his ease, and certainly possesses benevolence, though too indolent to put it into action: He is as sparing of his teeth as he is of his tongue, and whether it be that he is naturally temperate, or that eating and drinking are too troublesome, so it is that he is very abstemious in both particulars, and having received the blessings of a good constitution and a comely person from the hand of Providence, he has not squandered his talent, though he has not put it out to use.
Accordingly when I perceived him interested in the manner I have related upon Mr. Sparkle's discourse, and heard him give orders to his servant to shew the gentleman into the room, which he did in a quicker and more spirited tone than is usual with him, I began to think that nature was about to struggle for her privileges, and suspecting that this stranger might perhaps have some connection with Sparkle's
incognita,
I grew impatient for his appearance.
After a while the servant returned and introduced a little swarthy old man with short grey hair and whimsically dressed; having on a dark brown coat with a tarnished gold edging, black figured velvet waistcoat and breeches of scarlet cloth with long gold knee-bands, dangling down a pair of black silk stockings, which cloathed two legs not exactly cast in the mould of the Belvedere Apollo. He made two or three low reverences as he advanced, so that before Mr. Sparkle could announce him by name, I had set him down for an Israelite, all the world to nothing; but as soon as I heard the words,
Gentlemen, this is my worthy friend Mr. Abraham Abrahams!
I recognized the person of my correspondent, whose humble and ingenuous letter I thought fit to publish in No LXIV. of my third volume, and whom I had once before had a glimpse of as he walked past my bookseller's door in Cornhill, and was pointed out to me from the shop.
Mr. Abrahams, not being a person, to whom nature had affixed her passport, saying
Let this man have free ingress and egress upon my authority,
made his first approaches with all those civil assiduities, which some people are constrained to practise, who must first turn prejudice out of company, before they can sit down in it. In the present case I flatter myself he fared somewhat better for the whisper I gave my friend Ned in his favor, and silence after a short time having taken place in such a manner as seemed to indicate an expectation in the company, that he was the person who was now to break it, he began not without some hesitation to deliver himself in these words.
Before I take the liberty of addressing the gentleman of the house, I wish to know from my friend Mr. Sparkle, whether he has opened any hint of what has passed between him and me relative to a certain advertisement; and if he has, I should next be glad to know, whether I have permission of the party concerned to go into the business.
Yes, Sir, cried Ned somewhat eagerly, Mr. Sparkle has told me all that passed, and you have not only my free leave, but my earnest desire to say every thing you think fit before these friends. Then, Sir, said Abrahams, I shall tell you a plain tale without varying a single tittle from the truth.
As I was coming home from my club pretty late in the evening about five months ago, in turning the corner of a narrow alley, a young woman came hastily out of the door of a house, and, seizing hold of my hand, eagerly besought me for the love of God to follow her. I was startled, and knew not what to think of such a greeting; I could discern that she was young and beautiful, and I was no adventurer in affairs of gallantry; she seemed indeed to be exceedingly agitated and almost beside herself, but I knew the profligate of that sex can sometimes feign distress for very wicked purposes, and therefore desired to be excused from going into any house with her; if she would however advance a few paces I would hear what she had to say, and so it was nothing but my charity she solicited, I was ready to relieve her: We turned the corner of the alley together, and being now in one of the principal streets of the city, I thought I might safely stop and hear the petition she had to make. As we stood together under the eaves of a shop, the night being rainy, she told me that the reason she besought me to go into the house with her was in hopes the spectacle of distress, which would there present itself to my sight, might, if there was any pity in my heart, call it forth, and prevail with me to stop a deed of cruelty, which was then in execution, by saying a wretched object from being thrust into the streets in a dying condition for a small debt to her landlord, whom no entreaties could pacify. Blessed God! I exclaimed, can there be such human monsters? who is the woman? My mother, replied she, and burst into an agony of tears; if I would be what I may have appeared to you, but what I never can be even to save the life of my parent, I had not been driven to this extremity, for it is resentment, which actuates the brutal wretch no less than cruelty. Though I confess myself not insensible to fear, being as you see no athletic, I felt such indignation rise within me at these words, that I did not hesitate for another moment about accompanying this unhappy girl to her house, not doubting the truth of what she had been telling me, as well from the manner of her relating it, as from my observation of her countenance, which the light of the lamp under which we were standing, discovered to be of a most affecting, modest and even dignified character—
Sir, I honor you for your benevolence, cried Ned; pray proceed with your story.
She led me up two pair of stairs into a back apartment, where a woman was in bed, pleading for mercy to a surly-looking fellow, who was calling out to her to get up and be gone out of his house. I have found a fellow-creature, said my conductress, whose pity will redeem us from the clutches of one, who has none; be comforted, my dear mother, for this gentleman has some Christian charity in his heart. I don't know what charity may be in his heart, cried the fellow, but he has so little of the Christian in his countenance, that I'll bet ten to one he is a Jew. Be that as it may, said I, a Jew may have feeling, and therefore say what these poor women are indebted to you, and I will pay down the money, if my pocket can reach it; if not, I believe my name, though it be a Jew's name, will be good for the sum, let it be what it will. May God reward you, cried the mother, our debt is not great, though it is more than we have present means to pay; we owe but six and twenty shillings to our hardened creditor; I believe I am right, Constantia, (turning to her daughter) but you know what it is correctly. That is the amount of it, replied the lovely Constantia, for such she now appeared to me, as she was in the act of supporting her mother on the bolster with her arm under her neck. Take your money, man, quoth I, receive what is your own, and let these helpless creatures lodge in peace one night beneath your roof; to-morrow I will remove them, if this infirm woman shall be able to endure it. I hope my house is my own, answered the savage, and I don't desire to be troubled with them one night longer, no, nor even one hour.
Is this possible? exclaimed Ned; are there such distresses in the world? what then have I been doing all this while? Having so said, he sprung nimbly out of his easy chair, took a hasty stride or two across the room, rubbing his forehead as he walked, threw himself into an empty chair, which stood next to that, in which Mr. Abrahams was sitting, and begged him once more to proceed with his narrative.
With the help of my apothecary, who lived in the very house, at the door of which I had conversed with Constantia, I removed the invalid and her daughter that very evening in a hackney coach to my own house, which was not far distant; and by the same medical assistance and my wife's care, who is an excellent nurse, I had the satisfaction to see the poor woman regain her health and strength very speedily, for in fact her weakness had been more the effect of misery and want of diet, than any real disease: As for Constantia, her looks kept pace with her mother's recovery, and I must say without flattery she is altogether the finest creature I ever looked upon.
The mother of Constantia is still a very comely woman and not above forty years old; she has a father living, who is a man of great opulence, but he has conceived such irreconcileable displeasure at her marrying, that he has never since that event taken the least notice either of her or of his grandchild. Then he is an unnatural monster, cried Ned, and will be sent to the devil for his barbarity.
Mr. Abrahams proceeded as follows; she is the widow of a Captain Goodison, of whose unhappy story I have at different times collected only a few particulars, but from these I can understand that she went with him to America, and took her daughter with her; that he had a company of foot, and little else to maintain himself and family upon but his pay; that he served there in most of the campaigns with the reputation of a gallant officer, but that the spirit of gaming having been suffered to infect the English army in their winter quarters at New-York, this wretched man, the father and the husband of these helpless women, became a prey to that infernal passion, and being driven to sell his commission to pay his losses at play, put an end to his miserable existence by a bullet.
Here Abrahams paused, whilst Ned gave vent to a groan, in which I can answer for his being seconded by one more heart at least then in company, from which the recollection of that fatal period never fails to extort a pang.
The series of sufferings, which the unhappy widow and her child endured, (continued Abrahams) from this tragical period, were such as I must leave you to imagine, for I neither wished to be informed of them, nor could she expatiate upon them. It may however be proper to inform Mr. Drowsy, that I am convinced there is no room for hope, that any future impression can be made upon the unforgiving nature of Constantia's grandfather, and it would be unjust in me to represent her as any other than what she is, destitute of fortune even in expectancy. And what is she the worse for that? cried Ned; amongst the articles I stipulate for in the advertisement, which Mr. Sparkle has been reading, I believe you will not find that money is put down for one. Upon this Mr. Abrahams made a proper compliment to my friend, and addressing himself to the company began to apologize for having taken up so much of our attention by his long discourse; this naturally produced a return of acknowledgments on our parts, with many and just commendations of his benevolence. The honest man's features brightened with joy upon receiving this welcome testimony, which he so well deserved, and I remarked with pleasure that our reverend friend, the curate, now began to regard Abrahams with an eye of complacency, and having set himself in order, like one who was about to harangue his audience with a prepared oration, he turned a gracious countenance upon the humble adversary of his faith, and delivered himself as follows—
Charity, Mr. Abrahams, is by our church esteemed the first of Christian virtues, and as we are commanded to pray even for our enemies, in obedience to that blessed mandate I devoutly pray that in your instance it may avail to cover and blot out the multitude of sins. Your reaching forth the hand of mercy to these poor Christians in their pitiable distress proves you to be a man superior to those shameful prejudices, which make a false plea of religion for shutting up the heart against all, but those of it's own faith and persuasion. I have listened to your narrative with attention, and it is but justice to you to confess, that your forbearing to retort upon the scurrilous fellow in the lodging-house, who insulted you on the score of your national physiognomy, is a circumstance very highly to your credit, and what would have done honor to any one of the professors of that religion, which teaches us, when we are reviled, to revile not again. I also remarked the modest manner of your speaking, when you unavoidably reported of your own good deeds; you sounded no trumpet before you, and thereby convinced me you are not of that pharisaical leaven, which seeketh the praise of men; and let me tell you, Sir, it is the very test of true charity, that it vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. Humility, Mr. Abrahams, in a peculiar degree is expected of you, as of one of the children of wrath, scattered over the face of the earth without an abiding place, which you may call your own: Charity also is in you a duty of more than ordinary obligation, for you and your's subsist no otherwise than on the charity of the nations, who give you shelter: The alms of others may be termed a free gift of love, but your alms are in fact a legal tribute for protection. To conclude—I exhort you to take in good part what I have now been saying; you are the first of your nation I ever communed with, and if hereafter in the execution of my duty I am led to speak with rigour of your stiffnecked generation, I shall make a mental except
on in your favour, and recommend you in my prayers for all Jews, Turks, infidels and heretics by a separate ejaculation in your behalf.
Whether Abrahams in his heart thanked the honest curate for his zeal is hard to say, but there was nothing to be observed in his countenance, which bespoke any other emotions than those of benevolence and good-nature. My friend Drowsy was not quite so placid at certain periods of the discourse, and when he found that the humble Israelite made no other return, but by a civil inclination of the head to the speaker at the conclusion of the harangue, he said to Abrahams in a qualifying tone of voice, Mr. Beetle, Sir, means well; to which the other instantly replied, that he did not doubt it, and then with a design, as it should seem, to turn the discourse, informed Ned, that he had taken the liberty of going in person to the father of Mrs. Goodison, in hopes he would have allowed him to speak of the situation, in which he had found his daughter and her child; but alas! added he, I had no sooner began to open the business upon which I came, than he instantly stopt my mouth by demanding, if I came into his house to affront him? that he was astonished at my assurance for daring to name his daughter in his hearing, and in the same breath in a very haughty tone cried out, Harkye, Sir! are not you a Jew? to which I had no sooner replied in the affirmative, than ringing his bell very violently, he called out to his footman, to put that Jew out of his doors.
Here Abrahams paused; Ned started up from his chair, drank a glass of wine, shook the Jew by the hand, flounced down upon his seat again, whistled part of a tune, and turning to me said in a half-whisper, What a world is this we live in!
No CXX.
AFTER the conversation related in the preceding chapter, Drowsy and his guests passed a social evening, and honest Abrahams was prevailed upon to take a bed at Poppy Hall. The next morning early, as I was walking in the garden, I was much surprised to find Ned there before me—I dare say you wonder, said he, what could provoke my laziness to quit my pillow thus early, but I am resolved to shake off a slothful habit, which till our discourse last night I never considered as criminal. I have been thinking over all that Mr. Abrahams told us about the distressed widow and her daughter, and I must own to you I have a longing desire to obtain a sight of this Constantia, whom he describes to be so charming in mind and person. Now I don't know with what face I can invite her hither; besides I consider, though I might prevail upon Mr. Abrahams to bring her, yet I should be confoundedly hampered how to get handsomely off, if upon acquaintance it did not suit me to propose for her.
You judge rightly, said I, your dilemma would be embarrassing.
Well then, quoth he, there is no alternative but for me to go to her, and though I am aware of the trouble it will give me to take a journey to London, where I have never been and shall probably make a very awkward figure, yet if you will encourage me so far as to say you will take a corner in my coach thither, and Mr. Abrahams does not object to the scheme, I will even pluck up a good courage and set out tomorrow.
Be it so! answered I, if Mr. Abrahams approves of it, I have no objection to the party.
On the morrow we set off; Abrahams and myself with Ned and his old servant in his coach for London, and in the evening of the second day our post-boys delivered us safe at Blossom's Inn in Lawrence-Lane. Abrahams procured us lodgings at the house of his apothecary in the Poultry, where he first sheltered Mrs. Goodison and Constantia; and having settled this affair the good man hastened home to present himself to his family, and prepare for our supping at his house that night.
My friend Ned had been in a broad stare of amazement ever since his entry into London; he seemed anxious to know what all the people were about, and why they posted up and down in such a hurry; he frequently asked me when they would go home and be quiet; for his own part he doubted if he should get a wink of sleep till he was fairly cut of this noisy town.
As he was feasting his curiosity from the window of our lodgings, the Lord Mayor passed by in his state coach towards the Mansion House—God bless his Majesty! cried Ned, he is a portly man. He was rather disappointed when I set him right in his mistake; but nevertheless the spectacle pleased him, and he commented very gravely upon the commodious size of the coach and the slow pace of the procession, which he said shewed the good sense and discretion of the city magistrate, and observing him to be a very corpulent man, added with an air of some consequence, that he would venture to pronounce my Lord Mayor of London was a wise man and consulted his own ease.
We now were to set ourselves in order for our visit to honest Abrahams, and Ned began to shew some anxiety about certain articles of his dress and appearance, which did not exactly tally with the spruce air of the city sparks, whom he had reconnoitred in the streets: The whole was confessedly of the rustic order, but I encouraged him to put his trust in broad-cloth and country bloom, and seriously exhorted him not to trust his head to the sheers of a London hair-dresser. I now ordered a coach to be called, which was no sooner announced than Ned observed it was speedily got ready; but they do every thing in a hurry in this place, added he, and I wish to my heart the fat gentleman in the fine coach may order all the people to bed before our return, that I may stand some chance of getting a little rest and quiet amongst them.
We now stept into our hack, but not without a caution from Ned to the coachman to drive gently over the stones, which, to give him his due, he faithfully performed. We were received at the door by our friendly Israelite with a smiling welcome, and conducted by him up stairs to a plain but neat apartment, in which was the mistress of the house, an elderly decent matron, who presented us to Mrs. Goodison, the mother of Constantia, in whose countenance, though pale and overcast with melancholy, beauty and modest dignity still kept their native post.
Honest Ned made his first approaches with a bow, which Vestris perhaps could have mended, though it was of nature's workmanship; and this he stoutly followed up with a kiss to each lady, after the custom of the country, that loudly spoke it's own good report.
Whilst these antient and exploded ceremonies were in operation, the door opened, and presented to our eyes—a wonder! It was a combination of grace and beauty to have extorted raptures from old age itself; it was a form of modesty to have awed the passions of licentious youth; it was in one word, Constantia herself, and till our reigning beauties shall to equal charms add equal humility, and present themselves like her to the beholder's eye without one conscious glance of exultation at their triumphs, she must remain no otherwise described than as that name bespeaks the unrivalled model of her sex.
As for my friend Ned, who had acquitted himself so dexterously with the elder ladies, his lips had done their office; neither voice nor motion remained with them, and astonishment would not even suffer them to close—
Obstupuit, steteruntque comae, et vox saucibus haesit.
And what after all were the mighty instruments, by which these effects were produced? Hearken,
O Tavistock-street,
and believe it if you can! The simplest dress, which modesty could clothe itself with, was all the armour, which this conqueror had put on; a plain white cotton vest with a close head-dress, (such as your very windows would have blushed to have exhibited) filleted with a black silk ribband, were all the aids, that Nature borrowed to attire her matchless piece of work.
Thus she stood before us and there she might have stood for us till now, if the compassionate Israelite had not again stepped in to her rescue: He led her to a chair, and, taking his seat, set the conversation afloat by telling her of his visit to the worthy gentleman then present (as his body indeed might witness, but for his senses they were elsewhere) spoke handsomely of his kind reception, of the natural beauties of the place and the country about it, and concluded with saying he had now the honour to introduce the owner of that hospitable mansion to her acquaintance, and he flattered himself he could not do a more acceptable office to both parties.
The answer, which Constantia made to this elaborate harangue, would in vain be sought for in
the academy of compliments,
for it consisted simply in the eloquence of two expressive eyes, which she directed upon the speechless trunk of poor Ned, somewhere as I should guess about the region of his heart, for I am persuaded her emissaries never stopped till they made their way to the citadel and had audience there.
Ned now began to stammer out a few sentences, by which, if Constantia did not understand more than was expressed, she could not be much the wiser for the information he gave her; he was glad and sorry twice or thrice in a breath, and not always in the right place; he hoped and believed and presumed to say—just nothing at all; when in a moment the word Supper! announced through the nose of a snuffling Hebrew servant, came, as if it had been conjured up by the wand of an enchanter, to deliver him out of his distress: The manna in the wilderness was hardly more welcome to the famished Jews, than were now the bloodless viands, that awaited us on the friendly board of Abrahams, to the ea
s I should have said rather than to the appetite of Drowsy.
Love I know can do more in the way of metamorphosis, than Ovid ever heard of; and to say the truth, what he had done to Ned was no trifling test of his art; for it was in fact no less a change, than if he had transformed Morpheus into Mercury: Good fellowship however can do something in the same way, and the hospitable festivity of the honest Israelite now brought Ned's heart to his lips and set it to work: Youth soon catches the social sympathy, but even age and sorrow now threw aside their gloom, and paid their subscription to the board with a good grace. Ned, whose countenance was lighted up with a genuine glow of benevolence, that had entirely dispelled that air of lassitude, which had so long disarmed an interesting set of features of their natural vivacity and spirit, now exhibited a character of as much manly beauty and even mental expression, as I had ever contemplated—
Quid non possit amor?
Madam, says he, directing his discourse to Mrs. Goodison, it is not for the honour of human nature, that I should wholly credit what our worthy host has told me: I won't believe there are half so many hard hearts in the world as we hear of; it is not talking reason to a man that will always argue him out of his obstinacy; it is not such a fellow as myself, no, nor even so good a pleader as my friend here, (pointing to Abrahams) who can turn a tough heart to pity; but let me once come across a certain father, that shall be nameless, and let me be properly prepared to encounter him, and I'll wager all I am worth, I will bring him round in a twinkling: Only let me have the proper credentials in my hand, do you see, and I'll do it. I know whom you point at, replied Mrs. Goodison, but I don't comprehend all your meaning; what credentials do you allude to? To the most powerful, said Ned, that nature ever set her hand to; the irresistible eyes of this young lady; might I only say—This angel is a supplicant to you, the heart that would not melt must be of marble. Constantia blushed, every body seemed delighted with the unexpected turn of Ned's reply, whilst Mrs. Goodison answered, that she feared even that experiment would disappoint him; upon which he eagerly rejoined, Then I have a resource against the worst that can befal us: There is a comfortable little mansion stands without-side of my park; it is furnished and in compleat repair; there is a pleasant garden to it; Mr. Abrahams has seen it, and if you will be my tenant, you shall not find me so hard a landlord, as some you have had to deal with. As Ned spoke these words, Mrs. Goodison turned her eyes full upon him with so intelligent and scrutinizing an expression, as to cause a short stop in his speech, after which he continued—Ah, Madam, how happy you might make me! the last inhabitant of this beloved little place was my excellent mother; she passed two years of widowhood in it with no companion but myself; I wish I had been more worthy of such society and more capable of improving by it; but I was sadly cramped in my education, being kept at home by my father, who meant all for the best (God forbid I should reproach him!) and put me under the care of Parson Beetle, the curate of our parish, an honest well-meaning man, but alas! I was a dull lazy blockhead and he did not keep me to my book. However such as I am, I know my own deficiencies, and I hope want of honesty and sincerity is not amongst the number. Nobody can suspect it, cried Abrahams. Pardon me, replied Ned, I am afraid Mrs. Goodison is not thoroughly convinced of it; surely, Madam, you will not suppose I could look you in the face and utter an untruth. Nobody can look in your's, Sir, answered she, and expect to hear one; it is your unmerited generosity that stops my tongue. After all, resumed Abrahams, I am as much indebted to your generosity as any body present, for as you have never once mentioned the name of my Constantia in this proposal, I perceive you do not intend to rob me of both my comforts at the same time. 'Tis because I have not the presumption to hope, answered Ned, that I have any thing to offer, which such excellence would condescend to take: I could wish to tender her the best mansion I possess, but there is an encumbrance goes with it, which I despair of reconciling to so elegant a taste as her's.—O love, said I within myself, thou art a notable teacher of rhetoric! I glanced my eye round the table; Ned did the very reverse of what a modern fine gentleman would have done at the close of such a speech, he never once ventured to lift up his eyes, or direct a look towards the object he had addressed; the fine countenance of Constantia assumed a hue, which I suspect our dealers in Circassian bloom have not yet been able to imitate, nor, if they could, to shift so suddenly; for whilst my eye was passing over it, her cheek underwent a change, which courtly cheeks, who purchase blushes, are not subject to: the whole was conducted by those most genuine masters and best colourists of the human countenance, modesty and sensibility, under the direction of nature, and though I am told the ingenious President of our Royal Academy has attempted something in art, which resembles it, yet I am hard to believe, that his carnations, however volatile, can quite keep pace with the changes of Constantia's cheek. Wise and discreet young ladies, who are taught to know the world by education and experience, have a better method of concealing their thoughts and a better reason for concealing them; in short they manage this matter with more address, and do not, like poor Constantia—
—Wear their hearts upon their sleeve
For daws to peck at.
When a fashionable lover assails his mistress with all that energy of action as well as utterance, which accompanies polite declarations of passion, it would be highly indiscreet in her to shew him how supremely pleased and flattered she is by his impudence; no, she puts a proper portion of scorn into her features and with a stern countenance tells him, she cannot stand his impertinence; if he will not take this fair warning and desist, she may indeed be overpowered through the weakness of her sex, but nobody can say it was her bashfulness that betrayed her, or that there was any prudent hypocrisy spared in her defence.
Again, when a fashionable lady throws her fine arms round her husband's neck, and in the mournful tone of conjugal complaint sighs out—
"And will my dearest leave his fond unhappy wife to bewail his absence, whilst he is following a vile filthy fox over hedge and ditch at the peril of his neck?"
—would it not be a most unbred piece of sincerity were she to express in her face what she feels in her heart—a cordial wish that he may really break his neck, and that she is very much beholden to those odious hounds, as she calls them, for taking him out of her sight? Certainly such an act of folly could not be put up with in an age and country so enlightened as the present; and surely, when so many ladies of distinction are turning actresses in public to amuse their friends, it would be hard if they did not set apart some rehearsals in private to accommodate themselves.
No CXXI.
I LEFT Constantia somewhat abruptly in my last paper; and to say the truth rather in an awkward predicament; but as I do not like to interrupt young ladies in their blushes, I took occasion to call off the reader's attention from her, and bestowed it upon other ladies, who are not subject to the same embarrassments.
Our party soon broke up after this event: Ned and I repaired to our apartments in the Poultry, Constantia to those slumbers, which purity inspires, temperance endears and devotion blesses.
The next morning brought Ned to my levee; he had lain awake all night, but no noises were complained of; they were not in the fault of having deprived him of his repose.
He took up the morning paper and the playhouse advertisements caught his eye: He began to question me about
The Clandestine Marriage,
which was up for the night at Drury Lane: Was it a comedy? I told him, yes, and an admirable one: Then it ended happily, he presumed: Certainly it did; a very amiable young woman was clandestinely married to a deserving young man, and both parties at the close of the fable were reconciled to their friends and made happy in each other: And is all this represented on the stage? cried Ned:—All this with many more incidents is acted on the stage, and so acted, let me assure you, as leaves the merit of the performers only to be exceeded by that of the poet:—This is fine indeed! replied he; then as sure as can be I will be there this very night, if you think they will admit a country clown like me.—There was no fear of that.—Very well then; is not this the play of all plays for Constantia? Oh! that I had old surly there too; what would I give to have her grandfather at her elbow! He was so possessed with the idea, and built his castles in the air so nimbly, that I could not find in my heart to dash the vision by throwing any bars in it's way, though enough occurred to me, had I been disposed to employ them.
Away posted Ned—
(quantum mutatus ab illo!)
on the wings of love to Saint Mary Axe; what rhetoric he there made use of I cannot pretend to say, but certainly he came back with a decree in his favour for Mrs. Abrahams and Constantia to accompany him to the comedy, if I would undertake to convoy the party; for honest Abrahams, (though a dear lover of the Muse, and as much attached to stage plays, as his countryman Shylock was averse from them) had an unlucky engagement elsewhere, and as for Mrs. Goodison, Ned had sagaciously discovered that she had some objection to the title of the comedy in her own particular, though she stated none against her daughter's being there.
After an early dinner with Abrahams, we repaired to the theatre, four in number, and whilst the second music was playing posted ourselves with all due precaution on the third row of one of the front boxes, where places had been kept for us; Mrs. Abrahams on my left hand against the partition of the box, and Constantia on the other hand between her admirer and me.
There is something captivating in that burst of splendor, scenery, human beauty and festivity, which a royal theatre displays to every spectator on his entrance; what then must have been the stroke on his optics, who never entered one before? Ned looked about him with surprise, and had there not been a central point of attraction, to which his eyes were necessarily impelled by laws not less irresistible than those of gravitation, there might have been no speedy stop to the eccentricity of their motions. It was not indeed one of those delightfully crowded houses, which theatrical advertisers announce so rapturously to draw succeeding audiences to the comforts of succeeding crowds, there to enjoy the peals of the loudest plaudits and most roaring bursts of laughter, bestowed upon the tricks of a harlequin or the gibberish of a buffoon; but it was a full assembly of rational beings, convened for the enjoyment of a rational entertainment, where the ears were not in danger of being insulted by ribaldry, nor the understanding libelled by the spectacle of folly.
Ned was charmed with the comedy, and soon became deeply interested for
Lovewell
and
Fanny,
on whose distressful situation he made many natural remarks to his fair neighbour, and she on her part bestowed more attention on the scene, than was strictly reconcileable to modern highbreeding. The representative of
Lord Ogleby
put him into some alarm at first, and he whispered in my ear, that he hoped the merry old gentleman was not really so ill as he seemed to be;—for I am sure, adds he, he would be the best actor in the world, was he to recover his health, since he can make so good a stand even at death's door. I put his heart to rest by assuring him that his sickness was all a fiction, and that the same old decrepid invalid, when he had washed the wrinkles out of his face, was as gay and sprightly as the best, aye, added I, and in his real character one of the best into the bargain: I am glad of it, I am glad of it to my heart, answered Ned, I hope he will never have one half of the complaints, which he counterfeits; but 'tis surprising what some men can do.
In the interval of the second act an aged gentleman of a grave and senatorial appearance, in a full-dressed suit of purple ratteen and a flowing white wig, entered the box alone, and as he was looking out for a seat, it was with pleasure I observed the young idlers at the back pay respect to his age and person by making way for him, and pointing to a spare place on our bench, to which he advanced, and after some apologies natural to a well-bred man took his seat on our range.
His eyes immediately paid the tribute, which even age could not withhold from the beauty of Constantia; he regarded her with more than a common degree of sensibility and attention; he watched for opportunities of speaking to her every now and then at the shifting of a scene or the exit of a performer; he asked her opinion of the actors, of the comedy, and at the conclusion of the act said to her, I dare believe, young lady, you are no friend to the title of this comedy: I should be no friend to it, replied Constantia, if the author had drawn so unnatura a character as an unrelenting father. One such monster in an age, cried Ned, taking up the discourse, is one too many. When I overheard these words and noticed the effect, which they had upon him, combining it also with his emotion at certain times, when he examined the features of Constantia with a fixed attention, a thought arose in my mind of a romantic nature, which I kept to myself, that we might possibly be then in company with the father of Mrs. Goodison and that Ned's prophetic wishes were
ctually verified. When
Fanny
is discovered to
e a married woman at the close of the comedy, and the father in his fury cries out to her husband—
Lovewell, you shall leave my house directly, and you shall follow him, Madam
—Ned could not refrain himself from exclaiming, Oh, the hardened monster!—but whilst the words were on his lips,
Lord Ogleby
immediately replied to the father in the very words, which benevolence would have dictated—
And if they do, I will receive them into mine,
whereupon the whole theatre gave a loud applause, and Constantia, whilst the tear of sensibility and gratitude started in her eye, taking advantage of the general noise to address herself to Ned without being overheard, remarked to him—That this was an effusion of generosity she could not scruple to applaud, since she had an example in her eye, which convinced her it was in nature.—Pardon me, replied Ned, I find nothing in the sentiment to call for my applause; every man would act as
Lora Ogleby
does, but there is only one father living, who would play the part of that brute
Sterling,
and I wish old Goodison was here at my elbow to see the copy of his own hateful features. It was evident that the stranger, who sat next to Ned, overheard this reply, for he gave a sudden start, which shook his frame, and darting an angry glance suddenly exclaimed—Sir!—and then as suddenly recollecting himself, checked his speech and bit his lips in sudden silence. This had passed without being observed by Ned, who turning round at the word, which he conceived was addressed to him, said in a mild tone—Did you speak to me, Sir? to which the old gentleman making no answer, the matter passed unnoticed, except by me.
As soon as the comedy was over, our box began to empty itself into the lobby, when the stranger seeing the bench unoccupied behind me, left his place and planted himself at my back. I was now more than ever possessed with the idea of his being old Goodison, and wished to ascertain if possible the certainty of my guess; I therefore made a pretence to the ladies of giving them more room and stept back to the bench on which he was sitting. After a few words in the way of apology he asked me, if he might without offence request the name of the young lady I had just quitted; with this I readily complied, and when I gave her name methought he seemed prepared to expect it: He asked me if her mother was a widow; I told him she was—Where was she at present and in what condition? She was at present in the house of a most benevolent creature, who had rescued her from the deepest distress—Might he ask the name of the person, who had done that good action? I told him both his name and place of abode, described in as few words as I could the situation he had found her and Constantia in, spoke briefly, but warmly, of his character, and omitted not to give him as many particulars of my friend Ned as I thought necessary; in conclusion I made myself also known to him, and explained what my small part had been in the transaction. He made his acknowledgments for these communications in very handsome terms, and then after a short pause, in which he seemd under difficulty how to proceed, he spoke to this effect:
I am aware that I shall introduce myself to you under some disadvantages, when I tell you I am the father of that young woman's mother; but if you are not a parent yourself, you cannot judge of a parent's feelings towards an undutiful child; and if you are one, I hope you have not had, nor ever will have, the experience of what I have felt: Let that pass therefore without further comment! I have now determined to see my daughter, and I hope I may avail myself of your good offices in preparing her for the interview; I wish it to take place to-morrow, and, if you foresee no objection, let our meeting be at the house of her benefactor Mr. Abrahams; for to that worthy person, as you describe him to be, I have many necessary apologies to make, and more thanks than I shall know how to repay; for the present I must beg you will say nothing about me in this place.
To all these points I gave him satisfactory assurances, and settled the hour of twelve next day for the meeting; he then drew a shagreen case out of his pocket, which he put into my hand, saying, that if I would compare that face with Constantia's I could not wonder at the agitation, which so strong a family-resemblance had given him; it was a portrait of his deceased wife at Constantia's age; the first glance he had of her features had struck him to the heart; he could not keep his eyes from her; she was indeed a perfect beauty; he had never beheld any thing to compare with her, but that counterpart of her image then in my hand; he begged to leave it in my care till our meeting next morning; perhaps, added he, the sight of it will give a pang of sensibility to my poor discarded child, but I think it will give her joy also, if you tender it as a pledge of my reconciliation and returning love.
Here his voice shook, his eyes swam in tears, and clasping my hand eagerly between his, he conjured me to remember what I had promised, and hastened out of the house.
No CXXII.
WHEN I had parted from the old gentleman, I found Mrs. Abrahams desirous to return home, being somewhat indisposed by the heat of the theatre, so that I lost no time in getting her and Constantia into the coach: In our way homewards I reported the conversation I had held with Mr. Goodison; the different effects it had upon my hearers were such as might be expected from their several characters; the gentle spirit of Constantia found relief in tears; her grateful heart discharged itself in praises and thanksgivings to Providence: Mrs. Abrahams forgot her head-ach, felicitated herself in having prevailed upon Mrs. Goodison to consent to her daughter's going to the play, declared she had a presentiment that something fortunate would come to pass, thought the title of the comedy was a lucky omen, congratulated Constantia over and over, and begged to be indulged in the pleasure of telling these most joyful tidings to her good man at home: Ned put in his claim for a share in the prophecy no less than Mrs. Abrahams; he had a kind of a something in his thoughts, when Goodison sat at his elbow, that did not quite amount to a discovery, and yet it was very like it; he had a sort of an impulse to give him a gird or two upon the character of
Sterling,
and he was very sure that what he threw out upon the occasion made him squeak, and that the discovery would never have come about, if it had not been for him; he even advanced some learned remarks upon the good effects of stage-plays in giving touches to the conscience, though I do not pretend to say he had
Jeremy Collier
in his thoughts at the time; in short, what between the Hebrew and the Christian there was little or nothing left for my share in the work, so that I contented myself with cautioning Constantia how she broke it to her mother, and recommended to Mrs. Abrahams to confine her discourse to her husband, and leave Constantia to undertake for Mrs. Goodison.
When we arrived at our journey's end we found the honest Jew alone, and surprised him before he expected us: Mrs. Goodison was gone to bed a little indisposed, Constantia hastened up to her without entering the parlour; Mrs. Abrahams let loose the clapper of joy and rang in the good news with so full a peal and so many changes, that there was no more to be done on my part but to correct a few trips in the performance of the nature of pleonasms, which were calculated to improve the tale in every particular but the truth of it. When she had fairly acquitted herself of the history, she began to recollect her head-ach, and then left us very thoroughly disposed to have a fellow-feeling in the same complaint.
After a few natural reflections upon the event, soberly debated and patiently delivered, I believe we were all of one mind in wishing for a new subject, and a silence took place sufficiently preparatory for it's introduction; when Abrahams, putting on a grave and serious look, in a more solemn tone of voice, than I had ever heard him assume, delivered himself as follows:
There is something, Gentlemen, presses on my mind, which seems a duty on my conscience to impart to you: I cannot reconcile myself to play the counterfeit in your company, and therefore if you will have patience to listen to a few particulars of a life, so unimportant as mine, I will not intrude long upon your attention, and at worst it may serve to fill up a few spare minutes before we are called to our meal.
I need not repeat what was said on our parts; we drew our chairs round the fire; Abrahams gave a sigh, hemmed twice or thrice, as if the words in rising to his throat had choaked him, and thus began:
I was born in Spain, the only son of a younger brother of an antient and noble house, which like many others of the same origin and persuasion had long been in the indispensable practice of conforming to the established religion, whilst secretly and under the most guarded concealment every member of it without exception hath adhered to those opinions, which have been the faith of our tribe from the earliest ages.
This I trust will account to you for my declining to expose my real name, and justify the discretion of my assuming the fictitious one, by which I am now known to you.
Till I had reached my twentieth year I knew myself for nothing but a Christian, if that may be called Christianity, which monkish superstition and idolatry have so adulterated and distorted from the moral purity of it's scriptural guides, as to keep no traces even of rationality in it's form and practice.
This period of life is the usual season for the parents of an adult to reveal to him the awful secret of their concealed religion: The circumstances, under which this tremendous discovery is confided to the youth, are so contrived as to imprint upon his heart the strongest seal of secrecy, and at the same time present to his choice the alternative of parricide or conformity: With me there was no hesitation; none could be; for the yoke of Rome had galled my conscience till it festered, and I seized emancipation with the avidity of a ransomed slave, who escapes out of the hands of infidels.
Upon our great and solemn day of the Passover I was initiated into Judaism; my father conducted me to the interior chamber of a suite of apartments, locking every door, through which we passed, with great precaution, and not uttering a syllable by the way; in this secure retreat he purposed to celebrate that antient rite, which our nation holds so sacred: He was at that time in an alarming decline; the agitating task he had been engaged in overpowered his spirits; whilst he was yet speaking to me, and my eyes were fixed upon his face, the hand of death smote him; I saw his eye-lids quiver; I heard him draw his last expiring sigh, and falling dead upon my neck as I was kneeling at his feet, he brought me backwards to the floor, where I laid panting under his lifeless corpse, scarce more alive than he was.
The noise of his fall and the horrid shrieks I began to utter, for I had no presence of mind in that fatal moment, were unfortunately overheard, far as we were removed from the family: The room we were in had a communication with our private chapel; the monk, who was our family confessor, had a master-key, which commanded the avenues to that place; he was then before the altar, when my cries reached his ears; he ascended hastily by the private staircase, and finding the door locked, his terror at my yells adding strength to a colossal form, with one vehement kick he burst open the door, and, besides the tragic spectacle on the ground, too plainly discovered the damning proofs of our apostacy.
Vile wretch, cried he as he seized hold of my father's body, unholy villain, circumcised infidel! I thank my God for having smote thee with a sudden judgment: Lie there like a dog as thou art, and expect the burial of a dog! This said, with one furious jerk of his arm he hurled the venerable corpse of the most benevolent of God's creatures with the utmost violence to the corner of the room: Whilst I tell it my blood curdles; I heard his head dash against the marble floor; I did not dare to turn my eyes to the spot; the sword, which my father had presented to my hand and pointed at his own breast, when he imparted to me his faith, lay naked on the floor; I grasped it in my hand; nature tugged at my heart; I felt an impulse irresistible; I buried it in the bowels of the monk: I thrust it home with so good a will, that the guard entangled in the cord that was tied about his carcase; I left my weapon in the body, and the ponderous bigot fell thundering on the pavement.
A ready thought, which seemed like inspiration, seized me; I disposed my father's corpse in decent order; drew the ring from his finger, on which the symbol of our tribe was engraved in Hebrew characters; I took away those fatal tokens, which had betrayed us; there were implements for writing on a table; I wrote the following words on a scroll of paper—
"This monk fell by my hand; he merited the death I gave him: Let not my father's memory be attainted! He is innocent, and died suddenly by the will of Heaven and not by the hand of man."
—This I signed with my name, and affixed to the breast of the monk; then imprinting a last kiss upon the hand of my dead father, I went softly down the secret stairs, and passing through the chapel escaped out of the house unnoticed by any of the family.
Our house stood at one extremity of the antient city of Segovia; I made my way as fast as my feet would transport me to the forests of San Ildephonso, and there sheltered myself till night came on; by short and stealthy journeys, through various perils and almost incredible hardships, I arrived at Barcelona; I made myself known to an English merchant, settled there, who had long been a correspondent of my father's, and was employed by our family in the exportation of their wool, which is the chief produce of estates in the great plain of Segovia, so famous for it's sheep: By this gentleman I was supplied with money and necessaries; he also gave me letters of credit upon his correspondent in London, and took a passage for me in a very commodious and capital ship bound to that port, but intermediately to Smyrna, whither she was chartered with a valuable cargo. Ever since the unhappy event in Segovia it had been my first and constant wish to take refuge in England; nothing therefore could be more acceptable than these letters of credit and introduction, and being eager to place myself under the protection of a nation, whose generosity all Europe bears testimony to, I lost not a moment in embarking on board the British Lion, (for so the ship was named) and in this asylum I for the first time found that repose of mind and body, which for more than two months I had been a stranger to.
Here I fortunately made acquaintance with a very worthy and ingenious gentleman, who was going to settle at Smyrna as physician to the factory, and to the care and humanity of this excellent person, under Providence, I am indebted for my recovery from a very dangerous fever, which seized me on the third day after my coming on board: This gentleman resided many years at Smyrna, and practised there with great success; he afterwards went through a very curious course of travel, and is now happily returned to his native country.
When we arrived at Smyrna I was on my recovery, and yet under the care of my friendly physician; I lodged in the same house with him, and found great benefit from the air and exercise on shore: He advised me to remain there for a season, and at the same time an offer was made to me by the ship's captain of acting for the merchants in place of their agent, who had died on the passage. The letters of credit given me at Barcelona, and the security entered into on my account with the house in London, warranted this proposal on his part, and there were many motives, which prevailed with me for accepting it.
In this station I had the good fortune to give such satisfaction to my principals, that during a residence of more than twenty years I negotiated their business with uninterrupted success, and in the course of that time secured a competency for myself, and married a very worthy wife, with whom I have lived happily ever since.
Still my wishes pointed to this land of freedom and toleration, and here at last I hope I am set down for life: Such was my prepossession for this country, that I may say without boasting during twenty years residence in Smyrna no Englishman ever left my door without the relief he solicited, or appeared to stand in need of.
I must not omit to tell you that to my infinite comfort it turned out, that my precautions after the death of the monk were effectual for preventing any mischief to the head of my family, who still preserves his rank, title and estate unsuspected; and although I was outlawed by name, time hath now wrought such a change in my person, and the affair hath so died away in men's memories, that I trust I am in security from any future machinations in that quarter: Still I hold it just to my family and prudent towards myself to continue my precautions: Upon the little fortune I raised in Smyrna, with some aids I have occasionally received from the head of our house, who is my nephew, and several profitable commissions for the sale of Spanish wool, I live contentedly, though humbly as you see, and I have besides wherewithal, (blessed be God!) to be of some use and assistance to my fellow-creatures.
Thus I have related to you my brief history, not concealing that bloody act, which would subject me to death by the sentence of a human tribunal, but for which I hope my intercession and atonement have been accepted by the Supreme Judge of all hearts, with whom there is mercy and forgiveness. Reflect I pray you upon my situation at that dreadful moment; enter into the feelings of a son; picture to yourselves the scene of horror before my eyes; conceive a brutal zealot spurning the dead corpse of my father, and that father his most generous benefactor, honoured for his virtues and adored for his charities, the best of parents and the friend of mankind; reflect, I say, upon these my agonies and provocations, make allowance for a distracted heart in such a crisis, and judge me with that charity, which takes the law of God, and not the law of man for it's direction.
Here Abrahams concluded, and here also I shall adjourn to the succeeding volume what remains to be related of the persons, whose adventures have already engrossed so large a portion of this miscellaneous work.
No CXXIII.
Natio comoeda est.
IF the present taste for private plays spreads as fast as most fashions do in this country, we may expect the rising generation will be, like the Greeks in my motto, one entire nation of actors and actresses. A father of a family may shortly reckon it amongst the blessings of a numerous progeny, that he is provided with a sufficient company for his domestic stage, and may cast a play to his own liking without going abroad for his theatrical amusements. Such a steady troop cannot fail of being under better regulation than a set of strollers, or than any set whatever, who make acting a vocation: Where a manager has to deal with none but players of his own begetting, every play bids fair to have a strong cast, and in the phrase of the stage to be well got up. Happy author, who shall see his characters thus grouped into a family-piece, firm as the Theban band of friends, where all is zeal and concord, no bickerings nor jealousies about stage-precedency, no ladies to fall sick of the spleen, and toss up their parts in a huff, no heart-burnings about flounced petticoats and silver trimmings, where the mother of the whole company stands wardrobe-keeper and property-woman, whilst the father takes post at the side scene in the capacity of prompter with plenipotentiary controul over PS's and OP's.
I will no longer speak of the difficulty of writing a comedy or tragedy, because that is now done by so many people without any difficulty at all, that if there ever was any mystery in it, that mystery is thoroughly bottomed and laid open; but the art of acting was till very lately thought so rare and wonderful an excellence, that people began to look upon a perfect actor as a phenomenon in the world, which they were not to expect above once in a century; but now that the trade is laid open, this prodigy is to be met at the turn of every street; the nobility and gentry to their immortal honour have broken up the monopoly, and new-made players are now as plentiful as new-made peers.
Nec tamen Antiochus, nec erit mirabilis illic
Aut Stratocles aut cum molli Demetrius Haemo.
Garrick and Powell would be now no wonder,
Nor Barry's silver note, nor Quin's heroic thunder.
Though the public professors of the art are so compleatly put down by the private practitioners of it, it is but justice to observe in mitigation of their defeat, that they meet the comparison under some disadvantages, which their rivals have not to contend with.
One of these is diffidence, which volunteers cannot be supposed to feel in the degree they do, who are pressed into the service: I never yet saw a public actor come upon the stage on the first night of a new play, who did not seem to be nearly, if not quite, in as great a shaking fit as his author; but as there can be no luxury in a great fright, I cannot believe that people of fashion, who act for their amusement only, would subject themselves to it; they must certainly have a proper confidence in their own abilities, or they would never step out of a drawing room, where they are sure to figure, upon a stage, where they run the risque of exposing themselves; some gentlemen perhaps, who have been
mutae personae
in the senate, may start at the first sound of their own voices in a theatre, but graceful action, just elocution, perfect knowledge of their author, elegant deportment, and every advantage, that refined manners and courtly address can bestow, is exclusively their own: In all scenes of high life they are at home; noble sentiments are natural to them; love-parts they can play by instinct, and as for all the casts of rakes, gamesters and fine-gentlemen they can fill them to the life. Think only what a violence it must be to the nerves of an humble unpretending actor to be obliged to play the gallant gay seducer and be the cuckold-maker of the comedy, when he has no other object at heart but to go quietly home, when the play is over, to his wife and children and participate with them in the honest earnings of his vocation; can such a man compete with the Lothario of high life?
And now I mention the cares of a family, I strike upon another disadvantage, which the public performer is subject to and the private exempt from: The Andromache of the stage may have an infant Hector at home, whom she more tenderly feels for than the Hector of the scene; he may be sick, he may be supperless; there may be none to nurse him, when his mother is out of sight, and the maternal interest in the divided heart of the actress may preponderate over the heroine's: This is a case not within the chances to happen to any lady-actress, who of course consigns the task of education to other hands, and keeps her own at leisure for more pressing duties.
Public performers have their memories loaded and distracted with a variety of parts, and oftentimes are compelled to such a repetition of the same part, as cannot fail to quench the spirit of the representation; they must obey the call of duty, be the cast of the character what it may—
—Cum Thaida sustinet, aut cum
Uxorem comaedus agit.
Subject to all the various casts of life,
Now the loose harlot, now the virtuous wife.
But, what is worse than all, the veterans of the public stage will sometimes be appointed to play the old and ugly, as I can instance in the person of a most admirable actress, whom I have often seen, and never without the tribute of applause, in the casts of
Juliet's Nurse, Aunt Deborah,
and other venerable damsels in the vale of years, when I am confident there is not a lady of independent rank in England of
Mrs. Pitt
's age, who would not rather struggle for
Miss Jenny
or
Miss Hoyden,
than stoop to be the representative of such old hags.
These and the subjection public performers are under to the caprice of the spectators, and to the attacks of conceited and misjudging critics are amongst the many disagreeable circumstances, which the most eminent must expect and the most fortunate cannot escape.
It would be hard indeed if performers of distinction, who use the stage only as an elegant and moral resource, should be subject to any of these unpleasant conditions, and yet as a friend to the rising fame of the domestic drama I must observe, that there are some precautions necessary, which it's patrons have not yet attended to. There are so many consequences to be guarded against, as well as provisions to be made for an establishment of this sort, that it behoves it's conductors to take their first ground with great judgment; and above all things to be very careful that an exhibition so ennobled by it's actors, may be cast into such a stile and character, as may keep it clear from any possible comparison with spectacles, which it should not condescend to imitate, and cannot hope to equal. This I believe has not been attempted, perhaps not even reflected upon, and yet if I may speak from information of specimens, which I have not been present at, there are many reforms needful both in it's external as well as internal arrangement.
By external I mean spectacle, comprehending theatre, stage, scenery, orchestra, and all things else, which fall within the province of the
arbiter deliciarum:
These should be planned upon a model new, original and peculiar to themselves; so industriously distinguished from our public play-houses, that they should not strike the eye, as now they do, like a copy in miniature, but as the independant sketch of a master, who disdains to copy. I can call to mind many noble halls and stately apartments in the great houses and castles of our nobility, which would give an artist ample field for fancy, and which with proper help would be disposed into new and striking shapes for such a scene of action, as should become the dignity of the performers. Halls and saloons, flanked with interior columns and surrounded by galleries, would with the aid of proper draperies or scenery in the intercolumnations take a rich and elegant appearance, and at the same time the music might be so disposed in the gallery, as to produce a most animating effect. A very small elevation of stage should be allowed of, and no contraction by side scenes to huddle the speakers together and embarrass their deportment; no shift of scene whatever, and no curtain to draw up and drop, as if puppets were to play behind it; the area, appropriated to the performers, should be so dressed and furnished with all suitable accommodations, as to afford every possible opportunity to the performers of varying their actions and postures, whether of sitting, walking or standing, as their situations in the scene, or their interest in the dialogue may dictate; so as to familiarize and assimilate their whole conduct and conversation through the progress of the drama to the manners and habits of well-bred persons in real life.
Prologues and epilogues in the modern stile of writing and speaking them I regard as very unbecoming, and I should blush to see any lady of fashion in that silly and unseemly situation: They are the last remaining corruptions of the antient drama; reliques of servility, and only are retained in our London theatres as vehicles of humiliation at the introduction of a new play, and traps for false wit, extravagant conceits and female flippancy at the conclusion of it: Where authors are petitioners, and players servants to the public these condescensions must be made, but where poets are not suitors, and performers are benefactors, why should the free Muse wear shackles? for such they are, though the fingers of the brave are employed to put them on the limbs of the fair.
As I am satisfied nothing ought to be admitted from beginning to end, which can provoke comparisons, I revolt with indignation from the idea of a lady of fashion being trammelled in the trickery of the stage, and taught her airs and graces, till she is made the mere
fac-simile
of a mannerist, where the most she can aspire to is to be the copy of a copyist: Let none such be consulted in dressing or drilling an honorary novitiate in the forms and fashions of the public stage; it is a course of discipline, which neither person will profit by; a kind of barter, in which both parties will give and receive false airs and false conceits; the fine lady will be disqualified by copying the actress, and the actress will become ridiculous by apeing the fine lady.
As for the choice of the drama, which is so nice and difficult a part of the business, I scarce believe there is one play upon the list, which in all it's parts and passages is thoroughly adapted to such a cast as I am speaking of: Where it has been in public use I am sure it is not, for there comparisons are unavoidable. Plays professedly wrote for the stage must deal in strong character, and striking contrast: How can a lady stand forward in a part, contrived to produce ridicule or disgust, or which is founded upon broad humour and vulgar buffoonery?—
Nempe ipsa videtur,
Non persona loqui.
'Tis she herself, and not her mask which speaks.
I doubt if it be altogether seemly for a gentleman to undertake, unless he can reconcile himself to cry out with Laberius—
Eques Romanus lare egressus meo
Domum revertam mimus.
Esquire I sign'd myself at noon,
At night I countersign'd Buffoon.
The drama therefore must be purposely written for the occasion; and the writer must not only have local knowledge of every arrangement preparatory for the exhibition, but personal knowledge also of the performers, who are to exhibit it. The play itself, in my conception of it, should be part only of the projected entertainment, woven into the device of a grand and splendid
féte,
given in some noble country house or palace: Neither should the spectators be totally excused from their subscription to the general
gala,
nor left to dose upon their benches through the progress of five tedious acts, but called upon at intervals by music, dance or refreshment, elegantly contrived, to change the sameness of the scene and relieve the efforts of the more active corps, employed upon the drama.
And now let me say one word to qualify the irony I set out with and acquit myself as a moralist.
There are many and great authorities against this species of entertainment, and certainly the danger is great, where theatrical propensities are too much indulged in young and inexperienced minds. Tertullian says, (but he is speaking of a very licentious theatre)
Theatrum sacrarium est Veneris
—
"A playhouse is the very sacristy of Venus."
And Juvenal, who wrote in times of the grossest impurity, maintains that no prudent man will take any young lady to wife, who has ever been even within the walls of a theatre—
Cuneis an habent spectacula totis
Quod securus ames, quodque inde excerpere poss
?
Look round, and say if any man of sense
Will dare to single out a wise from hence?
Young women of humble rank and small pretensions should be particularly cautious how a vain ambition of being noticed by their superiors betrays them into an attempt at displaying their unprotected persons on a stage, however dignified and respectable. If they have talents, and of course applause, are their understandings and manners proof against applause? If they mistake their talents, and merit no applause, are they sure they will get no contempt for their selfconceit? If they have both acting talents and attractive charms, I tremble for their danger; let the foolish parent, whose itching ears tingled with the plaudits, that resounded through the theatre, where virgin modesty deposited it's blushes, beware how his aching heart shall throb with sorrow, when the daughter,
quae pudica ad theatrum accesserat, inde revertetur impudica. (Cyprian. ad Donatum.)
So much by way of caution to the guardians and protectors of innocence; let the offence light where it may, I care not, so it serves the cause for which my heart is pledged.
As for my opinion of private plays in general, though it is a fashion, which hath kings and princes for it's nursing fathers and queens and princesses for it's nursing mothers, I think it is a fashion, that should be cautiously indulged and narrowly confined to certain ranks, ages and conditions in the community at large. Grace forbid! that what the author of my motto said scoffingly of the Greeks should be said prophetically of this nation; emulate them in their love of freedom, in their love of science; rival them in the greatest of their actions, but not in the versatility of their mimic talents, till it shall be said of us by some future satirist—
Natio comaeda est. Rides? majore cachinno
Concutitur: flet, si lacrymas aspexit amici,
Nec dolet. Igniculum brumae si tempore poscas,
Accipit endromidem: Si dixeris, aestuo, sudat.
Non sumus ergo pares; melior, qui semper et omni
Nocte dieque potest alienum sumere vultum.
Laugh, and your merry echo bursts his sides;
Weep, and his courteous tears gush out in tides:
Light a few sticks you cry, 'tis wintry—Lo!
He's a furr'd Laplander from top to toe;
Put out the fire, for now 'tis warm—He's more,
Hot, sultry hot, and sweats at every pore:
Oh! he's beyond us; we can make no race
With one, who night and day maintains his pace,
And fast as you shift humours still can shift his face.
Before I close this paper I wish to go back to what I said respecting the propriety of new and occasional dramas for private exhibition: Too many men are in the habit of decrying their contemporaries, and this discouraging practice seems more generally levelled at the dramatic province, than any other; but whilst the authors of such tragic dramas as
Douglas, Elfrida
and
Caractacus,
of such comic ones as
The School for Scandal, The Jealous Wife, The Clandestine Marriage
and
The Way to Keep Him,
with others in both lines, are yet amongst us, why should we suppose the state of genius so declined as not to furnish poets able to support and to supply their honorary representatives? Numbers there are no doubt, unnamed and unknown, whom the fiery trial of a public stage deters from breaking their obscurity: Let disinterested fame be their prize and there will be no want of competitors.
Latet anguis in herba,
There is a serpent in the grass,
and that serpent is the emblem of wisdom; the very symbol of wit upon the watch, couching for a while under the cover of obscurity, till the bright rays of the sun shall strike upon it, give it life and motion to erect itself on end and display the dazzling colours of it's burnished scales.
Though thou, vile cynic, art the age's shame,
Hope not to damn all living fame;
True wit is arm'd in scales so bright,
It dazzles thy dull owlish sight;
Thy wolfish fangs no entrance gain,
They gnaw, they tug, they gnash in vain,
Their hungry malice does but edge their pain.
Avaunt, profane! 'tis consecrated ground:
Let no unholy foot be found
Where the Arts mingle, where the Muses haunt,
And the Nine Sisters hymn their sacred chaunt,
Where freedom's nymph-like form appears,
And high 'midst the harmonious spheres
Science her laurel-crowned head uprears.
Ye moral masters of the human heart!
And you advance, ye sons of Art!
Let Fame's far-echoing trumpet found
To summon all her candidates around;
Then bid old Time his roll explore,
And say what age presents a store
In merit greater or in numbers more.
Come forth, and boldly strike the lyre,
Break into song, poetic choir!
Let Tragedy's loud strains in thunder roll;
With Pity's dying cadence melt the soul:
And now provoke a sprightlier lay;
Hark! Comedy begins to play,
She smites the string, and Dullness slits away.
For envious Dullness will essay to fling
Her mud into the Muse's spring,
Whilst critic curs with pricking ears
Bark at each bard as he appears;
Ev'n the fair dramatist, who sips
Her Helicon with modest lips,
Sometimes alas! in troubled water dips.
But stop not, fair one, faint not in thy task,
Slip on the sock and snatch the mask,
Polish thy clear reflecting glass,
And catch the manners as they pass;
Call home thy playful Sylphs again,
And chear them with a livelier strain;
Fame weaves no wreath that is not earn'd with pain.
And thou, whose happy talent hit
The richest vein of Congreve's wit,
Ah fickle rover, false ingrateful loon,
Did the fond easy Muse consent too soon,
That thou should'st quit Thalia's arms
For an old
Begum
's tawny charms,
And shake us, not with laughter, but alarms?
Curst be ambition! Hence with musty laws!
Why pleads the bard but in Apollo's cause?
Why move the Court and humbly apprehend
But as the Muse's advocate and friend?
She taught his faithful scene to show
All that man's varying passions know,
Gay-flashing wit and heart-dissolving woe.
Thou too, thrice happy in a
Jealous Wife,
Comic interpreter of nuptial life,
Know that all candid hearts detest
Th' unmanly scoffer's cruel jest,
Who for his jibes no butt could find
But what cold palsy left behind,
A shaking man with an unshaken mind.
And ye, who teach man's lordly race,
That woman's wit will have it's place,
Matrons and maidens, who inspire
The scenic flute or sweep the Sapphic lyre,
Go, warble in the sylvan seat,
Where the Parnassian sisters meet,
And stamp the rugged soil with female feet.
'Tis ye, who interweave the myrtle bough
With the proud palm that crowns Britannia's brow,
Who to the age in which ye live
It's charms, it's graces and it's glories give;
For me, I seek no higher praise,
But to crop one small sprig of bays,
And wear it in the sunshine of your days.
No CXXIV.
I THINK the ladies will not accuse me of busying myself in impertinent remarks upon their dress and attire, for indeed it is not to their persons my services are devoted, but to their minds: If I can add to them any thing ornamental, or take from them any thing unbecoming, I shall gain my wish; the rest I shall leave to their milliners and mantua-makers.
Now if I have any merit with them for not intruding upon their toilets, let them shew me so much complaisance, as not to read this paper, whilst they are engaged in those occupations, which I have never before interrupted; for as I intend to talk with them a little metaphysically, I would not wish to divide their attention, nor shall I be contented with less than the whole.
In the first place I must tell them, gentle though they be, that human nature is subject to a variety of passions; some of these are virtuous passions, some on the contrary I am afraid are evil; there are however a number of intermediate propensities, most of which might also be termed passions, which by the proper influence of reason may become very useful allies to any one single virtue, when in danger of being overpowered by a host of foes: At the same time they are as capable of being kidnapped by the enemies of reason, and, when enlisted in the ranks of the insurgents, seldom fail to turn the fate of the battle, and commit dreadful havock in the peaceful quarters of the invaded virtue. It is apparent then that all these intermediate propensities are a kind of balancing powers, which seem indeed to hold a neutrality in moral affairs, but, holding it with arms in their hands, cannot be supposed to remain impartial spectators of the fray, and therefore must be either with us, or against us.
I shall make myself better understood when I proceed to instance them, and I will begin with that, which has been called the universal passion,
The love of Fame.
I presume no lady will disavow this propensity; I would not wish her to attempt it; let her examine it however; let her first enquire to what point it is likely to carry her before she commits herself to it's conduct: If it is to be her guide to that fame only, which excels in fashionable dissipation, figures in the first circles of the gay world, and is the loadstone to attract every libertine of high life into the sphere of it's activity, it is a traiterous guide, and is seducing her to a precipice, that will sooner or later be the grave of her happiness: On the contrary, if it proposes to avoid these dangerous pursuits, and recommends a progress through paths less tempting to the eye perhaps, but terminated by substantial comforts, she may securely follow a propensity, which cannot mislead her, and indulge a passion, which will be the moving spring of all her actions, and but for which her nature would want energy, and her character be no otherwise distinguished than by avoidance of vice without the grace and merit of any positive virtue. I can hardly suppose, if it was put to a lady's choice at her outset into life which kind of fame she would be distinguished for, good or evil, but that she would at once prefer the good; I must believe she would acknowledge more gratification in being signalized as the best wife, the best mother, the most exemplary woman of her time, than in being pointed out in all circles she frequents as the most fashionable rake, the best dressed voluptuary in the nation: If this be rightly conjectured, why will not every woman, who has her choice to make, direct her ambition to those objects, which will give her most satisfaction, when attained? There can be no reason but because it imposes on her some self-denials by the way, which she has not fortitude to surmount; and it is plain she does not love fame well enough to be at much pains in acquiring it; her ambition does not reach at noble objects, her passion for celebrity is no better than that of a buffoon's, who for the vanity of being conspicuous submits to be contemptible.
Friendship
is a word which has a very captivating sound, but is by no means of a decided quality; it may be friend or foe as reason and true judgment shall determine for it. If I were to decry all female friendships in the lump it might seem a harsh sentence, and yet it will seriously behove every parent to keep strict watch over this propensity in the early movements of the female mind. I am not disposed to expatiate upon it's dangers very particularly; they are sufficiently known to people of experience and discretion; but attachments must be stemmed in their beginnings; keep off correspondents from your daughters as you would keep off the pestilence: Romantic misses, sentimental novelists and scribbling pedants overturn each others heads with such eternal rhapsodies about friendship, and refine upon nonsense with such an affectation of enthusiasm, that if it has not been the parent's study to take early precautions against all such growing propensities, it will be in vain to oppose the torrent, when it carries all before it and overwhelms the passions with it's force.
Sensibility
is a mighty favorite with the fair sex; it is an amiable friend or a very dangerous foe to virtue: Let the female, who professes it, be careful how she makes too full a display of her weakness; for this is so very soft and insinuating a propensity, that it will be found in most female glossaries as a synonymous term for love itself; in fact it is little else than the
nomme-de-guerre,
which that insidious adventurer takes upon him in all first approaches; the pass-word in all those skirmishing experiments, which young people make upon each other's affections, before they proceed to plainer declarations; it is the whetstone, upon which love sharpens and prepares his arrows: If any lady makes a certain show of sensibility in company with her admirer, he must be a very dull fellow, if he does not know how to turn the weapon from himself to her. Now sensibility assumes a different character when it is taken into the service of benevolence, or made the centinel of modesty;in one case it gives the spring to pity, in the other the alarm to discretion; but whenever it assails the heart by soft seduction to bestow that pity and relief, which discretion does not warrant and purity ought not to grant, it should be treated as a renegado and a spy, which under the mask of charity would impose upon credulity for the vilest purposes, and betray the heart by flattering it to it's ruin.
Vanity
is a passion, to which I think I am very complaisant, when I admit it to a place amongst these convertible propensities, for it is as much as I can do to find any occupation for it in the family-concerns of virtue; perhaps if I had not known
Vanessa
I should not pay it even this small compliment: It can however do some under-offices in the household of generosity, of chearfulness, hospitality, and certain other respectable qualities: It is little else than an officious, civil, silly thing, that runs on errands for it's betters, and is content to be paid with a smile for it's good-will by those, who have too much good sense to show it any real respect: When it is harmless, it would be hard to wound it out of wantonness; when it is mischievous, there is merit in chastising it with the whip of ridicule: A lap-dog may be endured, if he is inoffensive and does not annoy the company, but a snappish, barking pett, though in a lady's arms, deserves to have his ears pulled for his impertinence.
Delicacy
is a soft name, and fine ladies, who have a proper contempt for the vulgar, are very willing to be thought endowed with senses more refined and exquisite, than nature ever meant to give them; their nerves are susceptible in the extreme and they are of constitutions so irritable, that
the very winds of heaven
must not be allowed to
visit their face too roughly.
I have studied this female favorite with some attention, and I am not yet able to discover any one of it's good qualities; I do not perceive the merit of such exquisite fibres, nor have I observed that the slenderest strings are apt to produce the sweetest sounds, when applied to instruments of harmony; I presume the female heart should be such an harmonious instrument, when touched by the parent, the friend, the husband; but how can these expect a concert of sweet sounds to be excited from a thing, which is liable to be jarred and put out of tune by every breath of air? It may be kept in it's case, like an old-fashioned virginal, which nobody knows, or even wishes to know, how to touch: It can never be brought to bear it's part in a family concert, but must hang by the wall, or at best be a solo instrument for the remainder of it's days.
Bashfulness,
when it is attached to modesty, will be regarded with the eye of candor and cheared with the smile of encouragement; but bashfulness is a hireling, and is sometimes discovered in the livery of pride, oftentimes in the cast-off trappings of affectation; pedantry is very apt to bring it into company, and sly, secret consciousness will frequently
blush because it understands.
I do not say I have much to lay to it's charge, for it is not apt to be troublesome in polite societies, nor do I commonly meet it even in the youngest of the female sex. There is a great deal of blushing I confess in all the circles of fine ladies, but then it is so universal a blush and withal so permanent, that I am far from imputing it always to bashfulness, when the cheeks of the fair are tinged with roses. However, though it is sometimes an impostor, and for that reason may deserve to be dismissed, I cannot help having a consideration for one, that has in past times been the handmaid of beauty, and therefore as merit has taken modesty into her service, I would recommend to ignorance to put bashfulness into full pay and employment.
Politeness
is a charming propensity, and I would wish the fine ladies to indulge it, if it were only by way of contrast between themselves and the fine gentlemen they consort with. I do not think it is altogether becoming for a lady to plant herself in the center of a circle with her back to the fire, and expect every body to be warmed by the contemplation of her figure or the reflection of her countenance; at the same time I am free to confess it an attitude, by which the man of high breeding is conspicuously distinguished, and is charming to behold, when set off with the proper accompaniments of leather breeches, tight boots and a jockey waistcoat. I will not deny however but I have seen this practised by ladies, who have acquitted themselves with great spirit on the occasion; but then it cannot be done without certain male accoutrements, and presupposes a slouched hat, half-boots, short waistcoat and riding dress, not to omit broad metal buttons with great letters engraved upon them, or the signature of some hunt, with the indispensable appendage of two long dangling watch-chains, which serve to mark the double value people of fashion put upon their time, and also shew the encouragement they bestow upon the arts: With these implements the work may be done even by a female artist, but it is an art I wish no young lady to study, and I hope the present professors will take no more pupils, whilst the academies of
Humphries
and
Mendoza
are kept open for accomplishments, which I think upon the whole are altogether as becoming. Politeness, as I conceive, consists in putting people at their ease in your company, and being at your ease in their's; modern practice I am afraid is apt to misplace this process, for I observe every body in fashionable life polite enough to study their own ease, but I do not see much attention paid to that part of the rule, which ought to be first observed: It is well calculated for those, who are adepts in it, but if ever such an out-of-the-way thing as a modest person comes within it's reach, the awkward novice is sure to be distressed, and whilst every body about him seems reposing on a bed of down, he alone is picketted upon a seat of thorns: Till this shall be reformed by the ladies, who profess to understand politeness, I shall turn back to my red-book of forty years ago, to see what relicts of the old court are yet amongst us, and take the mothers for my models in preference to their daughters.
No CXXV.
"WHAT good do you expect to do by your Observers?"
said a certain person to me t'other day: As I knew the man to be a notorious
damper,
I parried his question, as I have often parried other plump questions, by answering nothing, without appearing to be mortified or offended: To say the truth I do not well know what answer I could have given, had I been disposed to attempt it: I shall speak very ingenuously upon the subject to my candid readers, of whose indulgence I have had too many proofs to hesitate at committing to them all that is in my heart relative to our past or future intercourse and connection.
When I first devoted myself to this work, I took it up at a time of leisure and a time of life, when I conceived myself in a capacity for the undertaking; I flattered myself I had talents and materials sufficient to furnish a collection of miscellaneous essays, which through a variety of amusing matter should convey instruction to some, entertainment to most and disgust to none of my readers. To effect these purposes I studied in the first place to simplify and familiarize my stile by all means short of inelegance, taking care to avoid all pedantry and affectation, and never suffering myself to be led astray by the vanity of florid periods and laboured declamation: At the same time I resolved not to give my morals an austere complexion, nor convey reproof in a magisterial tone, for I did not hold it necessary to be angry in order to persuade the world that I was in earnest: As I am not the age's Censor either by office or profession, nor am possessed of any such superiorities over other men as might justify me in assuming a task to which nobody has invited me, I was sensible I had no claim upon the public for their attention but what I could earn by zeal and diligence, nor any title to their candour and complacency but upon the evidence of those qualities on my own part. As I have never made particular injuries a cause for general complaints, I am by no means out of humour with the world, and it has been my constant aim throughout the progress of these papers to recommend and instil a principle of universal benevolence; I have to the best of my power endeavoured to support the Christian character by occasional remarks upon the evidences and benefits of Revealed Religion; and as the sale and circulation of these volumes have exceeded my most sanguine hopes, I am encouraged to believe that my endeavours are accepted, and if so, I trust there is no arrogance in presuming some good may have resulted from them.
I wish I could contribute to render men mild and merciful towards each other, tolerating every peaceable member, who mixes in our community without annoying it's established church: I wish I could inspire an ardent attachment to our beloved country, qualified however with the gentlest manners and a beaming charity towards the world at large: I wish I could persuade contemporaries to live together as friends and fellow travellers, emulating each other without acrimony and chearing even rivals in the same pursuit with that liberal spirit of patriotism, which takes a generous interest in the success of every art and science, that embellish or exalt the age and nation we belong to: I wish I could devise some means to ridicule the proud man out of his folly, the voluptuary out of his false pleasures; if I could find one conspicuous example, only one, amongst the great and wealthy of an estate administered to my entire content, I should hold it up with exultation; but when I review their order from the wretch who hoards to the madman who squanders, I see no one to merit other praise than of a preference upon comparison; as for the domestic bully, who is a brute within his own doors and a sycophant without, the malevolent defamer of mankind and the hardened reviler of religion, they are characters so incorrigible and held in such universal detestation, that there is little chance of making any impression upon their nature, and no need for provoking any greater contempt, than the world is already disposed to entertain for them: I am happy in believing that the time does not abound in such characers, for my observations in life have not been such as should dispose me to deal in melancholy descriptions and desponding lamentations over the enormities of the age; too many indeed may be found, who are languid in the practice of religion, and not a few, who are flippant in their conversation upon it; but let these senseless triflers call to mind, if they can, one single instance of a man, however eminent for ingenuity, who either by what he has written, or by what he has said, has been able to raise a well-founded ridicule at the expence of true religion; enthusiasm, superstition and hypocrisy may give occasion for raillery, but against pure religion the wit of the blasphemer carries no edge; the weapon, when struck upon that shield, shivers in the assassin's hand, the point flies back upon his breast and plunges to his heart.
I have not been inattentive to the interests of the fair sex, and have done my best to laugh them out of their fictitious characters: On the plain ground of truth and nature they are the ornaments of creation, but in the maze of affectation all their charms are lost. Where vice corrupts one, vanity betrays an hundred; out of the many disgraceful instances of nuptial infidelity upon record few have been the wretches, whom a natural depravity has made desperate, but many and various are the miseries, which have been produced by vanity, by resentment, by fashionable dissipation, by the corruption of bad example, and most of all by the fault and neglect of the husband.
They have associated with our sex to the profit of their understandings and the prejudice of their morals: We are beholden to them for having softened our ferocity and dispelled our gloom; but it is to be regretted that any part of that pedantic character, which they remedied in us, should have infected their manners. A lady, who has quick talents, ready memory, an ambition to shine in conversation, a passion for reading and who is withal of a certain age or person to despair of conquering with her eyes, will be apt to send her understanding into the field, and it is well if she does not make a ridiculous figure before her literary campaign is over. If the old stock of our female pedants were not so busy in recruiting their ranks with young novitiates, whose understandings they distort by their training, we would let them rust out and spend their short annuity of nonsense without annoying them, but whilst they will be seducing credulous and inconsiderate girls into their circle, and transforming youth and beauty into unnatural and monstrous shapes, it becomes the duty of every knight-errant in morality to sally forth to the rescue of these hag-ridden and distressed damsels.
It cannot be supposed I mean to say that genius ought not to be cultivated in one sex as well as in the other; the object of my anxiety is the preservation of the female character, by which I understand those gentle unassuming manners and qualities peculiar to the sex, which recommend them to our protection and endear them to our hearts; let their talents and acquirements be what they may, they should never be put forward in such a manner as to overshadow and keep out of sight those feminine and proper requisites, which are fitted to the domestic sphere and are indispensable qualifications for the tender and engaging duties of wife and mother; they are not born to awe and terrify us into subjection by the flashes of their wit or the triumphs of their understanding; their conquests are to be effected by softer approaches, by a genuine delicacy of thought, by a simplicity and modesty of soul, which stamp a grace upon every thing they act or utter. All this is compatible with every degree of excellence in science or art; in fact it is characteristic of superior merit, and amongst the many instances of ladies now living, who have figured as authors or artists, there are very few, who are not as conspicuous for the natural grace of character as for talents; prattlers and pretenders there may be in abundance, who fortunately for the world do not annoy us any otherwise than by their loquacity and impertinence.
Our age and nation have just reason to be proud of the genius of our women; the advances they have made within a short period are scarcely credible, and I reflect upon them with surprize and pleasure: It behoves every young man of fashion now to look well to himself and provide some fund of information and knowledge, before he commits himself to societies, where the sexes mix: Every thing that can awaken his ambition, or alarm his sense of shame call upon him for the exertions of study and the improvement of his understanding; and thus it comes to pass that the age grows more and more enlightened every day.
Away then with that ungenerous praise, which is lavished upon times past for no other purpose than to degrade and sink the time present upon the comparison!
Plus vetustis nam favet
Invidia mendax, quam bonis praesentibus.
PHAEDRUS.
I conscientiously believe the public happiness of this peaceful aera is not to be paralleled in our annals. A providential combination of events has conspired to restore our national dignity and establish our internal tranquillity in a manner, which no human foresight could have pointed out, and by means, which no political sagacity could have provided. It is a great and sufficient praise to those, in whom the conduct of affairs is reposed, that they have clearly seen and firmly seized the glorious opportunity.
Let us, who profit by the blessing, give proof that we are deserving of it by being cordially affectioned towards one another, just and generous to all our fellow-creatures, grateful and obedient to our God.
END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.