And this, though BEN. JOHNSON has not told us, yet 'tis, manifestly, his opinion. For you see, that, to his Comedies, he allows generally but twenty-four hours: to his two TragediesSEJANUSandCATILINE, a much larger time; though he draws both of them into as narrow a compass as he can. For he shows you only the latter end ofSEJANUShis favour; and the conspiracy ofCATILINEalready ripe, and just breaking out into action.
But as it is an error on the one side, to make too great a disproportion betwixt theimaginarytime of the Play, and therealtime of its representation: so, on the other side, 'tis an oversight to compress the Accidents of a Play into a narrower compass than that in which they could naturally be produced.
Of this last error, the French are seldom guilty, because the thinness of their Plots prevents them from it: but few Englishmen, except BEN. JOHNSON, have ever made a Plot, with variety of Design in it, included in twenty-four hours; which was altogether natural. For this reason, I prefer theSilent Womanbefore all other plays; I think, justly: as I do its author, in judgement, above all other poets. Yet of the two, I think that error the most pardonable, which, in too straight a compass, crowds together many accidents: since it produces more variety, and consequently more pleasure to the audience; and because the nearness of proportion betwixt the imaginary and real time does speciously cover the compression of the Accidents.
Thus I have endeavoured to answer themeaningof his argument. For, as he drew it, I humbly conceive, it was none. As will appear by his Proposition, and the proof of it. His Proposition was this,If strictly and duly weighed, 'tis as impossible for one Stage to present two Rooms or Houses, as two countries or kingdoms, &c. And his Proof this,For all being impossible, they are none of them, nearest the Truth or Nature of what they present.
Here you see, instead of a Proof or Reason, there is only apetitio principii. For, in plain words, his sense is this, "Two things are as impossible as one another: because they are both equally impossible." But he takes those two things to begrantedas impossible; which he ought to haveprovedsuch, before he had proceeded to prove them equally impossible. He should have made out, first, that it was impossible for one Stage to represent two Houses; and then have gone forward, to prove that it was as equally impossible for a Stage to present two Houses, as two Countries.
After all this, the very absurdity to which he would reduce me, is none at all. For his only drives at this. That if his argument be true, I must then acknowledge that there are degrees in impossibilities. Which I easily grant him, without dispute. And if I mistake not, ARISTOTLE and the School are of my opinion. For there are some things which are absolutely impossible, and others which are only so,ex parte. As, 'tis absolutely impossible for a thingto beandnot to be, at the same time: but, for a stone to move naturally upward, is only impossibleex parte materiae; but it is not impossible for the First Mover to alter the nature of it.
His last assault, like that of a Frenchman, is most feeble. For where I have observed that "None have been violent against Verse; but such only as have not attempted it, or have succeeded ill in their attempt" [pp. 503, 539, 561, 578], he will needs, according to his usual custom, improve my Observation into an Argument, that he might have the glory to confute it.
But I lay my observation at his feet: as I do my pen, which I have often employed, willingly, in his deserved commendations; and, now, most unwillingly, against his judgement. For his person and parts, I honour them, as much as any man living: and have had so many particular obligations to him, that I should be very ungrateful, if I did not acknowledge them to the World.
But I gave not the first occasion of this Difference in Opinions. In myEpistle Dedicatory, before myRival Ladies[pp. 487-493], I said somewhat in behalf of Verse: which he was pleased to answer in hisPrefaceto hisPlays[pp. 494-500]. That occasioned my reply in myEssay[pp. 501-572]: and that reply begot his rejoinder in hisPrefacetoThe Duke of LERMA[pp. 573-578]. But, as I was the last who took up arms; I will be the first to lay them down. For what I have here written, I submit it wholly to him [p. 561]; and, if I do not hereafter answer what may be objected to this paper, I hope the World will not impute it to any other reason, than only the due respect which I have for so noble an opponent.
Relations with JOHN MILTON.
I mentioned, before, that, when I was a boy, I made some good progress in learning; and lost it all again before I came to be a man: nor was I rightly sensible of my loss therein, until I came amongst the Quakers. But then, I both saw my loss, and lamented it; and applied myself with the utmost diligence, at all leisure times, to recover it: so false I found that charge to be, which, in those times, was cast as a reproach upon the Quakers, that "they despised and decried all human learning" because they denied it to beessentially necessaryto a Gospel Ministry; which was one of the controversies of those times.
But though I toiled hard, and spared no pains, to regain what once I had been master of; yet I found it a matter of so great difficulty, that I was ready to say as the noble eunuch to PHILIP, in another case, "How can I! unless I had some man to guide me?"
This, I had formerly complained of to my especial friend ISAAC PENINGTON, but now more earnestly; which put him upon considering and contriving a means for my assistance.
He had an intimate acquaintance with Dr. PAGET, a physician of note in London; and he, with JOHN MILTON, a gentleman of great note in learning, throughout the learned world, for the accurate pieces he had written on various subjects and occasions.
This person, having filled a public station in the former times, lived now a private and retired life in London: and, having wholly lost his sight, kept a man to read to him; which, usually, was the son of some gentleman of his acquaintance, whom, in kindness, he took to improve in his learning.
Thus, by the mediation of my friend ISAAC PENINGTON, with Dr. PAGET; and of Dr. PAGET with JOHN MILTON, was I admitted to come to him: not as a servant to him (which, at that time, he needed not), nor to be in the house with him; but only to have the liberty of coming to his house, at certain hours, when I would, and to read to him, what books he should appoint me, which was all the favour I desired.
But this being a matter which would require some time to bring it about,I, in the meanwhile, returned to my father's house [at Crowell] inOxfordshire.
I had, before, received direction by letters from my eldest sister, written by my father's command, to put off [dispose of] what cattle he had left about his house, and to discharge his servants; which I had done at the time called Michaelmas [1661] before.
So that, all that winter when I was at home, I lived like a hermit, all alone; having a pretty large house, and nobody in it but myself, at nights especially. But an elderly woman, whose father had been an old servant to the family, came every morning, and made my bed; and did what else I had occasion for her to do: till I fell ill of the small-pox, and then I had her with me, and the nurse.
But now, understanding by letter from my sister, that my father did not intend to return and settle there; I made off [sold] those provisions which were in the house, that they might not be spoiled when I was gone: and because they were what I should have spent, if I had tarried there, I took the money made of them, to myself, for my support at London; if the project succeeded for my going thither. This done, I committed the care of the house to a tenant of my father's, who lived in the town; and taking my leave of Crowell, went up to my sure friend ISAAC PENINGTON again. Where, understanding that the mediation used for my admittance to JOHN MILTON had succeeded so well, that I might come when I would: I hastened to London [in the Spring of 1662], and, in the first place, went to wait upon him.
He received me courteously, as well for the sake of Dr. PAGET, who introduced me; as of ISAAC PENINGTON, who recommended me: to both of whom, he bore a good respect. And having inquired divers things of me, with respect to my former progression in learning, he dismissed me, to provide myself of such accommodation as might be most suitable to my future studies.
I went, therefore, and took myself a lodging as near to his house, which was then in Jewin Street, as conveniently as I could; and from thenceforward, went every day in the afternoon, except on the First Days of the week; and, sitting by him in his dining-room, read to him, in such books in the Latin tongue as he pleased to hear me read.
At my first sitting to read to him, observing that I used the English pronounciation; he told me, "If I would have the benefit of the Latin tongue, not only to read and understand Latin authors, but to converse with foreigners, either abroad or at home; I must learn the foreign pronounciation."
To this, I consenting, he instructed me how to sound the vowels so different[ly] from the common pronounciation used by the English, who speakAnglicetheir Latin, that (with some few other variations, in sounding some consonants: in particular case[s], ascbeforeeori, likech;scbeforei, likesh, &c.) the Latin, thus spoken, seemed as different from that which was delivered as the English generally speak it, as if it were another language.
I had, before, during my retired life at my father's, by unwearied diligence and industry, so far recovered the Rules of Grammar (in which, I had, once, been very ready) that I could both read a Latin author; and, after a sort, hammer out his meaning. But this change of pronounciation proved a new difficulty to me. It was now harder for me to read; than it was, before, to understand, when read. But
Labor omnia vincitImprobus.
Incessant pains,The end obtains.
And so, did I: which made my reading the more acceptable to my Master. He, on the other hand, perceiving with what earnest desire, I pursued learning, gave me not only all the encouragement, but all the help he could. For, having a curious ear, he understood by my tone, when I understood what I read, and when I did not; and, accordingly, would stop me, examine me, and open the most difficult passages.
Thus I went on, for about six weeks' time, reading to him in the afternoons; and exercising myself with my own books, in my chamber, in the forenoons. I was sensible of an improvement.
But, alas, I had fixed my studies in a wrong place. London and I could never agree, for health. My lungs, as I suppose, were too tender, to bear the sulphurous air of that city; so that, I soon began to droop, and in less than two months' time, I was fain to leave both my studies and the city; and return into the country to preserve life, and much ado I had to get thither.
I chose to go down to Wiccombe, and to JOHN RANCE's house there: both as he was a physician, and his wife a honest, hearty, discreet, and grave matron, whom I had a very good esteem of; and who, I knew, had a good regard for me.
There, I lay ill a considerable time; and to that degree of weakness, that scarcely any who saw me, expected my life [that I should live]: but the LORD was both gracious to me, in my illness; and was pleased to raise me up again, that I might serve Him in my generation.
As soon as I had recovered so much strength, as to be fit to travel; I obtained of my father (who was then at his house in Crowell, to dispose of some things he had there; and who, in my illness, had come to see me) so much money as would clear all charges in the house, for physic, food, and attendance: and having fully discharged all, I took leave of my friends in that family, and town; and returned [? in October 1662] to my studies at London.
I was very kindly received by my Master, who had conceived so good an opinion of me, that my conversation, I found, was acceptable to him; and he seemed heartily glad of my recovery and return: and into our old method of study, we fell again; I reading to him, and he explaining to me as occasion required.
But as if learning had been a forbidden fruit to me; scarce was I well settled in my work; before I met with another diversion [hindrance], which turned me quite out of my work.
For a sudden storm arising (from, I know not what surmise of a plot; and thereby danger to the Government); the meetings of Dissenters, such, I mean, as could be found (which, perhaps, were not many besides the Quakers) were broken up throughout the City: and the prisons mostly filled with our Friends.
I was, that morning, which was the 26th day of the 8th month [which, according to the reckoning of the Society of Friends, was October. Their First month down to 1752, was March], 1662, at the Meeting, at theBull and Mouth, by Alders Gate: when, on a sudden, a party of soldiers, of the Trained Bands of the City, rushed in with noise and clamour: being led by one, who was called Major ROSEWELL: an apothecary if I misremember not; and, at that time, under the ill name of a Papist.
[So the Friends there, with ELLWOOD, are taken; and sent to Bridewell till the 19th December following: when they were taken to Newgate, expecting to be called at the Old Bailey sessions: but, not being called, were sent back to Bridewell again. On the 29th December, they were brought up at the Sessions, and, refusing to swear, were all committed to the "Common Side" of Newgate; but that prison being so full, they were sent back to Bridewell again. Then we have the following extraordinary circumstance.]
Having made up our packs, and taken our leave of our Friends, whom we were to leave behind; we took our bundles on our shoulders, and walked, two and two a breast, through the Old Bailey into Fleet Street, and so to Old Bridewell. And it being about the middle of the afternoon, and the streets pretty full of people; both the shopkeepers at their doors, and passengers in the way would stop us, and ask us, "What we were? and whither we were going?"
And when we had told them, "We were prisoners, going from one prison to another (from Newgate to Bridewell)."
"What," said they, "without a keeper?"
"No," said we, "for our Word, which we have given, is our keeper."
Some thereupon would advise us, not to go to prison; but to go home. But we told them, "We could not do so. We could suffer for our testimony; but could not fly from it."
I do not remember we had any abuse offered us; but were generally pitied by the people.
When we were come to Bridewell, we were not put up into the great room in which we had been before; but into a low room, in another fair court, which had a pump in the middle of it. And, here, we were not shut up as before; but had the liberty of the court, to walk in; and of the pump, to wash and drink at. And, indeed, we might easily have gone quite away, if we would; there was a passage through the court into the street: but we were true and steady prisoners, and looked upon this liberty arising from their confidence in us, to be a kind ofparoleupon us; so that both Conscience and Honour stood now engaged for our true imprisonment.
And this privilege we enjoyed by the indulgence of our Keeper, whose heart GOD disposed to favour us; so that both the Master and his porter were very civil and kind to us, and had been so, indeed, all along. For when we were shut up before; the porter would readily let some of us go home in an evening, and stay at home till next morning, which was a great conveniency to men of trade and business; which I, being free from, forbore asking for myself, that I might not hinder others.
Under this easy restraint, we lay till the Court sate at the Old Bailey again; and, then (whether it was that the heat of the storm was somewhat abated, or by what other means Providence wrought it, I know not), we were called to the bar; and without further question, discharged.
Whereupon we returned to Bridewell again; and having raised some monies among us, and therewith gratified both the Master and his porter, for their kindness to us; we spent some time in a solemn meeting, to return our thankful acknowledgment to the LORD; both for His preservation of us in prison, and deliverance of us out of it. And then, taking a solemn farewell of each other; we departed with bag and baggage [at the end of January 1663].
[Thus, by such magnificent patience under arbitrary injustice, these invincible Quakers shamed the reckless Crime which, in those days, went by the name of The Law; and such stories as ELLWOOD'sLifeand GEORGE FOX'sJournalabound with like splendid victories of patience, by men who were incapable of telling a lie or of intentionally breaking their word.
JOHN BUNYAN's imprisonment at this time was much of the same kind as ELLWOOD's, as soon as the Keeper of Bedford gaol found he could trust him.]
Being now at liberty, I visited more generally my friends, that were still in prison: and, more particularly, my friend and benefactor, WILLIAM PENINGTON, at his house; and then, went to wait upon my Master, MILTON. With whom, yet, I could not propose to enter upon my intermitted studies, until I had been in Buckinghamshire, to visit my worthy friends, ISAAC PENINGTON and his virtuous wife, with other friends in that country [district or county].
Thither, therefore, I betook myself; and the weather being frosty, and the ways by that means clean and good; I walked it through in a day: and was received by my friends there, with such demonstration of hearty kindness, as made my journey very easy to me.
I intended only a visit hither, not a continuance; and therefore purposed, after I had stayed a few days, to return to my lodging and former course [i.e., of reading to MILTON] in London. But Providence ordered otherwise.
ISAAC PENINGTON had, at that time, two sons and one daughter, all then very young: of whom, the eldest son, JOHN PENINGTON, and the daughter, MARY (the wife of DANIEL WHARLEY), are yet living at the writing of this [? 1713]. And being himself both skilful and curious in pronounciation; he was very desirous to have them well grounded in the rudiments of the English tongue. To which end, he had sent for a man, out of Lancashire, whom, upon inquiry, he had heard of; who was, undoubtedly, the most accurate English teacher, that ever I met with or have heard of. His name was RICHARD BRADLEY. But as he pretended no higher than the English tongue, and had led them, by grammar rules, to the highest improvement they were capable of, in that; he had then taken his leave, and was gone up to London, to teach an English school of Friends' children there.
This put my friend to a fresh strait. He had sought for a new teacher to instruct his children in the Latin tongue, as the old had done in the English: but had not yet found one. Wherefore, one evening, as we sate together by the fire, in his bedchamber, which, for want of health, he kept: he asked me, his wife being by, "If I would be so kind to him, as to stay a while with him; till he could hear of such a man as he aimed at; and, in the meantime, enter his children in the rudiments of the Latin tongue?"
This question was not more unexpected, than surprising to me; and the more, because it seemed directly to thwart my former purpose and undertaking, of endeavouring to improve myself, by following my studies with my Master, MILTON; which this would give, at least, a present diversion from; and, for how long, I could not foresee.
But the sense I had, of the manifold obligations I lay under to these worthy friends of mine, shut out all reasonings; and disposed my mind to an absolute resignation to their desire, that I might testify my gratitude by a willingness to do them any friendly service, that I could be capable of.
And though I questioned my ability to carry on that work to its due height and proportion; yet, as that was not proposed, but an initiation only by Accidence into Grammar, I consented to the proposal, as a present expedient, till a more qualified person should be found; without further treaty or mention of terms between us, than that of mutual friendship.
And to render this digression from my own studies, the less uneasy to my mind; I recollected, and often thought of, that Rule of LILLY—
Qui docet indoctos, licet indoctissimus esset,Ipse brevi reliquis, doctior esse queat.
He that th'unlearned doth teach, may quickly beMore learned than they, though most unlearned he.
With this consideration, I undertook this province; and left it not until I married; which was not till [the 28th October in] the year 1669, near[ly] seven years from the time I came thither.
In which time, having the use of my friend's books, as well as of my own, I spent my leisure hours much in reading; not without some improvement to myself in my private studies: which (with the good success of my labours bestowed on the children, and the agreeableness of conversation which I found in the family) rendered my undertaking more satisfactory; and my stay there more easy to me.
Although the storm raised by theAct for Banishment [16 Car. II. c. 4. 1664], fell with the greatest weight and force upon some other parts, as at London, Hertford, &c.: yet were we, in Buckinghamshire, not wholly exempted therefrom. For a part of that shower reached us also.
For a Friend, of Amersham, whose name was EDWARD PEROT or PARRET, departing this life; and notice being given, that his body would be buried there on such a day (which was the First Day of the Fifth Month [July], 1665): the Friends of the adjacent parts of the country, resorted pretty generally to the burial. So that there was a fair appearance of Friends and neighbours; the deceased having been well beloved by both.
After we had spent some time together, in the house (MORGAN WATKINS, who, at that time, happened to be at ISAAC PENINGTON's, being with us); the body was taken up, and borne on Friends' shoulders, along the street, in order to be carried to the burying-ground: which was at the town's end; being part of an orchard belonging to the deceased, which he, in his lifetime, had appointed for that service.
It so happened, that one AMBROSE BENNET, a Barrister at Law, and a Justice of the Peace for that county, was riding through the town [of Amersham] that morning, in his way to Aylesbury: and was, by some ill-disposed person or other, informed that there was a Quaker to be buried there that day; and that most of the Quakers in the country [county] were come thither to the burial.
Upon this, he set up his horses, and stayed. And when we, not knowing anything of his design against us, went innocently forward to perform our Christian duty, for the interment of our Friend; he rushed out of his Inn upon us, with the Constables and a rabble of rude fellows whom he had gathered together: and, having his drawn sword in his hand, struck one of the foremost of the bearers, with it; commanding them "To set down the coffin!" But the Friend, who was so stricken, whose name was THOMAS DELL (being more concerned for the safety of the dead body than his own, lest it should fall from his shoulder, and any indecency thereupon follow) held the coffin fast. Which the Justice observing, and being enraged that his word (how unjust soever) was not forthwith obeyed, set his hand to the coffin; and, with a forcible thrust, threw it off the bearers' shoulders, so that it fell to the ground, in the midst of the street: and there, we were forced to leave it.
For, immediately thereupon, the Justice giving command for the apprehending us; the Constables with the rabble fell on us, and drew some, and drove others in the Inn: giving thereby an opportunity to the rest, to walk away.
Of those that were thus taken, I was one. And being, with many more, put into a room, under a guard; we were kept there, till another Justice, called Sir THOMAS CLAYTON, whom Justice BENNET had sent for, to join with him in committing us, was come.
And then, being called forth severally before them, they picked out ten of us; and committed us to Aylesbury gaol: for what, neither we, northeyknew. For we were not convicted of having either done or said anything, which the law could take hold of.
For they took us up in the open street, the King's highway, not doing any unlawful act; but peaceably carrying and accompanying the corpse of our deceased Friend, to bury it. Which they would not suffer us to do; but caused the body to lie in the open street, and in the cartway: so that all the travellers that passed by (whether horsemen, coaches, carts, or waggons) were fain to break out of the way, to go by it, that they might not drive over it; until it was almost night. And then, having caused a grave to be made in the unconsecrated part, as it is accounted, of that which is called the Church Yard: they forcibly took the body from the widow (whose right and property it was), and buried it there.
When the Justices had delivered us prisoners to the Constable, it being then late in the day, which was the seventh day of the week: he (not willing to go so far as Aylesbury, nine long miles, with us, that night; nor to put the town [of Amersham] to the charge of keeping us, there, that night and the First day and night following) dismissed us, upon ourparole, to come to him again at a set hour, on the Second day morning.
Whereupon, we all went home to our respective habitations; and coming to him punctually [on Monday, 3rd July, 1665] according to promise, were by him, without guard, conducted to the Prison.
The Gaoler, whose name was NATHANIEL BIRCH, had, not long before, behaved himself very wickedly, with great rudeness and cruelty, to some of our Friends of the lower side of the country [i.e., Buckinghamshire]; whom he, combining with the Clerk of the Peace, whose name was HENRY WELLS, had contrived to get into his gaol: and after they were legally discharged in Court, detained them in prison, using great violence, and shutting them up close in the Common Gaol among the felons; because they would not give him his unrighteous demand of Fees, which they were the more straitened in, from his treacherous dealing with them. And they having, through suffering, maintained their freedom, and obtained their liberty: we were the more concerned to keep what they had so hardly gained; and therefore resolved not to make any contract or terms for either Chamber Rent or Fees, but to demand a Free Prison. Which we did.
When we came in, the gaoler was ridden out to wait on the Judges, who came in, that day [3rd July, 1665], to begin the Assize; and his wife was somewhat at a loss, how to deal with us. But being a cunning woman, she treated us with a great appearance of courtesy, offering us the choice of all her rooms; and when we asked, "Upon what terms?" she still referred us to her husband; telling us, she "did not doubt, but that he would be very reasonable and civil to us." Thus, she endeavoured to have drawn us to take possession of some of her chambers, at a venture; and trust to her husband's kind usage: but, we, who, at the cost of our Friends, had a proof of his kindness, were too wary to be drawn in by the fair words of a woman: and therefore told her, "We would not settle anywhere till her husband came home; and then would have a Free Prison, wheresoever he put us."
Accordingly, walking all together into the court of the prison, in which was a well of very good water; and having, beforehand, sent to a Friend in the town, a widow woman, whose name was SARAH LAMBARN, to bring us some bread and cheese: we sate down upon the ground round about the well; and when we had eaten, we drank of the water out of the well.
Our great concern was for our Friend, ISAAC PENINGTON, because of the tenderness of his constitution: but he was so lively in his spirit, and so cheerfully given up to suffer; that he rather encouraged us, than needed any encouragement from us.
In this posture, the gaoler, when he came home, found us. And having, before he came to us, consulted his wife; and by her, understood on what terms we stood: when he came to us, he hid his teeth, and putting on a shew of kindness, seemed much troubled that we should sit there abroad [in the open air], especially his old friend, Mr. PENINGTON; and thereupon, invited us to come in, and take what rooms in his house we pleased. We asked, "Upon what terms?" letting him know, withal, that we were determined to have a Free Prison.
He (like the Sun and the Wind, in the fable, that strove which of them should take from the traveller, his cloak) having, like the wind, tried rough, boisterous, violent means to our Friends before, but in vain; resolved now to imitate the Sun, and shine as pleasantly as he could upon us. Wherefore, he told us, "We should make the terms ourselves; and be as free as we desired. If we thought fit, when we were released, to give him anything; he would thank us for it: and if not, he would demand nothing."
Upon these terms, we went in: and dispose ourselves, some in the dwelling-house, others in the malt-house: where they chose to be.
During the Assize, we were brought before Judge MORTON [Sir WILLIAM MORTON, Recorder of Gloucester], a sour angry man, who [being an old Cavalier Officer, naturally,] very rudely reviled us, but would not hear either us or the cause; referring the matter to the two Justices, who had committed us.
They, when the Assize was ended, sent for us, to be brought before them, at their Inn [at Aylesbury]; and fined us, as I remember, 6s. 8d. a piece: which we not consenting to pay, they committed us to prison again, for one month from that time; on theAct for Banishment.
When we had lain there that month [i.e., not later than the middle of August, 1665], I, with another, went to the gaoler, to demand our liberty: which he readily granted, telling us, "The door should be opened, when we pleased to go."
This answer of his, I reported to the rest of my Friends there; and, thereupon, we raised among us a small sum of money, which they put into my hand, for the gaoler. Whereupon, I, taking another with me, went to the gaoler, with the money in my hand; and reminding him of the terms, upon which we accepted the use of his rooms, I told him, "That though we could not pay Chamber Rent nor Fees, yet inasmuch as he had now been civil to us, we were willing to acknowledge it by a small token": and thereupon, gave him the money. He, putting it into his pocket, said, "I thank you, and your Friends for it! and to let you see that I take it as a gift, not a debt; I will not look on it, to see how much it is."
The prison door being then set open for us; we went out, and departed to our respective homes.
Some little time before I went to Aylesbury prison [on 3rd July, 1665], I was desired by my quondam Master, MILTON, to take a house for him in the neighbourhood where I dwelt; that he might get out of the City, for the safety of himself and his family: the Pestilence then growing hot in London.
I took a pretty box for him [i.e., in June, 1665] in Giles-Chalfont [Chalfont St. Giles], a mile from me [ELLWOOD was then living in ISAAC PENINGTON's house, called The Grange, at Chalfont St. Peter; or Peter's Chalfont, as he calls it], of which, I gave him notice: and intended to have waited on him, and seen him well settled in it; but was prevented by that imprisonment. [Therefore MILTON did not come into Buckinghamshire at this time, till after the 3rd July, 1665.]
But, now [i.e., not later than the middle of August, 1665], being released, and returned home; I soon made a visit to him, to welcome him into the country [county].
After some common discourses had passed between us [evidently at ELLWOOD's first visit], called for a manuscript of his: which being brought, he delivered to me; bidding me, "Take it home with me, and read it at my leisure; and, when I had so done, return it to him, with my judgement thereupon!"
When I came home [i.e., The Grange; from which ISAAC PBNINGTON, with his family (including THOMAS ELLWOOD) was,by military force,expelled about a month after their first return from Aylesbury gaol (i.e., about the middle of September); and he again sent to the same prison], and had set myself to read it; I found it was that excellent poem, which he entitled,Paradise Lost.
After I had, with the best attention, read it through: I made him another visit, and returned him his book; with due acknowledgment of the favour he had done me, in communicating it to me.
He asked me, "How I liked it? And what I thought of it?" Which I, modestly but freely, told him.
And, after some further discourse about it, I pleasantly said to him, "Thou hast said much, here, ofParadise lost: but what hast thou to say ofParadise found?"
He made me no answer; but sate some time in a muse: then brake off that discourse, and fell upon another subject.
After the sickness [Plague] was over; and the City well cleansed, and become safely habitable again: he returned thither.
And when, afterwards [probably in 1668 or 1669], I went to wait on him there (which I seldom failed of doing, whenever my occasions drew me to London), he showed me his second poem, calledParadise Regained: and, in a pleasant tone, said to me, "This is owing to you! For you put it into my head, by the question you put to me at Chalfont! which, before, I had not thought of."
[Paradise Regainedwas licensed for publication on 2nd July, 1670.]
1807.
ADVICE TO A YOUNG REVIEWER, &c.
You are now about to enter on a Profession which has the means of doing much good to society, and scarcely any temptation to do harm. You may encourage Genius, you may chastise superficial Arrogance, expose Falsehood, correct Error, and guide the Taste and Opinions of the Age in no small degree by the books you praise and recommend. And this too may be done without running the risk of making any enemies; or subjecting yourself to be called to account for your criticism, however severe. While your name is unknown, your person is invulnerable: at the same time your aim is sure, for you may take it at your leisure; and your blows fall heavier than those of any Writer whose name is given, or who is simply anonymous. There is a mysterious authority in the plural,We, which no single name, whatever may be its reputation, can acquire; and, under the sanction of this imposing style, your strictures, your praises, and your dogmas, will command universal attention; and be received as the fruit of united talents, acting on one common principle—as the judgments of a tribunal who decide only on mature deliberation, and who protect the interests of Literature with unceasing vigilance.
Such being the high importance of that Office, and such its opportunities; I cannot bestow a few hours of leisure better than in furnishing you with some hints for the more easy and effectual discharge of it: hints which are, I confess, loosely thrown together; but which are the result of long experience, and of frequent reflection and comparison. And if anything should strike you, at first sight, as rather equivocal in point of morality, or deficient in liberality and feeling; I beg you will suppress all such scruples, and consider them as the offspring of a contracted education and narrow way of thinking, which a little intercourse with the World and sober reasoning will speedily overcome.
Now as in the conduct of life nothing is more to be desired than some Governing Principle of action, to which all other principles and motives must be made subservient; so in the Art of Reviewing I would lay down as a fundamental position, which you must never lose sight of, and which must be the mainspring of all your criticisms—Write what will sell!To this Golden Rule every minor canon must be subordinate; and must be either immediately deducible from it, or at least be made consistent with it.
Be not staggered at the sound of a precept which, upon examination, will be found as honest and virtuous as it is discreet. I have already sketched out the great services which it is in your power to render mankind; but all your efforts will be unavailing if men did not read what you write. Your utility therefore, it is plain, depends upon your popularity; and popularity cannot be attained without humouring the taste and inclinations of men.
Be assured that, by a similar train of sound and judicious reasoning, the consciences of thousands in public life are daily quieted. It is better for the State that their Party should govern than any other. The good which they can effect by the exercise of power is infinitely greater than any which could arise from a rigid adherence to certain subordinate moral precepts; which therefore should be violated without scruple whenever they stand in the way of their leading purpose. He who sticks at these can never act a great part in the World, and is not fit to act it if he could. Such maxims may be very useful in ordinary affairs, and for the guidance of ordinary men: but when we mount into the sphere of public utility, we must adopt more enlarged principles; and not suffer ourselves to be cramped and fettered by petty notions of Right and Moral Duty.
When you have reconciled yourself to this liberal way of thinking; you will find many inferior advantages resulting from it, which at first did not enter into your consideration. In particular, it will greatly lighten your labours, tofollowthe public taste, instead of taking upon you todirectit. The task of Pleasing is at all times easier than that of Instructing: at least it does not stand in need of painful research and preparation; and may be effected in general by a little vivacity of manner, and a dexterous morigeration [compliance, or obsequiousness], as Lord BACON calls it, to the humours and frailties of men. Your responsibility too is thereby much lessened. Justice and Candour can only be required of you so far as they coincide with this Main Principle: and a little experience will convince you that these are not the happiest means of accomplishing your purpose.
It has been idly said, That a Reviewer acts in a judicial capacity, and that his conduct should be regulated by the same rules by which the Judge of a Civil Court is governed: that he should rid himself of every bias; be patient, cautious, sedate, and rigidly impartial; that he should not seek to shew off himself, and should check every disposition to enter into the case as a partizan.
Such is the language of superficial thinkers; but in reality there is no analogy between the two cases. A Judge is promoted to that office by the authority of the State; a Reviewer by his own. The former is independent of control, and may therefore freely follow the dictates of his own conscience: the latter depends for his very bread upon the breath of public opinion; the great law of self-preservation therefore points out to him a different line of action. Besides, as we have already observed, if he ceases to please, he is no longer read; and consequently is no longer useful. In a Court of Justice, too, the part of amusing the bystanders rests with the Counsel: in the case of criticism, if the Reviewer himself does not undertake it, who will?
Instead of vainly aspiring to the gravity of a Magistrate; I would advise him, when he sits down to write, to place himself in the imaginary situation of a cross-examining Pleader. He may comment, in a vein of agreeable irony, upon the profession, the manner of life, the look, dress, or even the name, of the witness he is examining: when he has raised a contemptuous opinion of him in the minds of the Court, he may proceed to draw answers from him capable of a ludicrous turn; and he may carve and garble these to his own liking.
This mode of proceeding you will find most practicable in Poetry, where the boldness of the image or the delicacy of thought (for which the Reader's mind was prepared in the original) will easily be made to appear extravagant, or affected, if judiciously singled out, and detached from the group to which it belongs. Again, since much depends upon the rhythm and the terseness of expression (both of which are sometimes destroyed by dropping a single word, or transposing a phrase), I have known much advantage arise fromnotquoting in the form of a literal extract: but giving a brief summary in prose, of the contents of a poetical passage; and interlarding your own language, with occasional phrases of the Poem marked with inverted commas.
These, and a thousand other little expedients, by which the arts of Quizzing and Banter flourish, practice will soon teach you. If it should be necessary to transcribe a dull passage, not very fertile in topics of humour and raillery; you may introduce it as a "favourable specimen of the Author's manner."
Few people are aware of the powerful effects of what is philosophically termed Association. Without any positive violation of truth, the whole dignity of a passage may be undermined by contriving to raise some vulgar and ridiculous notions in the mind of the reader: and language teems with examples of words by which the same idea is expressed, with the difference only that one excites a feeling of respect, the other of contempt. Thus you may call a fit of melancholy, "the sulks"; resentment, "a pet"; a steed, "a nag"; a feast, "a junketing"; sorrow and affliction, "whining and blubbering". By transferring the terms peculiar to one state of society, to analogous situations and characters in another, the same object is attained. "A Drill Serjeant" or "a Cat and Nine Tails" in the Trojan War, "a Lesbos smack putting into the Piraeus," "the Penny Post of Jerusalem," and other combinations of the like nature which, when you have a little indulged in that vein of thought, will readily suggest themselves, never fail to raise a smile, if not immediately at the expense of the Author, yet entirely destructive of that frame of mind which his Poem requires in order to be relished.
I have dwelt the longer on this branch of Literature, because you are chiefly to look here for materials of fun and irony.
Voyages and Travels indeed are no barren ground; and you must seldom let a Number of yourReviewgo abroad without an Article of this description. The charm of this species of writing, so universally felt, arises chiefly from its uniting Narrative with Information. The interest we take in the story can only be kept alive by minute incident and occasional detail; which puts us in possession of the traveller's feelings, his hopes, his fears, his disappointments, and his pleasures. At the same time the thirst for knowledge and love of novelty is gratified by continual information respecting the people and countries he visits.
If you wish therefore to run down the book, you have only to play off these two parts against each other. When the Writer's object is to satisfy the first inclination, you are to thank him for communicating to the World such valuable facts as, whether he lost his way in the night, or sprained his ankle, or had no appetite for his dinner. If he is busied about describing the Mineralogy, Natural History, Agriculture, Trade, etc. of a country: you may mention a hundred books from whence the same information may be obtained; and deprecate the practice of emptying old musty Folios into new Quartos, to gratify that sickly taste for a smattering about everything which distinguishes the present Age.
In Works of Science and recondite Learning, the task you have undertaken will not be so difficult as you may imagine. Tables of Contents and Indexes are blessed helps in the hands of a Reviewer; but, more than all, the Preface is the field from which his richest harvest is to be gathered.
In the Preface, the Author usually gives a summary of what has been written on the same subject before; he acknowledges the assistance he has received from different sources, and the reasons of his dissent from former Writers; he confesses that certain parts have been less attentively considered than others, and that information has come to his hands too late to be made use of; he points out many things in the composition of his Work which he thinks may provoke animadversion, and endeavours to defend or palliate his own practice.
Here then is a fund of wealth for the Reviewer, lying upon the very surface. If he knows anything of his business, he will turn all these materials against the Author: carefully suppressing the source of his information; and as if drawing from the stores of his own mind long ago laid up for this very purpose. If the Author's references are correct, a great point is gained; for by consulting a few passages of the original Works, it will be easy to discuss the subject with the air of having a previous knowledge of the whole.
Your chief vantage ground is, That you may fasten upon any position in the book you are reviewing, and treat it as principal and essential; when perhaps it is of little weight in the main argument: but, by allotting a large share of your criticism to it, the reader will naturally be led to give it a proportionate importance, and to consider the merit of the Treatise at issue upon that single question.
If anybody complains that the greater and more valuable parts remain unnoticed; your answer is, That it is impossible to pay attention to all; and that your duty is rather to prevent the propagation of error, than to lavish praises upon that which, if really excellent, will work its way in the World without your help.
Indeed, if the plan of yourReviewadmits of selection, you had better not meddle with Works of deep research and original speculation; such as have already attracted much notice, and cannot be treated superficially without fear of being found out. The time required for making yourself thoroughly master of the subject is so great, that you may depend upon it they will never pay for the reviewing. They are generally the fruit of long study, and of talents concentrated in the steady pursuit of one object: it is not likely therefore that you can throw much new light on a question of this nature, or even plausibly combat the Author's propositions; in the course of a few hours, which is all you can well afford to devote to them. And without accomplishing one or the other of these points; yourReviewwill gain no celebrity, and of course no good will be done.
Enough has been said to give you some insight into the facilities with which your new employment abounds. I will only mention one more, because of its extensive and almost universal application to all Branches of Literature; the topic, I mean, which by the old Rhetoricians was called [Greek:ex enantion], That is, when a Work excels in one quality; you may blame it for not having the opposite.
For instance, if the biographical sketch of a Literary Character is minute and full of anecdote; you may enlarge on the advantages of philosophical reflection, and the superior mind required to give a judicious analysis of the Opinions and Works of deceased Authors. On the contrary, if the latter method is pursued by the Biographer; you can, with equal ease, extol the lively colouring, and truth, and interest, of exact delineation and detail.
This topic, you will perceive, enters into Style as well as Matter; where many virtues might be namedwhich are incompatible: and whichever the Author has preferred, it will be the signal for you to launch forth on the praises of its opposite; and continually to hold up that to your Reader as the model of excellence in this species of Writing.
You will perhaps wonder why all my instructions are pointed towards the Censure, and not the Praise, of Books; but many reasons might be given why it should be so. The chief are, that this part is both easier, and will sell better.
Let us hear the words of Mr BURKE on a subject not very dissimilar:
"In such cases," says he, "the Writer has a certain fire and alacrity inspired into him by a consciousness that (let it fare how it will with the subject) his ingenuity will be sure of applause: and this alacrity becomes much greater, if he acts upon the offensive; by the impetuosity that always accompanies an attack, and the unfortunate propensity which mankind have to finding and exaggerating faults." Pref.,Vindic. Nat. Soc., p. 6.
You will perceive that I have on no occasion sanctioned the baser motives of private pique, envy, revenge, and love of detraction. At least I have not recommended harsh treatment upon any of these grounds. I have argued simply on the abstract moral principle which a Reviewer should ever have present to his mind: but if any of these motives insinuate themselves as secondary springs of action, I would not condemn them. They may come in aid of the grand Leading Principle, and powerfully second its operation.
But it is time to close these tedious precepts, and to furnish you with, what speaks plainer than any precept, a Specimen of the Art itself, in which several of them are embodied. It is hastily done: but it exemplifies well enough what I have said of the Poetical department; and exhibits most of those qualities which disappointed Authors are fond of railing at, under the names of Flippancy, Arrogance, Conceit, Misrepresentation, and Malevolence: reproaches which you will only regard as so many acknowledgments of success in your undertaking; and infallible tests of an established fame, and [a] rapidly increasing circulation.
L'Allegro. A Poem.
By JOHN MILTON.
No Printer's name.
It has become a practice of late with a certain description of people, who have no visible means of subsistence, to string together a few trite images of rural scenery, interspersed with vulgarisms in dialect, and traits of vulgar manners; to dress up these materials in a Sing-Song jingle; and to offer them for sale as a Poem. According to the most approved recipes, something about the heathen gods and goddesses; and the schoolboy topics of Styx and Cerberus, and Elysium; are occasionally thrown in, and the composition is complete. The stock in trade of these Adventurers is in general scanty enough; and their Art therefore consists in disposing it to the best advantage. But if such be the aim of the Writer, it is the Critic's business to detect and defeat the imposture; to warn the public against the purchase of shop-worn goods and tinsel wares; to protect the fair trader, by exposing the tricks of needy Quacks and Mountebanks; and to chastise that forward and noisy importunity with which they present themselves to the public notice.
How far Mr. MILTON is amenable to this discipline, will best appear from a brief analysis of the Poem before us.
In the very opening he assumes a tone of authority which might better suit some veteran Bard than a raw candidate for the Delphic bays: for, before he proceeds to the regular process of Invocation, he clears the way, by driving from his presence (with sundry hard names; and bitter reproaches on her father, mother, and all the family) a venerable Personage, whose age at least and staid matron-like appearance, might have entitled her to more civil language.
Hence, loathèd Melancholy!Of CERBERUS and blackest Midnight born,In Stygian cave forlorn, &c.
There is no giving rules, however, in these matters, without a knowledge of the case. Perhaps the old lady had been frequently warned off before; and provoked this violence by continuing still to lurk about the Poet's dwelling. And, to say the truth, the Reader will have but too good reason to remark, before he gets through the Poem, that it is one thing to tell the Spirit of Dulness to depart; and another to get rid of her in reality. Like GLENDOWER's Spirits, any one may order them away; "but will they go, when you do order them?"
But let us suppose for a moment that the Parnassian decree is obeyed; and, according to the letter of theOrder(which is as precise and wordy as if Justice SHALLOW himself had drawn it) that the obnoxious female is sent back to the place of her birth,
'Mongst horrid shapes, shrieks, sights, &c.
At which we beg our fair readers not to be alarmed; for we can assure them they are only words of course in all poetical Instruments of this nature, and mean no more than the "force and arms" and "instigation of the Devil" in a common Indictment.
This nuisance then being abated; we are left at liberty to contemplate a character of a different complexion, "buxom, blithe, and debonair": one who, although evidently a great favourite of the Poet's and therefore to be received with all due courtesy, is notwithstanding introduced under the suspicious description of analias.
In heaven, ycleped EUPHROSYNE;And by men, heart-easing Mirth.
Judging indeed from the light and easy deportment of this gay Nymph; one might guess there were good reasons for a change of name as she changed her residence.
But of all vices there is none we abhor more than that of slanderous insinuation. We shall therefore confine our moral strictures to the Nymph's mother; in whose defence the Poet has little to say himself. Here too, as in the case of thename, there is some doubt. For the uncertainty of descent on the Father's side having become trite to a proverb; the Author, scorning that beaten track, has left us to choose between two mothers for his favourite and without much to guide our choice; for, whichever we fix upon, it is plain she was no better than she should be. As he seems however himself inclined to the latter of the two, we will even suppose it so to be.
Or whether (as some sager say)The frolicwind that breathes the Spring,ZEPHYR with AURORA playing,As he met her once a Maying;There on beds of violets blue,And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,&c.
Some dull people might imagine thatthe windwas more likethe breath of Spring; thanSpring, the breath of the wind: but we are more disposed to question the Author's Ethics than his Physics; and accordingly cannot dismiss these May gambols without some observations.
In the first place, Mr. M. seems to have higher notions of the antiquity of the May Pole than we have been accustomed to attach to it. Or perhaps he sought to shelter the equivocal nature of this affair under that sanction. To us, however, who can hardly subscribe to the doctrine that "Vice loses half its evil by losing all its grossness"; neither the remoteness of time, nor the gaiety of the season, furnishes a sufficient palliation. "Violets blue" and "fresh-blown roses" are, to be sure, more agreeable objects of the Imagination than a gin shop in Wapping or a booth in Bartholomew Fair; but, in point of morality, these are distinctions without a difference: or it may be the cultivation of mind (which teaches us to reject and nauseate these latter objects) aggravates the case, if our improvement in taste be not accompanied by a proportionate improvement of morals.
If the Reader can reconcile himself to this latitude of principle, the anachronism will not long stand in his way. Much indeed may be said in favour of this union of ancient Mythology with modern notions and manners. It is a sort of chronological metaphor—an artificial analogy, by which ideas, widely remote and heterogeneous, are brought into contact; and the mind is delighted by this unexpected assemblage, as it is by the combinations of figurative language.
Thus in that elegant Interlude, which the pen of BEN JONSON has transmitted to us, of the loves of HERO and LEANDER:
Gentles, that no longer your expectations may wander,Behold our chief actor, amorous LEANDER!With a great deal of cloth, lapped about him like a scarf:For he yet serves his father, a Dyer in Puddle Wharf:Which place we'll make bold with, to call it our Abydus;As the Bankside is our Sestos, andlet it not be denied us.
And far be it from us to deny the use of so reasonable a liberty; especially if the request be backed (as it is in the case of Mr. M.) by the craving and imperious necessities of rhyme. What man who has ever bestrode Pegasus for an hour, will be insensible to such a claim?
Haud ignara mali miseris succurrere disco.
We are next favoured with an enumeration of the Attendants of this "debonair" Nymph, in all the minuteness of a GermanDramatis Personae, or a Ropedancer's Handbill.
Haste thee, Nymph; and bring with theeJest and youthful Jollity,Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,Nods and becks and wreathèd smilesSuch as hang on HEBE's cheekAnd love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrinkled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides.
The Author, to prove himself worthy of being admitted of the crew, skips and capers about upon "the light fantastic toe," that there is no following him. He scampers through all the Categories, in search of his imaginary beings, from Substance to Quality, and back again; from thence to Action, Passion, Habit, &c. with incredible celerity. Who, for instance, would have expectedcranks, nods, becks, andwreathèd smilesas part of a group in which Jest, Jollity, Sport, and Laughter figure away as full-formed entire Personages? The family likeness is certainly very strong in the two last; and if we had not been told, we should perhaps have thought the act ofderidingas appropriate to Laughter as to Sport.
But how are we to understand the stage directions?
Come, and trip it as yougo.
Are the words used synonymously? Or is it meant that this airy gentry shall come in a Minuet step, and go off in a Jig? The phenomenon of atripping crankis indeed novel, and would doubtless attract numerous spectators.
But it is difficult to guess to whom, among this jolly company, the Poet addresses himself: for immediately after the Plural appellativeyou, he proceeds,
And inthyright hand lead withtheeThe mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty.
No sooner is this fair damsel introduced; but Mr M., with most unbecoming levity, falls in love with her: and makes a request of her companion which is rather greedy, that he may live with both of them.
To live with her, and live with thee.
Even the gay libertine who sang "How happy could I be with either!" did not go so far as this. But we have already had occasion to remark on the laxity of Mr M.'s amatory notions.
The Poet, intoxicated with the charms of his Mistress, now rapidly runs over the pleasures which he proposes to himself in the enjoyment of her society. But though he has the advantage of being his own caterer, either his palate is of a peculiar structure, or he has not made the most judicious selection.
To begin the day well, he will have thesky-larkto comein spite of sorrowAnd at his window bid "Good Morrow!"
The sky-lark, if we know anything of the nature of that bird, must come "in spite" of something else as well as "of sorrow," to the performance of this office.
In the next image, the Natural History is better preserved; and, as the thoughts are appropriate to the time of day, we will venture to transcribe the passage, as a favourable specimen of the Author's manner:
While the Cock, with lively din,Scatters the rear of darkness thin,And to the stack, or the barn door,Stoutly struts his dames before;Oft listening how the hounds and hornsCheerly rouse the slumbering morn,From the side of some hoar hill,Through the high wood echoing still.
Is it not lamentable that, after all, whether it is the Cock, or the Poet, that listens, should be left entirely to the Reader's conjectures? Perhaps also his embarrassment may be increased by a slight resemblance of character in these two illustrious Personages, at least as far as relates to the extent and numbers of their seraglio.
After aflamingdescription of sunrise, on which the clouds attend in their very best liveries; the Bill of Fare for the day proceeds in the usual manner. Whistling Ploughmen, singing Milkmaids, and sentimental Shepherds are always to be had at a moment's notice; and, if well grouped, serve to fill up the landscape agreeably enough.
On this part of the Poem we have only to remark, that if Mr JOHN MILTON proposeth to make himself merry with
Russet lawns, and fallows greyWhere the nibbling flocksdostray;Mountains on whose barren breastThe labouring cloudsdooften rest,Meadows trim with daisies pied,Shallow brooks, and rivers wide,Towers and battlements, &c. &c. &c.
he will either find himself egregiously disappointed; or he must possess a disposition to merriment which even DEMOCRITUS himself might envy. To such a pitch indeed does this solemn indication of joy sometimes rise, that we are inclined to give him credit for a literal adherence to the Apostolic precept, "Is any merry, let him sing Psalms!"
At length, however, he hies away at the sound of bell-ringing, and seems for some time to enjoy the tippling and fiddling and dancing of a village wake: but his fancy is soon haunted again by spectres and goblins, a set of beings not, in general, esteemed the companions or inspirers of mirth.
With stories told of many a feat,How fairy MAB the junkets eat.She was pinched, and pulled, she said:And he, by friar's lanthern led,Tells how the drudging Goblin sweatTo earn his cream-bowl duly set;When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn,His shadowy Flail hath threshed the cornThat ten day-labourers could not end.Then lies him down the lubbar Fiend;And, stretched out all the chimney's length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength:And, crop-full, out of door he flingsEre the first cock his Matins rings.
Mr. M. seems indeed to have a turn for this species of Nursery Tales and prattling Lullabies; and, if he will studiously cultivate his talent, he need not despair of figuring in a conspicuous corner of Mr NEWBERY's shop window: unless indeed Mrs. TRIMMER should think fit to proscribe those empty levities and idle superstitions, by which the World has been too long abused.
From these rustic fictions, we are transported to another species ofhum.
Towered cities please us then,And the busy hum of men;Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold:Withstore of Ladies, whose bright eyesRain influence, and judge the PrizeOf Wit or Arms; while both contendTo win her grace, whom all commend.
To talk of the bright eyes of Ladies judging the Prize of Wit is indeed with the Poets a legitimate species of humming: but would not, we may ask, therainfrom these Ladies' bright eyes rather tend to dim their lustre? Or is there any quality in a shower ofinfluence; which, instead of deadening, serves only to brighten and exhilarate?
Whatever the case may be, we would advise Mr. M. by all means to keep out of the way of these "Knights and Barons bold": for, if he has nothing but his Wit to trust to, we will venture to predict that, without a large share of most undue influence, he must be content to see the Prize adjudged to his competitors.
Of the latter part of the Poem little need be said.
The Author does seem somewhat more at home when he gets among the Actors and Musicians: though his head is still running upon ORPHEUS and EURYDICE and PLUTO, and other sombre personages; who are ever thrusting themselves in where we least expect them, and who chill every rising emotion of mirth and gaiety.
He appears however to be so ravished with this sketch of festive pleasures, or perhaps with himself for having sketched them so well, that he closes with a couplet which would not have disgraced a STERNHOLD.
These delights if thou canst give,Mirth, with thee Imeanto live.
Of Mr. M.'s goodintentionsthere can be no doubt; but we beg leave to remind him that there are two opinions to be consulted. He presumes perhaps upon the poetical powers he has displayed, and considers them as irresistible: for every one must observe in how different a strain he avows his attachment now, and at the opening of the Poem. Then it was
If I give thee honour due,Mirth, admit me of thy crew!
But having, it should seem, established his pretensions; he now thinks it sufficient to give notice that he means to live with her, because he likes her.
Upon the whole, Mr. MILTON seems to be possessed of some fancy and talent for rhyming; two most dangerous endowments which often unfit men for acting a useful part in life without qualifying them for that which is great and brilliant. If it be true, as we have heard, that he has declined advantageous prospects in business, for the sake of indulging his poetical humour; we hope it is not yet too late to prevail upon him to retract his resolution. With the help of COCKER and common industry, he may become a respectable Scrivener: but it is not all the ZEPHYRS, and AURORAS, and CORYDONS, and THYRSIS's; aye, nor his "junketing Queen MAB" and "drudging Goblins," that will ever make him a Poet.