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"Thou rising sun, whose gladsome ray
Invites my fair to rural play,
Dispel the mist, and clear the skies,
And bring my Orra to my eyes.

Oh! were I sure my dear to view,

I'd climb that pine-tree's topmost bough,
Aloft in air that quiv'ring plays,
And round and round for ever gaze.

My Orra Moor, where art thou laid?
What wood conceals my sleeping maid?
Fast by the roots enrag'd I'd tear
The trees that hide my promis'd fair.

Oh! could I ride the clouds and skies,
Or on the raven's pinions rise!
Ye storks, ye swans, a moment stay,
And waft a lover on his way!

My bliss too long my bride denies,
Apace the wasting summer flies:
Nor yet the wintry blasts I fear,

Not storms, or night shall keep me here.

What may for strength with steel compare?
Oh! love has fetters stronger far!
By bolts of steel are limbs confin'd,
But cruel love enchains the mind.

No longer then perplex thy breast;
When thoughts torment, the first are best;
Tis mad to go, 'tis death to stay;
Away to Orra! haste away!"

follow your counsel; who am your admirer and humble servant,


"I beg that you will put it in a better dress, and let it come abroad, that my mistress, who is an admirer of your speculations, may see it.' T.

No. 367.] Thursday, May 1, 1712.
-Perituræ parcite charte.-Juv. Sat. i. 18.

In mercy spare us when we do our best
To make as much waste paper as the rest.

I HAVE often pleased myself with considering the two kinds of benefits which accrue to the public from these my speculations, and which, were I to speak after the manner of logicians, I would distinguish into the material and the formal. By the latter I understand those advantages which my readers receive, as their minds are either improved or delighted by these my daily labours; but having already several times descanted on my endeavours in this light, I shall at present wholly confine myself to the consideration of the former. By the word material, I mean those benefits which arise to the public from these my speculations, as they consume a considerable quantity of our paper-manufacture, employ our artisans in printing, and find business for great numbers of indigent persons.

Our paper-manufacture takes into it several mean materials which could be put to no other use, and affords work for several hands in the collection of them which are incapable of any other employment. Those poor retailers, whom we see so busy in every street, deliver in their respective gleanings to the merchant. The merchant carries them in loads to the paper-mill, where they pass through a fresh set of hands, and give life to another trade, Those who have mills on their estate, by this means considerably raise their rents, and the whole nation is in a great measure supplied with a manufacture for which formerly she was obliged to her neighbours.

'April the 10th. 'MR. SPECTATOR,-I am one of those lespicable creatures called a chambermaid, nd have lived with a mistress for some ime, whom I love as my life, which has nade my duty and pleasure inseparable. My greatest delight has been in being cmloyed about her person; and indeed she is ery seldom out of humour for a woman of er quality. But here lies my complaint, sir. o bear with me is all the encouragement he is pleased to bestow upon me; for she ives her cast-off clothes from me to others; me she is pleased to bestow in the house those that neither want nor wear them, nd some to hangers-on, that frequent the ouse daily, who come dressed out in them. his, sir, is a very mortifying sight to me, ho am a little necessitous for clothes, and we to appear what I am; and causes an neasiness, so that I cannot serve with that heerfulness as formerly; which my misess takes notice of, and calls envy and l-temper, at seeing others preferred bere me. My mistress has a younger sister The materials are no sooner wrought ves in the house with her, that is some into paper, but they are distributed among ousands below her in estate, who is conti- the presses, when they again set innume ally heaping her favours on her maid; so rable artists at work, and furnish business at she can appear every Sunday, for the to another mystery. From hence, accordst quarter, in a fresh suit of clothes of ingly as they are stained with news and rmistress's giving, with all other things politics, they fly through the town in Postitable. All this I see without envying, men, Post-boys, Daily Courants, Reviews, it not without wishing my mistress would Medleys, and Examiners. Men, women, little consider what a discouragement it and children contend who shall be the first to me to have my perquisites divided be- bearers of them, and get their daily susteneen fawners and jobbers, which others ance by spreading them. In short, when I joy entire to themselves. I have spoken trace in my mind a bundle of rags to a quire my mistress, but to little purpose; I of Spectators, I find so many hands em ve desired to be discharged (for indeed I ployed in every step they take through t myself to nothing,) but that she an- their whole progress, that while I am ers with silence. I beg, sir, your direc-writing a Spectator, I fancy myself prowhat to do, for I am fully resolved to viding bread for a multitude.


If I do not take care to obviate some of my witty readers, they will be apt to tell me, that my paper, after it is thus printed and published, is still beneficial to the public on several occasions. I must confess I have lighted my pipe with my own works for this twelvemonth past. My landlady often sends up her little daughter to desire some of my old Spectators, and has frequently told me, that the paper they are printed on is the best in the world to wrap spices in. They likewise made a good foundation for a mutton pie, as I have more than once experienced, and were very much sought for last Christmas by the whole neighbourhood.

which has passed through the hands of one
of the most accurate, learned, and judicious
writers this age has produced. The beauty
of the paper, of the character, and of the
several cuts with which this noble work is ty
illustrated, makes it the finest book that!
have ever seen; and is a true instance of
the English genius, which, though it does
not come the first into any art, generally
carries it to greater heights than any other
country in the world. I am particularly
glad that this author comes from a British
printing-house in so great a magnificence,
as he is the first who has given us any
tolerable account of our country.

My illiterate readers, if any such there are, will be surprised to hear me talk of learning as the glory of a nation, and of printing as an art that gains a reputation t à people among whom it flourishes. When men's thoughts are taken up with avarice and ambition, they cannot look upon any thing as great or valuable which does not bring with it an extraordinary power or interest to the person who is concerned in it. But as I shall never sink this paper so far as to engage with Goths and Vandals, I shall only regard such kind of reasoners with that pity which is due to so deplorable a degree of stupidity and ignorance. L

It is pleasant enough to consider the changes that a linen fragment undergoes by passing through the several hands above mentioned. The finest pieces of Holland, when worn to tatters, assume a new whiteness more beautiful than the first, and often return in the shape of letters to their native country. A lady's shift may be metamorphosed into billets-doux, and come into her possession a second time. A beau may peruse his cravat after it is worn out, with greater pleasure and advantage than ever he did in a glass. In a word, a piece of cloth, after having officiated for some years as a towel or a napkin, may by this means be raised from a dunghill, and become the most valuable piece of furni- No. 368.] Friday, May 2, 1712. ture in a prince's cabinet.

The politest nations of Europe have endeavoured to vie with one another for the reputation of the finest printing. Absolute governments, as well as republics, have encouraged an art which seems to be the noblest and most beneficial that ever was invented among the sons of men. The present king of France, in his pursuits after glory, has particularly distinguished himself by the promoting of this useful art, insomuch that several books have been printed in the Louvre at his own expense, upon which he sets so great a value that he considers them as the noblest presents he can make to foreign princes and ambassadors. If we look

into the commonwealths of Holland and Venice, we shall find that in this particular they have made themselves the envy of the greatest monarchies. Elzevir and Aldus are more frequently mentioned than any pensioner of the one or doge of the other.

-Nos decebat
Lugere ubi esset aliquis in lucem editus,
Humanæ vitæ varia reputantes mala:
At qui labores morte finisset graves,
Omnes amicos laude et lætitia exequi.


Eurip. apud Tall

When first an infant draws the vital air,
Officious grief should welcome him to care:
But joy should life's concluding scene attend,
And mirth be kept to grace a dying friend.

of news from the natural world,
As the Spectator is, in a kind, a paper
as others
are from the busy and politic part of man-
kind, I shall translate the following letter,
written to an eminent French gentleman in
this town from Paris, which gives us the
exit of a heroine who is a pattern of pa
tience and generosity.



'Paris, April 18, 1712 'SIR,-It is so many years since you left your native country, that I am to tell you the characters of your nearest relations as The several presses which are now in much as if you were an utter stranger England, and the great encouragement them. The occasion of this is to give you which has been given to learning for some an account of the death of Madam de Vil years last past, has made our own nation lacerfe, whose departure out of this life! as glorious upon this account as for its late know not whether a man of your philo triumphs and conquests. The new edition sophy will call unfortunate or not, since it which is given us of Cæsar's Commenta- was attended with some circumstances as ries has already been taken notice of in much to be desired as to be lamented. She foreign gazettes, and is a work that does was her whole life happy in an uninter honour to the English press. It is no won-rupted health, and was always honoured der that an edition should be very correct

A most magnificent edition of Cesar's Commenta. ries published about this time, by Dr. Samuel Clarke.


for an evenness of temper and greatness of mind. On the 10th instant that lady was taken with an indisposition which confined her to her chamber, but was such as was

"While this excellent woman spoke these words, Festeau looked as if he received a condemnation to die, instead of a pension for his life. Madame de Villacerfe lived till eight of the clock the next night; and though she must have laboured under the most exquisite torments, she possessed her mind with so wonderful a patience, that one may rather say she ceased to breathe, than she died at that hour. You, who had not the happiness to be personally known to this lady, have nothing but to rejoice in the honour you had of being related to so great merit; but we, who have lost her conversation, cannot so easily resign our own happiness by reflection upon hers. I am, sir, your affectionate kinsman, and most obedient humble servant,


too slight to make her take a sick bed,
and yet too grievous to admit of any satis-
faction in being out of it. It is notoriously
known, that some years ago Monsieur Fes-
teau, one of the most considerable surgeons
in Paris, was desperately in love with this
lady. Her quality placed her above any
application to her on the account of his
passion: but as a woman always has some
regard to the person whom she believes to
e her real admirer, she now took it into
er head (upon advice of her physicians
o lose some of her blood) to send for Mon-
ieur Festeau on that occasion. I hap-
pened to be there at that time, and my
ear relation gave me the privilege to be
resent. As soon as her arm was stripped
are, and he began to press it, in order to
aise the vein, his colour changed, and I ob-
erved him seized with a sudden tremor,
which made me take the liberty to speak
f it to my cousin with some apprehen-
ion. She smiled, and said, she knew
M. Festeau had no inclination to do her in-
jury. He seemed to recover himself, and,
miling also, proceeded in his work. Im-
nediately after the operation, he cried out,
hat he was the most unfortunate of all men,
or that he had opened an artery instead
fa vein. It is as impossible to express
he artist's distraction as the patient's com-
osure. I will not dwell on little circum-
tances, but go on to inform you, that
within three days' time it was thought ne-
essary to take off her arm. She was so
ar from using Festeau as it would be
atural for one of a lower spirit to treat
im, that she would not let him be absent
rom any consultation about her present
ondition; and, after having been about a No. 369.] Saturday, May 3, 1712.
uarter of an hour alone, she bid the sur-
eons, of whom poor Festeau was one, go
n in their work. I know not how to give
ou the terms of art, but there appeared
uch symptoms after the amputation of her
rm, that it was visible she could not live
our-and-twenty hours. Her behaviour was
magnanimous throughout the whole
fair, that I was particularly curious in
aking notice of what past as her fate ap-
roached nearer and nearer, and took notes
f what she said to all about her, particu-
irly word for word what she spoke to M.
esteau, which was as follows:

"Sir, you give me inexpressible sorrow r the anguish with which I see you overhelmed. I am removed to all intents nd purposes from the interests of human fe, therefore I am to begin to think like e wholly unconcerned in it. I do not nsider you as one by whose error I have st my life; no, you are my benefactor, as u have hastened my entrance into a happy amortality. This is my sense of this accient: but the world in which you live may ve thoughts of it to your disadvantage: 1 ve therefore taken care to provide for you my will, and have placed you above what have to fear from their ill-nature."

There hardly can be a greater instance of a heroic mind than the unprejudiced manner in which this lady weighed this misfortune. The regard of life could not make her overlook the contrition of the unhappy man, whose more than ordinary concern for her was all his guilt. It would certainly be of singular use to human society to have an exact account of this lady's ordinary conduct, which was crowned by so uncommon magnanimity. Such greatness was not to be acquired in the last article; nor is it to be doubted but it was a constant practice of all that is praiseworthy, which made her capable of beholding death, not as the dissolution, but consummation of her life.

Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures,
Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus.


Hor. Ars Poet. v. 180.
What we hear moves less than what we see.

MILTON, after having represented in
vision the history of mankind to the first
great period of nature, despatches the re-
maining part of it in narration. He has
devised a very handsome reason for the
angel's proceeding with Adam after this
manner; though doubtless the true reason
was the difficulty which the poet would
have found to have shadowed out so mixed
and complicated a story in visible objects.
I could wish, however, that the author had
done it, whatever pains it might have cost
him. To give my opinion freely, I think
that the exhibiting part of the history of
mankind in vision, and part in narrative, is
as if a history-painter should put in colours
one half of his subject, and write down the
remaining part of it.
If Milton's poem
flags any where, it is in this narration,
where in some places the author has been
so attentive to his divinity that he has
neglected his poetry. The narration, how-
ever, rises very happily on several occa

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sions, where the subject is capable of
poetical ornaments, as particularly in the
confusion which he describes among the
builders of Babel, and in his short sketch
of the plagues of Egypt. The storm of
hail and fire, with the darkness that over-
spread the land for three days, are de-
scribed with great strength. The beautiful
passage which follows is raised upon noble
hints in Scripture:

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-Thus with ten wounds.

The river dragon tam'd, at length submits
To let his sojourners depart; and oft
Humbles his stubborn heart; but still, as ice,
More harden'd after thaw: till in his rage
Pursuing whom he late dismiss'd, the sea
Swallows him with his host; but then lets man
As on dry land between two crystal walls,
Aw'd by the rod of Moses so to stand

The river dragon is an allusion to the
crocodile, which inhabits the Nile, from
whence Egypt derives her plenty. This
allusion is taken from that sublime passage
in Ezekiel: Thus saith the Lord God,
Behold I am against thee, Pharaoh, king
of Egypt, the great dragon that lieth in the
midst of his rivers, which hath said, My
river is mine own, and I have made it for
myself.' Milton has given us another very
noble and poetical image in the same de-
scription, which is copied almost word for
word out of the history of Moses!

All night he will pursue, but his approach
Darkness defends between till morning watch
Then through the fiery pillar and the cloud
God looking forth will trouble all his host,
And craze their chariot wheels: when by command
Moses once more his potent rod extends
Over the sea: the sea his rod obeys:

On their embattled ranks the waves return
And overwhelm their war-

As the principal design of this episode
was to give Adam an idea of the holy per-
son who was to reinstate human nature in
that happiness and perfection from which
it had fallen, the poet confines himself to
the line of Abraham, from whence the
Messiah was to descend. The angel is
described as seeing the patriarch actually
travelling towards the land of promise,
which gives a particular liveliness to this
part of the narration:

'I see him, but thou canst not, with what faith
He leaves his gods, his friends, his native soil,
Ur of Chaldea, passing now the ford

To Haran; after him a cumbrous train
Of herds, and flocks, and num'rous servitude;
Not wand'ring poor, but trusting all his wealth
With God, who call'd him in a land unknown.
Canaan he now attains: I see his tents
Pitch'd about Sechem, and the neighbouring plain
Of Moreh; there by promise he receives
Gift to his progeny of all that land;
From Hamath northward to the desert south:
(Things by their names I call, though yet unnam'd.)'

As Virgil's vision in the sixth neid
probably gave Milton the hint of this whole
episode, the last line is a translation of that
verse where Anchises mentions the names
of places, which they were to bear here-


Hæc tum nomina erunt, nunc sunt sine nomine terræ.

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The poet has very finely represented they joy and gladness of heart which arises in Mi Adam upon his discovery of the Messiah. As he sees his day at a distance through types and shadows, he rejoices in it; but when he finds the redemption of man completed, and Paradise again renewed, he breaks forth in rapture and transport: O goodness infinite! goodness immense! That all this good of evil shall produce,' &c. I have hinted in my sixth paper on Milton, that a heroic poem, according to the opinion of the best critics, ought to end happily, and leave the mind of the reader, after having conducted it through many doubts and fears, sorrows and disquietudes, in a state of tranquillity and satisfaction. Milton's fable, which had so many other qualifications to recommend it, was deficient in this particular. It is here therefore that the poet has shown a most exquisite judgment, as well as the finest invention, by finding out a method to supply this natural defect in his subject. Accordingly he leaves the adversary of mankind, in the last view which he gives of him, under the lowest state of mortification and disappointment. We see him chewing ashes, grovelling in the dust, and loaden with super numerary pains and torments. On the contrary, our two first parents are com forted by dreams and visions, cheered with promises of salvation, and in a manner raised to a greater happiness than that which they had forfeited. In short, Satan is represented miserable in the height of his triumphs, and Adam triumphant in the height of misery.

Milton's poem ends very nobly. The last speeches of Adam and the archangel are full of moral and instructive sentiments. The sleep that fell upon Eve, and the effects it had in quieting the disorders of her mind, produces the same kind of consolation in the reader, who cannot peruse the last beautiful speech, which is ascribed to the mother of mankind, without a secret pleasure and


'Whence thou return'st, and whither went'st, I know.
For God is also in sleep, and dreams advise,
Which he hath sent propitious, some great good
Presaging, since with sorrow and heart's distress
Wearied I fell asleep: but now lead on;
In me is no delay: with thee to go,
Is to stay here, without thee here to stay,
Is to go hence unwilling: thou to me
Art all things under heav'n, all places thou,
Who for my wilful crime art banish'd hence.
This farther consolation yet secure

I carry hence; though all by me is lost,
Such favour I unworthy am vouchsaf'd,
By me the promis'd seed shall all restore.'
The following lines, which conclude the
poem, rise in a most glorious blaze of poeti
cal images and expressions.

Heliodorus in the Ethiopics acquaints us, that the motion of the gods differs from that of mortals, as the former do not stir their feet, nor proceed step by step, but slide over the surface of the earth by an uniform swimming of the whole body. The

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reader may observe with how poetical a
description Milton has attributed the same
kind of motion to the angels who were to
ake possession of Paradise:

So spake our mother Eve; and Adam heard
Well pleas'd, but answer'd not; for now too nigh
Th' archangel stood; and from the other hill
To their fix'd station, all in bright array
The cherubim descended; on the ground
Gliding meteorous, as evening mist
Ris'n from a river, o'er the marish glides,
And gathers ground fast at the lab'rer's heel
Homeward returning. High in front advanc'd
The brandish'd sword of God before them blaz'd
Fierce as a comet-

The author helped his invention in the ollowing passage, by reflecting on the beaviour of the angel, who in holy writ has he conduct of Lot and his family. The ircumstances drawn from that relation are ery gracefully made use of on this occasion:

In either hand the hast'ning angel caught
Our ling'ring parents, and to th eastern gate
Led them direct; and down the cliff as fast
To the subjected plain; then disappear'd,
They looking back, &c.

no means think, with the last-mentioned French author, that an epic writer first of all pitches upon a certain moral, as the ground-work and foundation of his poem, and afterwards finds out a story to it; I am however of opinion, that no just heroic poem ever was or can be made, from whence one great moral may not be deduced. That which reigns in Milton is the most universal and most useful that can be imagined. It is, in short, this, that obedience to the will of God makes men happy, and that disobedience makes them misera ble. This is visibly the moral of the prin cipal fable, which turns upon Adam and Eve, who continued in Paradise while they kept the command that was given them, and were driven out of it as soon as they had transgressed. This is likewise the moral of the principal episode, which shows us how an innumerable multitude of angels fell from their disobedience. Besides this great moral, which may be looked upon as the soul of the fable, there are an infinity of under-morals which are to be drawn from the several parts of the poem, and which make this work more useful and instructive than any other poem in any language.

The scene which our first parents are arprised with, upon their looking back on Paradise, wonderfully strikes the reader's nagination, as nothing can be more natural han the tears they shed on that occasion: Those who have criticised on the OdysThey looking back, all th' eastern side beheld sey, the Iliad, and neid, have taken a Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, Wav'd over by that flaming brand, the gate great deal of pains to fix the number of With dreadful faces throng'd and fiery arms: months and days contained in the action of Some natural tears they dropp'd but wip'd them soon; each of these poems. If any one thinks it The world was all before them, where to choose worth his while to examine this particular Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. in Milton, he will find, that from Adam's If I might presume to offer at the smallest first appearance in the fourth book, to his Iteration in this divine work, I should think expulsion from Paradise in the twelfth, the le poem would end better with the pas-author reckons ten days. As for that part ge here quoted, than with the two verses hich follow:

They hand in hand, with wand'ring steps and slow
Through Eden took their solitary way.
These two verses, though they have their
eauty, fall very much below the foregoing
assage, and renew in the mind of the reader
at anguish which was pretty well laid by
at consideration:

The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.
The number of books in Paradise Lost is
qual to those of the Æneid. Our author,
his first edition, had divided his poem
to ten books, but afterwards broke the
venth and the eleventh each of them into
10 different books, by the help of some
nall additions. This second division was
ade with great judgment, as any one may
e who will be at the pains of examining
It was not done for the sake of such a
imerical beauty as that of resembling
irgil in this particular, but for the more
st and regular disposition of this great

Those who have read Bossu, and many
the critics who have written since his
ne, will, not pardon me if I do not find
t the particular moral which is incul-
ted in Paradise Lost. Though I can by

of the action which is described in the three first books, as it does not pass within the regions of nature, I have before observed that it is not subject to any calculations of time.

work which does an honour to the English I have now finished my observations on a nation. I have taken a general view of it under these four heads the fable, the characters, the sentiments, and the language, and made each of them the subject of a particular paper. I have in the next place spoke of the censures which our author may incur under each of these heads, which I have confined to two papers, though I might have enlarged the number if I had been disposed to dwell on so ungrateful a subject. I believe, however, that the severest reader will not find any little fault in heroic poetry, which this author has fallen into, that does not come under one of those heads among which I have distributed his several blemishes. After having thus treated at large of Paradise Lost, I could not think it sufficient to have celebrated this poem in the whole without descending to particulars. I have therefore bestowed a paper upon each book, and endeavoured not only to prove that the poem is beautiful in general, but to point out its particular beauties; and to deter

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