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sometimes be overcharged with multitudes, most ancient and most beaten morals that and at others waste away into a desert: we has been recommended to mankind. But should be sometimes a populus virorum, its being so very common, and so universally as Florus elegantly expresses it, a genera- received, though it takes away from it the tion of males, and at others a species of grace of novelty, adds very much to the women. We may extend this considera-weight of it, as it shows that it falls in with tion to every species of living creatures, and consider the whole animal world as a huge army made up of innumerable corps, if I may use that term, whose quotas have been kept entire near five thousand years, in so wonderful a manner, that there is not probably a single species lost during this long tract of time. Could we have general bills of mortality of every kind of animals, or particular ones of every species in each continent and island, I could almost say in every wood, marsh, or mountain, what astonishing instances would they be of that Providence which watches over all his works?

I have heard of a great man in the Romish church, who upon reading these words in the fifth chapter of Genesis, And all the days that Adam lived were nine hundred and thirty years, and he died; and all the days of Seth were nine hundred and twelve years, and he died; and all the days of Methuselah, were nine hundred and sixtynine years, and he died;' immediately shut himself up in a convent, and retired from the world, as not thinking any thing in this life worth pursuing, which had not regard

to another.

the general sense of mankind. In short, I would have every one consider that he is in this life nothing more than a passenger, and that he is not to set up his rest here, but to keep an attentive eye upon that state of being to which he approaches every moment, and which will be for ever fixed and permanent. This single consideration would be sufficient to extinguish the bitterness of hatred, the thirst of avarice, and the cruelty of ambition.

I am very much pleased with the passage of Antiphanes, a very ancient poet, who lived near an hundred years before Socrates, which represents the life of a man under this view, as I have here translated it word for word. Be not grieved,' says he, above measure for thy deceased friends. They are not dead, but have only finished that journey which it is necessary for every one of us to take. We ourselves must go to that great place of reception in which they are all of them assembled, and in this general rendezvous of mankind, live together in another state of being.'

called strangers and sojourners upon earth. I shall conclude this with a story, which I have somewhere read in the travels of Sir John Chardin. That gentleman, after having told us that the inns which receive the caravans in Persia, and the eastern countries, are called by the name of caravansaries, gives us a relation to the following purpose.

I think I have, in a former paper, taken notice of those beautiful metaphors in scripture, where life is termed a pilgrimThe truth of it is, there is nothing in his-age, and those who pass through it are all tory which is so improving to the reader as those accounts which we meet with of the deaths of eminent persons, and of their behaviour in that dreadful season. I may also add, that there are no parts in history which affect and please the reader in so sensible a manner. The reason I take to be this, because there is no other single circumstance in the story of any person, which can possibly be the case of every one who reads it. A battle or a triumph are conjunctures in which not one man in a million is likely to be engaged; but when we see a person at the point of death, we cannot forbear being attentive to every thing he says or does, because we are sure that some time or other we shall ourselves be in the same melancholy circumstances. The general, the statesman, or the philosopher, are perhaps characters which we may never act in; but the dying man is one whom, sooner or later, we shall certainly resemble.

It is, perhaps, for the same kind of reason, that few books written in English have been so much perused as Dr. Sherlock's Discourse upon Death; though at the same time I must own, that he who hath not perused this excellent piece, has not perhaps read one of the strongest persuasives to a religious life that ever was written in any language.

The consideration with which I shall close this essay upon death, is one of the

A dervise travelling through Tartary, being arrived at the town of Balk, went into the king's palace by mistake, as thinking it to be a public inn, or caravansary. Having looked about him for some time, he entered into a long gallery, where he laid down his wallet, and spread his carpet, in order to repose himself upon it, after the manner of the eastern nations. He had not been long in this posture before he was discovered by some of the guards, who asked him what was his business in that place? The dervise told them he intended to take up his night's lodging in that caravansary. The guards let him know in a very angry manner, that the house he was in was not a caravansary, but the king's palace. It happened that the king himself passed through the gallery during this debate, and smiling at the mistake of the dervise, asked him how he could possibly be so dull as not to distinguish a palace from a caravansary? Sir,' says the dervise, ‘give me leave to ask your majesty a question or two. Who were the persons. that lodged in this house when it was first

built? The king replied, His ancestors.' And who,' says the dervise, was the last person that lodged here?' The king replied, His father.' And who is it," says the dervise, that lodges here at present?' The king told him, that it was he himself. And who,' says the dervise, will be here after you? The king answered, 'The young prince his son.''Ah, sir,' said the dervise, a house that changes its inhabitants so often, and receives such a perpetual succession of guests, is not a palace, but a caravansary.'

L.

No. 290.] Friday, February 1, 1711-12.
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba.
Forgets his swelling and gigantic words.

Hor. Ars Poet. v. 97.

Roscommon.

known only to particular tempers, yet in the above-mentioned considerations, the sorrow of the heroine will move even the generality of mankind. Domestic virtues concern all the world, and there is no one living who is not interested that Andromache should be an imitable character. The generous affection to the memory of the deceased husband, that tender care for her son, which is ever heightened with the consideration of his father, and these regards preserved in spite of being tempted with the possession of the highest greatness, are what cannot but be venerable even to such an audience as at present frequents the English theatre. My friend Will Honeycomb commended several tender things that were said, and told me they were very genteel, but whispered me, that he feared the piece was not busy enough THE players, who know I am very much recommended to the players to be very for the present taste. To supply this, he their friend, take all opportunities to ex- careful in their scenes, and above all things press a gratitude to me for being so. They that every part should be perfectly new could not have a better occasion of obliging dressed. I was very glad to find that they me, than one which they lately took hold of did not neglect my friend's admonition, beThey desired my friend Will Honeycomb cause there are a great many in this class to bring me to the reading of a new tragedy; of criticism who may be gained by it; but it is called The Distressed Mother. I indeed the truth is, that as to the work must confess, though some days are passed itself, it is every where Nature. The persince I enjoyed that entertainment, the pas- sons are of the highest quality in life, even sions of the several characters dwell strong that of princes; but their quality is not rely upon my imagination; and I congratu- presented by the poet with directions that late the age that they are at last to see guards and waiters should follow them in truth and human life represented in the every scene, but their grandeur appears in incidents which concern heroes and hero- greatness of sentiment, flowing from minds ines. The style of the play is such as be worthy their condition. To make a chacomes those of the first education, and the racter truly great, this author understands sentiments worthy of those of the highest that it should have its foundation in supefigure. It was a most exquisite pleasure to rior thoughts and maxims of conduct. It me to observe real tears drop from the eyes is very certain, that many an honest woman of those who had long made it their profes- would make no difficulty, though she had sion to dissemble affliction; and the player been the wife of Hector, for the sake of a who read, frequently threw down the book, kingdom, to marry the enemy of her husuntil he had given vent to the humanity band's family and country; and indeed who which rose in him at some irresistible can deny but she might be still an honest touches of the imagined sorrow. We have woman, but no heroine? That may be deseldom had any female distress on the stage, fensible, nav, laudable, in one character, which did not, upon cool examination, ap- which would be in the highest degree expear to flow from the weakness, rather ceptionable in another. When Cato Uticenthan the misfortune of the person repre- cis killed himself, Cottius, a Roman of sented: but in this tragedy you are not en- ordinary quality and character, did the tertained with the ungoverned passions of same thing; upon which one said, smiling, such as are enamoured of each other, Cottius might have lived, though Casar merely as they are men and women, but has seized the Roman liberty.' Cottius's their regards are founded upon high con- condition might have been the same, let ceptions of each other's virtue and merit; things at the upper end of the world and the character which gives name to the pass as they would. What is further very play, is one who has behaved herself with extraordinary in this work is, that the perheroic virtue in the most important circum-sons are all of them laudable, and their stances of a female life, those of a wife, a misfortunes arise rather from unguarded widow, and a mother. If there be those virtue than propensity to vice. The town whose minds have been too attentive upon the affairs of life, to have any notion of the passion of love in such extremes as are

* The original motto to this paper in folio was 'pi rat tragicum satis, et feliciter andet.—Hor.

By Ambrose Philips. It was brought out at Drury

Lane.

has an opportunity of deing itself justice in supporting the representations of passion, sorrow, indignation, even despair itself, within the rules of decency, honour, and good-breeding; and since there is none fortunate, they may here see sorrow as can flatter himself his life will be always

arrives.

they would wish to bear it whenever it critic, whereas one who has not these previous lights is very often an utter stranger to what he reads, and apt to put a wrong interpretation upon it.

'MR. SPECTATOR,-I am appointed to act a part in the new tragedy called the

Distressed Mother. It is the celebrated

but I shall not act it as I ought, for I shall
grief of Orestes which I am to personate;
feel it too intimately to be able to utter it.
I was last night repeating a paragraph to
myself, which I took to be an expression
of rage, and in the middle of the sen-
tence there was a stroke of self-pity which
quite unmanned me. Be pleased, sir, to
print this letter, that when I am oppressed
in this manner at such an interval, a cér-
tain part of the audience may not think I
am out; and I hope, with this allowance,
to do it with satisfaction.
I am, sir, your
your most humble servant,

'GEORGE POWELL.'

'MR. SPECTATOR,-As I was walking the other day in the Park, I saw a gentleman with a very short face; I desire to know whether it was you. Pray inform me as soon as you can, lest I become the most heroic Hecatissa's rival. Your humble servant to command, SOPHIA.'

'DEAR MADAM,-It is not me you are in love with, for I was very ill, and kept my chamber all that day. Your most humble servant,

T.

THE SPECTATOR.'

Nor is it sufficient that a man, who sets

less he has also a clear and logical head. up for a judge in criticism, should have perused the authors above-mentioned, unWithout this talent he is perpetually puzzled and perplexed amidst his own blunders, mistakes the sense of those he would confute, or, if he chances to think right, does not know how to convey his thoughts Aristotle, who was the best critic, was also to another with clearness and perspicuity. one of the best logicians that ever appeared

in the world.

Mr. Locke's Essay on Human Understanding would be thought a very odd book for a man to make himself master of, who though at the same time it is very certain, would get a reputation by critical writings; that an author who has not learned the art of distinguishing between words and things, and of ranging his thoughts and setting them in proper lights, whatever notions he may have, will lose himself in confusion and obscurity. I might further observe, that there is not a Greek or Latin critic, who has not shown, even in the style of his criticism, that he was a master of all the elegance and delicacy of his native tongue.

The truth of it is, there is nothing more absurd, than for a man to set up for a critic,

No. 291.] Saturday, February 2, 1711-12. without a good insight into all the parts of

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But in a poem elegantly writ, I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.-Roscommon. I HAVE NOW considered Milton's Paradise Lost under those four great heads, of the fable, the characters, the sentiments, and the language; and have shown that he excels in general, under each of these heads. I hope that I have made several discoveries which may appear new even to those who are versed in critical learning. Were I indeed to choose my readers, by whose judgment I would stand or fall, they should not be such as are acquainted only with the French and Italian critics, but also with the ancient and modern who have written in either of the learned languages. Above all, I would have them well versed in the Greek and Latin poets, without which a man very often fancies that he understands a critic, when in reality he does not comprehend his meaning.

It is in criticism as in all other sciences and speculations; one who brings with him any implicit notions and observations, which he has made in his reading of the poets, will find his own reflections methodized and explained, and perhaps several little hints that had passed in his mind, perfected and improved in the works of a good

learning; whereas many of those, who have endeavoured to signalize themselves by works of this nature, among our English writers, are not only defective in the abovementioned particulars, but plainly discover and by their confused way of thinking, by the phrases which they make use of, that they are not acquainted with the most common and ordinary systems of arts and sciences. A few general rules extracted out of the French authors, with a certain cant or words, has sometimes set up an illiterate heavy writer for a most judicious and formidable critic.

One great mark, by which you may discover a critic who has neither taste nor learning, is this, that he seldom ventures to praise any passage in an author which has not been before received and applauded by the public, and that his criticism turns wholly upon little faults and errors. This part of a critic is so very easy to succeed in, that we find every ordinary reader upon the publishing of a new poem, has wit and ill-nature enough to turn several passages of it into ridicule, and very often in the right place. This Mr. Dryden has very agreeably remarked in these two celebrated lines;

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below. A true critic ought to dwell rather upon excellences than imperfections, to discover the concealed beauties of a writer, and

communicate to the world such things as it had been just thrashed out of the sheaf. are worth their observation. The most He then bid him pick out the chaff from exquisite words and finest strokes of an among the corn, and lay it aside by itself. author, are those which very often appear The critic applied himself to the task with the most doubtful and exceptionable to a great industry and pleasure, and after havman who wants a relish for polite learn- ing made the due separation, was presenting; and they are these, which a soured by Apollo with the chaff for his pains. undistinguishing critic generally attacks with the greatest violence. Tully ob

L..

Пlam, quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia flectit,
Componit furtim, subsequiturque decor,
Trbui. Eleg. ii. Lib. 4. 8.
Whate'er she does, where'er her steps she bends,
Grace on each action silently attends.

serves, that it is very easy to brand or fix No. 292.] Monday, February 4, 1711-12. a mark upon what he calls verbum ardens, or as it may be rendered into English, a glowing bold expression, and to turn it into ridicule by a cold ill-natured criticism. A little wit is equally capable of exposing a beauty, and of aggravating a fault: and though such treatment of an author naturally produces indignation in the mind of an understanding reader, it has however its effect among the generality of those whose hands it falls into, the rabble of mankind being very apt to think that every thing which is laughed at, with any mixture of wit, is ridiculous in itself.

Such a mirth as this is always unseasonable in a critic, as it rather prejudices the reader than convinces him, and is capable of making a beauty, as well as a blemish, the subject of derision. A man who can not write with wit on a proper subject, is dull and stupid; but one who shows it in an improper place, is as impertinent and absurd. Besides, a man who has the gift of ridicule is apt to find fault with any thing that gives him an opportunity of exerting his beloved talent, and very often censures a passage, not because there is any fault in it, but because he can be merry upon it. Such kinds of pleasantry are very unfair and disingenuous in works of criticism, in which the greatest masters, both ancient and modern, have always appeared with a serious and instructive air.

As I intend in my next paper to show the defects in Milton's Paradise Lost, I thought fit to premise these few particulars, to the end that the reader may know I enter upon it as on a very ungrateful work, and that I shall just point at the imperfections, without endeavouring to inflame them with ridicule. I must also observe with Longinus, that the productions of a great genius, with many lapses and inadvertencies, are infinitely preferable to the works of an inferior kind of author, which are scrupulously exact, and conformable to all the rules of correct writing.

I shall conclude my paper with a story out of Boccalini, which sufficiently shows us the opinion that judicious author entertained of the sort of critics I have been here mentioning. A famous critic, says he, having gathered together all the faults of an eminent poet, made a present of them to Apollo, who received them very graciously, and resolved to make the author a suitable return for the trouble he had been at in collecting them. In order to this, he set before him a sack of wheat, as

As no one can be said to enjoy health who is only not sick, without he feel within himself a lightsome and invigorating principle, which will not suffer him to remain idle, but still spurs him on to action; so in the practice of every virtue, there is some additional grace required, to give a claim of excelling in this or that particular action. A diamond may want polishing, though the value be still intrinsically the same; and the same good may be done with different degrees of lustre. No man should be contented with himself that he barely does well, but he should perform every thing in the best and most becoming manner that he is able.

Tully tells us he wrote his book of Offices, because there was no time of life in which some corresponding duty might not be practised; nor is there a duty without a certain decency accompanying it, by which every virtue it is joined to will seem to be doubled. Another may do the same thing, and yet the action want that air and beauty which distinguish it from others; like that inimitable sunshine Titian is said to have diffused over his landscapes; which denotes them his, and has been always unequalled by any other person.

There is no one action in which this quality I am speaking of will be more sensibly perceived, than in granting a request, or doing an office of kindness. Mummius, by his way of consenting to a benefaction, shall make it lose its name; while Carus doubles the kindness and the obligation. From the first, the desired request drops indeed at last, but from so doubtful a brow, that the obliged has almost as much reason to resent the manner of bestowing it, as to be thankful for the favour itself. Carus invites with a pleasing air, to give him an opportunity of doing an act of humanity, meets the petition half way, and consents to a request with a countenance which proclaims the satisfaction of his mind in assisting the distressed.

The decency, then, that is to be observed in liberality, seems to consist, in its being performed with such cheerfulness, as may express the godlike pleasure to be met with, in obliging one's fellow creatures; that may show good-nature and benevo

lence overflowed, and do not, as in some men, run upon the tilt, and taste of the sediments of a grudging, uncommunicative disposition.

full of numberless nameless graces, the other of as many nameless faults.

The comeliness of person, and the deSince I have intimated that the greatest what is pronounced by any one. cency of behaviour, add infinite weight to decorum is to be preserved in the bestow-want of this that often makes the rebukes It is the ing our good offices, I will illustrate it a and advice of old rigid persons of no effect, little by an example drawn from private and leave a displeasure in the minds of life, which carries with it such a profusion those they are directed to: but youth and of liberality, that it can be exceeded by beauty, if accompanied with a graceful and nothing but the humanity and good-nature becoming severity, is of mighty force to which accompanies it. It is a letter of raise, even in the most profligate, a sense of Pliny's, which I shall here translate, be- shame. In Milton, the devil is never decause the action will best appear in its first scribed ashamed but once, and that at the dress of thought, without any foreign or rebuke of a beauteous angel; ambitious ornaments.

Pliny to Quintilian.

So spake the cherub; and his grave rebuke,
Severe in youthful beauty, added grace
Invincible. Abash'd the devil stood,
And felt how awful Goodness is, and saw
Virtue in her shape how lovely! saw, and pin'd
His loss.

"Though I am fully acquainted with the contentment and just moderation of your mind, and the conformity the education you have given your daughter bears to your has accompanied the greatest minds to The care of doing nothing unbecoming own character; yet since she is suddenly their last moments. They avoided even to be married to a person of distinction, an indecent posture in the very article of whose figure in the world makes it neces- death. sary for her to be at a more than ordinary about him, that he might not fall in a Thus Cæsar gathered his robe expense, in clothes and equipage suitable manner unbecoming of himself; and the to her husband's quality; by which, though greatest concern that appeared in the beher intrinsic worth be not augmented, yet haviour of Lucretia when she stabbed herwill it receive both ornament and lustre: self, was, that her body should lie in an and knowing your estate to be as moderate attitude worthy the mind which had inas the riches of your mind are abundant, I habited it: must challenge to myself some part of the burden; and as a parent of your child, I present her with twelve hundred and fifty crowns, towards these expenses; which sum had been much larger, had I not feared the smallness of it would be the greatest inducement with you to accept of it.-Farewell.'

-Ne non procumbat honeste,
Extrema hæc etiam cura cadentis erat.

Ovid. Fast. Lib. 3. 833.
"Twas her last thought how decently to fall.
without a fortune; but of a very high mind:
'MR. SPECTATOR,-I am a young woman
that is, good sir, I am to the last degree
proud and vain. I am ever railing at the
rich, for doing things which, upon search
into my heart, I find I am only angry a*,
because I cannot do the same myself. I
wear the hooped petticoat, and am all in
calicoes when the finest are in silks. It is
a dreadful thing to be poor and proud;
therefore, if you please, a lecture on that
subject for the satisfaction of your uneasy
humble servant,
Z.

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JEZEBEL.'

Thus should a benefaction be done with a good grace, and shine in the strongest point of light; it should not only answer all the hopes and exigencies of the receiver, but even outrun his wishes. It is this happy manner of behaviour which adds new charms to it, and softens those gifts of art and nature, which otherwise would be rather distasteful than agreeable. Without it valour would degenerate into brutality, learning into pedantry, and the genteelest demeanour into affectation. Even Religion itself, unless Decency be the handmaid No. 293.] Tuesday, February 5, 1711-12. which waits upon her, is apt to make people appear guilty of sourness and illhumour: but this shows Virtue in her first Frag. Vet. Poet. original form, adds a comeliness to ReliThe prudent still have fortune on their side. gion, and gives its professors the just title THE famous Grecian, in his little book to the beauty of holiness.' A man fully wherein he lays down maxims for a man's instructed in this art, may assume a thou-advancing himself at court, advises his reasand shapes, and please in all; he may do a thousand actions shall become none other but himself; not that the things themselves are different, but the manner of doing them. If you examine each feature by itself, Aglaura and Calliclea are equally handsome, but take them in the whole, and you cannot suffer the comparison: the one is

Πασιν γαρ ευφρονεσι συμμαχει τύχη.

der to associate himself with the fortunate, and to shun the company of the unfortunate; which, notwithstanding the baseness of the precept to an honest mind, may have something useful in it, for those who push their interest in the world. It is certain a great part of what we call good or ill fortune, rises out of right or wrong measures and

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