FITZOSBORNE'S
LETT
Ꮮ Ꭼ Ꭲ Ꭲ Ꭼ Ꭱ Ꮪ,
ON
હસ
Um
SEVERAL SUBJECTS.
1799
1710 $ 797
BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQUIRE,
Translator of the Letters of Cicero, &c.
WITH
THE DIALOGUE CONCERNING ORATORY.
TO WHICH IS PREFIXED,
A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
From the Twelfth London Edition.
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY WELLS AND LILLY, AND CUMMINGS AND HILLIARE.
....
1815.
WELLS AND LILLY, PRINTERS,
BOSTON.
?
+
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE
HE Proprietors of Mr. Melmoth's Works beg leave to
apprize the Publick, that a spurious and incomplete edi-
tion of these Letters is now in circulation.
In the copy here recommended to their notice, will be
found the celebrated Dialogue on the Rise and Decline of
Eloquence among the Romans, and an authentick and
interesting sketch of the Author's life and writings. The
Greek and Latin quotations, hitherto very incorrectly
printed, have also been revised with the greatest care.
These advantages, added to superiour elegance of print-
ing and embellishment, will, they trust, be amply sufficient
to ensure this edition a decided preference over every
other. 1805.
That the confidence, reposed by the Proprietors in the
merits of their large edition of 1805, was not vain and
presumptuous, is verified by the necessity of another of
equal magnitude, even before the expiration of twelve
months. It is just to observe, and it is all they have now
respectfully to add, that the present differs in nothing
from the former edition, except in a single improvement,
which relates to the reformation of the "Memoir of the
Life and Writings of the Author." 1806.
ን
、
CONTENTS.
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR,
•
LETTER I. To Clytander.-Concerning enthusiasm,
II. To Philotes.-On portrait painting,
III. To Palamedes.-Reflections on the Roman triumphs
IV. To Philotes.-On his travels,
V. To Clytander.-On the veneration paid to the an-
cients,
VI. To Orontes.-The character of Varus,
VII. To Hortensius.-Returning him thanks for a pre-
sent of brawn: with an account of the author's
manner of celebrating the feast,
Page.
ix
}
1
3
6
10
12
14
16
VIII. To Clytander.-In favour of a particular Provi-
dence,
17
IX. To Timoclea.-A panegyrick upon riddles,
X. To Phidippus.-Reflections upon friendship,
XI. To Hortensius.-Against modern Latin poetry, .
XII. To Amasia.-With a tale,
•
223
25
28
31
34
•
XIII. To Philotes.-Written in a fit of the spleen,
XIV. To Orontes.-Concerning the neglect of oratorical
numbers. Observations upon Dr. Tillotson's
style. The care of the ancient orators with
respect to numerous composition, stated and
recommended,
•
XVI. To Philotes.-Against cruelty to insects,
XV. To Cleora,
XVII. To the same.-Upon his marriage,
36
41
42
45
•
XVIII. To Hortensius,-Reflections upon the passion
of fame,
46
XIX. To Cleora.-Rallying her taste for mystical and
rom ace writers,
49
*
vi.
CONTENTS.
}
11
Page.
LETTER XX. To Euphronius.--Observations upon some pas-
sages in Mr. Pope's translation of the Iliad,
XXI. To Cleora,
}
•
XXII. To Palemon.-Against suicide,
XXIII. To Clytander.-Concerning his intentions to
marry. The character of Amasia,
XXIV. To Orontes.-On metaphors,
XXV. To Philotes,
•
XXVI. To Phidippus.-Reflections on generosity,
XXVII. To Sappho, a young lady of thirteen years
of age,
XXVIII. To Phidippus.-Reflections upon the senti-
ments of the ancients concerning friendship,
XXIX. To the same.-Upon grace in writing,
XXX. To Clytander.--Concerning the love of our
J
50
57
59
63
65
73
75
77
78
82
country,
•
XXXI. To Palamedes,
continue in retirement,
•
XXXII. To the same.-The author's resolutions to
XXXIII. To Palemon.-The character of Hortensia,
XXXIV. To Hortensius.-Concerning self-reverence,
XXXV. To Cleora.-With an ode upon their wedding-
day,
XXXVI. To Clytander.-Reasons for the author's re-
tirement:-a description of the situation of his
villa,
XXXVII. To Hortensius.-Concerning the style of
Horace in his moral writings,
XXXVIII. To the same.-Concerning the great vari-
ety of characters among mankind. The singular
character of Stilotes
•
XXXIX. To Phidippus.--Concerning the criterion of
taste,
XL. To Palamedes.--The character of Mezentius,
84
88
89
90
95
96
99
192
108
111
•
116
CONTENTS.
LETTER XLI. To Orontes.-The comparative merit of the
two sexes considered,
vii
Page.
•
118
XLII. To Palemon.-Reflections upon the various
revolutions in the mind of man, with respect
both to his speculative notions, and his plans of
happiness,
XLIII. To Euphronius. Objections to some passages
in Mr. Pope's translation of the Iliad, .
XLIV. To Palamedes.--Against visiters by profession,
XLV. To Hortensius. Reflections upon fame; with re-
spect to the small number of those whose appro-
bation can be considered as conferring it,
XLVI. To Clylander.--Concerning the reverence due
to the religion of one's country,
XLVII. To Cleora,
•
121
123
136
137
138
142
•
XLVIII. To Euphronius.-The publick advantages of
well-directed satire. The moral qualifications
requisite to a satirist,
XLIX. To Palamedes.-On his approaching marriage,
L. To Euphronius.-Upon good sense,
143
145
146
•
148
LI. To Palemon.-The author's morning reflections,
LII. To Euphronius.-Some passages in Mr. Pope's
translation of the Iliad compared with the ver-
sions of Denham, Dryden, Congreve, and
Tickel,
LIII. To Orontes.-Reflections upon seeing Mr. Pope's
house at Binfield,
·
•
152
168
•
171
LIV. To Phidippus.-The character of Cleanthes,
LV. To Euphronius.-Concerning weariness of life, 172
LVI. To Timoclea.-With a fable in the style of Spenser, 175
LVII. To Clytander.-Concerning the use of the an-
cient mythology in modern Poetry,
LVIII. To Euphronius.-Occasioned by the sudden
•
181
death of a friend,
185
viii
CONTENTS.
{
LETTER LIX. To Hortensius.-On the delicacy of every au-
thor of genius, with respect to his own per-
formances,
LX. To Palemon.-An account of the author's happi-
ness in his retirement,
LXI. To Euphronius.-Reflections upon style,
泥
​LXII. To Orontes --The character of Timoclea,
•
Fage.
LXIII. To the same. Concerning the art of verbal cri-
ticism; a specimen of it applied to an epigram of
Swift,
187
190
191
194
196
LXIV. To Philotes.-From Tunbridge,
199
LXV. To Orontes.-Concerning delicacy in relieving
the distressed,
201
LXVI. To Cleora,
202
LXVII. To Euphronius.—On the death and character
of the author's father,
204
•
LXVIII. To Philotes.-Reflections on the moral charac-
ter of mankind,
206
.
LXIX. To the same.--Concerning the difficulties that
attend our speculative inquiries. Mr. Boyle's
moderation instanced and recommended,
208
LXX. To Palamedes.-In disgrace, :
212
LXXI. To Philotes.-The author's inability to do jus-
tice to the character of Eusebes,
214
on the loss of a friend,
•
216
217
LXXII. To the sume.-The author's situation of mind
LXXIII. To Palamedes.-On thinking,
LXXIV. To Orontes.-Reflections on the advantages
of conversation with a translation of the cele-
:
brated dialogue concerning the rise and decline
of eloquence among the Romans,
•
A DIALOGUE CONCERNING ORATORY,
221
225
<
MEMOIR
OF THE
LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THE AUTHOR.
Ir has frequently been remarked, that biographical
anecilotes rarely abound in the circle described by
literary characters, who, lost in the fascinating
wilds of speculation and fancy, or immersed in the
laborious investigations of science, avoid the tumul-
tuous business and pleasures of society, which alone
tend, in any great measure, to vary and chequer the
scenes of human life. That this was or was not the
case with the subject of the present memoir, we are
not prepared peremptorily to assert; but the rich
legacy which he has bequeathed to us, gives rise
most reasonably to the conclusion, that he was a man
devoted to letters, and a lover of the secretum iter.
If he had no humble and industrious, idolizing and
vigilant attendant, no Boswell to pursue his steps,
like a shadow, and to record all his weaknesses and
virtues, we have no reason to complain, for we have
something still better.-The best of an author is his
works, and these we possess. Here we have the
み
​`X
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
gold without alloy. His writings are the temple of
the Graces, who, to use the language of an ingenious
commentator, “can give that certain happiness of
manner, which we all understand, yet no one is able
to express; which often supplies the place of me-
rit, and without which merit itself is imperfect."
William Melmoth, Esq. late of Bath, was the
eldest son of an eminent lawyer of the same name,
and member of the honourable society of Lincoln's
Inn. His father, who was born in the year 1666,
exercised his profession, as we learn, "with a skill
and integrity, which nothing could equal but the
disinterested motive that animated his labours.
He often exerted his distinguished abilities, yet
refused the reward of them, in defence of the widow,
the fatherless, and him that had none to help him.
His admirable treatise on The great Importance of
a religious Life, deserves to be held in perpetual re-
membrance. In a word, few ever passed a more use-
ful, none a more blameless life. He died in 1743.”
Under the tuition of his venerable father, and
with the advantage of his good example, it is not
difficult to suppose that he greatly improved in every
estimable quality; and though we are deprived,
through his advanced age, of all information from
the companions of his earlier years, we may safely
conjecture, that they were so well husbanded, and
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
¿
xi
sedulously applied to the acquisition of literature and
science, as to lay a solid foundation for that maturity
and distinction in taste and judgment, which he after-
wards displayed. He is said to have been as amiable
and engaging in his progress to manhood, as he cer-
tainly became respectable and even worthy of reve-
rence in the later stages of his protracted existence.
Of his juvenile and domestick habits, whether of
a grave or sprightly deportment, and whether his
education was publick or private, at what seminary
he studied, or to what particular master he owed
his classical taste, little is correctly known. The
first indications of his future excellence have proba-
bly perished with the friends of his youth, whom he
survived. The publick's principal acquaintance with
him, therefore, is through the medium of his works.
About five and twenty years have elapsed since
a publication entitled "Liberal Opinions," issued
from the press, under the assumed name of Courtney
Melmoth, and was commonly ascribed to our author.
Their discernment, however, is not to be envied,
who could mistake the masterly and philosophical,
the refined and useful emanations of an enlightened
intellect, for the transient productions of that ano-
nymous author.
William Melmoth, Esq. so far from giving the
least countenance to the loose dogmas industriously
xii
AUTHOR.
MEMOIR OF THE 1
1
propagated by the modern school of infidelity,
asserts his belief of christianity, in the genuine spirit
which she inspires, and honestly and unequivocally,
in several parts of his writings,* avows a preference
for the religious establishment of his native country.
Our author, according to the best information,
was of Emanuel College, Cambridge; but how
long he studied at that university, or whether he
took any degree, is uncertain. From one of his
letters + in this collection, it would appear, that his
life had commenced by mixing more or less with
the active world in a publick character, possibly in
the same profession which his father had previously
pursued with so much honour. His motives for
relinquishing this situation, and adopting one more
retired and consonant to his own inclinations and
habits, are briefly, but explicitly stated, and afford a
very satisfactory apology for his choice. "How,
"indeed," says he, "could a man hope to render
"himself acceptable to the various parties which
"divide our nation, who professes it as his princi-
"ple, that there is no striking wholly into the mea-
te sures of any, without renouncing either one's sense,
"or one's integrity; and yet, as the world is at
* See Laelius, or an Essay on Friendship, Remark 68, Page 318, and Letters
8 and 46 of Fitzosborne.
+ Letter 36.
રહ :
,
>
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
xiii
"present constituted, it is scarce possible, I fear, to
"do any good in one's generation (in publick life I
"mean) without listing under some or other of those
" various banners, which distinguish the several corps
"in these our political warfares.”
In the same letter, as well as in others, he expa
tiates with evident complacency on the peculiar
felicities, which arise from the possession and ex-
ercise both of the social and conjugal virtues. His
villa, which he has described with so much pictu-
resque taste and elegance, was probably the spot,
where his first nuptials took place, and he retreated
into the country, fortunately emancipated, as one
of his feelings must have conceived, from all the
turmoil and dissension incident to party contest.
His domestick comforts are not obscurely specified
in a preceding letter, where he breathes those manly
sentiments, which so well become the head of a fam-
ily. It is written, as we presume, on the anniversa-
ry of their marriage, and addressed to Mrs. Melmoth,
under the feigned name of Cleora. He there alludes
to several passages in his private history, which
none but such as knew it intimately can explain.
He speaks particularly of a musical instrument, for
the use of a young lady, whom he calls Teraminta ;
and probably his grand-niece, at that time, as it
would seem, recently entered on the practice of mu-
B
xiv
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
-
sick, celebrates the day by the composition of an
appropriate ode, and concludes with a rapturous
encomium on wedded love.
From this beautiful and romantick situation in the
vicinity of Shrewsbury, where he first selected his
rural sequestration, he removed, it would appear,
to Bath. Here he had the misfortune to lose Mrs.
Melmoth, of whom, in his letters, he frequently
speaks in such raptures, and, to whom he repeat-
edly avows the strongest attachment. Soon after
her death, however, he married a Miss Ogle, of an
Irish family. It is reported that he was precipitated
into this match by a gigantick Hibernian cousin of
the lady, and that a scene in the Irish Widow origi-
nated in the incident. It is, notwithstanding, well
known, that she proved herself highly deserving of
his esteem, by an affectionate and dutiful attention
to him on every occasion.
He was grievously afflicted, even at a great age,
by violent attacks of the stone and gravel, which
rendered walking so painful to him, that he was
confined for several years to his own house, and ne-
ver went abroad but when carried in a sedan chair.
For ten or twelve years, however, before his death,
by persevering in the regular use of mephitick water,
he latterly recovered even an active use of his loco-
motive powers.
It is not surprising that these
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
XV
dilapidations of nature, connected with a long series
of intense study, which wears the mind as much, at
least, as labour impairs the body, rendered him, in
old age, very petulant, and easily provoked. Yet
such were his domestick virtues and the goodness
of his heart, that though often cross, he was never
implacable, and generally retained his servants
until death put an end to their mutual dependance.
Mr. Melmoth resided in Bath for the last thirty
years of his life, and died at Bladud's Buildings, in
that city, in 1799, aged 89, full of years and good
works. He was of middle stature, and very thin.
His eyes were of a lively cast, and his face dis-
covered strong lines of thought. From a very
wrinkled countenance, occasioned, perhaps, by
much deep and intense thought, he exhibited, even
before he was an old man, extraordinary marks of
age. He was a person of exemplary piety, and stern
integrity, "incorrupta fides, nudáque veritas ;" and
his writings are not a greater ornament to literature,
than his whole life was honourable to human nature.
Happily circumstanced as he seems to have been
during the better part of the flower of his days; far
from the noisy world, and richly stored with litera-
ture and science, he was not idle, though retired;
nor lost that time in dissipation or luxury which he
denied to the pursuit of honour and ambition. His
xvi
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
J
studies, indeed, manifestly prove that his life, if not
laborious, was dedicated to ingenious research and
fruitful contemplation.
Our author's literary debût appeared in an essay
On active and retired Life, in an Epistle to Henry
Coventry, Esq. which was printed in 1735. It
was afterwards inserted in Dodsley's Collection, and
contains some good passages, and many beautiful
lines. His versification, however, is not equal to
his prose and, notwithstanding his youth when this
poem was published, he seems to have declined a
pursuit from which his good sense taught him to
expect no distinguished success.
Several passages in his Fitzosborne's Letters de-
monstrate that he was accustomed to canvass with
himself the difference between an active and retired
Life, and how much better he thought the one accom-
modated to his plan of happiness than the other, will
be seen by a reference to letters thirty-two and fifty.
English literature was not a little enriched, and
the history of Roman manners elucidated by his
elegant version of the Epistles of Pliny the younger,
which appeared in 1753. The pupil of Quintilian
was the most polite and agreeable writer of his
time. He moved in the highest sphere of society;
was intimate with all the most eminent men of that
period; possessed the readiest access to all circles,
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
xvii
and citizens of every description, and with these
advantages, such powers of intelligence and obser-
vation as enabled him to make the best use of
whatever he heard or saw. None of his contem-
poraries appear to us so full of anecdote, or picture
the private as well as the publick life of the Romans
so accurately as Pliny. Although he wrote with
great purity, considering the date of his composi-
tions, he is still not free from that meretricious re-
finement, which then marked the degeneracy of
Roman taste, both in letters and manners. The
style of the translation of these Epistles would, on
the contrary, have passed the ordeal of the chastest
periods of our language, when Addison, Swift and
Bolingbroke fixed the standard of its simplicity and
elegance. The notes to this version are judicious,
learned, and amusing.
In the same, or about the beginning of the sub-
sequent year, followed his translation of Cicero's
familiar Epistles to several of his Friends, with
Remarks. With the critical, literary, and philo-
sophical excellencies of the former, they are far
more historical, political, and professional. Writ-
ten on the eve of a momentous revolution in the
empire of the world, and while the minds of men
were startled and laboured under repeated presages
of that stupendous event, they are replete with in-
B
*
xviii
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
!
te
terest, observation, and instruction. The author
himself was a conspicuous actor in these important
scenes, in which his several correspondents also
performed their respective parts. Mr. Melmoth,
according to his advertisement, prefers them to those
particularly addressed to Atticus, " as they shew the
"author of them in a greater variety of connexions,
"and afford an opportunity of considering him in
"almost every possible point of view." His com-
ments on them few will read without profit, and
none without pleasure.
An elegant translation of Cato, or an Essay on
Old Age; and Lælius, or an Essay on Friendship,
both with Remarks, were produced successively, in
1777. Nothing was ever written in a style of more
exquisite reasoning, or more refined and animated
illustration, than these two incomparable perform-
ances. As far as the different genius of a dead and
living language would permit, it is allowed that
our translator has done him ample justice. The
Remarks on each, doubling the quantity of the ori-
ginal, are critical, biographical, and explanatory,
and disclose such a fund of Roman antiquities, as
must be eminently useful and acceptable to every
classical student.
Besides a few temporary productions, in verse
and prose, which were, as usual, anonymous and
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
xix
*
fugitive, his contributions to the World, in which, it
is said, he had some share, and the letters in this
volume, he published an answer to the attack of
Jacob Bryant, Esq. on the opinion of our author
concerning the persecution of the Christians under
the emperour Trajan. He proves unexceptionably
that this circumstance, horrid as it was, originated
not in any antipathy conceived against the truths
which they believed, but in the laws of the consti-
tution or established police of the state, against
practices deemed by them indispensable to a general
profession of their religion. Memoirs of a late emi-
nent Advocate, which he doubtless intended as a tri-
bute of filial duty, was also written and edited by
him, at a very late period of life. Here we per-
ceive the same composure of mind and the same
unaffected simplicity which distinguished all his
preceding pieces; but, to use the language of Lon-
ginus, δίχα της σφοδρότητος, the fire and genius of his
earlier exertions are no longer apparent.
* Fitzosborne's Letters, presented to the publick
in this elegant impression, we mention last, though
among the first of his works, as they form that
portion of them to which our Memoir more parti-
cularly belongs. He was probably pleased with
this disguise, under which he might with modesty
*First printed in 1742.
XX
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
}
speak familiarly of his own concerns, as well as
of those of his friends. It divested him of feelings
that would, otherwise, to a certain degree, have re-
pressed the freedom of his remarks, and laid him
under such a restraint as must have contracted his
conception, and cramped his expression. The fic-
tion was harmless, and he has rendered it useful.
These letters, treating chiefly of objects with which
the heart is most conversant, have always had their
admirers. The various domestick scenes, the tran-
quil felicities of private life, the harmonies of social
fellowship and concord, the occurrences of the day,
the interest we are all made to feel and participate
in the enjoyments of one another, and the inde-
finite number of nameless circumstances, to which
the affections of none are altogether insensible, are
the various strings on which these letters touch, and
with which our hearts are for ever in unison. These
delicacies, uniformly directed to the best moral pur-
poses, impart such a charm to all he utters, and
stamp such a value on his writings, as we rarely
meet with in the compositions of other men. One
of the best letters in the whole collection, though
merely introductory to our author's translation of
the celebrated, but, as he calls it, anonymous dia-
logue on oratory, is replete with observations of
great and publick importance. We are not aware
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
xxi
$
**
that this beautiful fragment of antiquity has been
transfused into English by any former writer, but
here it appears with peculiar elegance, and exhibits
specimens of the purest eloquence and the soundest
wisdom. The translator has, indeed, arranged his
letters in such a manner, as to render them alto-
gether imperfect without it; and, to many readers
of a particular cast, it may probably be deemed the
most valuable part of the volume. The tract en-
titled de Oratoribus, sive de causis corruptae eloquen-
tiae dialogus, has been ascribed to Tacitus, Quintil
ian, and Suetonius, but it was the opinion of Mr.
Melmoth that it was the production of Pliny the
younger, and it is to be lamented that his promise
46
one day or other to attempt to prove it in form,'
was never fulfilled. On this subject, Lipsius and M.
Brotier will be consulted with advantage. Mr. Mur-
phy, as much attached to Tacitus as Mr. Melmoth
to Pliny, gives it to his favourite, in the notes to
his version of the Dialogue.
Notwithstanding the constitutional diffidence and
reserve of this amiable writer, and his invincible re-
luctance to solicit publick attention, he was not en-
tirely overlooked even by the most fashionable and
celebrated literary characters of his day. We find
him an occasional visiter at the late Mrs. Mon-
tague's, who lost no opportunity of enhancing her
xxii
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
f
own popularity by that of her guests. With other
wits, who sparkled at the levee of that lady, he was
also sometimes seen, and all who knew or con-
versed with him there, or elsewhere, acknowledge
his politeness both as a gentleman and a scholar.
The silly flippaney with which Mrs. Piozzi men-
tions her dislike of him in a letter to Dr. Johnson,
and the doctor's contumelious coincidence in his
reply, suo more et modo, reflect no credit on the
judgment or good manners of either, and rather
improve than detract from the reader's opinion of
the polished and unassuming genius of our author.
The reputation of Mr. Melmoth was not to be depre-
ciated by the scandal or jealousy of this presumptuous
school. The most respectable of his contemporaries
bore witness to his worth as a man, and his merit
as a writer. He is even mentioned by a celebrated
satirist, "whose charity exceedeth not," with com-
mendable veneration. "William Melmoth, Esq."
according to the Pursuits of Literature, "a most
"Yesterday evening," says
* See Boswell's Life of Johnson, Vol. 1. 457.
she,
was past at Mrs. Montague's. There was Mr. Melmoth. I do not like
"him though, nor he me. It was expected we should have pleased each other.
"He is, however, just tory enough to hate the bishop of Peterboro' for his
"whiggism, and whig enough to abhor you for toryism. Mrs. Montague
"flattered him finely; so he had a good afternoon of it," Johnson returned
this answer. "From the author of Fitzosborne's Letters I cannot think myself
❝ in much danger. I met him only once, about thirty years ago, and, in some
"small dispute, reduced him to a whistle. Having never seen him since, that
is the last impression."
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
xxiii
"elegant and distinguished writer, near half an age,
"with every good man's praise. His trauslation of
"Cicero and Pliny will speak for him, while Ro-
<<
CC
'
man and English eloquence can be united. Mr.
"Melmoth is a happy example of the mild influence
"of learning on a cultivated mind, I mean of that
learning which is declared to be the aliment of
"youth, and the delight and consolation of declin-
"ing years.
years. Who would not envy this Fortu-
"nate Old Man' his most finished translation and
"comment on Tully's Cato? or rather, who would
"not rejoice in the refined and mellowed pleasures
"of so accomplished a gentleman and so liberal a
"scholar."
ઃઃ
The traveller, Mr. Coxe, whose tour it would
seem was originally communicated to our author,
begins his work by addressing him in these respect-
ful terms. "I am persuaded that I shall travel with
“much greater profit to myself, when I am thus to
"inform you of all I have seen; as the reflection
"that my observations are to be communicated to
"you, will be one means of rendering me more atten-
❝tive and accurate in forming them." The conclu-
ding words of his last edition are still more affec-
tionate and emphatical. We forbear, however, to
transcribe them, as well as the honourable testimony
of many others, which it seems unnecessary to repeat.
xxiv
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
He has long been removed from this bustling scene,
and is alike insensible to good or ill report. Were
it otherwise, his gratification must be great indeed,
since few writers continue to receive and deserve
so much commendation. Distinguished as he is in
all his labours, his talents are peculiarly prominent
in the letters here presented to the world. To the
composition of this delightful and instructive work,
he brought his genius in its happiest mood, and ex-
erted in its execution "the whole strength of his
"clear, unclouded faculties." But time and expe-
rience have given judgment in the case, and all
our praise, however merited, is at best superfluous.
LETTERS
ON
SEVERAL SUBJECTS.
LETTER I
TO CLYTANDER.
I
Sept. 1739.
ENTIRELY approve of your design: but whilst I rejoice
in the hope of seeing Enthusiasm thus successfully at-
tacked in her strongest and most formidable holds, I
would claim your mercy for her in another quarter; and
after having expelled her from her religious dominions,
let me entreat you to leave her in the undisturbed en-
joyment of her civil possessions. To own the truth, I
look upon enthusiasm, in all other points but that of reli-
gion, to be a very necessary turn of mind; as indeed it is
a vein which Nature seems to have marked, with more
or less strength, in the tempers of most men. No matter
what the object is, whether business, pleasures, or the
fine arts; whoever pursues them to any purpose, must do
so con amore; and enamoratos, you know, of every kind,
are all enthusiasts. There is, indeed, a certain height-
ening faculty which universally prevails through our spe-
cies; and we are all of us, perhaps, in our several favour-
ite pursuits, pretty much in the circumstances of the
renowned knight of La Mancha, when he attacked the
barber's brazen basin for Mambrino's golden helmet.
1
2
LETTER I.
What is Tully's aliquid immensum infinitumque, which
he professes to aspire after in oratory, but a piece of
true rhetorical Quixotism? Yet never, I will venture to
affirm, would he have glowed with so much eloquence,
had he been warmed with less enthusiasm.
I am per-
suaded, indeed, that nothing great or glorious was ever
performed, where this quality had not a principal con-
cern; and as our passions add vigour to our actions,
enthusiasm gives spirit to our passions. I might add,
too, that it even opens and enlarges our capacities. Ac-
cordingly, I have been informed, that one of the great
lights of the present age never sits down to study till he
has raised his imagination by the power of musick. For
this purpose, he has a band of instruments placed near his
library, which play till he finds himself elevated to a
proper height; upon which he gives a signal, and they in-
stantly cease.
But those high conceits which are suggested by enthu-
siasm, contribute not only to the pleasure and perfection
of the fine arts, but to most other effects of our action
and industry. To strike this spirit, therefore, out of the
human constitution, to reduce things to their precise `phi-
losophical standard, would be to check some of the inain
wheels of society, and to fix half the world in an useless
apathy. For if enthusiasm did not add an imaginary
value to most of the objects of our pursuit; if fancy did
not give them their brightest colours, they would gene-
rally, perhaps, wear an appearance too contemptible to
excite desire :
Weary'd we should lie down in death,
This cheat of life would take no more,
If you thought fame but empty breath,
I Phillis but a perjur'd whore.
Prior.
In a word, this enthusiasm for which I am pleading, is
a beneficent enchantress, who never exerts her magick but
1
1
E
LETTER II.
3
ones.
to our advantage, and only deals about her friendly spells
in order to raise imaginary beauties, or to improve real
The worst that can be said of her is, that she is a
kind deceiver, and an obliging flatterer. Let me con-
jure you, then, good Clytander, not to break up her use-
ful enchantments, which thus surround us on every side;
but spare her harmless deceptions in mere charity to
mankind. I am, &c.
LETTER II.
1
TO PHILOTES.
I SHOULD not have suffered so long an interval to inter-
rupt our correspondence, if my expedition to Euphronius
had not wholly employed me for these last six weeks. I
had long promised to spend some time with him before he
embarked with his regiment for Flanders; and, as he is
not one of those Hudibrastick heroes who choose to run away
one day that they may live to fight another, I was unwil-
ling to trust the opportunity of seeing him to the very pre-
carious contingency of his return.-The high enjoyments
he leaves behind him, might, indeed, be a pledge to his
friends that his caution would at least be equal to his
courage, if his notions of honour were less exquisitely deli-
cate. But he will undoubtedly aci as if he had nothing
to hazard; though, at the same time, from the generous
sensibility of his temper, he feels every thing that bis fam-
ily can suffer in their fears for his danger. I had an in-
stance, whilst I was in his house, how much Euphronia's
apprehensions for his safety are ready to take alarm upon
every occasion. She called me one day into the gallery,
to look upon a picture which was just come out of the
painter's hands; but the moment she carried me up to it,
J
4
LETTER II.
she burst out into a flood of tears. It was drawn at the
request, and after a design of her father, and is a perform-
ance which does great honour to the ingenious artist
who executed it. Euphronius is represented under the
character of Hector, when he parts from Andromache,
who is personated, in the piece, by Euphronia; as her
sister, who holds their little boy in her arms, is shadowed
out under the figure of the beautiful nurse with the young
Astyanax.
I was so much pleased with the design in this uncommon
family-piece, that I thought it deserved particular men-
tion; as I could wish it were to become a general fashion
to have all pictures of the same kind executed in some
such manner. If, instead of furnishing a room with sepa-
rate portraits, a whole family were to be thus introduced
into a single piece, and represented under some interesting
historical subject, suitable to their rank and character,
portraits, which are now so generally and so deservedly
despised, might become of real value to the publick. By
this means history-painting would be encouraged among
us, and a ridiculous vanity turned to the improvement of
one of the most instructive, as well as the most pleasing,
of the imitative arts. Those who never contributed a sin-
gle benefit to their own age, nor will ever be mentioned
in any after-one, might by this means employ their pride
and their expense in a way, which might render them en-
tertaining and useful both to the present and future times.
It would require, indeed, great judgment and address in
the painter, to choose and recommend subjects proper to
the various characters which would present themselves to
his pencil; and undoubtedly we should see many enormous
absurdities committed, if this fashion were universally
to be followed. It would certainly, however, afford a glo-
rious scope to genius, and probably supply us, in due tine,
LETTER II.
5
LO
4
1
3
*
with some productions which might be mentioned with
those of the most celebrated schools. I am persuaded, at
least, that great talents have been sometimes lost to this
art, by being confined to the dull, though profitable, la-
bour of senseless portraits; as I should not doubt, if the
method.I am speaking of were to take effect, to see that
very promising genius, who, in consequence of your gener-
ous offices, is now forming his hand by the noblest models
in Rome, prove a rival to those great masters whose works
he is studying.
It cannot, I think, be denied, that the prevailing fondness
of having our persons copied out for posterity, is, in the
present application of it, a most absurd and useless vanity;
as, in general, nothing affords a more ridiculous scene, than
those grotesque figures which usually line the mansions of
a man who is fond of displaying his canvass-ancestry:
Good Heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain,
To wish their vile resemblance may remain;
And stand recorded, at their own request,
To future times a libel or a jest.
Dryden.
You must by no means, however, imagine that I abso-
lutely condemn this lower application of one of the no-
blest arts. It has certainly a very just use, when em-
ployed in perpetuating the resemblances of that part of
our species, who have distinguished themselves in their
respective generations. To be desirous of an acquaint-
ance with the person of those who have recommended
themselves by their writings or their actions to our es-
teem and applause, is a very natural and reasonable cu-
riosity. For myself, at least, I have often found much
satisfaction in contemplating a well-chosen collection of
the portrait kind, and comparing the mind of a favourite
character, as it was either expressed or concealed in its
external lineaments. There is something, likewise, ex-
3
1 *
6
LETTER III.
tremely animating in these lively representations of cele-
brated merit; and it was an observation of one of the
Scipios, that he could never view the figures of his ances-
tors without finding his bosom glow with the most ardent
passion of imitating their deeds. However, as the days
of exemplary virtue are now no more, and we are not,
many of us, disposed to transmit the most inflaming mo-
dels to future times; it would be but prudence, methinks,
if we are resolved to make posterity acquainted with the
persons of the present age, that it should be by viewing
them in the actions of the past. Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER III.
TO PALAMEDES.
July 4, 1739.
NOTWITHSTANDING the fine things you allege in favour
of the Romans, I do not yet find myself disposed to be-
come a convert to your opinion: on the contrary, I am
still obstinate enough to maintain that the fame of your
admired nation is more dazzling than solid, and owing
rather to those false prejudices which we are early taught
to conceive of them, than to their real and intrinsick me--
rit. If conquest indeed be the genuine glory of a state;
and extensive dominions the most infallible test of nation-
al virtue, it must be acknowledged that no people in all
history have so just a demand of our admiration. But if
we take an impartial view of this celebrated nation, per-
haps much of our applause may abate. When we con-
template them, for instance, within their own walls, what
do we see but the dangerous convulsions of an ill-regu-
lated policy? as we can seldom, I believe, consider them
with respect to foreign kingdoms, without the utmost
abhorrence and indignation.
LETTER III.
But there is nothing which places these sons of Romu-
lus lower in my estimation, than their unmanly conduct
in the article of their triumphs. I must confess, at the
same time, that they had the sanction of a god to justify
them in this practice. Bacchus, or (as Sir Isaac Newton
has proved) the Egyptian Sesostris, after his return from
his Indian conquests, gave the first instance of this unge-
nerous ceremony. But though his divinity was confessed
in many other parts of the world, his example does not
seem to have been followed, till we find it copied out in
all its insolent pomp at Rome.
It is impossible to read the descriptions of these arro-
gant exhibitions of prosperity, and not to be struck with
indignation at this barbarous method of insulting the ca-
lami ies of the unfortunate. One would be apt, at the
first glance, to suspect that every sentiment of humanity
must be extinguished in a people, who could behold with
pleasure the moving instances, which these solemnities
afforded, of the caprice of fortune; and could see the
highest potentates of the earth dragged from their thrones
to fill up the proud parade of these ungenerous triumphs.
But the prevailing maxim which ran through the whole
system of Roman politicks, was to encourage a spirit of
conquest; and these honours were evidently calculated
to awaken that unjust principle of mistaken patriotism.
Accordingly, by the fundamental laws of Rome, no general
was entitled to a triumph, unless he had added some new
acquisition to her possessions. To suppress a civil insur-
rection, however dangerous; to recover any former mem-
ber of her dominions, however important; gave no claim
to this supreme mark of ambitious distinction. For it was
their notion, it seems, (and Valerius Maximus is my author-
ity for saying so) that there is as much difference between
adding to the territories of a commonwealth, and restoring
those it has lost, as between the actual conferring of a be-
8
LETTER HI.
nefit, and the mere repelling of an injury. It was but of a
piece, indeed, that a ceremony conducted in defiance of
humanity, should be founded in contempt of justice; and
it was natural enough that they should gain by oppression,
what they were to enjoy by insult.
If we consider Paulus Æmilius, after his conquest of Ma-
cedonia, making his publick entry into Rome, attended by
the unfortunate Perseus and his infant family; and at the
same time reflect upon our Black Prince, when he passed
through London with his royal captive, after the glorious
battle of Poictiers; we cannot fail of having the proper
sentiments of a Roman triumph. What generous mind who
saw the Roman consul in all the giddy exultation of unfeel-
ing pride, but would rather, (as to that single circum-
stance) have been the degraded Perseus, than the trium-
phant Æmilius? There is something indeed in distress that
reflects a sort of merit upon every object which is so situ-
ated, and turns off our attention from those blemishes that
stain even the most vicious characters. Accordingly, in the
instance of which I am speaking, the perfidious monarch
was overlooked in the suffering Perseus; and a spectacle so
affecting checked the joy of conquest even in a Roman
breast. For Plutarch assures us, when that worthless, but
unhappy, prince was observed, together with his two sons.
and a daughter, marching amidst the train of prisoners, na-
ture was too hard for custom, and many of the spectators
melted into a flood of tears. But with what a generous
tenderness did the British hero conduct himself upon an
occasion of the same kind? He employed all the artful
address of the most refined humanity, to conceal from this
unhappy prisoner every thing that could remind him of
his disgrace; and the whole pomp that was displayed
upon this occasion, appeared singly as intended to light-
en the weight of his misfortunes, and to do honour to the
vanquished monarch.
LETTER III.
9
:
You will remember, Palamedes, I am only considering
the Romans in a political view, and speaking of them
merely in their national character. As to individuals,
you know, I pay the highest veneration to many that rose
up amongst them. It would not, indeed, be just to in-
volve particulars in general reflections of any kind and
I cannot but acknowledge, ere I close my letter, that
though, in the article I have been mentioning, the Ro-
mans certainly acted a most unworthy part towards their
publick enemies, yet they seem to have maintained the
most exalted notions of conduct with respect to their
private ones. That noble (and may I not add, that
Christian) sentiment of Juvenal,
-minuti
Semper et infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas,
Ultio-
was not merely the refined precept of their more improved
philosophers, but a general and popular maxim among
them and that generous sentiment so much and so de-
servedly admired in the Roman orator; Non poenitet me
mortales inimicitias, sempiternas amicitias, habere, was, as
appears from Livy, so universally received as to become
even a proverbial expression. Thus Sallust likewise, I
remember, speaking of the virtues of the ancient Romans,
mentions it as their principal characteristick, that, upon
all occasions, they shewed a disposition rather to forgive
than revenge an injury. But the false notions they had
embraced concerning the glory of their country, taught
them to subdue every affection of humanity, and extin-
guish, every dictate of justice which opposed that de-
structive principle. It was this spirit, however, in return,
and by a very just consequence, that proved at length the
means of their total destruction. Farewell. I am, &c.
10
LETTER IV.
TO PHILOTES.
f
some.
:
July 4, 1743.
WHILST you are probably enjoying blue skies and cool-
ing grots, I am shivering here in the midst of summer.-
The molles sub arbore somni, the speluncae vivique lacus,
are pleasures which we in England can seldom taste but
in description. For in a climate, where the warmest season
is frequently little better than a milder sort of winter, the
sun is much too welcome a guest to be avoided. If ever
we have occasion to complain of him, it must be for his
absence at least I have seldom found his visits trouble-
You see I am still the same cold mortal as when
you left me. But whatever warmth I may want in my
constitution, I want none in my affections; and you have
not a friend who is more ardently yours than I pretend to
be. You have indeed such a right to my heart from mere
gratitude, that I almost wish I owed you less upon that
account, that I might give it you upon a more disinterest-
ed principle. However, if there is any part of it which
you cannot demand in justice, be assured you have it by
affection; so that, on one or other of these titles, you may
always depend upon me as wholly yours. Can it be ne-
cessary, after this, to add, that I received your letter
with singular satisfaction, as it brought me an account of
your welfare, and of the agreeable manner in which you
pass your time? If there be any room to wish you an
increase of pleasure, it is, perhaps, that the three virgins
you mention, were a few degrees handsomer and younger.
But I would not desire their charms should be heightened,
were I, not sure they will never lessen your repose; for
ta
!
LETTER IV.
11
ચ
knowing your stoicism, as I do, I dare trust your ease with
any thing less than a goddess: and those females, I per-
ceive, are so far removed from the order of divinities,
that they seem to require a considerable advance before
I could even allow them to be so much as women.
It was mentioned to me, the other day, that there is
some probability we may see you in England by the win-
ter. When I consider only my private satisfaction, I
heard this with a very sensible pleasure. But as I have
long learned to submit my own interests to yours, I could
not but regret there was a likelihood of your being so soon
called off from one of the most advantageous opportuni-
ties of improvement that can attend a sensible mind. An
ingenious Italian author, of your acquaintance, compares
a judicious traveller to a river, which increases its stream
the farther it flows from its source; or to certain springs,
which, running through rich veins of mineral, improve their
qualities as they pass along. It were pity then you should
be checked in so useful a progress, and diverted from a
course, from whence you may derive so many noble ad-
vantages. You have hitherto, I imagine, been able to do
little more than lay in materials for your main design.—
But six months now, would give you a truer notion of what
is worthy of observation in the countries through which
you pass, than twice that time when you were less ac-
quainted with the languages. The truth is, till a man is
capable of conversing with ease among the natives of any
country, he can never be able to form a just and adequate
idea of their policy and manners. He who sits at a play
without understanding the dialect, may indeed discover
which of the actors are best dressed, and how well the
scenes are painted or disposed; but the characters and
conduct of the drama must for ever remain a secret to
him. Adieu. I am, &c.
&
12
LETTER V.
TO CLYTANDER.
IF I had been a party in the conversation you mention, I
should have joined, I believe, with your friend, in support-
ing those sentiments you seem to condemn. I will ven-
ture, indeed, to acknowledge, that I have long been of
opinion, the moderns pay too blinda deference to the an-
cients; and though I have the highest veneration for se-
veral of their remains, yet I am inclined to think they
have occasioned us the loss of some excellent originals.
They are the proper and best guides, I allow, to those
who have not the force to break out into new paths. But
whilst it is thought sufficient praise to be their followers,
genius is checked in her flights, and many a fair tract lies
undiscovered in the boundless regions of imagination.—
Thus, had Virgil trusted more to his native strength, the
Romans, perhaps, might have seen an original Epick in
their language. But Homer was considered by that ad-
mired poet, as the sacred object of his first and principal
attention; and he seemed to think it the noblest triumph
of genius, to be adorned with the spoils of that glorious
chief.
You will tell me, perhaps, that even Homer himself was
indebted to the ancients; that the full streams he dispen-
sed, did not flow from his own source, but were derived
to him from an higher. This, I acknowledge, has been
asserted; but asserted without proof, and, I may venture
to add, without probability. He seems to have stood
alone and unsupported; and to have stood, for that very
reason, so much the nobler object of admiration.-Scarce,
I
LETTER V.
13
1
indeed, I imagine, would his works have received that
high regard which was paid to them from their earliest
appearance, had they been formed upon prior models; had
they shone only with reflected light.
But will not this servile humour of subjecting the pow-
ers of invention to the guidance of the ancients, account,
in some degrec at least, for our meeting with so small a
number of authors who can claim the merit of being ori-
ginals? Is not this a kind of submission, that damps the
fire, and weakens the vigour of the mind? For the ancients
seem to be considered by us as so many guards to pre-
vent the free excursions of imagination, and set bounds to
her flight. Whereas they ought rather to be looked upon
(the few, I mean, who are themselves originals) as encou-
ragements to a full and uncontrolled exertion of her facul-
ties. But if here or there a poet has courage enough to
trust to his own unassisted reach of thought, his example
does not seem so much to incite others to make the same
adventurous attempts, as to confirm them in the humble
disposition of imitation. For if he succeeds, he immedi-
ately becomes himself the occasion of a thousand models:
if he does not, he is pointed out as a discouraging instance
of the folly of renouncing those established leaders which
antiquity has authorized. Thus invention is depressed,
and genius enslaved the creative power of poetry is lost,
and the ingenious, instead of exerting that productive
faculty, which alone can render them the just objects of
admiration, are humbly contented with borrowing both
the materials and the plans of their mimick structures. I
am, &c.
2
14
LETTER VI.
TO ORONTES.
March 10, 1729.
THERE is nothing, perhaps, wherein mankind are more
frequently mistaken than in the judgments which they pass
on each other. The stronger lines, indeed, in every man's
character, must always be marked too clearly and distinct-
ly to deceive even the most careless observer; and no
one, I am persuaded, was ever esteemed in the general
opinion of the world, as highly deficient in his moral or in-
tellectual qualities, who did not justly merit his reputa-
tion. But I speak only of those more nice and delicate
traits which distinguish the several degrees of probity and
good sense, and ascertain the quantum (if I may so express
it) of human merit. The powers of the soul are so often
concealed by modesty, diffidence, timidity, and a thousand
other accidental affections; and the nice complexion of
her moral operations depends so entirely on those internal
principles from whence they proceed; that those who form
their notions of others by casual and distant views, must
unavoidably be led into very erroneous judgments. Even
Orontes, with all his candour and penetration, is not, I per-
ceive, entirely secure from mistakes of this sort; and the
sentiments you expressed in your last letter concerning
Varus, are by no means agreeable to the truth of his cha-
racter.
It must be acknowledged, at the same time, that Va-
rus is an exception to all general rules: neither his head
nor his heart are exactly to be discovered by those indexes
which are usually supposed to point directly to the genius
LETTER VI.
15
and temper of other men. Thus, with a memory that
will scarce serve him for the common purposes of life,
with an imagination even more slow than his memory,
and with an attention that could not carry him through
the easiest proposition in Euclid; he has a sound and ex-
cellent understanding, joined to a refined and exquisite
taste. But the rectitude of his sentiments seems to arise
less from reflection than sensation; rather from certain
suitable feelings which the objects that present themselves
to his consideration instantly occasion in his mind, than
from the energy of any active faculties which he is capable
of exerting for that purpose. His conversation is unenter-
taining for though he talks a great deal, all that he ut-
ters is delivered with labour and hesitation. Not that his
ideas are really dark and confused; but because he is
never contented to convey them in the first words that
occur. Like the orator mentioned by Tully, metuens nc
vitiosum colligeret, etiam verum sanguinem deperdebat, he
expresses himself ill by always endeavouring to express
himself better. His reading cannot so properly be said
to have rendered him knowing, as not ignorant: it has
rather enlarged, than filled his mind.
His temper is as singular as his genius, and both equal-
ly mistaken by those who only know him a little. If you
were to judge of him by his general appearance, you
would believe him incapable of all the more delicate sen-
sations: nevertheless, under a rough and boisterous be-
haviour, he conceals a heart full of tenderness and hu-
manity. He has a sensibility of nature, indeed, beyond
what I ever observed in any other man; and I have of-
ten seen him affected by those little circumstances, which
would make no impression on a mind of less exquisite
feelings. This extreme sensibility in his temper influ-
ences his speculations as well as his actions, and he hovers
Sadr
16
LETTER VII.
between various hypotheses without settling upon any, by
giving importance to these minuter difficulties which
would not be strong enough to suspend a more active and
vigorous mind. In a word, Varus is in the number of
those whom it is impossible not to admire, or not to de-
spise; and, at the same time that he is the esteem of all
his friends, he is the contempt of all his acquaintance.-
Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER VII.
TO HORTENSIUS.
YOUR excellent brawn wanted no additional recommen-
dation to make it more acceptable but that of your com-
pany. However, though I cannot share it with my friend,
I devote it to his memory, and make daily offerings of it
to a certain divinity, whose temples, though now well-
nigh deserted, were once held in the highest veneration;
she is mentioned by ancient authors under the name and
title of DIVA AMICITIA. To her I bring the victim you
have furnished me with, in all the pomp of Roman rites.
Wreathed with the sacred vitia, and crowned with the
branch of rosemary, I place it on an altar of well-polished
mahogany, where I pour libations over it of acid wine,
and sprinkle it with flour of mustard. I deal out certain
portions to those who assist at this social ceremony, re-
minding them, with an hoc age, of the important business.
upon which they are assembled; and conclude the festi-
val with this votive couplet:
Close as this brawn the circling fillet binds,
May friendship's sacred bands unite our minds!
Farewell. I am, &c.
17
LETTER VIII.
TO CLYTANDER.
July 2, 1736.
You must have been greatly distressed, indeed, Clytan-
der, when you thought of calling me in as your auxili-
ary, in the debate you mention. Or was it not rather a
motive of generosity which suggested that design ? and
you were willing, perhaps, I should share the glory of a
victory which you had already secured. Whatever your
intention was, mine is always to comply with your request;
and I very readily enter the lists, when I am at once t
combat in the cause of truth and on the side of my
friend.
It is not necessary, I think, in order to establish the
credibility of a particular Providence, to deduce it (as
your objector, I find, seems to require) from known and
undisputed facts. I should be exceedingly cautious in
pointing out any supposed instances of that kind; as those
who are fond of indulging themselves in determining the
precise cases wherein they imagine the immediate inter-
position of the Divinity is discoverable, often run into the
weakest and most injurious superstitions. It is impossi-
ble, indeed, unless we were capable of looking through
the whole chain of things, and of viewing each effect in
its remote connexions and final issues, to pronounce of
any contingency, that it is absolutely and in its ultimate
tendencies either good or bad. That can only be known
by the great Author of nature, who comprehends the full
extent of our total existence, and sees the influence
which every particular circumstance will have in the gene-
val sum of our happiness. But though the peculiar points
of divine interposition are thus necessarily, and from the
2 *
18
LETTER VIII.
natural imperfection of our discerning faculties, extremely
dubious, yet it can by no means from thence be justly
inferred, that the doctrine of a particular Providence is
either groundless or absurd: the general principle may be
true, though the application of it to any given purpose be
involved in very inextricable difficulties.
The notion, that the material world is governed by ge-
neral mechanical laws, has induced your friend to argue
that "it is probable the Deity should act by the same
"rule of conduct in the intellectual; and leave moral
agents entirely to those consequences which necessarily
"result from the particular exercise of their original
powers." But this hypothesis takes a question for
granted, which requires much proof before it can be ad-
mitted. The grand principle which preserves this system
of the universe in all its harmonious order, is gravity,
or that property by which all the particles of matter
mutually tend to each other. Now this is a power which,
it is acknowledged, does not essentially reside in matter,
but must be ultimately derived from the action of some
immaterial cause. Why therefore may it not reasonably
be supposed to be the effect of the divine agency, im-
mediately and constantly operating for the preservation
of this wonderful machine of nature? Certain, at least, it
is, that the explication which Sir Isaac Newton has
endeavoured to give of this wonderful phenomenon, by
means of his subtile ether, has not afforded universal satis-
faction and it is the opinion of a very great writer, who
seems to have gone far into inquiries of this abstruse kind,
that the numberless effects of this power are inexplicable
upon mechanical principles, or in any other way than by
having recourse to a spiritual agent, who connects, moves,
and disposes all things according to such methods as best
comport with his incomprehensible purposes.
}
LETTER VIII.
19
But successful villany and oppressed virtue are deemed,
I perceive, in the account of your friend, as powerful in-
stances to prove that the Supreme Being remains an unin-
terposing spectator of what is transacted upon this theatre
of the world. However, ere this argument can have a de-
termining weight, it must be proved (which yet, surely,
never can be proved) that prosperous iniquity has all those
advantages in reality which it may seem to have in ap-
pearance; and that those accidents which are usually es-
teemed as calamities, do, in truth, and in the just scale of
things, deserve to be distinguished by that appellation.
It is a noble saying of the philosopher cited by Seneca,
that "there cannot be a more unhappy man in the world
"than he who has never experienced adversity." There
is nothing, perhaps, in which mankind are more apt to
make false calculations, than in the article both of their
own happiness and that of others; as there are few, I be-
lieve, who have lived any time in the world, but have
found frequent occasions to say with the poor hunted stag
in the fable, who was entangled by those horns he had
but just before been admiring:
O me infelicem ! qui nunc demum intelligo
Utilla mihi profuerint quae despexeram,
Et quae laudaram, quantum luctus habuerint!
Phaed.
If we look back upon the sentiments of past ages, we
shall find the opinion for which I am contending has pre-
vailed from the remotest account of time. It must un-
doubtedly have entered the world as early as religion her-
self; since all institutions of that kind must necessarily be
founded upon the supposition of a particular Providence.
It appears, indeed, to have been the favourite doctrine
of some of the most distinguished names in antiquity.-
Xenophon tells us, when Cyrus led out his army against
the Assyrians, the word which he gave to his soldiers was,
20
LETTER VIII.
ΖΕΥΣ ΣΥΜΜΑΧΟΣ ΚΑΙ ΗΓΕΜΩΝ, 66
Jupiter the defender
"and conductor:" and he represents that prince as at-
tributing success, even in the sports of the field, to
Divine Providence. Thus, likewise, Timoleon, as the
author of his life assures us, believed every action of
mankind to be under the immediate influence of the gods :
and Livy remarks of the first Scipio Africanus, that he
never undertook any important affair, either of private or
publick concern, without going to the Capitol in order to
implore the assistance of Jupiter. Balbus, the stoick, in
the dialogue on the nature of the gods, expressly de-
clares for a particular providence and Cicero himself,
in one of his orations, imputes that superiour glory which
attended the Roman nation, singly to this animating per-
suasion. But none of the ancients seem to have had a
stronger impression of this truth upon their minds, than
the immortal Homer. Every page in the works of that
divine poet will furnish proofs of this observation. I can-
not, however, forbear mentioning one or two remarkable
instances, which just now occur to me. When the Gre-
cian chiefs cast lots which of them should accept the
challenge of Hector, the poet describes the army as lifting
up their eyes and hands to heaven, and imploring the
gods that they would direct the lot to fall on one of their
most distinguished heroes:
Λαοι,θεοισι δε χειρας ανέσχον,
Ωδε τις ειπεσκεν, ιδων εις ουρανον ευρυν
Ζευ πάτερ, η Αίαντα λαχειν, η Τυδέος υιον,
Η αυτον Βασιληα πολυχρυσοιο Μυκήνης.
* The people pray with lifted eyes and hands,
And vows like those ascend from all the bands:
Grant, thou, Almighty, in whose band is fate,
A worthy champion for the Grecian state:
This task let Ajax or Tydides prove,
Or he, the king of kings, belov'd of Jove.
Pope,
*
LETTER VIII.
21
So likewise Antenor proposes to the Trojans the resti-
tution of Helen, as having no hopes, he tells them, that
any thing would succeed with them after they had broken
the faith of treaties:
19 ognia @OTA
Ψευσαμένοι μαχομεσθαι τω ου νυ τι κέρδιον ήμιν
Ελπομαι εκτελέεσθαι. *
And indeed Homer hardly ever makes his heroes succeed
(as his excellent translator justly observes) unless they
have first offered a prayer to heaven. He is perpetu-
“ally,” says Mr. Pope, “acknowledging the hand of God
“in all events, and ascribing to that alone all the vic-
tories, triumphs, rewards, or punishments of men. The
grand moral laid down at the entrance of his poem, Aos
“d' STEXEIETO Bourn, The will of God was fulfilled, runs through
"his whole work, and is, with a most remarkable care
"and conduct, put into the mouths of his greatest and
"wisest persons on every occasion."
Upon the whole, Clytander, we may safely assert, that
the belief of a particular providence is founded upon such
probable reasons as may well justify our assent. It would
scarce, therefore, be wise to renounce an opinion, which
affords so firm a support to the soul in those seasons
wherein she stands most in need of assistance, merely be-
cause it is not possible, in questions of this kind, to solve
every difficulty which attends them. If it be highly con-
sonant to the general notions of the benevolence of the
Deity (as highly consonant it surely is) that he should
not leave so impotent a creature as man to the single
guidance of his own precarious faculties; who would
abandon a belief so full of the most enlivening consola-
* The ties of faith, the sworn alliance broke,
Qur impious battles the just gods provoke.
Pope.
1
22
LETTER IX.
tion, in compliance with those metaphysical reasonings
which are usually calculated rather to silence, than to
satisfy, an humble enquirer after truth? Who indeed
would wish to be convinced, that he stands unguarded by
that heavenly shield, which can protect him against all
the assaults of an injurious and malevolent world? The
truth is, the belief of a particular providence is the most
animating persuasion that the mind of man can embrace ;
it gives strength to our hopes, and firmness to our resolu-
tions; it subdues the insolence of prosperity, and draws
out the sting of affliction. In a word, it is like the gol-
den branch to which Virgil's hero was directed, and af-
fords the only secure passport through the regions of
darkness and sorrow. I am, &c.
LETTER IX.
TO TIMOCLEA,
July 29, 1748.
Ir is with wonderful satisfaction I find you are grown
such an adept in the occult arts, and that you take a lau-
dable pleasure in the ancient and ingenious study of mak-
ing and solving riddles. It is a science, undoubtedly, of
most necessary acquirement, and deserves to make a part
in the education of both sexes. Those of yours may by
this means very innocently indulge their usual curiosity
of discovering and disclosing a secret; whilst such amongst
ours who have a turn for deep speculations, and are fond
of puzzling themselves and others, may exercise their fa-
culties this way with much private satisfaction, and with-
out the least disturbance to the publick. It is an art, in-
deed, which I would recommend to the encouragement of
both the universities, as it affords the easiest and shortest
LETTER IX.
23
method of conveying some of the most useful principles
of logick, and might therefore be introduced as a very pro
per substitute in the room of those dry systems, which
are at present in vogue in those places of education. For,
as it consists in discovering truth under borrowed appear-
ances, it might prove of wonderful advantage in every
branch of learning, by habituating the mind to separate
all foreign ideas, and consequently preserving it from that
grand source of errour, the being deceived by false con-
nexions. In short, Timoclea, this your favourite science
contains the sum of all human policy; and as there is no
passing through the world without sometimes mixing with
fools and knaves; who would not choose to be master
of the enigmatical art, in order, on proper occasions, to
be able to lead aside craft and impertinence from their
aim, by the convenient artifice of a prudent disguise? It
was the maxim of a very wise prince, that "he who
"knows not how to dissemble, knows not how to reign ;"
and I desire you would receive it as mine, that "he who
"knows not how to riddle, knows not how to live."
But besides the general usefulness of this art, it will
have a further recommendation to all true admirers of
antiquity, as being practised by the most considerable
personages of early times. It is almost three thousand
years ago since Samson proposed his famous riddle so well
known; though the advocates for ancient learning must
forgive me, if in this article I attribute the superiority to
the moderns for if we may judge of the skill of the for-
mer in this profound art, by that remarkable specimen of
it, the geniuses of those early ages were by no means
equal to those which our times have produced. But, as a
friend of mine has lately finished, and intends very shortly
to publish, a most curious work in folio, wherein he has
fully proved that important point, I will not anticipate
24
LETTER IX.
the pleasure you will receive by perusing his ingenious
performance. In the mean while let it be remembered
to the immortal glory of this art, that the wisest man, as
well as the greatest prince that ever lived, is said to have
amused himself and a neighbouring monarch in trying the
strength of each other's talents in this way; several rid-
dles, it seems, having passed between Solomon and Hiram,
upon condition that he who failed in the solution should
incur a certain penalty. It is recorded, likewise, of the
great father of poetry, even the divine Homer himself,
that he had a taste of this sort; and we are told, by a
Greek writer of his life, that he died with vexation for not
being able to discover a riddle, which was proposed to
him by some fisherman at a certain island called Iö.
I am inclined to think, indeed, that the ancients in ge-
neral were such admirers of this art, as to inscribe riddles
upon their tombstones, and that, not satisfied with puz-
zling the world in their life time, they bequeathed enig-
matical legacies to the publick after their decease. My
conjecture is founded upon an ancient inscription, which I
will venture to quote to you, though it is in Latin, as your
friend and neighbour the antiquarian will, I am persuaded,
be very glad of obliging you with a dissertation upon it.
Be pleased then to ask him, whether he does not think
that the following inscription favours my sentiments:
VIATORES. OPTIMI.
HIS. NVGIS. GRYPHIS. AMBAGIBVSQVE.
MEIS. CONDONARE. POSCIMUS.
However this may be, it is certain that it was one of the
great entertainments of the pastoral life, and therefore, if
for no other reason, highly deserving the attention of our
modern Arcadians. You remember, I dare say, the riddle
which the shepherd Dametas proposes to Maenalcas, in
Dryden's Virgil:
1
LETTER X.
25
Say where the round of Heav'n, which all contains,
To three short ells on earth our sight restrains:
Tell that, and rise a Phoebus for thy pains.
This enigma, which has exercised the guesses of many a
learned critick, remains yet unexplained; which I mention
not only as an instance of the wonderful penetration which
is necessary to render a man a complete adept in this most
noble science, but as an incitement to you to employ your
skill in attempting the solution. And now, Timoclea, what
will your grave friend say, who reproached you, it seems,
for your riddling genius, when he shall find you are thus
able to defend your favourite study by the lofty examples
of kings, commentators, and poets? I am, &c.
LETTER X.
TO PHIDIPPUS.
HARDLY, I imagine, were you in earnest, when you re-
quired my thoughts upon friendship: for to give you the
truest idea of that generous intercourse, may I not justly
refer you back to the sentiments of your own heart?
I am sure, at least, I have learned to improve my own
notions of that refined affection, by those instances which
I have observed in yourself; as it is from thence I have
received the clearest conviction, that it derives all its
strength and stability from virtue and good sense.
There is not, perhaps, a quality more uncommon in the
world, than that which is necessary to form a man for this
refined commerce: for however sociableness may be es-
teemed a just characteristick of our species, friendliness, I
am persuaded, will scarce be found to enter into its general
definition. The qualifications requisite to support and
conduct friendship in all its strength and extent, do not
3
26
LETTER X.
seem to be sufficiently diffused among the human race, to
render them the distinguishing marks of mankind; unless
generosity and good sense should be allowed (what they
never can be allowed) universally to prevail. On the con-
trary, how few are in possession of those most amiable of
endowments? How few are capable of that noble elevá-
tion of mind, which raises a man above those little jealou-
sies and rivalships that shoot up in the paths of common
amities?
We should not, indeed, so often hear complaints of the
inconstancy and falseness of friends, if the world in gene-
ral were more cautious than they usually are, in forming
connexions of this kind. But the misfortune is, our friend-
ships are apt to be too forward, and thus either fall off in
the blossom, or never arrive at just maturity. It is an
excellent piece of advice, therefore, that the poet Martial
gives upon this occasion :
Tu tantum inspice, qui novus paratur,
An possit fieri vetus sodalis.
Were I to make trial of any person's qualifications for
an union of so much delicacy, there is no part of his con-
duct I would sooner single out, than to observe him in his
resentments. And this not upon the maxim frequently
advanced, "that the best friends make the bitterest ene-
"mies;" but, on the contrary, because I am persuaded
that he who is capable of being a bitter enemy, can never
possess the necessary virtues that constitute a true friend.
For must he not want generosity (that most essential prin-
ciple of an amicable combination) who can be so mean as
to indulge a spirit of settled revenge, and coolly triumph
in the oppression of an adversary? Accordingly there is
no circumstance in the character of the excellent Agrico-
la, that gives me a higher notion of the true heroism of his
LETTER X.
27
mind, than what the historian of his life mentions con-
cerning his conduct in this particular instance. Ex Ira-
cundia (says Tacitus) nihil supererat: secretum et silenti-
um ejus non timeres. His elevated spirit was too great to
suffer his resentment to survive the occasion of it; and
those who provoked his indignation had nothing to appre-
hend from the secret and silent workings of unextinguished
malice. But the practice, it must be owned, (perhaps I
might have said the principle too) of the world runs
strongly on the side of the contrary disposition; and thus,
in opposition to that generous sentiment of your admired
orator, which I have so often heard you quote with ap-
plause, our friendships are mortal, whilst it is our enmities
only that never die.
But though judgment must collect the materials of
this goodly structure, it is affection that gives the cement;
and passion as well as reason should concur in forming a
firm and lasting coalition. Hence, perhaps, it is, that
not only the most powerful, but the most lasting friend-
ships are usually the produce of the early season of our
lives, when we are most susceptible of the warm and af-
fectionate impressions. The connexions into which we
enter in any after period, decrease in strength, as our pas-
sions abate in heat; and there is not, I believe, a single
instance of a vigorous friendship that ever struck root in
a bosom chilled by years. How irretrievable then is the
loss of those best and fairest acquisitions of our youth?
Seneca, taking notice of Augustus Caesar's lamenting,
upon a certain occasion, the death of Maecenas and
Agrippa, observes, that he who could instantly repair
the destruction of whole fleets and armies, and bid Rome,
after a general conflagration, rise out of her ashes even
with more lustre than before; was yet unable, during a
whole life, to fill up those lasting vacancies in his friend-
28
LETTER XI.
ship: a reflection which reminds me of renewing my soli-
citations, that you would be more cautious in hazarding a
life which I have so many reasons to love and honour.-
For whenever an accident of the same kind shall separate
(and what other accident can separate) the happy union
which has so long subsisted between us, where shall I re-
trieve so severe a loss? I am utterly indisposed to enter
into new habitudes, and extend the little circle of my
friendships, happy if I may but preserve it firm and un-
broken to the closing moment of my life! Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER XI.
TO HORTENSIUS.
August 12, 1742.
Ir any thing could tempt me to read the Latin poem
you mention, it would be your recommendation. But
shall I venture to own, that I have no taste for modern
compositions of that kind? There is one prejudice which
always remains with me against them, and which I have
never yet found cause to renounce: no true genius, I am
persuaded, would submit to write any considerable poem
in a dead language. A poet, who glows with the genu-
ine fire of a warm and lively imagination, will find the
copiousness of his own native English scarce sufficient to
convey his ideas in all their strength and energy. The
most comprehensive language sinks under the weight of
great conceptions; and a pregnant imagination disdains
to stint the natural growth of her thoughts to the con-
fined standard of classical expression. An ordinary ge-
nius, indeed, may be humbly contented to pursue words
through indexes and dictionaries, and tamely borrow
phrases from Horace and Virgil; but could the elevated
LETTER XI.
29
invention of Milton, or the brilliant sense of Pope, have
ingloriously submitted to lower the force and majesty of
the most exalted and nervous sentiments, to the scanty
measure of the Roman dialect? For copiousness is by
no means in the number of those advantages which at-
tend the Latin language; as many of the ancients have
both confessed and lamented. Thus Lucretius and Se-
neca complain of its deficiency with respect to subjects of
philosophy; as Pliny the younger owns he found it incapa-
ble of furnishing him with proper terms, in compositions
of wit and humour. But if the Romans themselves found
their language thus penurious, in its entire and most ample
supplies; how much more contracted must it be to us,
who are only in possession of its broken and scattered
remains?
To say truth, I have observed, in most of the modern
Latin poems which I have accidentally run over, a re-
markable barrenness of sentiment, and have generally
found the poet degraded into the parodist. It is usually
the little dealers on Parnassus, who have not a sufficient
stock of genius to launch out into a more enlarged com-
merce with the Muses, that hawk about these classical
gleanings. The style of these performances always puts
me in mind of Harlequin's snuff, which he collected by
borrowing a pinch out of every man's box he could meet,
and then retailed it to his customers under the pompous
title of tabac de mille fleurs. Half a line from Virgil or
Lucretius, pieced out with a bit from Horace or Juvenal,
is generally the motley mixture which enters into com-
positions of this sort. One may apply to these jack-daw
poets, with their stolen feathers, what Martial says to a
contemporary plagiarist:
Stat contra, dicitque tibi tua pagina: Fur es.
3 *
30
LETTER XI.
This kind of theft, indeed, every man must necessarily
commit, who sets up for a poet in a dead language.-
For, to express himself with propriety, he must not only
be sure that every single word which he uses is autho
rized by the best writers, but he must not even venture
to throw them out of that particular combination in
which he finds them connected: otherwise he may run
into the most barbarous solecisms. To explain my mean-
ing by an instance from modern language: the French
words arene and rive, are both to be met with in their
approved authors; and yet if a foreigner, unacquainted
with the niceties of that language, should take the liberty
of bringing those two words together, as in the following
verse,
Sur la rive du fleuve amassant de l'arene;
he would be exposed to the ridicule, not only of the cri-
ticks, but of the most ordinary mechanick in Paris. For
the idiom of the French tongue will not admit of the ex-
pression sur la rive du fleuve, but requires the phrase sur
le bord de la riviere; as they never say amasser de l'arene
but du sable. The same observation may be extended to
all languages, whether living or dead. But as no reason-
ings from analogy can be of the least force in determining
the idiomatick proprieties of any language whatsoever; a
modern Latin poet has no other method of being sure of
avoiding absurdities of this kind, than to take whole
phrases as he finds them formed to his bands. Thus, in-
stead of accommodating his expression to his sentiment,
(if any he should have) he must necessarily bend his sen-
timent to his expression, as he is not at liberty to strike
out into that boldness of style, and those unexpected
combinations of words, which give such grace and energy
to the thoughts of every true genius. True genius, in-
deed, is as much discovered by style, as by any other
LETTER XI.
31
distinction; and every eminent writer, without indulging.
any unwarranted licenses, has a language which he derives
from himself, and which is peculiarly and literally his
own.
I would recommend, therefore, to these empty echoes
of the ancients, which owe their voice to the ruins of
Rome, the advice of an old philosopher to an affected ora-
tor of his times: Vive moribus praeteritis, said he, loquere
verbis praesentibus. Let these poets form their conduct,
if they please, by the manners of the ancients; but if
they would prove their genius, it must be by the lan-
guage of the moderns. I would not, however, have you
imagine, that I exclude all merit from a qualification of
this kind. To be skilled in the mechanism of Latin verse,
is a talent, I confess, extremely worthy of a pedagogue ;
as it is an exercise of singular advantage to his pupils.—
Adieu. I am,
I am, &c.
LETTER XII.
TO AMASIA.
July 8, 1744.
If good manners will not justify my long silence, policy
at least will and you must confess, there is some pru-
dence in not owning a debt one is incapable of paying.
I have the mortification, indeed, to find myself engaged in
a commerce, which I have not a sufficient fund to sup-
port, though I must add, at the same time, if you expect
an equal return of entertainment for that which your let-
ters afford, I know not where you will find a correspon-
dent. You will scarcely at least look for him in the de-
sart, or hope for any thing very lively from a man who is
obliged to seek his companions among the dead. You
who dwell in a land flowing with mirth and good humour,
32
LETTER XII.
ነ
meet with many a gallant occurrence worthy of record ;
but what can a village produce, which is more famous
for repose than for action, and is so much behind the
manners of the present age, as scarce to have got out of
the simplicity of the first? The utmost of our humour
rises no higher than punch; and all that we know of as-
semblies, is once a year round our May-pole. Thus un-
qualified, as I am, to contribute to your amusement, I am
as much at a loss to supply my own; and am obliged to
have recourse to a thousand stratagems to help me off
with those lingering hours, which run so swiftly, it seems,
by you. As one cannot always, you know, be playing at
push-pin, I sometimes employ myself with a less philoso-
phical diversion; and either pursue butterflies, or hunt
rhymes, as the weather and the seasons permit. This
morning not proving very favourable to my sports of the
field, I contented myself with those under covert; and
as I am not at present supplied with any thing better for
your entertainment, will you suffer me to set before you
some of my game?
A TALE.
Ere Saturn's sons were yet disgrac'd,
And heathen gods were all the taste,
Full oft (we read) 'twas Jove's high will
To take the air on Ida's hill.
It chanc'd, as once, with serious ken,
He view'd from thence the ways of men,
He saw (and pity touch'd his breast)
The world by three foul fiends possest.
Pale Discord there, and Folly vain,
With haggard Vice, upheld their reign.
Then forth he sent his summons high,
And call'd a senate of the sky.
Round as the winged orders prest,
Jove thus his sacred mind express'd :
Say, which of all this shining train
"Will Virtue's conflict hard sustain ?
LETTER XII.
33
»
"For see! she drooping takes her flight,
"While not a god supports her right."
He paus'd--when, from amidst the sky,
Wit, Innocence, and Harmony,
With one united zeal arose,
The triple tyrants to oppose.
That instant from the realms of day,
With gen'rous speed they took their way;
To Britain's isle direct their car,
And enter'd with the ev'ning star.
Beside the road a mansion stood,
Defended by a circling wood.
Hither, disguis'd, their steps they bend
In hopes, perchance, to find a friend.
Nor vain their hope; for records say
Worth ne'er from thence was turn'd away,
They urge the trav'ller's common chance,
And ev'ry piteous plea advance.
The artful tale that Wit had feign'd,
Admittance easy soon obtain❜d.
The dame who own'd, adorn'd the place;
Three blooming daughters added grace.
The first, with gentlest manners blest,
And temper sweet, each heart possest ;
Who view'd her, catch'd the tender flame;
And soft Amasia was her name.
In sprightly sense and polish'd air,
What maid with Mira might compare?
While Lucia's eyes and Lucia's lyrę,
Did unresisted love inspire.
Imagine now the table clear,
And mirth in ev'ry face appear:
The song, the tale, the jest went round
The riddle dark, the trick profound.
Thus each admiring and admir'd,
The hosts and guests at length retir'd
When Wit thus spake her sister-train;
* Faith, friends, our errand is but vain...
"Quick let us measure back the sky ;
"These nymphs alone may well supply
"Wit, Innocence, and Harmony."
You see to what expedient solitude has reduced me,
when I am thus forced to string rhymes, as boys do birds'
34
LETTER XIII.
eggs, in order to while away my idle hours. But a gayer
scene is, I trust, approaching, and the day will shortly, I
hope, arrive, when I shall only complain that it steals away
too fast. It is not from any improvement in the objects
which surround me, that I expect this wondrous change;
nor yet that a longer familiarity will render them more
agreeable. It is from a promise I received that Amasia
will visit the hermit in his cell, and disperse the gloom of
a solitaire by the cheerfulness of her conversation. What
inducements shall I mention to prevail with you to hasten
that day? Shall I tell you that I have a bower over-arched
with jessamine? that I have an oak which is the favourite
haunt of a dryad ? that I have a plantation which flourishes
with all the verdure of May, in the midst of all the cold
of December? Or, may I not hope that I have something
still more prevailing with you than all these, as I can with
truth assure you, that I have a heart which is faithfully
yours, &c.
LETTER XIII
TO PHILOTES.
AMONG all the advantages which attend friendship,
there is not one more valuable than the liberty it admits
in laying open the various affections of one's mind, with-
out reserve or disguise. There is something in disclosing
to a friend the occasional emotions of one's heart, that
wonderfully contributes to sooth and allay its perturba-
tions, in all its most pensive or anxious moments. Nature,
indeed, seems to have cast us with a general disposition to
communication: though at the same time it must be ac-
knowledged, there are few to whom one may safely be
communicative. Have I not reason, then, to esteem it
LETTER XIII.
35
as one of the most desirable circumstances of my life,
that I dare, without scruple or danger, think aloud to
Philotes? It is merely to exercise that happy privilege, I
now take up my pen; and you must expect nothing in
this letter but the picture of my heart in one of its sple-
netick hours. There are certain seasons, perhaps, in
every man's life, when he is dissatisfied with himself and
every thing around him, without being able to give a sub-
stantial reason for being so. At least I am unwilling to
think that this dark cloud, which at present hangs over my
mind, is peculiar to my constitution, and never gathers in
any breast but my own. It is much more, however, my
concern to dissipate this vapour in myself, than to discov-
er that it sometimes arises in others: as there is no dis-
position a man would rather endeavour to cherish, than a
constant aptitude of being pleased. But my practice will
not always credit my philosophy; and I find it much
easier to point out my distemper than to remove it. Af-
ter all, is it not a mortifying consideration, that the
powers of reason should be less prevalent than those of
matter; and that a page of Seneca cannot raise the spirits,
when a pint of claret will? It might, methinks, somewhat
abate the insolence of human pride to consider, that it is
but increasing or diminishing the velocity of certain fluids
in the animal machine, to elate the soul with the gayest
hopes, or sink her into the deepest despair; to depress
the hero into a coward, or advance the coward into a hero.
It is to some such mechanical cause I am inclined to
attribute the present gloominess of my mind: at the
same time I will confess, there is something in that very
consideration which gives strength to the fit, and renders
it so much the more difficult to throw off. For, tell me,
is it not a discouraging reflection to find one's self servile
(as Shakespeare expresses it) to every skyey influence, and
36
LETTER XIV.
the sport of every paltry atom? to owe the ease of one's
mind not only to the disposition of one's own body, but
almost to that of every other which surrounds us? Adieu.
I am, &c.
LETTER XIV.
TO ORONTES.
THE passage you quote is entirely in my sentiments.
I agree both with that celebrated author and yourself,
that our oratory is by no means in a state of perfection;
and, though it has much strength and solidity, that it
may yet be rendered far more polished and affecting.—
The growth, indeed, of eloquence, even in those coun-
tries where she flourished most, has ever been exceeding-
ly slow. Athens had been in possession of all the other
polite improvements, long before her pretensions to the
persuasive arts were in any degree considerable; as the
earliest orator of note among the Romans did not appear
sooner than about a century before Tully.
That great master of persuasion, taking notice of this
remarkable circumstance, assigns it as an evidence of the
superiour difficulty of his favourite art. Possibly there
may be some truth in the observation: but whatever the
cause be, the fact, I believe, is undeniable. Accordingly,
elequence has by no means made equal advances in our
own country, with her sister arts; and though we have
seen some excellent poets, and a few good painters, rise
up amongst us, yet I know not whether our nation can
supply us with a single orator of deserved eminence.
One cannot but be surprised at this, when it is considered
that we have a profession set apart for the purposes of
persuasion; and which not only affords the most animat-
1
LETTER XIV.
37
ing and interesting topicks of rhetorick, but wherein a
talent of this kind would prove the likeliest, perhaps, of
any other to obtain those ambitious prizes which were
thought to contribute so much to the successful progress
of ancient eloquence.
Among the principal defects of our English orators,
their general disregard of harmony has, I think, been the
least observed. It would be injustice indeed to deny
that we have some performances of this kind amongst
us, tolerably musical; but it must be acknowledged, at
the same time, that it is more the effect of accident than
design, and rather a proof of the power of our language,
than of the art of our orators.
Dr. Tillotson, who is frequently mentioned as having
carried this species of eloquence to its highest perfec-
tion, seems to have had no sort of notion of rhetorical
numbers and may I venture, Orontes, to add, without
hazarding the imputation of an affected singularity, that
I think no man had ever less pretensions to genuine ora-
tory, than this celebrated preacher? If any thing could
raise a flame of eloquence in the breast of an orator,
there is no occasion upon which, one should imagine, it
would be more likely to break out, than in celebrating
departed merit; yet the two sermons which he preached
upon the death of Mr. Gouge and Dr. Whichcote are as
cold and languid performances as were ever, perhaps,
produced upon such an animating subject. One cannot
indeed but regret, that he who abounds with such noble
and generous sentiments, should want the art of setting
them off with all the advantage they deserve; that the
sublime in morals should not be attended with a suitable
clevation of language. The truth however is, his words
ate frequently ill chosen, and almost always ill-placed;
4
38
LETTER XIV.
his periods are both tedious and unharmonious; as his
metaphors are generally mean, and often ridiculous. It
were easy to produce numberless instances in support of
this assertion. Thus, in his sermon preached before
Queen Anne, when she was Princess of Denmark, he
talks of squeezing a parable, thrusting religion by, driving
a strict bargain with God, sharking shifts, &c. and, speak-
ing of the day of judgment, he describes the world as
cracking about our ears. I cannot however but acknow-
ledge, in justice to the oratorical character of this most
valuable prelate, that there is a noble simplicity in some
few of his sermons, as his excellent discourse on sincerity
deserves to be mentioned with particular applause.
But to show his deficiency in the article I am consi-
dering at present, the following stricture will be sufficient,
among many others that might be cited to the same pur-
pose. One might be apt," says he, "to think, at first
"view, that this parable was over done, and wanted some-
thing of a due decorum; it being hardly credible, that
a man, after he had been so mercifully and generously
“dealt withal, as upon his humble request to have so huge
* a debt so freely forgiven, should, whilst the memory of
so much mercy was fresh upon him, even in the very
"next moment, handle his fellow-servant, who had made
"the same humble request to him which he had done to
"his Lord, with so much roughness and cruelty for so
• inconsiderable a sum."
(6
This whole period (not to mention other objections
which might justly be raised against it) is unmusical
throughout; but the concluding members, which ought to
have been particularly flowing, are most miserably loose
and disjointed. If the delicacy of Tully's ear was so ex-
quisitely refined, as not always to be satisfied even when
he read Demosthenes, how would it have been offended
I
1
LETTER XIV.
39
at the harshness and dissonance of so unharmonious a
sentence !
Nothing, perhaps, throws our eloquence at a greater
distance from that of the ancients, than this gothick
arrangement; as those wonderful effects, which some-
times attended their elocution, were, in all probability,
chiefly owing to their skill in musical concords. It was
by the charm of numbers, united with the strength of
reason, that Tully confounded the audacious Catiline, and
silenced the eloquent Hortensius. It was this that de-
prived Curio of all power of recollection when he rose
up to uppose that great master of enchanting rhetorick:
it was this, in a word, made even Caesar himself tremble;
nay, what is yet more extraordinary, made Caesar alter
his determined purpose, and acquit the man he had re-
solved to condema.
You will not suspect that I attribute too much to the
power of numerous composition, when you recollect the
instance which Tully produces of its wonderful effect.-
He informs us, you may remember, in one of his rheto-
rical treatises, that he was himself a witness of its influ-
ence, as Carbo was once haranguing to the people. When
that orator pronounced the following sentence, patris
dictum sapiens, temeritas filii cōmprobăvit, it was aston-
ishing, says he, to observe the general applause which
followed that harmonious close. A modern ear, perhaps,
would not be much affected upon this occasion; and,
indeed, it is more than probable, that we are ignorant
of the art of pronouncing that period with its genuine
emphasis and cadence. We are certain, however, that
the musick of it consisted in the dichoree with which it is
terminated for Cicero himself assures us, that if the
final measure had been changed, and the words placed in
a different order, their whole effect would have been
absolutely destroyed.
:
40
LETTER XIV.
This art was first introduced among the Greeks by
Thrasymachus, though some of the admirers of Isocrates
attributed the invention to that orator. It does not
appear to have been observed by the Romans till near
the times of Tully, and even then it was by no means
universally received. The ancient and less numerous
manner of composition, had still many admirers, who
were such enthusiasts to antiquity as to adopt her very
defects. A disposition of the same kind may, perhaps,
prevent its being received with us; and while the arch-
bishop shall maintain his authority as an orator, it is not
to be expected that any great advancement will be made
in this species of eloquence. That strength of under-
standing, likewise, and solidity of reason, which is so
eminently our national characteristick, may add some-
what to the difficulty of reconciling us to a study of this
kind; as at first glance it may seem to lead an orator
from his grand and principal aim, and tempt him to make
a sacrifice of sense to sound. It must be acknowledged,
indeed, that in the times which succeeded the dissolution
of the Roman republick, this art was so perverted from
its true end, as to become the single study of their ener-
vated orators. Pliny, the younger, often complains of
this contemptible affectation; and the polite author of
that elegant dialogue which, with very little probability,
is attributed either to Tacitus or Quintilian, assures us,
it was the ridiculous boast of certain orators, in the time
of the declension of genuine eloquence, that their ha-
rangues were capable of being set to musick, and sung
upon the stage. But it must be remembered, that the
true end of this art I am recommending, is to aid, not to
supersede rcason; that it is so far from being necessarily
cffeminate, that it not only adds grace but strength to the
powers of persuasion. For this purpose Tully and Quin-
LETTER XV.
41
tilian, those great masters of numerous composition, have
laid it down as a fixed and invariable rule, that it must
never appear the effect of labour in the orator; that the
tuneful flow of his periods must always seem the casual
result of their disposition; and that it is the highest
offence against the art, to weaken the expression, in order
to give a more musical tone to the cadence. In short,
that no unmeaning words are to be thrown in merely to
fill up the requisite measure, but that they must still rise
in sense as they improve in sound. I am, &c.
LETTER XV.
TO CLEORA.
:
August 11, 1738.
THOUGH it is but a few hours since I parted from my
Cleora, yet I have already, you see, taken up my pen to
write to her. You must not expect, however, in this, or
in any of my future letters, that I say fine things to you;
since I only intend to tell you true ones. My heart is
too full to be regular, and too sincere to be ceremonious.
I have changed the manner, not the style of my former
conversations and I write to you, as I used to talk to
you, without form or art. Tell me then, with the same
undissembled sincerity, what effect this absence has upon
your usual cheerfulness? as I will honestly confess, on my
own part, that I am too interested to wish a circumstance,
so little consistent with my own repose, should be altoge-
ther reconcileable to yours. I have attempted, however,
to pursue your advice, and divert myself by the subject you
recommended to my thoughts: but it is impossible, I per-
ceive, to turn off the mind at once from an object which
it has long dwelt upon with pleasure. My heart, like a
4 *
42
LETTER XVI.
poor bird which is hunted from her nest, is still return-
ing to the place of its affections, and after some vain ef-
forts to fly off, settles again where all its cares and all its
tenderness are centered. Adieu.
LETTER XVI.
TO PHILOTES.
August 20, 1739.
I FEAR I shall lose all my credit with you as a gardener,
By this specimen which I venture to send you of the pro-
duce of my walls. The snails, indeed, have had more
than their share of my peaches and nectarines this season:
but will you not smile when I tell you, that I deem it a
sort of cruelty to suffer them to be destroyed? I should
scarce dare to acknowledge this weakness (as the gene-
rality of the world, no doubt, would call it) had I not ex-
perienced, by many agreeable instances, that I may safe-
ly lay open to you every sentiment of my heart. To
confess the truth, then, I have some scruples with re-
spect to the liberty we assume in the unlimited destruc-
tion of these lower orders of existence. I know not
upon what principle of reason and justice it is, that man-
kind have founded their right over the lives of every
creature that is placed in a subordinate rank of being to
themselves. Whatever claim they may have in right of
food and self-defence, did they extend their privilege no
farther than those articles would reasonably carry them,
numberless beings might enjoy their lives in peace, who
are now hurried out of them by the most wanton and un-
necessary cruelties. I cannot, indeed, discover why it
should be thought less inhuman to crush to death a
harmless insect, whose single offence is that it eats that
LETTER XVI.
45
food which nature has prepared for its sustenance: than
it would be, were I to kill any more bulky creature for
the same reason. There are few tempers so hardened
to the impressions of humanity, as not to shudder at the
thought of the latter; and yet the former is universally
practised without the least check of compassion. This
seems to arise from the gross errour of supposing that every
creature is really in itself contemptible, which happens
to be clothed with a body infinitely disproportionate to
our own; not considering that great and little are merely
relative terms. But the inimitable Shakespeare would
teach us, that
-the poor beetle, that we tread upon
In corporal suff'rance feels a pang as great
As when a giant dies.
And this is not thrown out in the latitude of poetical ima-
gination, but supported by the discoveries of the most
improved philosophy; for there is every reason to be-
lieve that the sensations of many insects are as exquisite
as those of creatures of far more enlarged dimensions;
perhaps even more so. The millepedes, for instance,
rolls itself round, upon the slightest touch; and the
snail gathers in her horns upon the least approach of your
hand. Are not these the strongest indications of their
sensibility, and is it any evidence of ours, that we are not
therefore induced to treat them with a more sympathiz-
ing tenderness?
I was extremely pleased with a sentiment I met with
the other day in honest Montaigne. That good-natured
author remarks, that there is a certain general claim of
kindness and benevolence which every species of crea-
tures has a right to from us. It is to be regretted that
this generous maxim is not more attended to, in the affair
44
LETTER XVI.
of education, and pressed home upon tender minds in its
full extent and latitude. I am far, indeed, from thinking
that the early delight which children discover in torment-
ing flies, &c. is a mark of any innate cruelty of temper;
because this turn may be accounted for upon other prin-
ciples, and it is entertaining unworthy notions of the Deity
to suppose he forms mankind with a propensity to the
most detestable of all dispositions. But most certainly,
by being unrestrained in sports of this kind, they may
acquire by habit, what they never would have learned
from nature, and grow up into a confirmed inattention to
every kind of suffering but their own. Accordingly, the
supreme court of judicature at Athens thought an in-
stance of this sort not below its cognizance, and punished
a boy for putting out the eyes of a poor bird that had un-
happily fallen into his hands.
It might be of service, therefore, it should seem, in or-
der to awaken, as early as possible, in children, an exten-
sive sense of humanity, to give them a view of several
sorts of insects as they may be magnified by the assistance
of glasses, and to shew them, that the same evident marks
of wisdom and goodness prevail in the formation of the
minutest insect, as in that of the most enormous Levia-
than that they are equally furnished with whatever is
necessary not only to the preservation but the happiness
of their beings, in that class of existence to which Pro-
vidence has assigned them in a word, that the whole con-
struction of their respective organs distinctly proclaims
them the objects of the divine benevolence, and therefore
that they justly ought to be so of ours. I am, &c.
:
45
LETTER XVII.
TO THE SAME.
Feb. 1, 1738.
You see how much I trust to your good-nature and
your judgment, whilst I am the only person, perhaps,
among your friends, who have ventured to omit a con-
gratulation in form. I am not, however, intentionally
guilty; for I really designed you a visit before now; but
hearing that your acquaintance flowed in upon you from
all-quarters, I thought it would be more agreeable to you,
as well as to myself, if I waited till the inundation was
abated. But if I have not joined in the general voice of
congratulation, I have not, however, omitted the sincere,
though silent wishes, which the warmest friendship can
suggest to a heart entirely in your interests.-Had I not
long since forsaken the regions of poetry, I would tell
you, in the language of that country, how often I have
said, may
all heav'n,
And happy constellations on that hour
Shed their selectest influence!
Milton.
But plain prose will do as well for plain truth; and there
is no occasion for any art to persuade you, that you have,
# upon every occurrence of your life, my best good wishes,
I hope shortly to have an opportunity of making myself
better known to Aspasia. When I am so, I shall rejoice
with her, on the choice she has made of a man, from
whom I will undertake to promise her all the happiness
which the state she has entered into can afford. Thus
much I do not scruple to say of her husband to you; the
rest I had rather say to her. If upon any occasion you
should mention me, let it be in the character which I
most value myself upon, that of your much obliged aud
very affectionate friend,
46
LETTER XVIII.
TO HORTENSIUS.
July 5, 1739.
I CAN by no means subscribe to the sentiments of your
last letter, nor agree with you in thinking that the love
of fame is a passion which either reason or religion con-
demns. I confess, indeed, there are some who have
represented it as inconsistent with both; and I remember,
in particular, the excellent author of The Religion of Na-
ture delineated, has treated it as highly irrational and ab-
surd. As the passage falls in so thoroughly with your own
turn of thought, you will have no objection, I imagine, to
my quoting it at large; and I give it you, at the same
time, as a very great authority on your side.
"In
66
66
reality," says that writer, "the man is not known ever
"the more to posterity, because his name is transmitted
"to them; He doth not live because his name does.-
"When it is said, Julius Caesar subdued Gaul, conquered
Pompey, &c. it is the same thing as to say, the con-
queror of Pompey was Julius Caesar, i. e. Caesar and
"the conqueror of Pompey is the same thing; Caesar
"is as much known by one designation as by the other.
"The amount then is only this: that the conqueror of
"Pompey conquered Pompey; or rather, since Pom-
66
66
pey is as little known now as Caesar, somebody con-
“quered somebody. Such a poor business is this boasted
"immortality! and such is the thing called glory among
us ! To discerning men this fame is mere air, and what
they despise, if not shun."
But surely, 'twere to consider too curiously (as Horatio
says to Hamlet) to consider thus. For though fame with
posterity should be, in the strict analysis of it, no other
than what is here described, a mere uninteresting propo-
LETTER XVIII.
47
"
sition, amounting to nothing more than that somebody
acted meritoriously; yet it would not necessarily follow,
that true philosophy would banish the desire of it from
the human breast. For this passion may be (as most
certainly it is) wisely implanted in our species, notwith-
standing the corresponding object should in reality be very
different from what it appears in imagination. Do not
many of our most refined and even contemplative plea-
sures owe their existence to our mistakes? It is but
extending (I will not say improving) some of our senses to
a higher degree of acuteness than we now possess them,
to make the fairest views of nature, or the noblest pro-
ductions of art, appear horrid and deformed. To see
things as they truly and in themselves are, would not
always, perhaps, be of advantage to us in the intellectual
world, any more than in the natural. But after all, who
shall certainly assure us, that the pleasure of virtuous fame
dies with its possessor, and reaches not to a farther scene
of existence? There is nothing, it should seem, either
absurd or unphilosophical in supposing it possible, at least,
that the praises of the good and the judicious, that sweetest
musick to an honest ear in this world, may be echoed back
to the mansions of the next that the poet's description of
Fame may be literally true, and though she walks upon
earth, she may yet lift her head into heaven.
But can it be reasonable to extinguish a passion which
nature has universally lighted up in the human breast, and
which we constantly find to burn with most strength and
brightness in the noblest and best-formed bosoms? Ac-
cordingly, revelation is so far from endeavouring (as you
suppose) to eradicate the seed which nature has thus
deeply planted, that she rather seems, on the contrary,
to cherish and forward its growth. To be exalted with
honour, and to be had in everlasting remembrance, are in
48
LETTER XVIII.
the number of those encouragements which the Jewish
dispensation offered to the virtuous; as the person from
whom the sacred author of the christian system received
his birth, is herself represented as rejoicing that all gene-
rations should call her blessed.
To be convinced of the great advantage of cherishing
this high regard to posterity, this noble desire of an after-
life in the breath of others, one need only look back upon
the history of the ancient Greeks and Romans. What
other principle was it, Hortensius, which produced that
exalted strain of virtue in those days, that may well serve
as a model to these? Was it not the consentiens laus bo-
norum, the incorrupta vox bene judicantium (as Tully calls
It) the concurrent approbation of the good, the uncorrupt-
ed applause of the wise, that animated their most gene-
rous pursuits?
To confess the truth, I have been ever inclined to think
it a very dangerous attempt, to endeavour to lessen the
motives of right acting, or to raise any suspicion concern-
ing their solidity. The tempers and dispositions of man-
kind are so extremely different, that it seems necessary
they should be called into action by a variety of incite-
ments. Thus, while some are willing to wed Virtue
for her personal charms, others are engaged to take
her for the sake of her expected dowry: and since her
followers and admirers have so little to hope from her
in present, it were pity, methinks, to reason them out
of any imaginary advantage in reversion. Farewell. I
am, &c.
49
LETTER XIX.
TO CLEORA.
I THINK, Cleora, you are the truest female hermit I
ever knew ; at least I do not remember to have met with
any among your sex of the same order with yourself; for
as to the religious on the other side of the water, I can
by no means esteem them worthy of being ranked in your
number. They are a sort of people who either have seen
nothing of the world, or too much and where is the me-
rit of giving up what one is not acquainted with, or what
one is weary of? But you are a far more illustrious re-
cluse, who have entered into the world with innocency,
and retired from it with good humour. That sort of life,
which makes so amiable a figure in the description of
poets and philosophers, and which kings and heroes have
professed to aspire after, Cleora actually enjoys she
lives her own, free from the follies and impertinences,
the hurry and disappointments of false pursuits of every
kind. How much do I prefer one hour of such solitude
to all the glittering, glaring, gaudy days of the ambitious?
I shall not envy them their gold and their silver, their pre-
cious jewels, and their changes of raiment, while you per-
mit me to join you and Alexander in your hermitage.
I hope to do so on Sunday evening, and attend you to the
siege of Tyre, or the deserts of Africa, or wherever else
your hero shall lead you. But should I find you in more
elevated company, and engaged with the rapturous * * * *
even then, I hope, you will not refuse to admit me of your
party. If I have not yet a proper goût for the mystick
writers, perhaps I am not quite incapable of acquiring one;
and as I have every thing of the hermit in my composition
5
50
LETTER XX.
except the enthusiasm, it is not impossible but I may catch
that also, by the assistance of you and **** I desire
you would receive me as a probationer, at least, and as
one who is willing, if he is worthy, to be initiated into
your secret doctrines. I think I only want this taste, and
a relish for the marvellous, to be wholly in your senti-
ments. Possibly I may be so happy as to attain both in
good time I fancy, at least, there is a close connexion
between them, and I shall not despair of obtaining the
one, if I can by any means arrive at the other. But
which must I endeavour at first? shall I prepare for the
mystick, by commencing with the romance, or would you
advise me to begin with Malbranche, before I undertake
Clelia ? Suffer me, however, ere I enter the regions of
fiction, to bear testimony to one constant truth, by as-
suring you that I am, &c.
LETTER XX.
TO EUPHRONIUS.
October 10, 1742.
I HAVE often mentioned to you the pleasure I received
from Mr. Pope's translation of the Iliad: but my admira-
tion of that inimitable performance has increased upon
me, since you tempted me to compare the copy with the
original. To say of this noble work, that it is the best
which ever appeared of the kind, would be speaking in
much lower terms than it deserves; the world, perhaps,
scarce ever before saw a truly poetical translation; for,
as Denham observes,
Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate,
That few, but those who cannot write, translate.
Mr. Pope seems, in most places, to have been inspired
with the same sublime spirit that animates his original;
LETTER XX.
51
as he often takes fire from a single hint in his author, and
blazes out even with a stronger and brighter flame of
poetry. Thus the character of Thersites, as it stands in
the English Iliad, is heightened, I think, with more mas-
terly strokes of satire than appear in the Greek; as many
of those similes in Homer, which would appear, perhaps,
to a modern eye too naked and unornamented, are paint-
ed by Pope in all the beautiful drapery of the most grace-
ful metaphor. With what propriety of figure, for instance,
has he raised the following comparison !
Ευτ' όρεος κορυφησι Νότος κατέχευεν ομίχλην,
Ποιμέσιν ουτι φίλην, κλεπτη δε τε νυκτος αμείνω,
Τόσσον τις τ' επιλευσσει, οσον τ' επι λααν ίησιν
Ως άρα των ύπο ποσσι κονίσσαλος ωρνυτ' αελλής
Egxoμεvwv. IL. iii. 10.
Thus from his flaggy wings when Eurus sheds
A night of vapours round the mountain-heads,
Swift gliding mists the dusky fields invade ;
To thieves more grateful than the midnight shade:
While scarce the swains their feeding flocks survey,
Lost and confus'd amidst the thicken'd day;
So wrapt in gath'ring dust the Grecian train,
A moving cloud, swept on and hid the plain.
When Mars, being wounded by Diomed, flies back to
heaven, Homer compares him, in his passage, to a dark
cloud raised by summer heats, and driven by the wind.
Οι δ' εκ νεφέων ερεβεννη φαίνεται απg,
Καύματος εξ ανέμοιο δυσαεος ορνυμένοιο. II. v. 864.
The inimitable translator improves this image, by
throwing in some circumstances, which, though not in the
original, are exactly in the spirit of Homer:
As vapours, blown by Auster's sultry breath,
Pregnant with plagues, and shedding seeds of death,
52
LETTER XX.
Beneath the rage of burning Sirius rise,
Choak the parch'd earth, and blacken all the skies:
In such a cloud the god, from combat driven,
High o'er the dusty whirlwind scales the heaven.
There is a description in the eighth book, which Eu-
stathius, it seems, esteemed the most beautiful night-
piece that could be found in poetry. If I am not greatly
mistaken, however, I can produce a finer and I am per-
suaded even the warmest admirer of Homer will allow
the following lines are inferiour to the corresponding
ones in the translation:
Ως δ' ότ' εν ουρανω ασπρα φασινων αμφι σελήνην
Φαίνετ' αριπρεπέα, ότε τ' έπλετο νηνεμος αιθήρ,
Εκ τ' εφανον πάσαι σκοπίας και πρωινες ακροί,
,
Και ναπαι· ουρανόθεν δ' αρ' ὑπερραγή ασπετος αιθης,
Παντα δε τ' είδεται αστρα" γεγηθε δε τε φρενα ποιμην.
IL. viii. 555.
As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O'er heav'n's clear azure spreads her sacred light;
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene,
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole:
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies ;
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.
I fear the enthusiastick admirers of Homer would look
upon me with much indignation, were they to hear me
speak of any thing in modern language as equal to the
strength and majesty of that great father of poetry. But
the following passage having been quoted by a celebrated
author of antiquity, as an instance of the true sublime,
LETTER XX.
53
I will leave it to you to determine whether the translation
has not at least as just a claim to that character as the
original.
Ως δ' ότε χειμαρροι ποταμοι κατ' ορεσφι ρέοντες,
Ες μισγαίκειαν συμβάλλετον οβριμον ύδως,
Κρουνών εκ μεγάλων κοιλης εντοσθε χαράδρας,
Τωνδε τε τήλισε δούπον εν ουρεσιν εκλυε ποιμην.
Ως των μισγομένων γένετο ιαχή τε φόβος τε.
As torrents roll, increas'd by num'rous rills,
With rage impetuous down their echoing bills,
Rush to the vales, and, pour'd along the plain,
Roar through a thousand channels to the main ;
The distant shepherd, trembling, hears the sound;
So mix both hosts, and so their cries rebound.
There is no ancient author more likely to betray an
injudicious interpreter into meannesses, than Homer; as
it requires the utmost skill and address to preserve that
venerable air of simplicity which is one of the characte-
ristical marks of that poet, without sinking the expression
or the sentiment into contempt. Antiquity will furnish
a very strong instance of the truth of this observation, in a
single line which is preserved to us from a translation of
the Iliad by one Labeo, a favourite poet, it seems, of
Nero it is quoted by an old scholiast upon Persius, and
happens to be a version of the following passage in the
fourth Book :
:
Ωμον βεβρωθοις Πριαμον Πριάμοιο τε παίδας.
which Nero's admirable poet rendered literally thus:
Crudum manduces Priamum Priamique pisinnos.
I need not indeed have gone so far back for my instance:
a Labeo of our own nation would have supplied me with
5 *
54
LETTER XX.
one much nearer at hand. Ogilby or Hobbs (I forget
which) has translated this very verse in the same ridicu-
lous manner :
And eat up Priam and his children all.
But, among many other passages of this sort, I observed
one in the same book, which raised my curiosity to ex-
amine in what manner Mr. Pope had conducted it.-
Juno, in a general council of the gods, thus accosts Ju-
piter :
Αινότατε Κρονίδη,
Πως εθελείς αλσον θείναι ασόκους και ατελεστον
Ιδρωθ', ον ίδρωσα μόγῳ ; καμε την δε και ιπποι
Λαον αγείρουση Πριαμῳ κακα, τοσο το παισιν
which is as much as if she had said, in plain English,
Why surely, Jupiter, you won't be so cruel as to ren-
“der ineffectual all my expense of labour and sweat.-
"Have I not tired both my horses, in order to raise forces
“to ruin Priam and his family?" It requires the most
delicate touches imaginable to raise such a sentiment as
this into any tolerable degree of dignity. But a skilful
artist knows how to embellish the most ordinary subject ;
and what would be low and spiritless from a less masterly
pencil, becomes pleasing and graceful when worked up
by Mr. Pope's :
Shall then, O tyrant of th' etherial plain,
My schemes, my labours, and my hopes be vain ?
Have I for this shook Ilion with alarms,
Assembled nations, set two worlds in arms?
To spread the war I flew from shore to shore,
Th' immortal coursers searce the labour bore.
But, to shew you that I am not so enthusiastick an ad-
mirer of this glorious performance, as to be blind to its
LETTER XX.
55
imperfections, I will venture to point out a passage or
two (amongst others which might be mentioned) wherein
Mr. Pope's usual judgment seems to have failed him.
When Iris is sent to inform Helen that Paris and Me-
nelaus were going to decide the fate of both nations by
single combat, and were actually upon the point of en-
gaging, Homer describes her as hastily throwing a veil
over her face, and flying to the Scaean gate, from whence
she might have a full view of the field of battle.
Αυτίκα δ' αργεννησι καλυψαμένη οθόνησιν,
Ωρματ' εκ θαλαμοιο, τερεν κατα δακρυ χέουσα.
Ουκ οιη' αμα τηγε και αμφιπολεί δυ' έποντο, &c.
Αίψα δ' επειθ' ικανόν, οθι Σκαιαι πυλαι ήσαν.
IL. iii. 141.
Nothing could possibly be more interesting to Helen,
than the circumstances in which she is here represented:
it was necessary therefore to exhibit her, as Homer we
see has, with much eagerness and impetuosity in her mo-
tion. But what can be more calm and quiet than the at-
titude wherein the Helen of Mr. Pope appears ?
O'er her fair face a snowy veil she threw,
And softly sighing from the loom withdrew :
Her handmaids-
-wait
Her silent footsteps to the Scaean gate.
Those expressions of speed and impetuosity, which
occur so often in the original lines, UT-wguato-asfa
Invov, would have been sufficient, one should have imagin-
ed, to have guarded a translator from falling into an
impropriety of this kind.
This brings to my mind another instance of the same
nature, where our English poet, by not attending to the
particular expression of his author, has given us a picture
of a very different kind than what Homer intended. In
56
LETTER XX.
the first Iliad the reader is introduced into a council of
the Grecian chiefs, where very warm debates arise be-
tween Agamemnon and Achilles. As nothing was likely to
prove more fatal to the Grecians than a dissension be-
tween those two princes, the venerable old Nestor is re-
presented as greatly alarmed at the consequences of this
quarrel, and rising up to moderate between them with a
vivacity much beyond his years. This circumstance
Homer has happily intimated by a single word:
τοισι δε Νεστωρ
ΑΝΟΡΟΥΣΕ.
Upon which one of the commentators very justly ob-
serves-ut in re magna et periculosa, non placide assur-
gentem facit, sed prorumpentem senem quoque. A cir-
cumstance which Horace seems to have had particularly
in his view in the epistle to Lollius :
Nestor componere lites
Inter Peleiden festinat et inter Atreiden.
Ep. i. 2.
This beauty Mr. Pope has utterly overlooked, and sub-
stituted an idea very different from that which the verb
avogsw suggests: he renders it,
Slow from his seat arose the Pylian sage.
But a more unfortunate word could scarcely have been
joined with arose, as it destroys the whole spirit of the
piece, and is just the reverse of what both the occasion
and the original required.
I doubt, Euphronius, you are growing weary: will you
have patience, however, whilst I mention one observa-
tion more? and I will interrupt you no longer.
When Menelaus and Paris enter the lists, Pope says,
Amidst the dreadful vale the chiefs advance,
All pale with rage, and shake the threat'ning lance.
LETTER XXI.
57
In the original it is,
Ες μεσσον Τρώων και Αχαιών εστιχόωντο,
Δεινον δερκομένοι.
IL. iii. 341.
But does not the expression-all pale with rage-call up
a very contrary idea to δεινον δερκομένοι ? The former seems
to suggest to one's imagination, the ridiculous passion of
a couple of female scolds; whereas the latter conveys
the terrifying image of two indignant heroes, animated
with calm and deliberate valour. Farewell.—I am, &c.
LETTER XXI.
TO CLEORA.
March 3, 1739.
AFTER having read your last letter, I can no longer
doubt of the truth of those salutary effects which are said
to have been produced by the application of certain
written words. I have myself experienced the possibility
of the thing and a few strokes of your pen have abated
a pain, which of all others is the most uneasy, and the
most difficult to be relieved; even the pain, my Cleora,
of the mind. To sympathize with my sufferings, as Cleora
kindly assures me she does, is to assuage them; and half
the uneasiness of her absence is removed, when she tells
me that she regrets mine.
Since I thus assuredly find that you can work miracles,
I will believe likewise that you have the gift of prophecy;
and I can no longer despair that the time will come, when
we shall again meet, since you have absolutely pronounc-
ed that it will. I have ventured, therefore, (as you will
see by my last letter) already to name the day. In the
mean time, I amuse myself with doing every thing that
58
LETTER XXI.
looks like a preparation for my journey; e gia apro le
braccia per stringervi affettuosamente al mio senno.
The truth is, you are every instant in my thoughts,
and each occurrence that arises suggests you to my re-
membrance. If I see a clear sky, I wish it may extend
to you; and if I observe a cloudy one, I am uneasy lest
my Cleora should be exposed to it. I never read an in-
teresting story, or a pertinent remark, that I do not long
to communicate it to you, and learn to double my relish
by hearing your judicious observations. I cannot take a
turn in my garden but every walk calls you into my mind.
Ah Cleora! I never view those scenes of our former con-
versations, without a sigh. Judge then how often I sigh,
when every object that surrounds me brings you fresh to
my imagination. You remember the attitude in which
the faithful Penelope is drawn in Pope's Odyssey, when
she goes to fetch the bow of Ulysses for the suitors:
Across her knees she laid the well-known bow,
And pensive sat, and tears began to flow.
I find myself in numberless such tender reveries; and
if I were ever so much disposed to banish you from my
thoughts, it would be impossible I should do so, in a
place where every thing that presents itself to me, re-
minds me that you were once here. I must not expect
(I ought not, indeed, for the sake of your repose, to wish)
to be thus frequently and thus fondly the subject of your
meditations but may I not hope that you employ a few
moments at least of every day, in thinking of him whose
whole attention is fixed upon you?
I have sent you the History of the Conquest of Mexi-
co, in English, which, as it is translated by so good a
hand, will be equally pleasing and less troublesome, than
reading it in the original. I long to be of this party in
LETTER XXII.
59
your expedition to the new world, as I lately was in your
conquests of Italy. How happily could I sit by Cleora's
side, and pursue the Spaniards in their triumphs, as I
formerly did the Romans; or make a transition from a
nation of heroes to a republick of ants! Glorious days in-
deed! when we passed whole mornings either with dic-
tators or butterflies; and sometimes sent out a colony of
Romans, and sometimes of emmets! Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER XXII.
TO PALEMON.
Dec. 18, 1740.
THOUGH I am not convinced by your arguments, I am
charmed by your eloquence, and admire the preacher at
the same time that I condemn the doctrine. But there
is no sort of persons whose opinions one is more inclined
to wish right, than those who are ingeniously in the wrong;
who have the art to add grace to errour, and can dignify
mistakes.
Forgive me, then, Palemon, if I am more than com-
monly solicitous that you should review the sentiments
you advanced, (I will not say supported) with so much
elegance in your last letter, and that I press you to re-con-
sider your notions again and again. Can I fail, indeed, to
wish that you may find reason to renounce an opinion,
which may possibly, one day or other, deprive me of a
friend, and my country of a patriot, while Providence,
perhaps, would yet have spared him to both ?-Can I
fail to regret, that I should hold one of the most valuable
enjoyments of my life upon a tenure more than ordinarily
precarious; and that, besides those numberless accidents
by which chance may snatch you from the world, a
gloomy sky, or a cross event, may determine Palemon to
60
LETTER XXII.
*
put an end to a life, which all who have been a witness to
must for ever admire?
But, "does the Supreme Being (you ask) dispense his
"bounties upon conditions different from all other bene-
"factors, and will he force a gift upon me which is no
longer acceptable?"
66
Let me demand, in return, whether a creature, so con-
fined in its perceptions as man, may not mistake his true
interest, and reject, from a partial regard, what would be
well worth accepting upon a more comprehensive view?
May not even a mortal benefactor better understand the
value of that present he offers, than the person to whom
it is tendered? And shall the supreme Author of all bene-
ficence be esteemed less wise in distinguishing the worth
of those grants he confers? I agree with you, indeed, that
we were called into existence in order to receive happi-
ness: but I can by no means infer from thence, that we
are at liberty to resign our being whenever it becomes a
burden. On the contrary, those premises seem to lead to
a conclusion directly opposite; and if the gracious Author
of my life created me with an intent to make me happy,
does it not necessarily follow, that I shall most certainly
obtain that privilege, if I do not justly forfeit it by my
own misconduct? Numberless ends may be answered, in
the schemes of Providence, by turning aside or interrupt-
ing that stream of bounty, which our limited reason can in
no sort discover. How presumptuous, then, must it be, to
throw back a grant upon the hands of the great Governour
of the universe, merely because we do not immediately
feel, or understand, its full advantages!
That it is the intention of the Deity we should remain
in this state of being, till his summons calls us away,
seems as evident as that we at first entered into it by his
command for we can no more continue, than we could
:
A
**
LETTER XXH.
61
begin to exist, without the concurrence of the same
supreme interposition. While, therefore, the animal
powers do not cease to perform those functions to which
they were directed by their great Author, it may justly,
I think, be concluded, that it is his design they should not.
Still, however, you urge, "That by putting a period to
your own existence here, you only alter the modifica-
"tion of matter; and how (you ask) is the order of Pro-
"vidence disturbed by changing the combination of a
parcel of atoms from one figure to another ?"
46
But surely, Palemon, there is a fallacy in this reason-
ing: suicide is something more than changing the com-
ponent parts of the animal machine. It is striking out a
spiritual substance from that rank of beings wherein the
wise Author of nature has placed it, and forcibly break-
ing in upon some other order of existence. And as it is im-
possible for the limited powers of reason to penetrate the
designs of Providence, it can never be proved that this
is not disturbing the schemes of nature. We possibly
may be, and indeed most probably are, connected with
some higher rank of creatures: now philosophy will ne-
ver be able to determine, that those connexions may not
be disconcerted by prematurely quitting our present man-
sion.
One of the strongest passions implanted in human na-
ture is the fear of death. It seems, indeed, to be placed
by Providence as a sort of guard to retain mankind with-
in their appointed station. Why, else, should it so uni-
versally, and almost invariably, operate? It is observable
that no such affection appears in any species of beings
below us.
They have no temptation, or no ability, to
desert the post assigned to them, and therefore it should
seem, they have no checks of this kind to keep them
6
62
LETTER XXII.
within their prescribed limits. This general horrour,
then, in mankind, at the apprehension of their dissolution,
carries with it, I think, a very strong presumptive argu-
ment in favour of the opinion I am endeavouring to
maintain for if it were not given to us for the purpose
I have supposed, what other can it serve? Can it be
imagined that the benevolent Author of nature would
have so deeply woven it into our constitution, only to
interrupt our present enjoyments?
I cannot, I confess, discover, how the practice of suicide
can be justified upon any principle, except upon that of
downright atheism. If we suppose a good Providence
to govern the world, the consequence is undeniable, that
we must entirely rely upon it. If we imagine an evil
one to prevail, what chance is there of finding that hap-
piness in another scene, which we have in vain sought
for in this? The same malevolent omnipotence can as
easily pursue us in the next remove, as persecute us in
this our first station.
Upon the whole, Palemon, prudence strongly forbids
so hazardous an experiment as that of being our own ex-
ecutioners. We know the worst that can happen in sup-
porting life under all its most wretched circumstances :
and if we should be mistaken in thinking it our duty to
endure a load, which in truth we may securely lay down;
it is an errour extremely limited in its consequences. They
cannot extend beyond this present existence, and possibly
may end much earlier whereas no mortal can, with the
least degree of assurance, pronounce what may not be the
effect of acting agreeably to the contrary opinion.-
I am, &c.
?
63
LETTER XXIII.
TO CLYTANDER.
Sept. 23, 1733.
I AM by no means in the sentiments of that Grecian
of your acquaintance, who, as often as he was pressed to
marry, replied either that it was too soon or too late: and
I think my favourite author, the honest Montaigne, a
little too severe when he observes, upon this story, qu'il
faut refuser l'opportunité à toute action importune: for
-higher of the genial bed by far
And with mysterious reverence I deem.
Milton.
However, I am not adventurous enough to join with
those friends you mention, who are soliciting you, it
seems, to look out for an engagement of this kind. It is
an union which requires so much delicacy in the cement-
ing; it is a commerce where so many nice circumstances
must concur to render it successful, that I would not
venture to pronounce of any two persons, that they are
qualified for each other.
I do not know a woman in the world who seems more
formed to render a man of sense and generosity happy in
this state, than Amasia: yet I should scarcely have cou-
rage to recommend even Amasia to my friend. You
have seen her, I dare say, a thousand times; but I am
persuaded she never attracted your particular observa-
tion, for she is in the number of those who are ever over-
looked in a crowd. As often as I converse with her,
she puts me in mind of the golden age: there is an inno-
cency and simplicity in all her words and actions, that
equals any thing the poets have described of those pure
and artless times. Indeed the greatest part of her life
64
}
LETTER XXIII.
has been spent much in the same way as the early inha-
bitants of the world, in that blameless period of it, used,
we are told, to dispose of theirs; under the shade and
shelter of her own venerable oaks, and in those rural
amusements which are sure to produce a confirmed habit
both of health and cheerfulness. Amasia never said, or
attempted to say, a sprightly thing in all her life; but
she has done ten thousand generous ones: and if she is not
the most conspicuous figure at an assembly, she never en-
vied or maligned those who are. Her heart is all tender-
ness and benevolence: no success ever attended any of
her acquaintance, which did not fill her bosom with the
most disinterested complacency; as no misfortune ever
reached her knowledge, that she did not relieve or parti-
cipate by her generosity. If ever she should fall into the
hands of a man she loves, (and I am persuaded she would
esteem it the worst kind of prostitution to resign herself
into any other) her whole life would be one continued
series of kindness and compliance. The humble opinion
she has of her own uncommon merit, would make her so
much the more sensible of her husband's; and those little
submissions on his side, which a woman of more pride
and spirit would consider only as a claim of right, would
be esteemed by Amasia as so many additional motives to
her love and gratitude.
But if I dwell any longer upon this amiable picture, I
may be in danger, perhaps, of resembling that ancient
artist, who grew enamoured of the production of his own
pencil for my security, therefore, as well as to put an
end to your trouble, it will be best, I believe, to stop here.
I am, &c.
85
LETTER XXIV.
то ORONTES.
I was apprehensive my last had given you but too much
occasion of recollecting the remark of one of your ad-
mired ancients, that "the art of eloquence is taught by
"man, but it is the Gods alone that inspire the wisdom
"of silence." That wisdom, however, you are not willing
I should yet practise; and you must needs, it seems, have
my farther sentiments upon the subject of oratory. Be
it then as my friend requires: but let him remember, it
is a hazardous thing to put some men upon talking on a
favourite topick.
One of the most pleasing exercises of the imagination,
is that wherein she is employed in comparing distinct
ideas, and discovering their various resemblances. There
is no single perception of the mind that is not capable of
an infinite number of considerations in reference to other
objects; and it is in the novelty and variety of these un-
expected connexions, that the richness of a writer's genius
is chiefly displayed. A vigorous and lively fancy does
not tamely confine itself to the idea which lies before it,
but looks beyond the immediate object of its contempla-
tion, and observes how it stands in conformity with num-
berless others. It is the prerogative of the human mind
thus to bring its images together, and compare the several
circumstances of similitude that attend them. By this
means, eloquence exercises a kind of magick power; she
can raise innumerable beauties from the most barren sub-
jects, and give the grace of novelty to the most common.
The imagination is thus kept awake by the most agreeable
motion, and entertained with a thousand different views
6 *
66
LETTER XXIV.
both of art and nature, which still terminate upon the
principal object. For this reason I prefer the metaphor
to the simile, as a far more pleasing method of illustration.
In the former, the action of the mind is less languid, as it
is employed at one and the same instant, in comparing
the resemblance with the idea it attends; whereas, in the
latter, its operations are more slow, being obliged to stand
still, as it were, in order to contemplate first the principal
object, and then its corresponding image.
Of all the flowers, however, that embellish the regions
of eloquence, there is none of a more tender and delicate
nature; as there is nothing wherein a fine writer is more
distinguished from one of an ordinary class, than in the
conduct and application of this figure. He is at liberty,
indeed, to range through the whole compass of creation,
and collect his images from every object that surrounds
him. But though he may be thus amply furnished with
materials, great judgment is required in choosing them:
for to render a metaphor perfect, it must not only be apt,
but pleasing; it must entertain, as well as enlighten. Mr.
Dryden, therefore, can hardly escape the imputation of a
very unpardonable breach of delicacy, when, in the dedica
tion of his Juvenal, he observes to the Earl of Dorset,
that "some bad poems carry their owner's marks about
"them-some brand or other on this buttock, or that ear,
"that it is notorious who are the owners of the cattle.”
The poet Manilius seems to have raised an image of the
same injudicious kind, in that compliment which he pays
to Homer in the following verses:
cujusque ex ore profusos
Omnis posteritas latices in carmine duxit.
I could never read these lines without calling to mind
those grotesque heads, which are fixed to the roofo the
LETTER XXIV.
67
old building of King's college in Cambridge: which the
ingenious architect has represented in the act of vomiting
out the rain, that falls through certain pipes most judi-
ciously stuck in their mouths for that purpose. Mr. Ad-
dison recommends a method of trying the propriety of a
metaphor, by drawing it out in visible representation.-
Accordingly, I think this curious conceit of the builder
might be employed to the advantage of the youth in that
university, and serve for as proper an illustration of the
absurdity of the poet's image, as that ancient picture
which Ælian mentions, where Homer was figured with a
stream running from his mouth, and a group of poets
lapping it up at a distance.
But besides a certain decorum which is requisite to
constitute a perfect metaphor; a writer of true taste and
genius will always single out the most obvious images,
and place them in the most unobserved points of resem-
blance. Accordingly, all allusions which point to the
more abstruse branches of the arts or sciences, and with
which none can be supposed to be acquainted but those
who have gone far into the deeper studies, should be
carefully avoided, not only as pedantick, but impertinent;
as they pervert the single use of this figure, and add nei-
ther grace nor force to the idea they would elucidate.-
The most pleasing metaphors, therefore, are those which
are derived from the more frequent occurrences of art or
nature, or the civil transactions and customs of mankind.
Thus, how expressive, yet at the same time how familiar,
is that image which Otway has put into the mouth of
Metellus, in his play of Caius Marius, where he calls
Sulpicius
That mad wild bull whom Marius lets loose
On each occasion, when he'd make Rome feel him,
To toss our laws and liberties i' th' air!
68
LETTER XXIV.
But I never met with a more agreeable, or a more
significant allusion, than one in Quintus Curtius, which is
borrowed from the most ordinary object in common life.
That author represents Craterus as dissuading Alexander
from continuing his Indian expedition, against enemies
too contemptible, he tells him, for the glory of his arms;
and concludes his speech with the following beautiful
thought: Citò gloria obsolescit in sordidis hostibus: nec
quidquam indignius est quam consumi eam ubi non potest
ostendi. Now I am got into Latin quotations, I cannot
forbear mentioning a most beautiful passage, which I
lately had the pleasure of reading, and which I will ven-
ture to produce as equal to any thing of the same kind,
either in ancient or modern composition. I met with it
in the speech of a young orator, to whom I have the
happiness to be related, and who will one day, I persuade
myself, prove as great an honour to his country as he is
at present to that learned society of which he is a mem-
ber. He is speaking of the writings of a celebrated
prelate, who received his education in that famous semi-
nary to which he belongs, and illustrates the peculiar
elegance which dis inguishes all that author's perform-
ances, by the following just and pleasing assemblage of
diction and imagery: In quodcumque opus se parabat
(et per omnia sane versatile illius se duxit ingenium)
nescio quâ luce sibi soli propriâ, id illuminavit; haud
dissimili ei aureo Titiani radio, qui per totam tabulam
gliscens eam verè suam denunciat. As there is nothing
more entertaining to the imagination than the produc-
tions of the fine arts; there is no kind of similitudes or
metaphors which are in general more striking, than those
which allude to their properties and effects. It is with
great judgment, therefore, that the ingenious author of
the dialogue, concerning the decline of eloquence among
I
r
LETTER XXIV.
69
the Romans, recommends to his orator a general ac-
quaintance with the whole circle of the polite arts. A
knowledge of this sort furnishes an author with illustra-
tions of the most agreeable kind, and sets a gloss upon
his compositions which enlivens them with singular grace
and spirit.
Were I to point out the beauty and efficacy of meta-
phorical language, by particular instances, I should rather
draw my examples from the moderns than the ancients;
the latter being scarcely, I think, so exact and delicate
in this article of composition, as the former. The great
improvements, indeed, in natural knowledge, which have
been made in these later ages, have opened a vein of
metaphor entirely unknown to the ancients, and enriched
the fancy of modern wits with a new stock of the most
pleasing ideas: a circumstance which must give them a
very considerable advantage over the Greeks and Ro-
mans. I am sure, at least, of all the writings with which
I have been conversant, the works of Mr. Addison will
afford the most abundant supply of this kind, in all its
variety and perfection. Truth and beauty of imagery is,
indeed, his characteristical distinction, and the principal
point of eminence which raises his style above that of
every author in any language that has fallen within my
notice. He is every where highly figurative; yet, at the
same time, he is the most easy and perspicuous writer I
have ever perused. The reason is, his images are always
taken from the most natural and familiar appearances; as
they are chosen with the utmost delicacy and judgment.
Suffer me only to mention one out of a thousand I could
name, as it appears to me the finest and most expressive
that ever language conveyed. It is in one of his in-
imitable papers upon Paradise Lost, where he is taking
notice of those changes in nature, which the author of that
70
LETTER XXIV.
truly divine poem describes as immediately succeeding
the fall. Among other prodigies, Milton represents the
sun in an eclipse; and at the same time a bright cloud in
the western region of the heavens descending with a band
of angels. Mr. Addison, in order to shew his author's
art and judgment in the conduct and disposition of this
sublime scenery, observes, "the whole theatre of nature
"is darkened, that this glorious machine may appear in
"all its lustre and magnificence." I know not, Orontes,
whether you will agree in sentiment with me; but I
must confess, I am at a loss which to admire most upon
this occasion, the poet or the critick.
There is a double beauty in images of this kind when
they are not only metaphors, but allusions. I was much
pleased with an instance of this uncommon species, in a
little poem entitled The Spleen. The author of that
piece (who has thrown together more original thoughts
than I ever read in the same compass of lines) speaking
of the advantages of exercise in dissipating those gloomy
vapours, which are so apt to hang upon some minds,
employs the following image:
Throw but a stone, the giant dies.
You will observe, Orontes, that the metaphor here is
conceived with great propriety of thought, if we consider
it only in its primary view; but when we see it pointing
still farther, and hinting at the story of David and Goliah,
it receives a very considerable improvement from this
double application.
It must be owned, some of the greatest authors, both
ancient and modern, have made many remarkable slips
in the management of this figure, and have sometimes ex-
pressed themselves with as much impropriety as an honest
sailor of my acquaintance, a captain of a privateer, who
LETTER XXV.
71
wrote an account to his owners of an engagement, “in
"which he had the good fortune," he told them, "of having
66
only one of his hands shot through the nose." The great
caution, therefore, should be, never to join any idea to a
figurative expression, which would not be applicable to
it in a literal sense. Thus Cicero, in his treatise De Cla-
ris Oratoribus, speaking of the family of the Scipios, is
guilty of an impropriety of this kind: O generosam stir-
pem (says he) et tanquam in unam arborem plura genera,
sic in istam domum multorum insitam atque illuminatam
sapientiam. Mr. Addison, likewise, has fallen into an er-
rour of the same sort, where he observes, "There is not a
single view of human nature, which is not sufficient to
extinguish the seeds of pride." In this passage he evi-
dently unites images together which have no connexion
with each other. When a seed has lost its power of ve-
getation, I might, in a metaphorical sense, say it is ex-
tinguished: but when, in the same sense, I call that dis-
position of the heart which produces pride the seed of
that passion, I cannot, without introducing a confusion of
ideas, apply any word to seed but what corresponds with
its real properties or circumstances.
66
66
Another mistake in the use of this figure is, when dif-
ferent images are crowded too close upon each other, or
(to express myself after Quintilian) when a sentence sets
out with storms and tempests, and ends with fire and
flames. A judicious reader will observe an impropriety
of this kind in one of the late essays of the inimitable au-
thor last quoted, where he tells us, "that women were
"formed to temper mankind, not to set an edge upon
"their minds, and blow up in them those passions which
are too apt to rise of their own accord." Thus a cele-
brated orator, speaking of that little blackening spirit in
72
LETTER XXV.
mankind, which is fond of discovering spots in the bright-
est characters, remarks, that when persons of this cast
of temper have mentioned any virtue of their neighbour,
"it is well, if, to balance the matter, they do not clap
“some fault into the opposite scale, that so the enemy
may not go off with flying colours." Dr. Swift also,
whose style is the most pure and simple of any of our
classick writers, and who does not seem in general very
fond of the figurative manner, is not always free from
censure in his management of the metaphorical language.
In his Essay on the Dissentions of Athens and Rome,
speaking of the populace, he takes notice, that, "though
"in their corrupt notions of divine worship, they are apt
"to multiply their gods, yet their earthly devotion is
"seldom paid to above one idol at a time, whose oar they
'pull with less murmuring and much more skill, than when
"they share the lading, or even hold the helm.” The
most injudicious writer could not possibly have fallen into
a more absurd inconsistency of metaphor, than this emi-
nent wit has inadvertently been betrayed into, in this pas-
sage. For what connexion is there between worshipping
and rowing, and who ever heard before of pulling the oar
of an idol ?
As there are certain metaphors which are common to
all language, there are others of so delicate a nature, as
not to bear transplanting from one nation into another.
There is no part, therefore, of the business of a transla-
tor more difficult to manage than this figure, as it re-
quires great judgment to distinguish, when it may, and
may not, be naturalized with propriety and elegance.--
The want of this necessary discernment has led the com-
mon race of translators into great absurdities, and is one
of the principal reasons that performances of this kind
are generally so insipid. What strange work, for instance,
LETTER XXV.
73
would an injudicious interpreter make with the following
metaphor in Homer?
Νυν γαρ δη παντεσσιν επί ξυρου ισταται ακμής.
IL. X. 173.
But Mr. Pope, by artfully dropping the particular image
yet retaining the general idea, has happily preserved the
spirit of his author, and at the same time humoured the
different taste of his own countrymen.
Each single Greek, in this conclusive strife,
Stands on the sharpest edge of death or life.
And now, Orontes, do you not think it high time to be
dismissed from this fairy land? Permit me, however,
just to add, that this figure, which casts so much light
and beauty upon works of genius, ought to be entirely
banished from the severer compositions of philosophy.
It is the business of the latter to separate resemblances,
not to find them, and to deliver her discoveries in the
plainest and most unornamented expressions. Much dis-
pute, and, perhaps, many errours, might have been avoid-
ed, if metaphor had been thus confined within its proper
limits, and never wandered from the regions of eloquence
and poetry. I am, &c.
LETTER XXV.
TO PHILOTES.
August 5, 1744.
DON'T you begin to think that I ill deserve the pre-
scription you sent me, since I have scarce had the man-
ners even to thank you for it? It must be confessed I
have neglected to honour my physician with the honour
7
74
LETTER XXV.
:
due unto him: that is, I have omitted not only what I
ought to have performed by good-breeding, but what I
am expressly enjoined by my Bible. I am not, however,
entirely without excuse; a silly one, I own; neverthe-
less, it is the truth. I have lately been a good deal out
of spirits. But at length the fit is over. Amongst the
number of those things which are wanting to secure me
from a return of it, I must always reckon the company
of my friend. I have, indeed, frequent occasion for you;
not in the way of your profession, but in a better in
the way of friendship. There is a healing quality in that
intercourse, which a certain author has, with infinite pro-
priety, termed the medicine of life. It is a medicine
which, unluckily, lies almost wholly out of my reach;
fortune having separated me from those few friends
whom I pretend or desire to claim. General acquaint-
ances, you know, I am not much inclined to cultivate
so that I am at present as much secluded from society as
if I were a sojourner in a strange land. Though retire-
ment is my dear delight, yet, upon some occasions, I
think I have too much of it; and I agree with Balzac,
que la solitude est certainement une belle chose: mais il y
a plaisir d'avoir quelqu'un qui sache repondre; à qui on
puisse dire de tems en tems, que la solitude est une belle
chose. But I must not forget, that, as I sometimes want
company, you may as often wish to be alone; and that
I may, perhaps, be at this instant breaking in upon one
of those hours which you desire to enjoy without inter-
ruption. I will only detain you, therefore, whilst I add
that I am, &c.
1
}
75
LETTER XXVI.
TO PHIDIPPUS.
May 1, 1745.
If that friend of yours, whom you are desirous to add
to the number of mine, were endued with no other quality
than the last you mentioned in the catalogue of his vir-
tues; I should esteem his acquaintance as one of my most
valuable privileges. When you assured me, therefore, of
the generosity of his disposition, I wanted no additional
motive to embrace your proposal of joining you and him
at **. To say truth, I consider a generous mind as the
noblest work of the creation, and am persuaded, where-
ever it resides, no real merit can be wanting.
It is, per-
haps, the most singular of all the moral endowments. I
am sure, at least, it is often imputed where it cannot justly
be claimed. The meanest self-love, under some refined
disguise, frequently passes upon commou observers for
this godlike principle; and I have known many a popular
action attributed to this motive, when it flowed from no
higher a source than the suggestions of concealed vanity.
Good-nature, as it has many features in common with this
virtue, is usually mistaken for it: the former, however, is
but the effect, possibly, of a happy disposition of the ani-
mal structure, or, as Dryden somewhere calls it, of a cer-
tain "milkiness of blood:" whereas the latter is seated
in the mind, and can never subsist where good sense and
enlarged sentiments have no existence. It is entirely
founded, indeed, upon justness of thought: which, per-
haps, is the reason this virtue is so little the characteris-
tick of inankind in general. A man, whose mind is warp-
ed by the selfish passions, or contracted by the narrow
76
LETTER XXVI.
prejudices of sects or parties, if he does not want honesty,
must undoubtedly want understanding. The same clouds
that darken his intellectual views, obstruct his moral
ones; and his generosity is extremely circumscribed, be-
cause his reason is exceedingly limited.
It is the distinguishing pre-eminence of the Christian
system, that it cherishes this elevated principle in one of
its noblest exertions. Forgiveness of injuries, I confess,
indeed, has been inculcated by several of the heathen
moralists; but it never entered into the established
ordinances of any religion, till it had the sanction of the
great Author of ours. I have often, however, wondered
that the ancients, who raised so many virtues and affec-
tions of the mind into divinities, should never have given
a place in their temples to Generosity; unless, perhaps,
they included it under the notion of FIDES or HONOS.
But surely she might reasonably have claimed a separate
altar, and superiour rites. A principle of honour may
restrain a man from counteracting the social ties, who
yet has nothing of that active flame of generosity, which
is too powerful to be confined within the humbler boun-
daries of mere negative duties. True generosity rises
above the ordinary rules of social conduct, and flows with
much too full a stream to be comprehended within the
precise marks of formal precepts. It is a vigorous prin-
ciple in the soul, which opens and expands all her virtues
far beyond those which are only the forced and unnatu-
ral productions of a timid obedience. The man who is
influenced singly by motives of the latter kind, aims no
higher than at certain authoritative standards, without
ever attempting to reach those glorious elevations which
constitute the only true heroism of the social character.
Religion, without this sovereign principle, degenerates
into slavish fear, and wisdom into a specious cunning:
:
LETTER XXVÍ.
77
learning is but the avarice of the mind, and wit its more
pleasing kind of madness. In a word, generosity sancti-
fies every passion, and adds grace to every acquisition of
the soul; and if it does not necessarily include, at least
it reflects a lustre upon the whole circle of moral and
intellectual qualities.
But I am running into a general panegyrick upon gene-
rosity, when I only meant to acknowledge the particular
instance you have given me of yours, in being desirous of
communicating to me a treasure, which I know much
better how to value than how to deserve. Be assured,
therefore, though Euphronius had none of those polite ac-
complishments you enumerate, yet, after what you have
informed me concerning his heart, I should esteem his
friendship of more worth, than all the learning of ancient
Greece, and all the virtù of modern Italy. I am, &c.
LETTER XXVII.
TO SAPPHO.*
March 10, 1731.
WHILE yet no amorous youths around thee bow,
Nor flattering verse conveys the faithless vow;
To graver notes will Sappho's soul attend,
And ere she hears the lover, hear the friend?
Let maids less bless'd employ their meaner arts
To reign proud tyrants o'er unnumber'd hearts ;
May Sappho learn (for nobler triumphs born)
Those little conquests of her sex to scorn.
To form the bosom to each gen'rous deed;
To plant the mind with ev'ry useful seed;
* A young lady of thirteen years of age.
7 *
78
LETTER XXVII.
Be these thy arts; nor spare the grateful toil,
Where nature's hand has bless'd the happy soil.
So shalt thou know, with pleasing skill to blend
The lovely mistress and instructive friend :
So shalt thou know, when unrelenting time
Shall spoil those charms yet op'ning to their prime,
To ease the loss of beauty's transient flow'r,
While reason keeps what rapture gave before.
And oh! whilst wit, fair dawning, spreads its ray,
Serenely rising to a glorious day,
To hail the growing lustre oft be mine,
Thou early fav'rite of the sacred Nine!
And shall the Muse with blameless boast pretend,
In youth's gay bloom that Sappho call'd me friend;
That urg'd by me she shunn'd the dang'rous way,
Where heedless maids in endless errour stray;
That scorning soon her sex's idler art,
Fair praise inspir'd, and virtue warm'd her heart;
That fond to reach the distant paths of fame,
I taught her infant genius where to aim?
Thus when the feather'd choir first tempt the sky,
And, all unskill'd, their feeble pinions try,
Th' experienc'd sire prescribes th' adventurous height,
Guides the young wing, and pleas'd attends the flight.
LETTER XXVIII.
TO PHIDIPPUS.
YES, Phidippus, I entirely agree with you; the an-
cients most certainly had much loftier notions of friend-
ship than seem to be generally entertained at present.
But may they not justly be considered, on this subject,
E
LETTER XXVIII.
79
as downright enthusiasts? Whilst, indeed, they talk of
friendship as a virtue, or place it in a rank little inferiour,
I can admire the generous warmth of their sentiments;
but when they go so far as to make it a serious question,
whether justice herself ought not, in some particular
cases, to yield to this their supreme affection of the
heart; there, I confess, they leave me far behind.
If we had not a treatise extant upon the subject, we
should scarce believe this fact, upon the credit of those
authors, who have delivered it down to us: but Cicero
himself has ventured to take the affirmative side of this
debate, in his celebrated dialogue inscribed Laelius. He
followed, it seems, in this notion, the sentiments of the
Grecian Theophrastus,who publickly maintained the same
astonishing theory.
It must be confessed, however, these admirers of the
false sublime in friendship talk upon this subject with so
much caution, and in such general terms, that one is
inclined to think they themselves a little suspected the
validity of those very principles they would inculcate.
We find, at least, a remarkable instance to that purpose,
in a circumstance related of Chilo, one of those famous
sages who are distinguished by the pompous title of the
wise men of Greece.
66
That celebrated philosopher, being upon his death-bed,
addressed himself, we are informed, to his friends who
stood round him, to the following effect: "I cannot,
through the course of a long life, look back with uneasi-
"ness upon any single instance of my conduct, unless,
perhaps, on that which I am going to mention, wherein,
"I confess, I am still doubtful whether I acted as I ought,
"or
or not. I was once appointed judge, in conjunction
"with two others, when my particular friend was ar-
"raigned before us. Were the laws to have taken their
66
80
LETTER XXVIII.
66
"free course, he must inevitably have been condemned
“to die. After much debate, therefore, with myself,
"I resolved upon this expedient: I gave my own vote
"according to my conscience, but, at the same time, em-
ployed all my eloquence to prevail with my associates
"to absolve the criminal. Now I cannot but reflect upon
"this act with concern, as fearing there was something of
perfidy, in persuading others to go counter to what I
myself esteemed right.”
66
It does not, certainly, require any great depth of ca-
suistry to pronounce upon a case of this nature. And
yet had Tully, that great master of reason, been Chilo's
confessor, upon this occasion, it is very plain he would
have given him absolution, to the just scandal of the most
ignorant curate that ever lulled a country village.
What I have here observed will suggest, if I mistake
not, a very clear answer to the question you propose:
Whence it should happen, that we meet with instances
"of friendship among the Greeks and Romans, far supe-
"riour to any thing of the same kind which modern times
"have produced?" For while the greatest geniuses among
them employed their talents in exalting this noble affec-
tion, and it was encouraged even by the laws themselves;
what effects might not one expect to arise from the con-
currence of such powerful causes? The several examples
of this kind, which you have pointed out, are undoubted-
ly highly animating and singular: to which give me leave
to add one instance, no less remarkable, though, I think,
not so commonly observed.
Eudamidas, the Corinthian, (as the story is related in
Lucian's Toxaris) though in low circumstances himself,
was happy in the friendship of two very wealthy persons,
Charixenus and Aretheus. Eudamidas, finding himself
drawing near his end, made his will in the following
LETTER XXVIII.
81
terms: I leave my mother to Aretheus, to be main-
"tained and protected by him in her old age. I bequeath
"to Charixenus the care of my daughter; desiring that
"he would see her disposed of in marriage, and portion
"her, at the same time, with as ample a fortune as his
"circumstances shall admit; and, in case of the death
"of either of these my two friends, I substitute the sur-
"vivor in his place."
This will was looked upon, by some, as we may well
imagine, to be extremely ridiculous: however, the lega-
tees received information of it with very different senti-
ments, accepting of their respective legacies with great
satisfaction. It happened that Charixenus died a few
days after his friend, the testator: the survivorship, there-
fore, taking place, in favour of Aretheus, he, accordingly,
not only took upon himself the care of his friend's mo-
ther, but also made an equal distribution of his estate
between this child of Eudamidas, and an only daughter
of his own, solemnizing both their marriages on the same
day.
I do not recollect that any of the moderns have raised
their notions of friendship to these extravagant heights,
excepting only a very singular French author, who talks
in a more romantick strain upon this subject than even
the ancients themselves. Could you, Phidippus, believe a
man in earnest, who should assert that the secret one has
sworn never to reveal, may, without perjury, be discovered
to one's friend? Yet the honest Montaigne has ventured
gravely to advance this extraordinary doctrine, in clear
and positive terms. But I never knew a sensible man in
my life, that was not an enthusiast upon some favourite
point; as, indeed, there is none where it is more excusa-
ble than in the article of friendship. It is that which
affords the most pleasing sunshine of our days; if, there-
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LETTER XXIX.
fore, we see it now and then break out with a more than
reasonable warmth and lustre, who is there that will not
be inclined to pardon an excess, which can only flow from
the most generous principles? Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER XXIX.
TO THE SAME.
July 3, 1746.
WHEN I mentioned grace as essential in constituting a
fine writer, I rather hoped to have found my sentiments
reflected back with a clearer light by yours, than ima-
gined you would have called upon me to explain in form,
what I only threw out by accident. To confess the
truth, I know not whether, after all that can be said to
illustrate this uncommon quality, it must not at last be
resolved into the poet's nequeo monstrare et sentio tantùm.
In cases of this kind, where language does not supply us
with proper words to express the notions of one's mind,
we can only convey our sentiments in figurative terms: a
defect which necessarily introduces some obscurity.
I will not, therefore, undertake to mark out, with any
sort ef precision, that idea which I would express by the
word grace: and, perhaps, it can no more be clearly
described than justly defined. To give you, however, a
general intimation of what I mean, when I apply that
term to compositions of genius, I would resemble it to
that easy air, which so remarkably distinguishes certain
persons of a genteel and liberal cast. It consists, not
only in the particular beauty of single parts, but arises
from the general symmetry and construction of the whole.
An author may be just in his sentiments, lively in his
figures, and clear in his expression; yet may have no
claim to be admitted into the rank of finished writers,
i
}
;
C
LETTER XXIX.
83
Those several members must be so agreeably united as
mutually to reflect beauty upon each other: their ar-
rangement must be so happily disposed as not to admit of
the least transposition, without manifest prejudice to the
entire piece. The thoughts, the metaphors, the allusions,
and the diction should appear easy and natural, and seem
to arise like so many spontaneous productions, rather
than as the effects of art or labour.
Whatever, therefore, is forced, or affected, in the
sentiments; whatever is pompous, or pedantick, in the
expression, is the very reverse of grace. Her mien is
neither that of a prude nor a coquet; she is regular
without formality, and sprightly without being fantastical.
Grace, in short, is to good writing what a proper light is
to a fine picture; it not only shews all the figures in
their several proportions and relations, but shews them
in the most advantageous manner.
As gentility (to resume my former illustration) appears
in the minutest action, and improves the most incon-
siderable gesture; so grace is discovered in the placing
even of a single word, or the turn of a mere expletive.
Neither is this inexpressible quality confined to one
species of composition only, but extends to all the various
kinds; to the humble pastoral as well as to the lofty
epick; from the slightest letter to the most solemn
discourse.
I know not whether Sir William Temple may not be
considered as the first of our prose authors, who intro-
duced a graceful manner into our language. At least
that quality does not seem to have appeared early, or
spread far amongst us. But wheresoever we may look
for its origin, it is certainly to be found in its highest
perfection in the essays of a gentleman, whose writings
will be distinguished so long as politeness and good
sense have any admirers. That becoming air which
84
LETTER XXX.
Tully esteemed the criterion of fine composition, and
which every reader, he says, imagines so easy to be imi-
tated, yet will find so difficult to attain, is the prevailing
characteristick of all that excellent author's most ele-
gant performances. In a word, one may justly apply to
him what Plato, in his allegorical language, says of
Aristophanes; that the Graces having searched all the
world round for a temple wherein they might for ever
dwell, settled at last in the breast of Mr. Addison.
Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER XXX.
TO CLYTANDER.
CAN it then be true, Clytander, that, after all the fine
things which have been said concerning the love of our
country, it owes its rise to the principles you mention,
and was originally propagated among mankind in order
to cheat them into the service of the community? And
is it thus, at last, that the most generous of the human
passions, instead of bearing the sacred signature of nature,
can produce no higher marks of its legitimacy than the
suspicious impress of art? The question is worth, at
least, a few thoughts; and I will just run over the prin-
cipal objections in your letter, without drawing them up,
however, in a regular form.
If
That the true happiness of the individual cannot arise
from the single exercise of the mere selfish principles, is
evident, I think, above all reasonable contradiction.
a man would thoroughly enjoy his own being, he must, of
necessity, look beyond it; his private satisfactions always
increasing in the same proportion with which he promotes
those of others, Thus self-interest, if rightly directed,
LETTER XXX.
85
flows through the nearer charities of relations, friends,
and dependents, till it rises, and dilates itself into gene-
ral benevolence. But if every addition which we make
to the welfare of others be really an advancement of
our own; the love of our country must necessarily, upon
a principle of self-interest, be a passion founded in the
strictest reason; because it is a disposition pregnant
with the greatest possible good, which the limited powers
of man are capable of producing. Benevolence, there-
fore, points to our country, as to her only adequate
mark: whatever falls short of that glorious end, is too
small for her full gratification: and all beyond is too
immense for her grasp.
Thus our country appears to have a claim to our af
fection, as it has a correspondent passion in the human
breast: a passion, not raised by the artifices of policy, or
propagated by the infection of enthusiasm, but necessa-
rily resulting from the original constitution of our species,
and conducive to the highest private advantage of each
individual. When Curtius, therefore, or the two Decii,
sacrificed their lives, in order to rescue their community
from the calamities with which it was threatened, they
were by no means impelled (as you seemed to represent
them) by a political phrensy, but acted on the most solid
and rational principles. The method they pursued, for
that purpose, was dictated, I confess, by the most absurd
and groundless superstition: yet, while the impression of
that national belief remained strong upon their minds,
and they were thoroughly persuaded that falling, in the
manner we are assured they did, was the only effectual
means of preserving their country from ruin; they took
the most rational measures of consulting their private
happiness, by thus consenting to become the publick vic-
8
86
LETTER XXX.
tims. Could it even be admitted (what, with any degree
of probability, never, indeed, can be admitted) that these
glorious heroes considered fame as the vainest of shadows,
and had no hopes of an after-life in any other scene of
existence; still, however, their conduct might be justified
as perfectly wise. For surely, to a mind that was not
wholly immersed in the lowest dregs of the most con-
tracted selfishness; that had not totally extinguished
every generous and social affection; the thoughts of hav-
ing preferred a mere joyless existence (for such it must
have been) to the supposed preservation of numbers of
one's fellow-creatures, must have been far more painful
than a thousand deaths.
I cannot, however, but agree with you, that this af-
fection was productive of infinite mischief to mankind, as
it broke out among the Romans, in the impious spirit of
their unjust conquests. But it should be remembered,
at the same time, that it is the usual artifice of ambition,
to mask herself in the semblance of patriotism. And it
can be no just objection to the noblest of the social pas-
sions, that it is capable of being inflamed beyond its na-
tural heat, and turned, by the arts of policy, to promote
those destructive purposes, which it was originally im-
planted to prevent.
This zeal for our country may, indeed, become irra-
tional, not only when it thus pushes us on to act counter
to the natural rights of any other community; but, like-
wise, when it impels us to take the measures of violence
in opposition to the general sense of our own.
For may
not publick happiness be estimated by the same standard
as that of private? and as every man's own opinion must
determine his particular satisfaction, shall not the gene-
ral opinion be considered as decisive in the question con-
LETTER XXX.
87
cerning general interest? Far am I, however, from insi-
nnating, that the true welfare of mankind, in their col-
lective capacities, depends singly upon a prevailing fancy,
any more than it does in their separate; undoubtedly, in
both instances, they may equally embrace a false interest.
But whenever this is the case, I should hardly imagine
that the love of our country, on the one hand, or of our
neighbour on the other, would justify any methods of
bringing them to a wiser choice, than those of calm and
rational persuasion.
I cannot at present recollect which of the ancient au-
thors it is that mentions the Cappadocians to have been
so enamoured of subjection to a despotick power, as to
refuse the enjoyment of their liberties, though gene-
rously tendered to them by the Romans. Scarcely, I
suppose, can there be an instance produced of a more
remarkable depravity of national taste, and of a more
false calculation of publick welfare: yet, even in this in-
stance, it should seem the highest injustice to have at-
tempted, by force, and at the expense, perhaps, of half
the lives in the state, the introduction of a more improved
system of government.
In this notion I am not singular, but have the authority
of Plato himself on my side, who held it as a maxim of
undoubted truth, in politicks, that the prevailing senti-
ments of a state, how much soever mistaken, ought by no
means to be opposed by the measures of violence: a
maxim, which if certain pretended or misguided patriots
had happily embraced, much effusion of civil blood had.
been lately spared to our nation. Adieu. I am, &c.
88
LETTER XXXI.
TO PALAMEDES.
The dawn is overcast, the morning lours,
And heavily with clouds brings on the day.
Nov. 4, 1740.
How then can I better disappoint the gloomy effects
of a louring sky, than by calling my thoughts off from the
dull scene before me, and placing them upon an object
which I always consider with pleasure? Much, certain-
ly, are we indebted to that happy faculty, by which, with
a sort of magick power, we can bring before one's mind
whatever has been the subject of its most agreeable con-
templation. In vain, therefore, would that lovely dame,
who has so often been the topick of our conversations,
pretend to enjoy you to herself: in spite of your favour-
ite philosophy, or even of a more powerful divinity; in
spite of Fortune herself, I can place you in my view,
though half a century of miles lies between us.
But am
I for ever to be indebted to imagination only for your
presence? and will you not sometimes let me owe that
pleasure to yourself? Surely you might spare me a few
weeks before the summer ends, without any inconveni-
ence to that noble plan upon which I know you are so in-
tent. As for my own studies, they go on but slowly:
I am, like a traveller without a guide in an unknown
country, obliged to inquire the way at every turning, and
consequently cannot advance with all the expedition I
could wish. Adieu. I am, &c.
89
LETTER XXXII.
TO THE SAME.
August 10, 1745.
FORGIVE me, Palamedes, if I mistrust an art, which
the greatest of philosophers has called the art of deceiv-
ing, and by which the first of orators could persuade the
people that he had conquered at the athletick games,
though they saw him fall at his adversary's feet. The
voice of Eloquence should ever, indeed, be heard with
caution; and she, whose boast it has formerly been, to
make little things appear considerable, may diminish ob-
jects, perhaps, as well as enlarge them, and lessen even
the charms of repose. But I have too long experienced
the joys of retirement, to quit her arms for a more lively
mistress; and I can look upon ambition, though adorned
in all the ornaments of your oratory, with the cool in-
difference of the most confirmed stoick. To confess the
whole truth, I am too proud to endure a repulse, and too
humble to hope for success: qualities little favourable, I
imagine, to the pretensions of him who would claim the
glittering prizes, which animate those that run the race
of ambition. Let those honours, then, you mention, be
inscribed on the tombs of others; be it rather told on
mine, that I lived and died
Unplac'd, unpension'd, no man's heir or slave.
And is not this a privilege as valuable as any of those
which you have painted to my view, in all the warmest co-
lours of your enlivening eloquence? Bruyere, at least,
has just now assured me, that, "to pay one's court to no
man, nor expect any to pay court to you, is the most
8 *
66
90
LETTER XXXIII.
agreeable of all situations; it is the true golden age,'
says he, "and the most natural state of man."
Believe me, however, I am not in the mistake of those
whom you justly condemn, as imagining that wisdom is
the companion only of retirement, and that virtue enters
not the more open and conspicuous walks of life but I
will confess, at the same time, that though it is to Tully
I give my applause, it is Atticus that has my affection.
Life," says a celebrated ancient, "may be compared
"to the Olympick games: some enter into those assem-
"blies for glory, and others for gain; while there is a
"third party (and those by no means the most contemp-
"tible) who choose to be merely spectators." I need
not tell you, Palamedes, how early it was my inclination
to be numbered with the last; and as nature has not
formed me with powers, am I not obliged to her for
having divested me of every inclination for bearing a
part in the ambitious contentions of the world? Provi-
dence, indeed, seems to have designed some tempers
for the obscure scenes of life; as there are some plants
which flourish best in the shade. But the lowest shrub
has its use, you are sensible, as well as the loftiest oak ;
and, perhaps, your friend may find some method of con-
vincing you, that even the humblest talents are not given.
in vain. Farewell. I am, &c.
1
LETTER XXXIII.
TO PALEMON.
May 28, 1748.
Is it possible you can thus descend from the highest
concerns to the lowest, and, after deliberating upon the
affairs of Europe, have the humility to inquire into mine?
LETTER XXXIII.
But the greatest statesmen, it seems, have their trifling
as well as their serious hours; and I have read of a Ro-
man consul that amused himself with gathering cockle-
shells, and of a Spartan monarch who was found riding
upon a hobby-horse. Or shall I rather say, that friend-
ship gilds every object upon which she shines? As it is the
singular character of Palemon to preserve that generous
flame in all its strength and lustre, amidst that ambitious
atmosphere, which is generally esteemed so unfavourable
to every brighter affection.
It is upon one or other of those principles alone, that
you can be willing to suspend your own more important
engagements, by attending to an account of mine. They
have lately, indeed, been more diversified than usual, and
I have passed these three months in a continual succession
of new scenes. The most agreeable, as well as the far-
thest part of my progress, was to the seat of Hortensius;
and I am persuaded you will not think my travels have
been in vain, since they afford me an opportunity of in-
forming you, that our friend is in possession of all that
happiness which I am sure you wish him. It is probable,
however, you have not yet heard that he owes the chief
part of it to female merit; for his marriage was con-
cluded even before those friends, who are most frequently
with him, had the least suspicion of his intentions. But
though he had some reasons for concealing his designs,
he has none for being ashamed of them now they are
executed. I say not this from any hasty approbation,
but as having long known and esteemed the lady whom
he has chosen: and, as there is a pleasure in bringing
two persons of merit to the knowledge of each other,
will you allow me, in the remainder of this letter, to
introduce her to your acquaintance?
92
LETTER XXXIII.
:
Hortensia is of a good stature, and perfectly well pro-
portioned; but one cannot so properly say her air is
genteel, as that it is pleasing for there is a certain unaf-
fected carelessness in her dress and mien, that wins by
degrees rather than strikes at first sight. If you were to
look no farther than the upper part of her face, you
would think her handsome; were you only to examine
the lower, you would immediately pronounce the reverse ;
yet there is something in her eyes which, without any
pretence to be called fine, gives such an agreeable liveli-
ness to her whole countenance, that you scarce observe,
or soon forget, all her features are not regular. Her
conversation is rather cheerful than gay, and more in-
structive than sprightly.-But the principal and most
distinguished faculties of her mind are her memory and
her judgment, both which she possesses in a far higher
degree than one usually finds even in persons of our sex.
She has read most of the capital authors both in French
and English; but her chief and favourite companions of
that kind have lain among the historical and dramatick
writers. There is hardly a remarkable event, in ancient
or modern story, of which she cannot give a very clear
and judicious account; as she is equally well versed in
all the principal characters and incidents of the most
approved stage compositions. The mathematicks is not
wholly a stranger to her; and though she did not think
proper to pursue her inquiries of that kind to any great
length, yet the very uncommon facility with which she
entered into the reasonings of that science, plainly dis-
covered she was capable of attaining a thorough know-
ledge of all its most abstruse branches.-Her taste, in
performances of polite literature, is always just; and
she is an excellent critick, without knowing any thing of
the artificial rules of that science. Her observations,
[
LETTER XXIII.
93
therefore, upon subjects of that sort, are so much the
more to be relied upon, as they are the pure and unbiassed
dictates of nature and good sense. Accordingly Horten-
sius, in the several pieces which you know he has pub-
lished, constantly had recourse to her judgment; and I
have often heard him, upon those occasions, apply with
singular pleasure, and with equal truth, what the tender
Propertius says of his favourite Cynthia :
Me juvat in gremio docta legisse puellae,
Auribus et puris scripta probâsse mca:
Haec ubi contigerint, populi confusa valeto
Fabula; nam, dominâ judice, tutus ero.
But her uncommon strength of understanding has pre-
served her from that fatal rock of all female knowledge,
the impertinent ostentation of it; and she thinks a reserve
in this article an essential part of that modesty which is
the ornament of her sex. I have heard her observe, that
it is not in the acquired endowinents of the female mind,
as in the beauties of her person, where it may be suffi-
cient praise, perhaps, to follow the example of the virgin
described by Tasso, who,
Non copre sue bellezze, e non l'espose.
On the contrary, she esteems it a point of decency to throw
a veil over the superiour charms of her understanding:
and if ever she draws it aside, you plainly perceive it is
rather to gratify her good-nature than her vanity; less in
compliance with her own inclinations, than with those of
her company.
Her refined sense and extensive knowledge have not,
however, raised her above the more necessary acquisitions
of female science; they have only taught her to fill that
part of her character with higher grace and dignity. She
94
LETTER XXXII.
enters into all the domestick duties of her station with the
most consummate skill and prudence. Her economical
deportment is calm and steady; and she presides over her
family like the Intelligence of some planetary orb, con-
ducting it in all its proper directions without violence or
disturbed efforts.
These qualities, however considerable they might ap-
pear in a less shining character, are but under parts in
Hortensia's; for it is from the virtues of her heart that
she derives her most irresistible claim to esteem and
approbation. A constant flow of uniform and unaffected
cheerfulness gladdens her own breast, and enlivens that
of every creature around her. Her behaviour, under the
injuries she has received (for injuries even the blameless
Hortensia has received) was with all the calm fortitude
of the most heroick patience; as she firmly relied, that
Providence would either put an end to her misfortunes,
or support her under them. And with that elevated
hope, she seemed to feel less for herself than for the
unjust and inhuman author of her sufferings, generously
lamenting to see one, so nearly related to her, stand
condemned by that severest and most significant of sen-
tences, the united reproaches of the world and of his
conscience.
Thus, Palemon, I have given you a faithful copy of an
excellent original; but whether you will join with me in
thinking my pencil has been true to its subject, must be
left to some future opportunity to determine. I am, &c.
95
t
LETTER XXXIV.
TO HORTENSIUS.
Dec. 10, 1739.
I HAVE read over the treatise you recommended to me,
with attention and concern. I was sorry to find an au-
thor, who seems so well qualified to serve the cause of
truth, employing his talents in favour of what appears to
me a most dangerous errour. I have often wondered, in-
deed, at the policy of certain philosophers of this cast,
who endeavour to advance religion by depreciating human
nature. Methinks it would be more for the interest of
virtue, to represent her congenial (as congenial she surely
is) with our make, and agreeable to our untainted con-
stitution of soul; to prove that every deviation from mo-
ral rectitude is an opposition to our native bias, and con-
trary to those characters of dignity which the Creator has
universally impressed upon the mind. This, at least, was
the principle which many of the ancient philosophers la-
boured to inculcate; as there is not, perhaps, any single
topick in ethicks that might be urged with more truth, or
greater efficacy.
It is upon this generous and exalted notion of our spe-
cies, that one of the noblest precepts of the excellent Py-
thagoras is founded: Πάντων δε μαλιστα (says that philo-
sopher) αισχυνει σαυτον. The first and leading dispo-
sition to engage us on the side of virtue, was, in that
sage's estimation, to preserve, above all things, a constant
reverence to our own mind, and to dread nothing so much
as to offend against its native dignity. The ingenious
Mr. Norris, I remember, recommends this precept as one
of the best, perhaps, that was ever given to the world.
May one not justly, then, be surprised to find it so sel-
96
LETTER XXXV.
dom enforced in our modern systems of morality? To
confess the truth, I am strongly inclined to suspect that
much of that general contempt of every manly principle,
which so remarkably distinguishes the present times, may
fairly be attributed to the humour of discarding this ani-
mating notion of our kind. It has been the fashion to
paint human nature in the harshest and most unpleasing
colours. Yet there is not, surely, any argument more
likely to induce a man to act unworthily, than to per-
suade him that he has nothing of innate worthiness in his
genuine disposition; than to reason him out of every ele-
vated notion of his own grandeur of soul; and to de-
stroy, in short, every motive that might justly inspire him
with a principle of self-reverence, that surest internal
guard heaven seems to have assigned to the human vir-
tues. Farewell. I am, &c.
G
S
LETTER XXXV.
TO CLEORA.
THOUGH it was not possible for me to celebrate" with
you, as usual, that happy anniversary which we have so
many reasons to commemorate, yet I could not suffer
so joyful a festival to pass by me without a thousand ten-
der reflections. I took pleasure in tracing back that
stream to its rise, which has coloured all my succeeding
days with happiness; as my Cleora, perhaps, was at that
very instant running over in her own mind those many
moments of calm satisfaction which she has derived from
the same source.
My heart was so entirely possessed with the senti-
ments which this occasion suggested, that I found my-
LETTER XXXVI.
97
self raised into a sort of poetical enthusiasm; and I
could not forbear expressing, in verse, what I have often
said in prose, of the dear author of iny most valuable en-
joyments. As I imagined Teraminta would, by this
time, be with you, I had a view to her harpsichord in the
composition, and I desire you would let her know, I hope
she will shew me, at my return, to what advantage the
most ordinary numbers will appear, when judiciously ac-
companied with a fine voice and instrument.
I must not forget to tell you, it was in your favourite
grove, which we have so often traversed together, that I
indulged myself in these pleasing reveries; as it was not,
you are to suppose, without having first invoked the
Genius of the place, and called upon the Muses in due
form, that I broke out in the following rhapsody :
ODE FOR MUSICK,
AIR I.
Thrice has the circling earth, swift pacing, run,
And thrice again around the sun,
Since first the white-rob'd priest, with sacred band,
Sweet union! join'd us hand in hand.
CHORUS.
All heav'n, and ev'ry friendly pow'r,
Approv'd the vow and bless'd the hour.
RECITATIVE.
What though in silence sacred Hymen trod,
Nor lyre proclaim'd, nor garland crown'd the God;
What though nor feast nor revel dance was there,
(Vain pomp of joy the happy well may spare!)
Yet Love unfeign'd, and conscious Honour, led
The spotless virgin to the bridal bed;
Rich, though despoil'd of all her little store;
For who shall seize fair virtue's better dow'r?
9
98
LETTER XXXV.
AIR II.
Blest with sense, with temper blest,
Wisdom o'er thy lips presides;
Virtue guards thy gen'rous breast,
Kindness all thy actions guides.
AIR HI.
Ev'ry home-felt bliss is mine,
Ev'ry matron grace is thine;
Chaste deportment, artless mien,
Converse sweet, and heart serene.
Sinks my soul with gloomy pain?
See, she smiles!-'tis joy again!
Swells a passion in my breast?
Hark, she speaks! and all is rest.
Oft as clouds my paths o'erspread
(Doubtful where my steps should tread)
She, with judgment's steady ray,
Marks, and smooths, the better way,
CHORUS.
Chief amongst ten thousand she,
Worthy, sacred Hymen! thee.
While such are the sentiments which I entertain of my
Cleora, can I find myself obliged to be thus distant from
her, without the highest regret? The truth, believe me,
is, though both the company and the scene wherein I am
engaged are extremely agreeable, yet I find a vacancy in
my happiness, which none but you can fill up. Surely
those who have recommended these little separations as
necessary to revive the languor of the married state, have
ill understood its most refined gratifications: there is no
satiety in the mutual exchange of tender offices.
There seems to have been a time when a happiness of
this kind was considered as the highest glory, as well as
the supreme blessing of human life. I remember, when
LETTER XXXVI.
99
I was in Italy, to have seen several conjugal inscriptions
upon the sepulchral monuments of ancient Rome, which,
instead of running out into a pompous panegyrick upon
the virtues of the deceased, mentioned singly, as the most
significant of encomiums, how many years the parties
had lived together in full and uninterrupted harmony.-
The Romans, indeed, in this, as in many other instances,
afford the most remarkable examples; and it is an ob-
servation of one of their writers, that, notwithstanding
divorces might very easily be obtained among them, their
republick had subsisted many centuries, before there was a
single instance of that privilege ever having been exerted.
Thus, my Cleora, you see, however unfashionable I may
appear in the present generation, I might have been kept
in countenance in a former; and by those too who had
as much true gallantry and good sense as one usually
meets with in this. But affections which are founded in
truth and nature stand not in need of any precedent to
support them; and I esteem it my honour no less than
my happiness, that I am, &c.
LETTER XXXVI.
TO CLYTANDER.
DID you imagine I was really in earnest, when I talked
of quitting ***, and withdrawing from those gilded pros-
pects which ambition had once so strongly set in my
view? But my vows, you see, are not in the number of
those which are made to be broken; for the retreat I
had long meditated is now, at last, happily executed. To
say truth, my friend, the longer I lived in the high scenes
of action, the more I was convinced that nature had not
•
100
LETTER XXXVI.
formed me for bearing a part in them; and though I was
once so unexperienced in the ways of the world, as to be-
lieve I had talents, as I was sure I had inclination, to
serve my country, yet every day's conversation contri-
buted to wean me, by degrees, from that flattering delusion.
How, indeed, could a man hope to render himself ac-
ceptable to the various parties which divide our nation,
who professes it as his principle that there is no striking
wholly into the measures of any, without renouncing ei-
ther one's sense or one's integrity? and yet, as the world
is at present constituted, it is scarce possible, I fear, to
do any good in one's generation, (in publick life I mean)
without listing under some or other of those various ban-
ners which distinguish the several corps in these our po-
litical warfares. To those, therefore, who may have cu-
riosity enough to enter into my concerns, and ask a rea-
son for my quitting the town, I answer, in the words of
the historian, Civitatis morum taedet pigetque.—But I am
wandering from the purpose of my letter, which was not
so much to justify my retreat, as to incline you to follow
me into it: to follow me, I mean, as a visiter only; for I
love my country too well to call you off from those great
services you are capable of doing her.
I have pitched my tent upon a spot which I am per-
suaded will not displease you. My villa (if you will allow
ine to call by that fine name, what, in truth, is no better
than a neat farm-house,) is situated upon a gentle rise,
which commands a short, though agreeable, view of about
three miles in circumference. This is bounded on the
north by a ridge of hills, which afford me at once both a
secure shelter and a beautiful prospect; for they are as
well cultivated as the most fertile valleys. In the front
of ray house, which stands south-east, I have a view of
the river that runs, at the distance of somewhat less than
LETTER XXXVI.
101
a quarter of a mile, at the end of my grounds, and, after
making several windings and turnings, seems to lose itself
at the foot of those hills I just now mentioned. As for
my garden, I am obliged to nature for its chief beauties;
having no other (except a small spot which I have allotted
for the purposes of my table) but what the fields and
meadows afford. These, however, I have embellished
with some care, having intermixed among the hedges all
the several sorts of flowering shrubs.
But I must not forget to mention what I look upon to
be the principal ornament of the place; as, indeed, I do
not recollect to have seen any thing of the kind in our
English plantations. I have covered a small spot with
different sorts of ever-greens, many of which are of a
species not very usual in our country. This little planta-
tion I have branched out into various labyrinth-walks,
which are all terminated by a small temple in the centre.
I have a double advantage from this artificial wood; for
it not only affords me a very shady retreat in summer,
but, as it is situated opposite to my library, supplies me
in winter with a perspective of the most agreeable ver-
dure imaginable.
What heightens my relish of this retirement, is the
company of my Cleora; as, indeed, many of the best im-
provements I have made in it are owing to hints which I
have received from her exquisite taste and judgment.-
She will rejoice to receive you as her guest here, and has
given it me in charge to remind you, that you have pro-
mised to be so. As the business of parliament is now
drawing to a conclusion, I may urge this to you without
any imputation upon my patriotism; though, at the same
time, I must add, I make a very considerable sacrifice of
private interest, whenever I resign you for the sake of the
publick. Adieu. I am, &c.
9*
102
LETTER XXXVII.
TO HORTENSIUS.
ARE you aware, Hortensius, how far I may mislead you,
when you are willing to resign yourself to my guidance,
through the regions of criticism? Remember, however,
that I take the lead in these paths, not in confidence of
my own superiour knowledge of them, but in compliance
with a request, which I never yet knew how to refuse.-
In short, Hortensius, I give you my sentiments, because
it is my sentiments you require but I give them, at the
same time, rather as doubts than decisions.
:
After having thus acknowledged my insufficiency for
the office you have assigned me, I will venture to confess
that the poet who has gained over your approbation, has
been far less successful with mine. I have ever thought,
with a very celebrated modern writer, that
Le vers le mieux rempli, la plus noble pensée,
Ne peut plaire à l'esprit quand l'oreille est blessée.
Boileau.
Thus, though I admit there is both wit in the raillery,
and strength in the sentiments, of your friend's moral
epistle, it by no means falls in with those notions I have
formed to myself concerning the essential requisites in
compositions of this kind. He seems, indeed, to have
widely deviated from the model he professes to have had
in view, and is no more like Horace, than Hyperion to a
Satyr. His deficiency in point of versification, not to
mention his want of elegance in the general manner of his
poem, is sufficient to destroy the pretended resemblance.
Nothing, in truth, can be more absurd, than to write in
}
LETTER XXXVII.
103
poetical measure, and yet neglect harmony; as, of all the
kinds of false style, that which is neither prose nor verse,
but I know not what inartificial combination of powerless
words bordered with rhyme, is far, surely, the most insuf-
ferable.
But you are of opinion, I perceive (and it is an opinion
in which you are not singular) that a negligence of this kind
may be justified by the authority of the Roman satirist :
yet surely those who entertain that notion, have not tho-
roughly attended either to the precepts or the practice of
Horace. He has attributed, I confess, his satirical compo-
sition to the inspiration of a certain Muse, whom he dis-
tinguishes by the title of the Musa pedestris, and it is this
expression which seems to have misled the generality of his
imitators. But though he will not allow her to fly, he by
no means intends she should creep: on the contrary, it may
be said of the Muse of Horace, as of the Eve of Milton,
that
1
*
1
H
6
2
Grace is in all her steps.
That this was the idea which Horace himself had of her,
is evident, not only from the general air which prevails
in his satires and epistles, but from several express decla-
rations, which he lets fall in his progress through them.
Even when he speaks of her in his greatest fits of modesty,
and describes her as exhibited in his own moral writings, he
particularly insists upon the case and harmony of her
motions. Though he humbly disclaims, indeed, all pre-
tensions to the higher poetry, the acer spiritus et vis,
as he calls it; he represents his style as being governed
by the tempora certa modosque, as flowing with a certain
regular and agreeable cadence. Accordingly, we find
him particularly condemning his predecessor, Lucilius,
for the dissonance of his numbers; and he professes to
104
LETTER XXVII.
have made the experiment, whether the same kind of
moral subject might not be treated in more soft and easy
measures:
Quid vetat et nosmet Lucilî scripta legentes
Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit
Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes
Mollius?
The truth is, a tuneful cadence is the single prerogative
of poetry which he pretends to claim to his writings of this
kind and so far is he from thinking it unessential, that he
acknowledges it as the only separation which distinguishes
them from prose. If that were once to be broken down,
and the musical order of his words destroyed; there would
not, he tells us, be the least appearance of poetry re-
maining:
1
7
Non
Invenias etiam disjecti membra poetae.
However, when he delivers himself in this humble strain,
he is not, you will observe, sketching out a plan of this
species of poetry in general, but speaking merely of his
own performances in particular. His demands rise much
higher, when he informs us what he expects of those,
who would succeed in compositions of this moral kind.
He then not only requires flowing numbers, but an ex-
pression concise and unincumbered; wit, exerted with
good breeding, and managed with reserve; as, upon some
occasions, the sentiments may be enforced with all the
strength of eloquence and poetry; and though, in some
parts, the piece may appear with a more serious and
solemn cast of colouring, yet, upon the whole, he tells
us, it must be lively and riant. This I take to be his
meaning in the following passage :
·
LETTER XXXVH.
105
Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se
Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures;
Et sermone opus est, modò tristi, saepè jocoso,
Defendente vicem modò rhetoris, atque poëtae;
Interdum urbani, parcentis viribus, atque
Extenuantis eas consultò.
Such, then, was the notion which Horace had of this kind
of writing. And if there is any propriety in these his
rules, if they are founded on the truth of taste and art;
I fear the performance in question, with numberless others
of the same stamp, (which have not, however, wanted ad-
mirers) must inevitably stand condemned. The truth of
it is, most of the pieces which are usually produced upon
this plan, rather give one an image of Lucilius, than of
Horace the authors of them seem to mistake the awk-
ward negligence of the favourite of Scipio, for the easy
air of the friend of Maecenas.
:
You will still tell me, perhaps, that the example of
Horace himself is an unanswerable objection to the no-
tion I have embraced; as there are numberless lines in
his satires and epistles, where the versification is evident-
ly neglected, But are you sure, Hortensius, that those
lines which sound so unharmonious to a modern ear, had
the same effect upon a Roman one? For myself, at least,
I am much inclined to believe the contrary; and it seems
highly incredible, that he who had ventured to censure
Lucilius for the uncouthness of his numbers, should him-
self be notoriously guilty of the very fault, against
which he so strongly exclaims. Most certain it is, that
the delicacy of the ancients, with respect to numbers, was
far superiour to any thing that modern taste can pretend
to; and that they discovered differences, which are to
us absolutely imperceptible. To mention only one re-
markable instance: A very ancient writer has observed
upon the following verse in Virgil,
106
LETTER XXXVII.
Arma, virumque cano, Troja qui primus ab oris-
that if, instead of primus, we were to pronounce it primis,
(is being long, and us short) the entire harmony of the
line would be destroyed. But whose ear is now so ex-
quisitely sensible, as to perceive the distinction between
those two quantities? Some refinement of this kind
might probably give musick to those lines in Horace,
which now seem so untuneable.
In subjects of this nature, it is not possible, perhaps,
to express one's ideas in any very precise and determi-
nate manner. I will only, therefore, in general, observe,
with respect to the requisite style of these performan-
ces, that it consists in a natural ease of expression, an
elegant familiarity of phrase, which, though formed of
the most usual terms of language, has yet a grace and
energy, no less striking than that of a more elevated dic-
tion. There is a certain lively colouring peculiar to
compositions in this way, which, without being so bright
and glowing as is necessary for the higher poetry, is,
nevertheless, equally removed from whatever appears
harsh and dry. But particular instances will, perhaps,
better illustrate my meaning, than any thing I can farther
say to explain it. There is scarce a line in the moral
epistles of Mr. Pope, which might not be produced for
this purpose. I choose, however, to lay before you the
following verses, not as preferring them to many others
which might be quoted from that inimitable satirist;
but as they afford me an opportunity of comparing them
with a version of the same original lines, of which they
are an imitation; and, by that means, of shewing you,
at one view, what I conceive is, and is not, in the true man-
ner of Horace :
!
1
f
L
I
LETTER XXXVII.
107
}
T
Peace is my dear delight-not Fleury's more;
But touch me, and no minister so sore:
Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time,
Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme ;
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the sad burthen of some merry song.
I will refer you to your own memory for the Latin pas-
sage, from whence Mr. Pope has taken the general hint
of these verses; and content myself with adding a trans-
lation of the lines from Horace by another hand :
Behold me blameless bard, how fond of peace!
But he who hurts me, (nay, I will be heard)
Had better take a lion by the beard;
His eyes
shall weep the folly of his tongue,
By laughing crowds in rueful ballad sung.
There is a strength and spirit in the former of these pas-
sages, and a flatness and languor in the latter, which
cannot fail of being discovered by every reader of the
least delicacy of discernment; and yet the words which
compose them both are equally sounding and significant.
The rules then, which I just now mentioned from Ho-
race, will point out the real cause of the different effects
which these two passages produce in our minds; as the
passages themselves will serve to confirm the truth and
justice of the rules. In the lines from Mr. Pope, one of
the principal beauties will be found to consist in the
shortness of the expression; whereas, the sentiments in
the other are too much incumbered with words. Thus,
for instance,
Peace is my dear delight,
is pleasing because it is concise; as
Behold me blameless bard, how fond of peace!
108
LETTER XXXVIII.
is, in comparison of the former, the verba lassas oneran-
tia aures. Another distinguishing perfection in the imi-
tator of Horace, is that spirit of gayety which he has dif-
fused through these lines, not to mention those happy,
though familiar, images of sliding into verse, and hitching
in a rhyme which can never be sufficiently admired.-
But the translator, on the contrary, has cast too serious
an air over his numbers, and appears with an emotion and
earnestness that disappoint the force of his satire :
Nay, I will be heard,
has the mien of a man in a passion; and
His eyes shall weep the folly of his tongue :
though a good line in itself, is much too solemn and tra-
gical for the undisturbed pleasantry of Horace.
But I need not enter more minutely into an examina-
tion of those passages. The general hints I have thrown
out in this letter will suffice to shew you wherein I ima-
gine the true manner of Horace consists. And after all,
perhaps, it can no more be explained, than acquired, by
rules of art. It is what true genius can only execute, and
just taste alone discover. I am, &c.
LETTER XXXVIII.
TO THE SAME.
Nov. 7, 1730.
YOUR admired poet, I remember, somewhere lays it
down as a maxim, that
The proper study of mankind is man.
There cannot, indeed, be a more useful, nor, one should
imagine, a more easy science so many lessons of this
LETTER XXXVIII.
109
kind are every moment forcing themselves upon our obser-
vation, that it should seem scarce possible not to be well
acquainted with the various turns and dispositions of the
human heart. And yet there are so few who are really
adepts in this article, that to say of a man, he knows the
world, is generally esteemed a compliment of the most
significant kind.
The reason, perhaps, of the general ignorance which
prevails in this sort of knowledge, may arise from our
judging too much by universal principles. Whereas
there is a wonderful disparity in mankind, and number-
less characters exist which cannot properly be reduced
to any regular and fixed standard. Monsieur Paschal
observes, that the greater sagacity any man possesses, the
more originals he will discern among his species as it is
the remark of Sir William Temple, that no nation under
the sun abounds with so many as our own. Plutarch, if
I remember right, is of opinion, that there is a wider dif
ference between the individuals of our own kind, than
what is observable between creatures of a separate order:
while Montaigne (who seems to have known human na-
ture perfectly well) supposes the distance to be still more
remote, and asserts that the distinction is much greater
between man and man, than between man and beast.
The comick writers have not, I think, taken all the
advantage they might of this infinite diversity of humour
in the human race. A judicious observer of the world
might single out abundant materials for ridicule, without
having recourse to those worn-out characters which are for
ever returning upon the stage. If I were acquainted with
any genius in this class of writers, I think I could furnish
him with an original, which, if artfully represented, and
connected with proper incidents, might be very success-
10
110
LETTER XXXVII.
fully introduced into comedy. The person I have in view
is my neighbour Stilotes.
Stilotes, in his youth, was esteemed to have good sense,
and a tolerable taste for letters; as he gained some repu-
tation at the university in the exercises usual at that
place. But as soon as he was freed from the restraint of
tutors, the natural restlessness of his temper broke out,
and he has never, from that time to this, applied himself
for half an hour together to any single pursuit. He is ex-
tremely active in his disposition; but his whole life is one
incessant whirl of trifles. He rises, perhaps, with a full
intent of amusing himself all the morning with his gun:
but before he has got half the length of a field, he recol-
lects that he owes a visit, which he must instantly pay :
accordingly his horse is saddled, and he sets out. But in
his way he remembers that he has not given proper or-
ders about such a flower, and he must absolutely return,
or the whole economy of his nursery will be ruined.-
Thus, in whatever action you find him engaged, you may
be sure it is the very reverse of what he proposed. Yet
with all this quickness of transition and vivacity of spi-
rits, he is so indolent in every thing which has the air of
business, that he is at least two or three months before
he can persuade himself to open any letter he receives :
and, from the same disposition, he has suffered the divi-
dends of his stocks to run on for many years, without re-
ceiving a shilling of the interest. Stilotes is possessed of
an estate in Dorsetshire, but that being the place where
his chief business lies, he chooses constantly to reside
with a friend near London. This person submits to his
humour and his company, in hopes that Stilotes will con-
sider him in his will: but it is more than possible that
he will never endure the fatigue of signing one. How-
ever, having here every thing provided for him but
LETTER XXXIX.
111
I
clothes and pocket-money, he lives perfectly to his satis-
faction, in full employment without any real business ;
and while those who look after his estate take care to
supply him with sufficient to answer those two articles,
he is entirely unconcerned as to all the rest: though,
when he is disposed to appear more than ordinarily im-
portant, he will gravely harangue upon the roguery of
stewards, and complain that his rents will scarce main-
tain him in powder and shot half the partridge season.→
In short, Stilotes is one of the most extraordinary com-
pounds of indolence and activity that I ever met with;
and, as I know you have a taste for curiosities, I present
you with his character as a rarity that merits a place in
your collection. Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER XXXIX.
now,
TO PHIDIPPUS.
'Tis well, my friend, that the age of transformation is
no more; otherwise I should tremble for your severe
attack upon the Muses, and expect to see the story of
your Metamorphosis embellish the poetical miracles of
some modern Ovid, But it is long since the fate of the
Pierides has gained any credit in the world, and you may
in full security, contemn the divinities of Parnassus,
and speak irreverently of the daughters of Jove himself.
You see, nevertheless, how highly the ancients conceived
of them, when they thus represented them as the off-
spring of the great father of gods and men.
You reject,
I know, this article of the heathen creed: but I may
venture, however, to assert, that philosophy will confirm
what fable has thus invented, and that the Muses are, in
strict truth, of heavenly extraction.
112
LETTER XXXIX.
The charms of the fine arts are, indeed, literally de-
rived from the author of all nature, and founded in the
original frame and constitution of the human mind. Ac-
cordingly, the general principles of taste are common to
our whole species, and arise from that internal sense of
beauty which every man, in some degree at least, evi-
dently possesses. No rational mind can be so wholly
void of all perceptions of this sort, as to be capable of
contemplating the various objects that surround him, with
one equal coldness and indifference. There are certain
forms which must necessarily fill the soul with agreeable
ideas; and she is instantly determined in her approbation
of them, previous to all reasonings concerning their use
and convenience. It is upon these general principles that
what is called fine taste in the arts is founded; and, con-
sequently, is by no means so precarious and unsettled an
idea as you choose to describe it. The truth is, taste is
nothing more than this universal sense of beauty, rendered
more exquisite by genius, and more correct by cultivation :
and it is from the simple and original ideas of this sort, that
the mind learns to form her judgment of the higher and
more complex kinds. Accordingly, the whole circle of the
imitative and oratorical arts is governed by the same
general rules of criticism; and to prove the certainty of
these with respect to any one of them, is to establish their
validity with regard to all the rest. I will, therefore, con-
sider the criterion of taste in relation only to fine writing.
Each species of composition has its distinct perfections;
and it would require a much larger compass than a letter
affords, to prove their respective beauties to be derived
from truth and nature; and consequently reducible to a
regular and precise standard. I will only mention, there-
fore, those general properties which are essential to them
all, and without which they must necessarily be defective
in their several kinds. These, I think, may be compre-
LETTER XXXIX.
113
F
hended under uniformity in the designs, variety and
resemblance in the metaphors and similitudes, together
with propriety and harmony in the diction. Now some
or all of these qualities constantly attend our ideas of
beauty, and necessarily raise that agreeable perception of
the mind, in what object soever they appear. The charms
of fine composition, then, are so far from existing only in
the heated imagination of an enthusiastick admirer, that
they result from the constitution of nature herself. And,
perhaps, the principles of criticism are as certain and
indisputable even as those of the mathematicks: Thus,
for instance, that order is preferable to confusion, that
harmony is more pleasing than dissonance, with some few
other axioms upon which the science is built, are truths
which strike at once upon the mind with the same force of
conviction, as that the whole is greater than any of its
parts, or that, if from equals you take away equals, the
remainder will be equal. And, in both cases, the proposi-
tions which rest upon these plain and obvious maxims, seem
equally capable of the same evidence of demonstration.
But as every intellectual as well as animal faculty is
improved and strengthened by exercise, the more the soul
exerts this her internal sense of beauty upon any particular
object, the more she will enlarge and refine her relish
of that peculiar species. For this reason, the works of
those great masters, whose performances have been long
and generally admired, supply a farther criterion of fine
taste, equally fixed and certain as that which is immediate-
ly derived from nature herself. The truth is, fine writing
is only the art of raising agreeable sensations of the most
intellectual kind; and, therefore, as by examining those
original forms which are adapted to awaken this percep-
tion in the mind, we learn what those qualities are which
constitute beauty in general; so, by observing the pecu-
10 *
114
LETTER XXXIX.
liar construction of those compositions of genius which
have always pleased, we perfect our idea of fine writing in
particular. It is this united approbation, in persons of
different ages, and of various characters and languages, that
Longinus has made the test of the true sublime; and he
might with equal justice have extended the same criteri-
on to all the inferiour excellencies of elegant composition.
Thus, the deference paid to the performances of the great
masters of antiquity, is fixed upon just and solid reasons:
it is not because Aristotle and Horace have given us the
rules of criticism, that we submit to their authority; it
is because those rules are derived from works which have
been distinguished by the uninterrupted admiration of all
the more improved part of mankind, from their earliest
appearance down to this present hour. For whatever,
through a long series of ages, has been universally esteemed
as beautiful, cannot but be conformable to our just and
natural ideas of beauty.
The opposition, however, which sometimes divides the
opinions of those whose judgments may be supposed equal
and perfect, is urged as a powerful objection against the
reality of a fixed canon of criticism: it is a proof, you
think, that, after all which can be said of fine taste, it
must ultimately be resolved into the peculiar relish of
each individual. But this diversity of sentiments will
not, of itself, destroy the evidence of the criterion; since
the same effect may be produced by numberless other
causes. A thousand accidental circumstances may con-
cur in counteracting the force of the rule, even allowing
it to be ever so fixed and invariable, when left in its free
and uninfluenced state. Not to mention that false bias
which party or personal dislike may fix upon the mind,
the most unprejudiced critick will find it difficult to disen-
gage himself entirely from those partial affections in fa-
:
LETTER XXXIX.
115
vour of particular beauties, to which either the general
course of his studies, or the peculiar cast of his temper,
may have rendered him most sensible. But as perfec-
tion, in any works of genius, results from the united
beauty and propriety of its several distinct parts; and as
it is impossible that any human composition should pos-
sess all those qualities in their highest and most sovereign
degree; the mind, when she pronounces judgment upon
any piece of this sort, is apt to decide of its merit, as
those circumstances which she most admires either pre-
vail or are deficient. Thus, for instance, the excellency
of the Roman masters, in painting, consists in beauty of
design, nobleness of attitude, and delicacy of expression ;
but the charms of good colouring are wanting. On the
contrary, the Venetian school is said to have neglected
design a little too much; but at the same time has been
more attentive to the grace and harmony of well-disposed
lights and shades. Now it will be admitted, by all ad-
mirers of this noble art, that no composition of the pencil
can be perfect, where either of these qualities is absent;
yet the most accomplished judge may be so particularly
struck with one or other of these excellencies, in prefer-
ence to the rest, as to be influenced in his censure or ap-
plause of the whole tablature by the predominancy or de-
ficiency of his favourite beauty. Something of this kind
(where the meaner prejudices do not operate) is ever, I
am persuaded, the occasion of that diversity of sentences
which we occasionally hear pronounced, by the most im-
proved judges, on the same piece. But this only shews
that much caution is necessary to give a fine taste its full
and unobstructed effect; not that it is in itself uncertain
and precarious. I am, &c.
116
LETTER XL..
TO PALAMEDES.
YOUR resolution to decline those overtures of acquaint-
ance which Mezentius, it seems, has lately made to you, is
agreeable to the refined principles which have ever in-
fluenced your conduct. A man of your elegant notions
of integrity will observe the same delicacy with respect
to his companions, as Caesar did with regard to his wife,
and refuse all commerce with persons even but of sus-
pected honour. It would not, indeed, be doing justice to
Mezentius, to represent him in that number: for though
his hypocrisy has preserved to him some few friends, and
his immense wealth draws after him many followers, the
world in general are by no means divided in their senti-
ments concerning him.
But, whilst you can have his picture from so many bet-
ter hands, why are you desirous of seeing it by mine?
It is a painful employment to contemplate human nature
in its deformities; as there is nothing, perhaps, more dif-
ficult, than to execute a portrait of the characteristical
kind with strength and spirit. However, since you have
assigned me the task, I do not think myself at liberty to
refuse it especially as it is your interest to see him de-
lineated in his true form.
:
Mezentius, with the designs and artifice of a Catiline,
affects the integrity and patriotism of a Cato. Liberty,
justice, and honour, are words which he knows perfectly
well how to apply with address; and having them always
ready, upon proper occasions, he conceals the blackest
purposes under the fairest appearances. For void, as in
truth he is, of every worthy principle, he has too much
policy not to pretend to the noblest; well knowing, that
&
LETTER XL.
117
R
counterfeit virtues are the most successful vices. It is by
arts of this kind that, notwithstanding he has shewn him-
self unrestrained by the most sacred engagements of so-
ciety, and uninfluenced by the most tender affections of
nature, he has still been able to retain some degree of
credit in the world; for he never sacrifices his honour to
his interest, that he does not, in some less considerable,
but more open instance, make a concession of his in-
terest to his honour; and thus, while he sinks his charac-
ter on one side, very artfully raises it on the other. Ac-
cordingly, under pretence of the most scrupulous delica-
cy of conscience, he lately resigned a post which he held
under my lord Godolphin; when, at the same time, he
was endeavouring, by the most shameless artifices and
evasions, to deceive and defraud a friend of mine in one
of the most solemn and important transactions that can
pass between man and man.
1
But will you not suspect that I am describing a phan-
tom of my own imagination, when I tell you, after this,
that he has erected himself into a reformer of manners,
and is so injudiciously officious as to draw the inquiry of
the world upon his own morals, by attempting to expose
the defects of others? A man who ventures publickly to
point out the blemishes of his contemporaries, should, at
least, be free from any uncommon stain himself, and
have nothing remarkably dark in the complexion of his
own private character. But MEZENTIUS, not satisfied
with being vicious, has at length determined to be ridicu-
lous; and, after having wretchedly squandered his youth
and his patrimony in riot and dissoluteness, is contempti-
bly mispending his old age in measuring impotent sylla-
bles, and dealing out pointless abuse. Farewell. I am,
&c.
118
LETTER XLI.
TO ORONTES.
March 10, 1738.
WHAT haughty Sacharissa has put you out of humour
with her whole sex? For it is some disappointment, I sus-
pect, of the tender kind, that has thus sharpened the
edge of your satire, and pointed its invective against the
fairer half of our species. You were not mistaken, how-
ever, when you supposed I should prove no convert to
your doctrine; but rise up as an advocate, where I pro-
fess myself an admirer. I am not, 'tis true, altogether of
old Montaigne's opinion, that the souls of both sexes sont
jettes (as he expresses it) en mesme moules: on the con-
trary, I am willing enough to join with you in thinking
that they may be wrought off from different models. Yet,
the casts may be equally perfect, though it should be al-
lowed that they are essentially different. Nature, it is
certain, has traced out a separate course of action for the
two sexes; and as they are appointed to distinct offices
of life, it is not improbable that there may be something
distinct likewise in the frame of their minds; that there
may be a kind of sex in the very soul.
I cannot, therefore but wonder that Plato should have
thought it reasonable to admit them into an equal share of
the dignities and offices of his imaginary commonwealth ;
and that the wisdom of the ancient Egyptians should have so
strangely inverted the evident intentions of providence, as
to confine the men to domestick affairs, whilst the women,
it is said, were engaged abroad in the active and laborious
scenes of business. History, it must be owned, will sup-
ply some few female instances of all the most masculine
virtues: but appearances of that extraordinary kind are
too uncommon, to support the notion of a general equality
in the natural powers of their minds,
LETTER XLI.
119
Thus much, however, seems evident, that there are
certain moral boundaries which Nature bas drawn between
the two sexes, and that neither of them can pass over
the limits of the other, without equally deviating from
the beauty and decorum of their respective characters:
Boadicea, in armour, is to me, at least, as extravagant a
sight as Achilles in petticoats.
In determining, therefore, the comparative merit of the
two sexes, it is no derogation from female excellency, that
it differs in kind from that which distinguishes the male
part of our species. And if, in general, it shall be found,
(what, upon an impartial inquiry, I believe, will most¿cer-
tainly be found) that women fill up their appointed circle
of action with greater regularity and dignity than men,
the claim of preference cannot justly be decided in our
favour. In the prudential and economical part of life,
I think it undeniable that they rise far above us. And
if true fortitude of mind is best discovered by a cheerful
resignation to the measures of Providence, we shall not
find reason, perhaps, to claim that most singular of
the human virtues as our peculiar privilege. There are
numbers of the other sex, who, from the natural delicacy
of their constitution, pass through one continued scene
of suffering, from their cradles to their graves, with
a firmness of resolution that would deserve so many
statues to be erected to their memories, if heroism were
not estimated more by the splendour than the merit of
actions.
But, whatever real difference there may be between
the moral or intellectual powers of the male and female
mind, Nature does not seem to have marked the distinc-
tion so strongly as our vanity is willing to imagine: and,
after all, perhaps, education will be found to constitute
the principal superiority. It must be acknowledged, at
120
LETTER XLI.
least, that in this article we have every advantage over
the softer sex, that art and industry can possibly secure
to us. The most animating examples of Greece and Rome
are set before us, as early as we are capable of any obser-
vation; and the noblest compositions of the ancients are
given into our hands, almost as soon as we have strength
to hold them while the employments of the other sex, at
the same period of life, are generally the reverse of every
thing that can open and enlarge their minds, or fill them
with just and rational notions. The truth of it is, female
education is so much worse than none, as it is better to
leave the mind to its natural and uninstructed suggestions,
than to lead it into false pursuits, and contract its views
by turning them upon the lowest and most trifling objects.
We seem, indeed, by the manner in which we suffer the
youth of that sex to be trained, to consider women agree-
ably to the opinion of certain Mahometan doctors, and
treat them as if we believed they have no souls: why else
are they
Bred only and completed to the taste
Of lustful appetence, to sing, to dance,
To dress, and troule the tongue, and roll the eye ?
Milton.
This strange neglect of cultivating the female mind,
can hardly be allowed as good policy, when it is consider-
ed how much the interest of society is concerned in the
rectitude of their understandings. That season of every
man's life which is most susceptible of the strongest im-
pressions, is necessarily under female direction; as there
are few instances, perhaps, in which that sex is not one of
the secret springs which regulates the most important
movements of private or publick transactions. What
Cato observed of his countrymen, is, in one respect, true
of every nation under the sun : "The Romans," said he,
LETTER XLII.
121
govern the world, but it is the women that govern the
"Romans." Let not, however, a certain pretended Cato
of your acquaintance take occasion, from this maxim, to
insult, a second time, that innocence he has so often injured:
for I will tell him another maxim as true as the former,
that "there are circumstances wherein no woman has
'power enough to control a man of spirit.”
CC
If it be true, then, (as true beyond all peradventure it
is) that female influence is thus extensive; nothing, cer-
tainly, can be of more importance, than to give it a pro-
per tendency, by the assistance of a well directed educa-
tion. Far am I from recommending any attempts to ren-
der women learned; yet, surely, it is necessary they
should be raised above ignorance. Such a general tinc-
ture of the most useful sciences, as may serve to free the
mind from vulgar prejudices, and give it a relish for the
rational exercise of its powers, might very justly enter
into the plan of female erudition. That sex might be
taught to turn the course of their reflections into a proper
and advantageous channel, without any danger of render-
ing them too elevated for the feminine duties of life. In
a word, I would have them considered as designed by
Providence for use as well as shew, and trained up not only
as women, but as rational creatures. Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER XLII.
TO PALEMON.
May 5, 1746.
WHILST you are engaged in turning over the records of
past ages, and tracing our constitution from its rise
through all its several periods, I sometimes amuse myself
with reviewing certain annals of an humbler kind, and
11
122
LETTER XLII.
considering the various turns and revolutions that have
happened in the sentiments and affections of those with
whom I have been most connected. A history of this
sort is not, indeed, so striking as that which exhibits kings
and heroes to our view; but may it not be contemplated,
Palemon, with more private advantage?
Methinks we should scarce be so embittered against
those who differ from us in principle or practice, were we
oftener to reflect how frequently we have varied from
ourselves in both those articles. It was but yesterday
that Lucius, whom I once knew a very zealous advocate
for the most controverted points of faith, was arguing, with
equal warmth and vehemence, on the principles of deism;
as Bathillus, who set out in the world a cool infidel, has
lately drawn up one of the most plausible defences of the
mystick devotees, that, perhaps, was ever written. The
truth is, a man must either have passed his whole life
without reflecting, or his thoughts must have run in a very
limited channel, who has not often experienced many
remarkable revolutions of mind.
The same kind of inconstancy is observable in our pur-
suits of happiness as well as truth. Thus our friend Curio,
whom we both remember, in the former part of his life,
enamoured of every fair face he met, and enjoying every
woman he could purchase, has at last collected this dif-
fusive flame into a single point, and could not be tempted
to commit an infidelity to his marriage vow, though a
form as beautiful as the Venus of Apelles was to court
his embrace: whilst Apamenthes, on the other hand, who
was the most sober and domestick man I ever knew, till
he lost his wife, commenced a rake at five and forty, and
is now for ever in a tavern or stew.
Who knows, Palemon, whether even this humour of
moralizing, which, as you often tell me, so strongly marks
{
LETTER XLIII.
123
my character, may not wear out in time, and be succeed-
ed by a brighter and more lively vein? Who knows but
I may court again the mistress I have forsaken, and die at
last in the arms of ambition? Cleora, at least, who fre-
quently rallies me upon that fever of my youth, assures
me I am only in the intermission of a fit, which will cer-
tainly return. But though there may be some excuse,
perhaps, in exchanging our follies or our errours, there
can be none in resuming those we have once happily
quitted for surely he must be a very injudicious sports-
man, who can be tempted to beat over those fields again
which have ever disappointed him of his game. Fare-
well. I am, &c.
LETTER XLIII.
TO EUPHRONIUS.
July 2, 1742.
Ir is a pretty observation, which I have somewhere
met, that, “the most pleasing of all harmony arises from
"the censure of a single person, when mixed with the
"general applauses of the world.” I almost suspect,
therefore, that you are considering the interest of your
admired author, when you call upon me for my farther
objections to his performance; and are for joining me,
perhaps, to the number of those, who advance his reputa-
tion by opposing it. The truth, however, is, you could not
have chosen a critick (if a critick I might venture to call
myself) who has a higher esteem for all the compositions
of Mr. Pope; as, indeed, I look upon every thing that
comes from his hands with the same degree of veneration
as if it were consecrated by antiquity. Nevertheless,
though I greatly revere his judgment, I cannot absolutely
renounce my own; and since some have been bold enough
124
LETTER XLIH.
to advance, that even the sacred writings themselves do
not always speak the language of the Spirit, I may have
leave to suspect of the poets what has been asserted of the
prophets, and suppose that their pens are not at all sea-
sons under the guidance of inspiration. But as there is
something extremely ungrateful to the mind, in dwelling
upon those little spots that necessarily attend the lustre of
all human merit; you must allow me to join his beauties
with his imperfections, and admire with rapture, after
having condemned with regret.
There is a certain modern figure of speech, which the
authors of The art of sinking in poetry have called the
diminishing. This, so far as it relates to words only,
consists in debasing a great idea, by expressing it in a
term of meaner import. Mr. Fope has himself now and
then fallen into this kind of the profound, which he has
with such uncommon wit and spirit exposed in the wri-
tings of others. Thus Agamemnon, addressing himself to
Menelaus and Ulysses, asks,
And can you, chiefs, without a blush, survey
Whole troops before you, lab'ring in the fray?
B. iv.
So likewise Pandarus, speaking of Diomed, who is per-
forming the utmost efforts of heroism in the field of battle,
says,
some guardian of the skies,
Involved in crowds, protects him in the fray.
V. 235.
But what would you think, Euphronius, were you to hear
of the "impervious foam" and "rough waves" of a “brook?”
would it not put you in mind of that droll thought of the
ingenious Dr. Young, in one of his epistles to our author,
where he talks of a puddle in a storm? yet, by thus con-
founding the properties of the highest objects with those
of the lowest, Mr. Pope has turned one of the most pleas-
ing similes in the whole Iliad into downright burlesque.
LETTER XLINE
125
As when some simple swain his cot forsakes;
And wide through fens an unknown journey takes ;
If chance a swelling brook his passage stay,
Aud foam impervious cross the wanderer's way,
Confus'd he stops, a length of country past,
Eyes the rough waves, and tir'd returns at last.
v..784.
This swelling brook, however, of Mr. Pope, is in Homer
a rapid river, rushing with violence into the sea:
Στην επ' ωκυρόω ποταμω αλαδε προρέοντι.
v. 598.
It is one of the essential requisites of an epick poem,
and indeed of every other kind of serious poetry, that the
style be raised above common language; as nothing takes
off so much from that solemnity of diction, from which
the poet ought never to depart, as idioms of a vulgar and
familiar cast. Mr. Pope has sometimes neglected this
important rule; but most frequently in the introduction
of his speeches. To mention only a few instances :
That done, to Phoenix Ajax gave the sign.
With that stern Ajax his long silence broke.
With that the venerable warrior rose.
With that they stepp'd aside, &c.
ix. 291.
ix. 735.
x. 150.
I. 415.
whereas Homer generally prefaces his speeches with a
dignity of phrase, that calls up the attention of the reader
to what is going to be uttered. Milton has very happily
copied his manner in this particular, as in many others :
and though he often falls into a flatness of expression, he
has never once, I think, committed that errour upon oc-
casions of this kind. He usually ushers in his harangues
with something characteristical of the speaker, or that
points out some remarkable circumstance of his present
situation; in the following manner :
Satan with bold words
Breaking the horrid silence, thus began.
Him thus answer'd soon his bold compeer.
i. 82.
i. 125.
11 *
126
LETTER XLIII.
He ended, frowning:
On the other side uprose
Belial,
And with persuasive accents thus began.
ii. 106.
If you compare the effect which an introduction of this
descriptive sort has upon the mind, with those low and
unawakening expressions which I have marked in the
lines I just now quote from our English Iliad, you will
not, perhaps, consider my objection as altogether without
foundation.
All opposition of ideas should be carefully avoided in
a poem of this kind, as unbecoming the gravity of the he-
roick Muse. But does not Mr. Pope sometimes sacrifice
simplicity to false ornament, and lose the majesty of
Homer in the affectations of Ovid? Of this sort a severe
critick would perhaps esteem his calling an army, march-
ing with spears erect, a moving iron wood :
Such and so thick th' embattled squadrons stood,
With spears erect, a moving iron wood.
There seems also to be an inconsistency in the two parts
of this description; for the troops are represented as
standing still, at the same time that the circumstance
mentioned of the spears should rather imply (as indeed
the truth is) that they were in motion. But if the tran-
slator had been faithful to his author, in this passage,
neither of these objections could have been raised for in
Homer it is,
Toide
συκίναι κίνυντο φάλαγγες
:
Κυανέαι, σακεσιν τε και εγκεσι πεφρικυίαι. iv. 280.
Is there not likewise some little tendency to a pun,
in those upbraiding lines which Hector addresses to
Paris?
LETTER XLIII.
127
For thee great Ilion's guardian heroes fall,
Till heaps of dead alone defend the wall.
Mr. Pope at least deserts his guide, in order to give us
this conceit of dead men defending a town; for the origi-
nal could not possibly lead him into it. Homer, with a
plainness suitable to the occasion, only tells us,
Λαοι μεν φθινύθουσι περὶ πτολιν, αιπυ τε τείχος,
Μαρναμενοι.
vi. 327.
Teucer, in the eighth book, aims a dart at Hector, which,
missing its way, slew Gorgythion; upon which we are told
Another shaft the raging archer threw ;
That other shaft with erring fury flew ;
(From Hector Phoebus turn'd the flying wound)
Yet fell not dry or guiltless to the ground.
A flying wound is a thought exactly in the spirit of
Ovid; but highly unworthy of Pope as well as of Homer ;
and, indeed, there is not the least foundation for it in the
original. But what do you think of the shaft that fell
dry or guiltless? where, you see, one figurative epithet
is added as explanatory of the other. The doubling of
epithets, without raising the idea, is not allowable in
compositions of any kind; but least of all in poetry. It
is, says Quintilian, as if every common soldier in an army
were to be attended with a valet; you increase your num-
ber, without adding to your strength.
But if it be a fault to crowd epithets of the same im-
port one upon the other, it is much more so to employ
such as call off the attention from the principal idea to be
raised, and turn it upon little or foreign circumstances.-
When Eneas is wounded by Tydides, Homer describes
Venus as conducting him through the thickest tumult of
the enemy, and conveying him from the field of battle.-
But while we are following the hero with our whole con-
128
LETTER XLIII.
cern, and trembling for the danger which surrounds him
on all sides, Mr. Pope leads us off from our anxiety for
Æneas, by an uninteresting epithet relating to the struc-
ture of those instruments of death, which were every
where flying about him; and we are coldly informed,
that the darts were feathered :
Safe through the rushing horse and feather'd flight
v. 393.
Of sounding shafts, she bears him through the fight.
But as his epithets sometimes debase the general image
to be raised, so they now and then adorn them with a
false brilliancy. Thus, speaking of a person slain by an
arrow, he calls it a pointed death, iv. 607. Describing
another who was attacked by numbers at once, he tells
us,
A grove of lances glitter'd at his breast.
and representing a forest on fire, he says,
In blazing heaps, the grove's old honours fall,
And one refulgent ruin levels all. X. 201.
iv. 621.
But one of the most unpardonable instances of this kind
is, where he relates the death of Hypsenor, a person who,
it seems, exercised the sacerdotal office :
On his broad shoulder fell the forceful brand,
Thence glancing downward lopt his holy hand,
And stain'd with sacred blood the blushing sand.
To take the force of this epithet, we must suppose that
the redness which appeared upon the sand, on this occa-
sion, was an effect of its blushing to find itself stained
with the blood of so sacred a person: than which there
cannot be a more forced and unnatural thought. It puts
me in mind of a passage in a French dramatick writer,
who has formed a play upon the story of Pyramus and
Thisbe. The hapless maid, addressing herself to the
LETTER XLIIF.
129
dagger, which lies by the side of her lover, breaks out
into the following exclamation :
Ah! voici le poignard qui du sang de son maître
S'est souilé lachement: il en rougit le traitre.
Boileau, taking notice of these lines, observes, toutes les
glaces du Nord ensemble ne sont pas, à mon sens, plus froides
que cette pensée. But of the two poefs, I know not whe-
ther Mr. Pope is not most to be condemned; for what-
ever shame the poignard might take to itself, for being
concerned in the murder of the lover; it is certain that
the sand had not the least share in the death of the
priest.
The ancient criticks have insisted much upon propriety
of language; and, indeed, one may with great justice say,
what the insulted Job does to his impertinent friends, how
forcible are right words? The truth is, though the senti-
ment must always support the expression, yet the expres-
sion must give grace and efficacy to the sentiment; and
the same thought shall frequently be admired or con-
demned, according to the merit of the particular phrase
in which it is conveyed. For this reason J. Caesar, in a
treatise which he wrote concerning the Latin language,
calls a judicious choice of words, the origin of eloquence:
as, indeed, neither oratory nor poetry can be raised to
any degree of perfection, where this their principal root
is neglected. In this art Virgil particularly excels; and
it is the inimitable grace of his words (as Mr. Dryden
somewhere justly observes) wherein that beauty princi-
pally consists, which gives so inexpressible a pleasure to
him, who best understands their force. No man was
ever a more skilful master of this powerful art than Mr.
Popc; as he has, upon several occasions throughout this
translation, raised and dignified his style with certain
antiquated words and phrases, that are most wonderfully
130
LETTER XLIII.
soleinn and majestick. I cannot, however, forbear men-
tioning an instance, where he has employed an obsolete
term less happily, I think, than is his general custom. It
occurs in some lines which I just now quoted for another
purpose:
On his broad shoulder fell the forceful brand,
Thence glancing downward lopt his holy hand.
V. 105.
Brand is sometimes used by Spenser for a sword; and
in that sense it is here introduced. But as we still retain
this word in a different application, it will always be im-
proper to adopt it in its antiquşted meaning, because it
must necessarily occasion ambiguity: an error in style of
all others the most to be avoided. Accordingly, every
reader of the lines I have quoted must take up an idea
very different from that which the poet intends, and which
he will carry on with him, till he arrives at the middle of
the second verse. And if he happens to be unacquainted
with the language of our old writers, when he comes to
Lopt his holy hand,
he will be lost in a confusion of images, and have abso-
lutely no idea remaining.
There is another uncommon elegance in the manage-
ment of words, which requires a very singular turn of
genius, and great delicacy of judgment to attain. As the
art I just before mentioned turns upon employing anti-
quated words with force and propriety, so this consists in
giving the grace of novelty to the received and current
terms of a language, by applying them in a new and
unexpected manner :
Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum
Reddiderit junctura novum.
Hor.
The great caution, however, to be observed in any at-
tempt of this kind, is so judiciously to connect the ex-
;
LETTER XLIII.
131
:
pressions, as to remove every doubt concerning the signi-
fication in which they are designed for as perspicuity is
the end and supreme excellency of writing, there cannot
be a more fatal objection to an author's style, than that
it stands in need of a commentator. But will not this
objection lie against the following verse?
Next artful Phereclus untimely fell. V. 75.
The word artful is here taken out of its appropriated ac-
ceptation, in order to express
ὃς χερσιν επιστατο δαίδαλα παντα
Τεύχειν.
*
But however allowable it may be (as indeed it is not only
allowable, but graceful) to raise a word above its ordi-
nary import, when the callida junctura (as Horace calls it)
determines at once the sense in which it is used: yet
it should never be cast so far back from its customary
meaning, as to stand for an idea which has no relation to
what it implies in its primary and natural state. This
would be introducing uncertainty and confusion into a
language; and turning every sentence into a riddle.
Accordingly, after we have travelled on through the seve-
ral succeeding lines in this passage, we are obliged to
change the idea with which we set out; and find, at last,
that by the artful Phereclus we are to understand, not
what we at first apprehend, a man of cunning and design,
but one who is skilled in the mechanical arts.
It is with a liberty of the same unsuccessful kind, that
Mr. Pope has rendered
Τον πρότερος προσέειπε Λυκάονος αγλαος υἱος.
Stern Lycaon's warlike race begun.
Ver. 276.
I know not by what figure of speech the whole race of
a man can denote his next immediate descendant: and,
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LETTER XLII.
sense.
I fear no synecdoche can acquit this expression of non-
The truth is, whoever ventures to strike out of
the common road, must be more than ordinarily careful,
or he will probably lose his way.
This reminds me of a passage or two, where our poet
has been extremely injurious to the sense of his author,
and made him talk a language, which he never uses; the
language, I mean, of absurdity. In the sixth Iliad, Aga-
memnon assures Menelaus,
παντες
vi. 60.
Ιλίου εξαπολοίατ', ακηδεστοι.
But, in Mr. Pope's version, that chief tells his brother,
Ilion shall perish whole, and bury all.
Perhaps it may be over-nice to remark, that, as the de-
struction of Troy is first mentioned, it has a little the ap-
pearance of nonsense to talk afterwards of her burying
her sons. However, the latter part of this verse directly
contradicts the original; for Agamemnon is so far from
asserting that Ilion should bury all her inhabitants, that
he pronounces, positively, they should not be buried at
all: a calamity, in the opinion of the ancients, of all others
the most terrible. But possibly the errour may lie in the
printer, not in the poet; and perhaps the line originally
stood thus:
Ilion shall perish whole, unbury'd all.
:
If so, both my objections vanish and those who are con-
versant with the press, will not think this supposition im-
probable; since much more unlikely mistakes often hap-
pen by the carelessness of compositors.
But though I am willing to make all the allowance pos-
sible to an author, who raises our admiration too often
not to have a right to the utmost candour, wherever he
1
C
LETTER XLIII.
133
fails; yet I can find no excuse for an unaccountable ab-
surdity he has fallen into, in translating a passage of the
tenth book. Diomed and Ulysses, taking advantage of the
night, set out in order to view the Trojan camp. In their
way they meet with Dolon, who is going from thence to the
Grecian, upon an errand of the same kind. After having
seized this unfortunate adventurer, and examined him
concerning the situation and designs of the enemy; Dio-
med draws his sword, and strikes off Dolon's head, in the
very instant that he is supplicating for mercy :
x. 457.
Φθεγγομένου δ' αρα του γε καρη κονίησιν εμίχθη.
Mr. Pope has turned this into a most extraordinary mira-
cle, by assuring us that the head spoke after it had
quitted the body:
The head yet speaking, mutter'd as it fell.
This puts me in mind of a wonder of the same kind in the
Fairy Queen, where Corflambo is represented as blas-
pheming, after his head had been struck off by Prince
Arthur:
He smote at him with all his might and main
So furiously, that, ere he wist, he found
His head before him tumbling on the ground,
The whiles his babbling tongue did yet blaspheme,
And curs'd his God, that did him so confound.
Book iv. 8.
But Corflambo was the son of a giantess, and could con-
quer whole kingdoms by only looking at them. We may,
perhaps, therefore allow him to talk, when every other
man must be silent: whereas there is nothing in the his-
tory of poor Dolon, that can give him the least pretence
to this singular privilege. The truth is, Mr. Pope seems
to have been led into this blunder by Scaliger, who has
given the same sense to the verse, and then with great
wisdom and gravity observes, falsum est a pulmone caput
avulsum loqui posse.
12
134
LETTER XLIII.
The most pleasing picture in the whole Iliad, is, I think,
the parting of Hector and Andromache; and our excel-
lent translator has, in general, very successfully copied
it. But in some places he seems not to have touched it
with that delicacy of pencil which graces the original;
as he has entirely lost the beauty of one of the figures.--
Hector is represented as extending his arms to embrace
the little Astyanax, who being terrified with the unusual
appearance of a man in armour, throws himself back
upon his nurse's breast, and falls into tears. But though
the hero and his son were designed to draw our principal
attention, Homer intended likewise that we should cast a
glance towards the nurse. Accordingly, he does not mark
her out merely by the name of her office; but adds an epi-
thet to shew that she makes no inconsiderable figure in the
piece : he does not simply call her τιθήνη, but εύζωνος τιθηνη.
This circumstance Mr. Pope has entirely overlooked :
Ως ειπων, ου παιδος ορέξατο φαιδιμος Εκτως.
Αψ δ' ὁ παῖς προς κολπον είζον το τιθήνης
Εκλίνθη ιάχων, πατρος φιλου όψιν ατυχθείς,
Τάρβησας χαλκον τε ιδε λόφον ιππιοχαίτην,
Δείνον απ' ακροτατης κόρυθος νευοντα νοήσας.
Εν δ' εγέλασσε πατηρ τε φίλος, και ποτνια μήτης.
Αντικέ απο κρατος κορυθ' είλετο φαιδιμος Έκτωρ,
Και την μεν κατέθηκεν επι χθονι παμφανόωσαν.
Thus having said, th' illustrious chief of Troy
Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy;
The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast,
Scar'd by the dazzling helm and nodding crest:
With secret pleasure each fond parent smil❜d,
And Hector hasted to relieve his child:
The glitt'ring terrours from his head unbound,
And plac'd the beaming helmet on the ground.
vi. 466.
I was going to object to the glittering terrours, in the last
line but one but I have already taken notice of these
little affected expressions, where the substantive is set at
variance with its attribute.
LETTER XLII.
135
:
It is the observation of Quintilian, that no poet ever
excelled Homer in the sublimity with which he treats
great subjects, or in the delicacy and propriety he always
discovers in the management of small ones. There is a
passage in the ninth Iliad, which will justify the truth of
the latter of these observations. When Achilles receives
Ajax and Ulysses in his tent, who were sent to him in the
name of Agamemnon, in order to prevail with him to re-
turn to the army, Homer gives a very minute account of
the entertainment, which was prepared for them upon
that occasion. It is impossible, perhaps, in modern lan-
guage to preserve the same dignity in descriptions of this
kind, which so considerably raises the original: and
indeed Mr. Pope warns his readers not to expect much
beauty in the picture. However, a translator should be
careful not to throw in any additional circumstances,
which may lower and debase the piece; which yet Mr.
Pope has, in his version of the following line:
Πυρ δε Μενοιτιάδης δαιεν μεγα, ισοθεος φως.
Meanwhile Patroclus sweats, the fire to raise.
ix. 211.
Own the truth, Euphronius: does not this give you the
idea of a greasy cook at a kitchen fire? whereas nothing
of this kind is suggested in the original. On the contrary
the epithet eos, seems to have been added by Homer,
in order to reconcile us to the meanness of the action, by
reminding us of the high character of the person who
is engaged in it; and as Mr. Addisou observes of Virgil's
husbandman, that "he tosses about his dung with an air
"of gracefulness;" one may, with the same truth, say of
Homer's hero, that he lights his fire with an air of dignity.
I intended to have closed these hasty objections, with
laying before you some of those passages, where Mr. Pope
seems to have equalled, or excelled his original.—But I
perceive I have already extended my letter beyond a rea-
136
LETTER XLIV.
sonable limit: I will reserve, therefore, that more pleas-
ing, as well as much easier task, to some future occasion.
In the mean time, I desire you will look upon those re-
marks, not as proceeding from a spirit of cavil (than which
I know not any more truly contemptible) but as an in-
stance of my having read your favourite poet with that
attention, which his own unequalled merit and your judi-
cious recommendation most deservedly claim. I am, &c.
LETTER XLIV.
TO PALAMEDES.
April 18, 1739.
I HAVE had occasion, a thousand times since I saw
you, to wish myself in the land where all things are
forgotten; at least, that I did not live in the memory of
certain restless mortals of your acquaintance, who are
visiters by profession. The misfortune is, no retirement
is so remote, nor sanctuary so sacred, as to afford a pro-
tection from their impertinence; and though one were
to fly to the desert, and take refuge in the cells of saints
and hermits, one should be alarmed with their unmean-
ing voice, crying even in the wilderness. They spread
themselves, in truth, over the whole face of the land, and
lay waste the fairest hours of conversation. For my own
part, (to speak of them in a style suitable to their taste
and talents) I look upon them, not as paying visits, but
visitations; and am never obliged to give audience to one
of this species, that I do not consider myself as under a
judgment for those numberless hours which I have spent
in vain. If these sons and daughters of idleness and folly
would be persuaded to enter into an exclusive society
among themselves, the rest of the world might possess
LETTER XLV.
137
their moments unmolested: but nothing less will satisfy
them than opening a general commerce, and sailing into
every port where choice or chance may drive them.
Were we to live indeed, to the years of the antediluvians,
one might afford to resign some part of one's own time in
charitable relief of the unsufferable weight of theirs; but,
since the days of man are shrunk into a few hasty revolu-
tions of the sun, whole afternoons are much too considera-
ble a sacrifice to be offered up to tame civility. What
heightens the contempt of this character, is, that they who
have so much of the form, have always least of the power
of friendship; and though they will craze their chariot
wheels (as Milton expresses it) to destroy your repose,
they would not drive half the length of a street to assist
your distress.
It was owing to an interruption from one of these
obsequious intruders, that I was prevented keeping my en-
gagement with you yesterday ; and you must indulge me in
this discharge of my invective against the ridiculous occa-
sion of so mortifying a disappointment. Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER XLV.
|
TO HORTENSIUS.
May 8, 1757.
To be able to suppress my acknowledgments of the
pleasure I received from your approbation, were to shew
that I do not deserve it; for is it possible to value the
praise of the judicious as one ought, and yet be silent under
its influence! I can, with strict truth, say of you, what a
Greek poet did of Plato, who, reading his performance to
a circle where that great philosopher was present, and find-
ing himself deserted, at length, by all the rest of the com-
pany, cried out, "I will proceed, nevertheless, for Plato is
"himself an audience.”
12 *
138
LETTER XLVI.
True fame, indeed, is no more in the gift than in the
possession of numbers, as it is only in the disposal of the
wise and the impartial. But if both those qualifications
must concur to give validity to a vote of this kind, how
little reason has an author to be either depressed or elated
by general censure or applause?
The triumphs of genius are not like those of ancient he-
roism, where the meanest captive made a part of the pomp,
as well as the noblest. It is not the multitude, but the
dignity of those that compose her followers, that can add
any thing to her real glory; and a single attendant may of-
ten render her more truly illustrious than a whole train of
common admirers. I am sure, at least, I have no ambition
of drawing after me vulgar acclamations; and, whilst I have
the happiness to enjoy your applause, I shall always consider
myself in possession of the truest fame. Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER XLVI.
TO CLYTANDER.
Sept. 10, 1738.
You, who never forget any thing, can tell me, I dare say,
whose observation it is, that, "of all the actions of our life,
"nothing is more uncommon than to laugh or to cry with
"a good grace." But, though I cannot recollect the au-
thor, I shall always retain his maxim; as, indeed, every
day's occurrences suggest the truth of it to my mind. I
had particularly an occasion to see one part of it verified
in the treatise I herewith return you; for never, surely,
was mirth more injudiciously directed, than that which
this writer of your acquaintance has employed. To droll
upon the established religion of a country, and laugh at
the most sacred and inviolable of her ordinances, is as far
removed from good politicks, as it is from good manners. It
is, indeed, upon maxims of policy alone, that one can
LETTER XLVI.
139
reason with those who pursue the principles which this
author has embraced: I will add, therefore, (since, it
seems, you sometimes communicate to him my letters)
that to endeavour to lessen that veneration which is due
to the religious institutions of a nation, when they neither
run counter to any of the great lines of morality, nor op-
pose the natural rights of mankind, is a sort of zeal which
I know not by what epithet sufficiently to stigmatize: it is
attacking the strongest hold of society, and attempting to
destroy the firmest guard of human security. Far am I,
indeed, from thinking there is no other, or that the notion
of a moral sense is a vain and groundless hypothesis. But
wonderfully limited must the experience of those philo-
sophers undoubtedly be, who imagine, that an implanted
love of virtue is sufficient to conduct the generality of
mankind through the paths of moral duties, and supersede
the necessity of a farther and more powerful guide. A
sense of honour, likewise, where it operates in its true and
genuine vigour, is, I confess, a most noble and powerful
principle, but far too refined a motive of action, even
for the more cultivated part of our species to adopt in
general; and, in fact, we find it much oftener professed,
than pursued. Nor are the laws of a community sufficient
to answer all the restraining purposes of government; as
there are many moral points which it is impossible to
secure by express provisions. Human institutions can
reach no farther than to certain general duties, in which
the collective welfare of society is more particularly
concerned. Whatever else is necessary for the ease and
happiness of social intercourse, can be derived only from
the assistance of religion; which influences the nicer
connexions and dependencies of mankind, as it regulates
and corrects the heart. How many tyrannies may I
exercise as a parent, how many hardships may I inflict
as a master, if I take the statutes of my country for the
140
LETTER XLVI:
only guides of my actions, and think every thing lawful
that is not immediately penal? The truth is, a man may
be injured in a variety of instances far more atrociously,
than by what the law considers either as a fraud or a
robbery. Now, in cases of this kind, (and many very
important cases of this kind there are) to remove the bars
of religion, is to throw open the gates of oppression: it
is to leave the honest exposed to the injurious inroads of
those (and they are far, perhaps, the greatest part of
mankind) who, though they would never do justice and
love mercy, in compliance with the dictates of nature,
would scrupulously practise both in obedience to the rules
of revelation.
The gross of our species can never, indeed, be influ-
enced by abstract reasoning, nor captivated by the naked
charms of virtue on the contrary, nothing seems more
evident than that the generality of mankind must be
engaged by sensible objects; must be wrought upon by
their hopes and fears. And this has been the constant
maxim of all the celebrated legislators, from the earliest
establishment of government, to this present hour. It is
true, indeed, that none have contended more warmly
than the ancients for the dignity of human nature, and
the native disposition of the soul to be enamoured with
the beauty of virtue: but it is equally true, that none have
more strenuously inculcated the expediency of adding the
authority of religion to the suggestions of nature, and main-
taining a reverence to the appointed ceremonies of publick
worship. The sentiments of Pythagoras (or whoever he
be who was author of those verses which pass under that
philosopher's name) are well known upon this subject:
Αθανατους μεν πρωτα θεους, νόμῳ ως διακειται,
Τιμπ.
Many, indeed, are the ancient passages which might be
produced in support of this assertion, if it were neces-
LETTER XLVI.
141
sary to produce any passages of this kind to you, whom I
have so often heard contend for the same truth with all
the awakening powers of learning and eloquence. Suffer
me, however, for the benefit of your acquaintance, to
remind you of one or two, which I do not remember ever
to have seen quoted.
Livy has recorded a speech of Appius Claudius Cras-
sus, which he made in opposition to certain demands of
the tribunes. That zealous senator warmly argues against
admitting the plebeians into a share of the consular dig-
nity; from the power of taking the auspices being origi-
nally and solely vested in the patrician order.
“But,
“perhaps,” says Crassus, "I shall be told, that the peck-
ing of a chicken, &c. are trifles unworthy of regard:
"trifling, however, as these ceremonies may now be
"deemed, it was by the strict observance of them that
"our ancestors raised this commonwealth to its present
'point of grandeur." Parva sunt haec: sed parva ista
non contemnendo, majores nostri maximam hanc rem fe-
cerunt.-Agreeably to this principle, the Roman historian
of the life of Alexander, describes that monarch, after
having killed his friend Clitus, as considering, in his cool
moments, whether the gods hal not permitted him to be
guilty of that horrid act, in punishment for his irreligious
neglect of their sacred rites. And Juvenal* imputes
the source of that torrent of vice which broke in upon the
age in which he wrote, to the general disbelief that pre-
vailed of the publick doctrines of their established religion.
Those tenets, he tells us, that influenced the glorious con-
duct of the Curii, the Scipios, the Fabricii, and the Camil-
li, were in his days so totally exploded, as scarce to be
received even by children. It were well for some parts
of the Christian world, if the same observation might not
Sat. II. 149.
142
LETTER XLVII.
with justice be extended beyond the limits of ancient
Rome and I often reflect upon the very judicious remark
of a great writer of the last century, who takes notice,
that “the generality of Christendom is now well nigh
"arrived at that fatal condition, which immediately prece-
"ded the destruction of the worship of the ancient world;
"when the face of religion, in their publick assemblies,
was quite different from that apprehension which men
"had concerning it in private.”
**
Nothing, most certainly, could less plead the sanction
of reason, than the general rites of pagan worship. Weak
and absurd, however, as they were in themselves, and,
indeed, in the estimation too of all the wiser sort; yet,
the more thinking and judicious part, both of their states-
men and philosophers, unanimously concurred in support-
ing them as sacred and inviolable: well persuaded, no
doubt, that religion is the strongest cement in the great
structure of moral government. Farewell. I am, &c.
LETTER XLVII.
TO CLEORA.
I LOOK upon every day, wherein I have
Sept. 1.
not some com-
munication with my Cleora, as a day lost; and I take up
my pen every afternoon to write to you, as regularly as I
drink my tea, or perform any the like important article
of my life.
I frequently bless the happy art that affords me a
means of conveying myself to you, at this distance, and
by an easy kind of magick, thus transports me to your par-
lour at a time when I could not gain admittance by any
other method. Of all people in the world, indeed, none
LETTER XLVIII.
143
are more obliged to this paper commerce, than friends
and lovers. It is by this they elude, in some degree, the
malevolence of fate, and can enjoy an intercourse with
each other, though the Alps themselves shall rise up
between them. Even this imaginary participation of your
society is far more pleasing to me than the real enjoyment
of any other conversation the whole world could supply.
The truth is, I have lost all relish for any but yours; and,
if I were invited to an assembly of all the wits of the
Augustan age, or all the heroes that Plutarch has cele-
brated, I should neither have spirits nor curiosity to be
of the party. Yet with all this indolence or indifference
about me, I would take a voyage as far as the pole to sup
with Cleora on a lettuce, or only to hold the bowl while
she mixed the syllabub. Such happy evenings I once
knew ah, Cleora! will they never return? Adieu.
LETTER XLVIII.
TO EUPHRONIUS.
I HAVE read the performance you communicated to me,
with all the attention you required; and I can, with strict
sincerity, apply to your friend's verses, what an ancient
has observed of the same number of Spartans who de-
fended the passage of Thermopylae; nunquam vidi plures
trecentos! Never, indeed, was there greater energy of
language and sentiment united together in the same com-
pass of lines and it would be an injustice to the world,
as well as to himself, to suppress so animated and so use-
ful a composition.
A satirist, of true genius, who is warmed by a generous
indignation of vice, and whose censures are conducted by
candour and truth, merits the applause of every friend te
144
LETTER XLVIII.
virtue. He may be considered as a sort of supplement
to the legislative authority of his country; as assisting
the unavoidable defects of all legal institutions for the
regulating of manners, and striking terrour even where the
divine prohibitions themselves are held in contempt. The
strongest defence, perhaps, against the inroads of vice,
among the more cultivated part of our species, is well-
directed ridicule they who fear nothing else, dread to
be marked out to the contempt and indignation of the
world. There is no succeeding in the secret purposes of
dishonesty, without preserving some sort of credit among
mankind; as there cannot exist a more impotent crea-
ture than a knave convict. To expose, therefore, the
false pretensions of counterfeit virtue, is to disarm it at
once of all power of mischief, and to perform a publick
service of the most advantageous kind, in which any man
can employ his time and his talents. The voice, indeed,
of an honest satirist, is not only beneficial to the world,
as giving alarm against the designs of an enemy so dan-
gerous to all social intercourse, but as proving likewise
the most efficacious preventative to others, of assuming
the same character of distinguished infamy. Few are so
totally vitiated, as to have abandoned all sentiments of
shame; and when every other principle of integrity is sur-
rendered, we generally find the conflict is still maintain-
ed in this last post of retreating virtue. In this view,
therefore, it should seem, the function of a satirist may
be justified, notwithstanding it should be true, (what an
excellent moralist has asserted) that his chastisements
rather exasperate than reclaim those on whom they fall.
Perhaps, no human penalties are of any moral advantage
to the criminal himself; and the principal benefit that
seems to be derived from civil punishments of any kind,
is their restraining influence upon the conduct of others.
2
រ
7
LETTER XLIX.
145
It is not every arm, however, that is qualified to ma-
nage this formidable blow. The arrows of satire, when
they are not pointed by virtue, as well as wit, recoil back
upon the band that directs them, and wound none but
him from whom they proceed. Accordingly, Horace rests
the whole success of writings of this sort upon the poet's
being Integer Ipse; free himself from those immoral stains
which he points out in others. There cannot, indeed,
be a more odious, nor at the same time a more contempti-
ble character than that of a vicious satirist :
Quis coelum terris non misceat et mare coelo,
Si frur displiceat Verri, homicida Miloni?
Juv.
The most favourable light in which a censor of this spe-
cies could possibly be viewed, would be that of a publick
executioner, who inflicts the punishment on others, which
he has already merited himself. But the truth of it is,
he is not qualified even for so wretched an office; and
there is nothing to be dreaded from a satirist of known
dishonesty, but his applause. Adieu.
LETTER XLIX.
TO PALAMEDES.
Aug. 2, 1734.
CEREMONY is never more unwelcome, than at that sea-
son in which you will, probably, have the greatest share
of it; and, as I should be extremely unwilling to add to
the number of those, who, in pure good manners, may in-
terrupt your enjoyments, I choose to give you my con-
gratulations a little prematurely. After the happy office
shall be completed, your moments will be too valuable to
be laid out in forms; and it would be paying a compli-
ment with a very ill grace, to draw off your eyes from the
13
146
LETTER L.
highest beauty, though it were to turn them on the most
exquisite wit. I hope, however, you will give me timely
notice of your wedding day, that I may be prepared
with my epithalamium. I have already laid in half a
dozen deities extremely proper for the occasion, and have
even made some progress in my first simile. But I am
somewhat at a loss how to proceed, not being able to
determine whether your future bride is most li'e Venus
or Hebe. That she resembles both, is universally agreed,
I find, by those who have seen her. But it would be
offending, you know, against all the rules of poetical
justice, if I should only say she is as handsome as she
is young, when, after all, perhaps, the truth may be,
that she has even more beauty than youth. In the mean
while, I am turning over all the tender compliments that
love has inspired, from the Lesbia of Catullus to the
Chloe of Prior, and hope to gather such a collection of
flowers as may not be unworthy of entering into a garland
composed for your Stella. But, before you introduce me
as a poet, let me be recommended to her by a much bet-
ter title, and assure her that I am yours, &c.
LETTER L.
TO EUPHRONIUS.
I AM much inclined to join with you in thinking that
the Romans had no peculiar word in their language which
answers precisely to what we call good sense in ours. For
though prudentia, indeed, seems frequently used by their
best writers to express that idea, yet it is not confined to
that single meaning, but is often applied by them to sig-
nify skill in any particular science. But good sense is
something very distinct from knowledge; and it is an in-
}
LETTER L.
147
stance of the poverty of the Latin language, that she
is obliged to use the same word as a mark for two such
different ideas.
Were I to explain what I understand by good sense, I
should call it right reason; but right reason that arises,
not from formal and logical deductions, but from a sort of
intuitive faculty in the soul, which distinguishes by imme-
diate perception: a kind of innate sagacity, that, in
many of its properties, seems very much to resemble in-
stinct. It would be improper, therefore, to say, that Sir
Isaac Newton shewed his good sense by those amazing
discoveries which he made in natural philosophy: the
operations of this gift of Heaven are rather instantaneous,
than the result of any tedious process.
Like Diomed,
after Minerva had endowed him with the power of dis-
cerning gods from mortals, the man of good sense discovers,
at once, the truth of those objects he is most concerned to
distinguish, and conducts himself with suitable caution
and security.
:
It is for this reason, possibly, that this quality of the
mind is not so often found united with learning as one
could wish for good sense being accustomed to receive
her discoveries without labour or study, she cannot so
easily wait for those truths, which being placed at a dis-
tance, and lying concealed under numberless covers, re-
quire much pains and application to unfold.
But though good sense is not in the number, nor always,
it must be owned, in the company of the sciences; yet it
is (as the most sensible of poets has justly observed)
fairly worth the seven.
Rertitude of understanding is, indeed, the most useful, as
well as the most noble, of human endowments, as it is the
sovereign guide and director in every branch of civil and
social intercourse.
148
LETTER LI.
Upon whatever occasion this enlightening faculty is
exerted, it is always sure to act with distinguished emi-
nence; but its chief and peculiar province seems to lie in
the commerce of the world. Accordingly we may ob-
serve, that those who have conversed more with men
than with books, whose wisdom is derived rather from
experience than contemplation, generally possess this
happy talent with superiour perfection: for good sense,
though it cannot be acquired, may be improved; and the
world, I believe, will ever be found to afford the most
kindly soil for its cultivation.
I know not whether true good sense is not a more un-
common quality even than true wit; as there is nothing,
perhaps, more extraordinary than to meet with a per-
son, whose entire conduct and notions are under the
direction of this supreme guide. The single instance, at
least, which I could produce of its acting steadily and
invariably throughout the whole of a character, is that
which Euphronius, I am sure, would not allow me to men-
tion at the same time, perhaps, I am rendering my own
pretensions of this kind extremely questionable, when I
thus venture to throw before you my sentiments upon a
subject, of which you are universally acknowledged so
perfect a master. I am, &c.
:
LETTER LI.
TO PALEMON.
May 29, 1743.
I ESTEEM your letters in the number of my most
valuable possessions, and preserve them as so many pro-
phetical leaves upon which the fate of our distracted nation
is inscribed. But, in exchange for the maxims of a
patriot, I can only send you the reveries of a recluse, and
LETTER LI.
149
give you the stones of the brook for the gold of Ophir. Never,
indeed, Palemon, was there a commerce more unequal
than that wherein you are contented to engage with me;
and I could scarce answer it to my conscience to continue
a traffick, where the whole benefit accrues singly to myself,
did I not know, that to confer without the possibility of
an advantage, is the most pleasing exercise of generosity.
I will venture then to make use of a privilege which I have
long enjoyed; as I well know you love to mix the medita-
tions of the philosopher with the reflections of the states-
man, and can turn with equal relish from the politicks of
Tacitus to the morals of Seneca.
I was in my garden this morning somewhat earlier than
usual, when the sun, as Milton describes him,
With wheels yet hov'ring o'er the ocean brim
Shot parallel to th' earth his dewy ray.
There is something in the opening of the dawn, at this
season of the year, that enlivens the mind with a sort of
cheerful seriousness, and fills it with a certain calm rapture
in the consciousness of its existence. For my own part,
at least, the rising of the sun has the same effect on me,
as it is said to have had on the celebrated statue of Mem-
non: and I never observe that glorious luminary breaking
out upon me, that I do not find myself harmonized for the
whole day.
Whilst I was enjoying the freshness and tranquillity of
this early season, and, considering the many reasons I had
to join in offering up that morning incense, which the poet
I just now mentioned, represents as particularly arising at
this hour from the earth's great altar; I could not but
esteem it as a principal blessing, that I was entering upon
a new day with health and spirits. To awake with re-
cruited vigour for the transactions of life, is a mercy so
13 *
150
LETTER LI.
generally dispensed, that it passes, like other the ordinary
bounties of Providence, without making its due impression.
Yet, were one never to rise under these happy circumstan-
ces, without reflecting what numbers there are, (who, to
use the language of the most pathetick of authors) when
they said, My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my
complaint, were, like him, full of tossings to and fro, unto
the dawning of the day, or scared with dreams, and terrified
through visions-were one to consider, I say, how many
pass their nights in all the horrours of a disturbed imagina-
tion, or all the wakefulness of real pains, one could not
find one's self exempt from such uneasy slumbers, or such
terrible vigils, without double satisfaction and gratitude.
There is nothing, indeed, contributes more to render a
man contented with that draught of life which is poured
out to himself, than thus to reflect on those more bitter
ingredients which are sometimes mingled in the cup of
others.
In pursuing the same vein of thought, I could not but
congratulate myself, that I had no part in that turbulent
drama which was going to be re-acted upon the great
stage of the world; and rejoiced that it was my fortune
to stand a distant and unengaged spectator of those
several characters that would shortly fill the scene. This
suggested to my remembrance a passage, in the Roman
tragick poet, where he describes the various pursuits of
the busy and ambitious world, in very just and lively
colours:
Ille superbos aditus regum
Durasque fores, expers somni,
Colit: Hic nullo fine beatus
Componit opes, gazis inhians,
Et congesto pauper in auro est.
Illum populi favor attonitum,
Fluctuque magis mobile vulgus,
Aura tumidum tollit inani.
LETTER LI.
151
Hic clamosi rabiosa fori
Jurgia vendens improbus, iras
Et verba locat.
and I could not forbear saying to myself, in the language
of the same author,
me mea tellus
Lare secreto tutoque tegat!
Yet this circumstance, which your friend considers as so
valuable a privilege, has been esteemed by others as the
most severe of afflictions. The celebrated count de Bussy
Rabutin has written a little treatise, wherein, after having
shewn that the greatest men upon the stage of the world
are generally the most unhappy, he closes the account by
producing himself as an instance of the truth of what he
had been advancing. But can you guess, Palemon, what
this terrible disaster was, which thus entitled him to a rank
in the number of these unfortunate heroes? He had com-
posed, it seems, certain satirical pieces which gave offence
to Lewis the XIVth; for which reason that monarch ban-
ished him from the slavery and dependence of a court, to
live in ease and freedom at his country-house. But the
world had taken too strong possession of his heart, to suffer
him to leave eyen the worst part of it without reluctance;
and, like the patriarch's wife, he looked back with regret
upon the scene from which he was kindly driven, though
there was nothing in the prospect but flames. Adieu. I
am, &c.
152
LETTER LII.
TO EUPHRONIUS,
Aug. 20, 1742.
SURELY, Euphronius, the spirit of criticism has strangely
possessed you. How else could you be willing to step
aside so often from the amusements of the gayest scenes,
in order to examine with me certain beauties, far other
than those, which at present it might be imagined, would
wholly engage your attention? Who, indeed, that sees
my friend over night supporting the vivacity of the most
sprightly assemblies, would expect to find him the next
morning gravely poring over antiquated Greek, and weigh-
ing the merits of ancient and modern geniuses? But I
have long admired you as an elegant spectator formarum,
in every sense of the expression; and you can turn, I know,
from the charms of beauty to those of wit, with the same
refinement of taste and rapture. I may venture, therefore,
to resume our critical correspondence without the form
of an apology; as it is the singular character of Euphronius
to reconcile the philosopher with the man of the world,
and judiciously divide his hours between action and
retirement.
What has been said of a celebrated French translator,
may, with equal justice, be applied to Mr. Pope: "that
"it is doubtful whether the dead or the living are most
'obliged to him." His translations of Homer, and imi-
tations of Horace, have introduced to the acquaintance of
the English reader, two of the most considerable authors
in all antiquity; as, indeed, they are equal to the credit
of so many original works. A man must have a very con-
siderable share of the different spirit which distinguishes
those most admirable poets, who is capable of representing
in his own language so true an image of their respective
LETTER LII.
153
manners. If we look no farther than these works them-
selves, without considering them with respect to any at-
tempts of the same nature which have been made by
others, we shall have sufficient reason to esteem them
for their own intrinsick merit. But how will this uncom-
mon genius rise in our admiration, when we compare his
classical translations with those similar performances,
which have employed some of the most celebrated of our
poets? I have lately been turning over the Iliad with this
view; and, perhaps, it will be no unentertaining amuse-
ment to you, to examine the several copies which I have
collected of the original, as taken by some of the most
considerable of our English masters. To single them out
for this purpose according to the order of the particular
books, or passages, upon which they have respectively ex-
ercised their pencils, the pretensions of Mr. Tickel stand
first to be examined.
The action of the Iliad opens, you know, with the speech
of Chryses, whose daughter, having been taken captive by
the Grecians, was allotted to Agamemnon. This vene-
rable priest of Apollo is represented as addressing himself
to the Grecian chiefs, in the following pathetick simplicity
of eloquence:
Ατρείδαι τε, και αλλοι εύκνήμιδες Αχαιοί,
μιν μεν θεοι δοιεν, ολυμπια δώματ' εχοντες,
Εκπέρσαι Πριαμοίο πόλιν, εν δ' οικαδ' ικεσθαι
Παιδα δε μοι λυσασθε φίλην, τα δ' αποινα δέχεσθε,
Αζόμενοι Διος υἱον εκηβόλον Απόλλωνα.
Great Atreus' sons, and warlike Greece, attend,
So may th' immortal Gods your cause defend,
So may you Priam's lofty bulwarks burn,
And rich in gather'd spoils to Greece return.
As, for these gifts, my daughter you bestow,
And rev'rence due to great Apollo shew,
Jove's fav'rite offspring, terrible in war,
Who sends his shafts unerring from afar.
Tiekel
i. 17.
154
LETTER LII.
That affecting tenderness of the father, which Homer has
marked out by the melancholy flow of the line, as well as by
the endearing expression of
Παίδα δε μοι λυσασθε φίλην,
is entirely lost by Mr. Tickel. When Chryses coldly men-
tions his daughter, without a single epithet of concern or
affection, he seems much too indifferent himself to move
the audience in his favour. But the whole passage, as it
stands in Mr. Pope's Iliad, is in general animated with a
far more lively spirit of poetry. Who can observe the
moving posture of supplication in which he has drawn the
venerable old priest, stretching out his arms in all the af-
fecting warmth of entreaty, without sharing in his distress,
and melting into pity?
Ye kings and warriours! may your vows be crown'd,
And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground :
May Jove restore you, when your toils are o’er,
Safe to the pleasures of your native shore :
But oh ! relieve a wretched parent's pain,
And give Chryse'is to these arms again.
If mercy fail, yet let my presents move,
And dread avenging Phoebus, son of Jove.
Poße.
The insinuation with which Chryses closes his speech that
the Grecians must expect the indignation of Apollo would
pursue them if they rejected the petition of his priest, is
happily intimated by a single epithet :
And dread avenging Phoebus ;
whereas, the other translator takes the compass of three
lines to express the same thought less strongly.
When the heralds are sent by Agamemnon to Achilles
in order to demand Briseïs, that chief is prevailed upon
to part with her and, accordingly, directs Patroclus to de-
liver up this contested beauty into their hands :
:
LETTER LII.
155
Πατρωκλος δε φίλῳ επεπείθεθ' εταιρῷ,
Εκ δ' άγαγε κλισίης Βρισηίδα καλλιπάρηον,
Δώκε δ' αγειν τω δ' αυτις στην παρα νηας Αχαιων.
H d'asxovo' apea rosol guvN_HIEV®
i. 345.
The beauty of Briseïs, as described in these lines, toge-
ther with the reluctance with which she is here repre-
sented as forced from her lord, cannot but touch the
reader in a very sensible manner. Mr. Tickel, however,
has debased this affecting picture, by the most unpoeti-
cal and familiar diction. I will not delay you with
making my objections in form to his language; but have
distinguished the exceptionable expressions, in the lines
themselves :
Patroclus his dear friend obliged,
And usher'd in the lovely weeping maid;
Sure sigh'd she, as the heralds took her hand,
And oft look'd back, slow moving o'er the strand.
Tickel.
Our British Homer has restored this piece to its original
grace and delicacy :
Patroclus now th' unwilling beauty brought:
She, in soft sorrows, and in pensive thought,
Pass'd silent, as the heralds held her hand,
And oft look'd back, slow moving o'er the strand.
Pope.
The tumultuous behaviour of Achilles, as described by
Homer in the lines immediately following, affords a very
pleasing and natural contrast to the more composed and
silent sorrow of Briseïs. The poet represents that hero
as suddenly rushing out from his tent, and flying to the
sea-shore, where he gives vent to his indignation: and,
in bitterness of soul, complains to Thetis, not only of the
dishonour brought upon him by Agamemnon, but of the
injustice even of Jupiter himself:
αυταρ Αχιλλευς
Δάκρυσας, εταρων αφας εζετο νόσφι λιασθείς,
156
LETTER LII.
θαν' εφ' άλος πολίης, ορόων επί οίνοπα πόντον.
Πολλα δε μητρι φίλη ήρησατο χειρας ορεγους.
i. 348.
Mr. Tickel, in rendering the sense of these lines, has
risen into a somewhat higher flight of poetry than usual.
However, you will observe his expression, in one or two
places, is exceedingly languid and prosaical; as the epithet
he has given to the waves is highly injudicious. Curling
billows might be very proper in describing a calm, but
suggests too pleasing an image to be applied to the ocean
when represented as black with storms.
The widow'd hero, when the fair was gone,
Far from his friends, sat, bath'd in tears, alone.
On the cold beach he sat, and fix'd his eyes
Where, black with storms, the curling billows rise.
And as the sea, wide-rolling, he survey'd,
With out-stretch'd arms to his fund mother pray'd.
Tickel.
Mr. Pope has opened the thought in these lines with
great dignity of numbers, and exquisite propriety of
imagery; as the additional circumstances which he has
thrown in, are so many beautiful improvements upon his
author:
Not so his loss the fierce Achilles bore;
But sad retiring to the sounding shore,
O'er the wild margin of the deep he hung,
That kindred deep from which his mother sprung :
Then bath'd in tears of anger and disdain,
Thus loud lamented to the stormy main.
Pope.
Apollo having sent a plague among the Grecians, in re-
sentment of the injury done to his priest Chryses by de-
taining his daughter, Agamemnon consents that Chryseïs
shall be restored. Accordingly a ship is fitted out under
the command of Ulysses, who is employed to conduct the
damsel to her father. That hero and his companions be-
ing arrived at Chrysa, the place to which they were bound,
LETTER LH.
157
}
deliver up their charge; and having performed a sacrifice
to Apollo, set sail early the next morning for the Grecian
camp. Upon this occasion Homer exhibits to us a most
beautiful sea-piece :
Ημος δ' κελιος κατεδυ, και επι κνεφας ήλθε,
Δε τοτε κοιμησαν το παρά πρυμνήσια νηος.
Ημος δ' ηριγενεια φάνη ροδοδάκτυλος Ηώς,
Και τοτ' επειτ' ανάγοντο μετα στρατον ευρύν Αχαιων.
Τοισιν δ' ικμενον ουρον δει εκαεργος Απόλλων.
Οι δ' ιστον στησαντ', ανα θ' ίστια λευκα πέτασσαν
Εν δ' ανεμος πρησεν μέσον ιστίον, αμφι Se κυμα
Στειρη πορφύρεον μεγαλ' ιαχε, νηος ιούσης
Η δ' εθεεν κατα κυμα διαπρήσσουσα κέλευθα.
i. 475.
If there is any passage throughout Mr. Tickel's translation
of this book, which has the least pretence to stand in
competition with Mr. Pope's version, it is undoubtedly
that which corresponds with the Greek lines just now
quoted. It would indeed be an instance of great par-
tiality not to acknowledge they breathe the true spirit of
poetry; and I must own myself at a loss which to prefer
upon the whole; though I think Mr. Pope is evidently
superiour to his rival, in his manner of opening the descrip-
tion:
At ev❜ning through the shore dispers'd, they sleep
Hush'd by the distant roarings of the deep.
When now, ascending from the shades of night,
Aurora glow'd in all her rosy light,
The daughter of the dawn: th' awaken'd crew.
Back to the Greeks encamp'd their course renew:
The breezes freshen: for, with friendly gales,
Apollo swell'd their wide-distended sails:
Cleft by the rapid prow the waves divide,
And in hoarse murmurs break on either side.
'Twas night: the chiefs beside their vessel lie,
Till rosy morn had purpled o'er the sky:
Then launch, and hoist the mast; indulgent gales,
Supplied by Phoebus, fill the swelling sails;
14
Tickel.
158
LETTER LH.
The milk-white canvas bellying as they blow,
The parted ocean foams and roars below:
Above the bounding billows swift they flew, &c. Pope.
There is something wonderfully pleasing in that judi-
cious pause, which Mr. Pope has placed at the beginning
of these lines. It necessarily awakens the attention of
the reader, and gives a much greater air of solemnity to
the scene, than if the circumstance of the time had been
less distinctly pointed out and blended, as in Mr. Tickel's
translation, with the rest of the description.
Homer has been celebrated by antiquity for those sub-
lime images of the Supreme Being, which he so often
raises in the Iliad. It is Macrobius, if I remember right,
who informs us, that Phidias being asked from whence
he took the idea of his celebrated statue of Olympian
Jupiter, acknowledged that he had heated his imagination
by the following lines :
Η, και κυανέησιν επ' οφρύσι νευσε Κρονίων
Αμβροσιαι δ' αρα χαίται επερρώσαντο άνακτος
Κρατος απ' αθανάτοιο μεγαν δ' ελέλιξεν Ολυμπον.
i. 528.
But whatever magnificence of imagery Phidias might dis-
cover in the original, the English reader will scarce, I
imagine, conceive any thing very grand and sublime from
the following copy:
This said, his kingly brow the sire inclin❜d,
The large black curls fell awful from behind,
Thick shadowing the stern forehead of the god :
Olympus trembled at th' almighty nod.
Tickel.
That our modern statuaries, however, may not have an
excuse for burlesquing the figure of the great father of
gods and men, for want of the benefit of so animating a
model, Mr. Pope has preserved it to them in all its origi-
mal majesty ;
LETTER LII.
159
He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows;
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,
The stamp of fate, and sanction of the god :
High heaven with trembling the dread signal took,
And all Olympus to the centre shook.
Pope.
I took occasion, in a foriner letter, to make some ex-
ceptions to a passage or two in the parting of Hector and
Andromache, as translated by your favourite poet.-I
shall now produce a few lines from the same beautiful
episode, for another purpose, and in order to shew, with
how much more masterly a hand, even than Dryden him-
self, our great improver of English poetry has worked
upon the same subject.
As Andromache is going to the tower of Ilion, in order
to take a view of the field of battle, Hector meets her,
together with her son, the young Astyanax, at the Scæan
gate. The circumstances of this sudden interview are
finely imagined. Hector, in the first transport of his joy,
is unable to utter a single word; at the same time that
Andromache, tenderly embracing his hands, bursts out
into a flood of tears:
Ητοι ο μεν μείδησεν ιδών ες παιδα σιωπη
Ανδρομαχη δε οι αγχι παρίστατο δακρυχέουσα,
Εντ' αρα οι φυ χειρί, επις τ' εφατ', εκ τ' ονόμαζε
vi. 404,
Dryden has translated this passage with a cold and unpo-
etical fidelity to the mere letter of the original :
Hector beheld him with a silent smile;
His tender wife stood weeping by the while;
Press'd in her own, his warlike hand she took,
Then sigh'd, and thus prophetically spoke,
Dryden.
But Pope has judiciously taken a larger compass, and, by
heightening the piece with a few additional touches, has
wrought it up in all the affecting spirit of tenderness and
poetry:
160
LETTER LII.
Silent the warriour smil'd, and pleas'd, resign'd
To tender passions all his mighty mind:
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke ;
Her bosom labour'd with a boding sigh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.
Pope.
Andromache afterwards endeavours to persuade Hector
to take upon himself the defence of the city, and not ha-
zard a life so important, she tells him, to herself and his
son, in the more dangerous action of the field:
Την δ' αυτε προσέειπε μέγας κορυθαίολος Εκτως,
Η και εμοι ταδε παντα μελεί, γυναι αλλα μαλ' αινώς
Αίδωμαι Τρωας και Τρωάδας ελκεσιπέπλους,
Αικς, κακος ως, νοσφιν αλυσκάζω πολέμοιο.
To whom the noble Hector thus replied:
That and the rest are in my daily care;
But should I shun the dangers of the war,
With scorn the Trojans would reward my pains,
And their proud ladies with their sweeping trains.
The Grecian swords and lances I can bear:
But loss of honour is my only care.
Dryden.
vi. 440.
Nothing can be more flat and unanimated than these
lines. One may say, upon this occasion, what Dryden
himself, I remember, somewhere observes, that a good
poet is no more like himself in a dull translation, than his
dead carcass would be to his living body. To catch indeed
the soul of our Grecian bard, and breathe his spirit into an
English version, seems to have been a privilege reserved
solely for Pope :
The chief replied: that post shall be my care;
Nor that alone, but all the works of war.
How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd,
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground,
Attaint the lustre of my former name,
Should Hector basely quit the fields of fame? Pope.
In the farther prosecution of this episode Hector pro-
phesies his own death, and the destruction of Troy; to
LETTER LII.
161
which he adds, that Andromache should be led captive
into Argos, where, among other disgraceful offices, which
he particularly enumerates, she should be employed, he
tells her, in the servile task of drawing water. The dif-
ferent manner in which this last circumstance is express-
ed by our two English poets, will afford the strongest
instance, how much additional force the same thought
will receive from a more graceful turn of phrase:
Or from deep wells the living stream to take,
And on thy weary shoulders bring it back.
or bring
The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring.
Dryden.
Pope.
It is in certain peculiar turns of diction that the language
of poetry is principally distinguished from that of prose,
as indeed the same words are, in general, common to them
both. It is in a turn of this kind, that the beauty of the
last quoted line consists. For the whole grace of the
expression would vanish, if, instead of the two substan-
tives which are placed at the beginning of the verse, the
poet had employed the more common syntax of a sub-
stantive with its adjective.
When this faithful pair have taken their final adieu of
each other, Hector returns to the field of battle, at the
same time that the disconsolate Andromache joins her
maidens in the palace. Homer describes this circum-
stance in the following tender manner :
Ως άρα πώνησας κορυθ' είλετο φαίδιμος Εκτωρ
Ιππουριν άλοχος δε φιλη οικονδε βέβηκει
Εντροπαλιζομένη, θαλερον κατα δακρυ χέουσα.
Αίψα δ' επειθ' ικανε δ. μους εν ναιετάοντας
Έκτορος ανδροφόνοιο· κιχήσατο δ' ένδοθι πολλάς
Αμφιπόλους, τησιν ζουν παση δεν αναιρσεν.
Αι μεν ετι ζωον γοον Έκτορα η ενα οικεία
vi. 494.
14 *
162
LETTER LII.
I will make no remarks upon the different success of our
two celebrated poets in translating this passage; but,
after having laid both before you, leave their versions to
speak for themselves. The truth is, the disparity between
them is much too visible to require any comment to
render it more observable :
At this, for new replies he did not stay,
But lac'd his crested helm, and strode away.
His lovely consort to her house return'd,
And looking often back, in silence mourn'd:
Home when she came, her secret woe she vents,
And fills the palace with her loud laments;
Those loud laments her echoing maids restore,
And Hector, yet alive, as dead deplore.
Dryden.
Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes
His tow'ry helmet, black with shading plumes.
His princess parts with a prophetick sigh,
Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye,
That stream'd at ev'ry look: then moving slow,
Sought her own palace, and indulg'd her woe.
There, while her tears deplor'd the godlike man,
Through all the train the soft infection ran;
The pious maids their mingled sorrow shed,
And mourn the living Hector as the dead.
Pope.
As I purpose to follow Mr. Pope through those several
parts of the Iliad, where any of our distinguished poets
have gone before him; I must lead you on till we come
to the speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus, in the XIIth book:
Γλαύκε, τι δη νωϊ τετιμημεσθα μαλιστα
Εδρη τε, κρέασιν τε, ιδε πλείοις δεπάεσσιν,
Εν Λυκίη, πάντες δε, θεους ως, εισορόωσι,
Και τέμενος νεμομεσθα μέγα Ξανθοιο παρ' όχθας
Καλον, φυταλίης και αρούρης πυροφορειο
Τῷ νυν χρη Λυκίοισι μετα πρωτοισιν εοντας
Εσταμεν, ηδε μάχης καυστειρής αντιβολήσαι
Οφρα τις ωδ' είπη Λυκίων συκα θωρηκτάων,
Οι μαν ακλείεις Λυκίην κατακοιρανέουσιν
LETTER LII.
163
Ημέτεροι βασιλήες, εδουσι τε πιονα μηλά,
Οινον τ' εξαιτον. μελιηδέα αλλ' αρα και ις
Εσθλη, επει Λυκίοισι μετά πρωτοισι μαχονται.
Ω τεπον ει μεν γαρ πολεμον περί τονδε φυγοντες,
Αιεί δη μελλούμεν αγήρω τ' αθανατω τε
Εσσεσθ', ουτε κεν αυτός ενι πρωτοισι μαχοιμήν,
Ουτε κε σε στελλοιμι μαχην ες κυδιανείραν
Νυν δ' (εμπης γαρ κηρες εφεστασιν θανάτοιο
Μυρίαι, ας ουκ εστι φύγειν βροτον, ουδ' ὑπαλύξαι)
Τομεν με τῷ ευχος ορέξομεν, με τις ἡμιν.
xii. 310.
This spirited speech has been translated by the famous
author of Cooper's Hill:
Above the rest why is our pomp and pow'r?
Our flocks, our herds, and our possessions more?
Why all the tributes land and sea afford,
Heap'd in great chargers, load our sumptuous board?
Our cheerful guests carouse the sparkling tears
Of the rich grape, whilst musick charms their ears.
Why, as we pass, do those on Xanthus' shore
As gods behold us, and as gods adore?
But that, as well in danger as degree,
We stand the first: that when our Lycians see
Our brave examples, they admiring say,
Behold our gallant leaders! these are they
Deserve their greatness; and unenvied stand,
Since what they act transcends what they command.
Could the declining of this fate, oh ! friend,
Our date to immortality extend,
Or if death sought not them who seek not death,
Would I advance, or should my vainer breath
With such a glorious folly thee inspire?
But since with fortune nature doth conspire;
Since age, disease, or some less noble end,
Though not less certain, does our days attend ;
Since 'tis decreed, and to this period led
A thousand ways, the noblest path we'll tread ;
And bravely on, till they, or we, or all,
A common sacrifice to honour fall.
Denham.
Mr. Pope passes so high an encomium on these lines,
as to assure us, that, if his translation of the same passage
164
LETTER LII.
has any spirit, it is in some degree due to them. It is
certain they have great merit, considering the state of
our English versification when Denham flourished: but
they will by no means support Mr. Pope's compliment,
any more than they will bear to stand in competition with
his numbers. And I dare say, you will join with me in
the same opinion, when you consider the following ver-
sion of this animated speech :
Why boast we, Glaucus, our extended reign,
Where Xanthus' streams enrich the Lycian plain?
Our num❜rous herds, that range the fruitful field,
And bills where vines their purple barvest yield?
Our foaming bowls with purer nectar crown'd,
Our feasts enhanc'd with musick's sprightly sound!?
Why on these shores are we with joy survey'd,
Admir'd as heroes, and as gods obey'd?
Unless great acts superiour merit prove,
And vindicate the bounteous powers above;
That when, with wond'ring eyes, our martial bands
Behold our deeds transcending our commands,
Such, they may cry, deserve the sov'reign state,
Whom those that envy dare not imitate.
Could all our care elude the gloomy grave,
Which claims no less the fearful than the brave,
For lust of fame I should not vainly dare
In fighting fields, nor urge thy soul to war.
But since, alas! ignoble age must come,
Disease, and death's inexorable doom;
The life which others pay, let us bestow,
And give to fame what we to nature owe ;
Brave though we fall, and honour'd if we live,`
Or let us glory gain, or glory give.
Pope.
If any thing can be justly objected to this translation, it
is, perhaps, that in one or two places it is too diffused and
descriptive for that agitation in which it was spoken. In
general, however, one may venture to assert, that it is
warmed with the same ardour of poetry and heroism that
glows in the original: as those several thoughts, which
罾
​1
་་ ་ ་
{
LETTER LII.
165
Mr. Pope has intermixed of his own, naturally arise out
of the sentiments of his author, and are perfectly con-
formable to the character and circumstances of the
speaker.
I shall close this review with Mr. Congreve, who has
translated the petition of Priam to Achilles for the body
of his son Hector, together with the lamentations of An-
dromache, Hecuba, and Helen.
Homer represents the unfortunate king of Troy, as en-
tering unobserved into the tent of Achilles and illus-
trates the surprise which arose in that chief and his
attendants, upon the first discovery of Priam, by the fol
lowing simile:
Ως δ' όταν ανδρ' στη συκινη λαβή, οστ ενα πατρ
Φωτα κατακτείνας, άλλων εξίκετο δήμον,
Ανδρος ες αφνειου θαμβος δ' έχει εισορόωντας
Ως Αχιλευς θαμβησεν, ιδων Πρίαμον θεοειδέα
xxiv. 480,,
Nothing can be more languid and inelegant than the
manner in which Congreve has rendered this passage :
But as a wretch who has a murder done,
And seeking refuge, does from justice run;
Ent'ring some house in haste where he's unknown,
Creates amazement in the lookers-on :
So did Achilles gaze, surpris'd to see
The godlike Priam's royal misery.
Congreve.
But Pope has raised the same thought with his usual
grace and spirit :
As when a wretch, who, conscious of his crime,
Pursu'd for murder, flies his native clime,
Just gains some frontier, breathless, pale, amaz'd !
All gaze, all wonder: thus Achilles gaz'd.
Pope.
The speech of Priam is wonderfully pathetick and af-
fecting. He tells Achilles, that, out of fifty sons he had
166
LETTER LI
one only remaining; and of him he was now unhappily
bereaved by his sword. He conjures him, by his tender-
ness for his own father, to commiserate the most wretched
of parents, who, by an uncommon severity of fate, was
thus obliged to kiss those hands which were imbrued in
the blood of his children:
του νυν ενεχ' ικανω νηας Αχαιών,
Λυσομενος παρα σείο, φερω δι' απερείσι αποινα.
Αλλ' αιδειο θεους, Αχιλευ, αυτον τ' ελεησον,
Μνησαμενος σου πατρος εγω δ ελεεινότερος περι
Ετλήν δ' οι ουπω τις επιχθονιος βροτος άλλος,
Άνδρος παιδοφόνοιο ποτι στομα χεις ορέγεσθαι.
v. 501.
These moving lines Mr. Congreve has debased into
the lowest and most unaffecting prose:
For his sake only I am hither come;
Rich gifts I bring, and wealth, an endless sum;
All to redeem that fatal prize you won,
A worthless ransom for so brave a son.
Fear the just gods, Achilles, and on me
With pity look; think you your father see:
Such as I am, he is: alone in this,
I can no equal have in miseries;
Of all mankind, most wretched and forlorn,
Bow'd with such weight as never has been borne ;
Reduc'd to kneel and pray to you, from whom
The spring and source of all my sorrows come;
With gifts to court mine and my country's bane,
And kiss those hands which have my children slain,
Congreve.
Nothing could compensate the trouble of labouring through
these heavy and tasteless rhymes, but the pleasure of be-
ing relieved at the end of them with a more lively pros-
pect of poetry:
For him through hostile camps I bent my way,
For him thus prostrate at thy feet I lay;
LETTER LII.
167
Large gifts proportion'd to thy wrath I bear;
O hear the wretched, and the gods revere!
Think of thy father, and this face behold!
See him in me, as helpless and as old!
Though not so wretched: there he yields to me,
The first of men in sov'reign misery;
Thus forc'd to kneel, thus grov'lling to embrace
The scourge and ruin of my realm and race:
Suppliant my children's murd'rer to implore,
And kiss those hands yet reeking with their gore.
Pope.
Achilles having, at length, consented to restore the
dead body of Hector, Priam conducts it to his palace. It
is there placed in funeral pomp, at the same time that
mournful dirges are sung over the corpse, intermingled
with the lamentations of Andromache, Hecuba, and
Helen :
τον μεν επειτα
Τρητοις εν λεχέεσσι θεσαν, παρα δ' εισαν αοιδους,
Θρήνων εξαρχους οιτε στονόεσσαν αοιδήν
Οι μεν άρ' εθρηνεον, επι δε στενάχοντο γυναίκες.
v. 719.
There is something extremely solemn and affecting in
Homer's description of this scene of sorrow. A translator
who was touched with the least spark of poetry, could
not, one should imagine, but rise beyond himself, in copy-
ing after so noble an original. It has not, however, been
able to elevate Mr. Congreve above his usual flatness of
numbers:
then laid
With care the body on a sumptuous bed,
And round about were skilful singers plac'd,
Who wept and sigh'd, and in sad notes express'd
Their moan: All in a chorus did agree
Of universal mournful harmony.
Congreve.
It would be the highest injustice to the following lines
to quote them in opposition to those of Mr. Congreve: I
produce them, as marked with a vein of poetry much
superiour even to the original :
168
LETTER LIII.
They weep, and place him on a bed of state
▲ melancholy choir attend around
With plaintive sighs, and musick's solemn sound:
Alternately they sing, alternate flow
Th' obedient tears, melodious in their woe;
While deeper sorrows groan from each full heart,
And nature speaks at ev'ry pause of art.
Pope.
Thus, Euphronius, I have brought before you some of
the most renowned of our British bards, contending, as it
were, for the prize of poetry: and there can be no debate
to whom it justly belongs. Mr. Pope seems, indeed, to
have raised our numbers to the highest possible perfec-
tion of strength and harmony: and, I fear, all the praise
that the best succeeding poets can expect, as to their ver-
sification, will be, that they have happily imitated his
manner. Farewell. I am, &c.
LETTER LIII.
TO ORONTES.
July 2, 1741.
YOUR letter found me just upon my return from an
excursion into Berkshire, where I had been paying a visit
to a friend who is drinking the waters at Sunning-Hill. In
one of my morning rides over that delightful country, I
accidentally passed through a little village, which afforded
me much agreeable meditation; as, in times to come, per-
haps, it will be visited by the lovers of the polite arts,
with as much veneration as Virgil's tomb, or any other
celebrated spot of antiquity. The place I mean is Bin-
field, where the poet to whom I am indebted (in common
with every reader of taste) for so much exquisite enter-
tainment, spent the earliest part of his youth. I will not
scruple to confess, that I looked upon the scene where
he planned some of those beautiful performances which
LETTER LIII.
169
irst recommended him to the notice of the world, with a
degree of enthusiasm; and could not but consider the
ground as sacred that was impressed with the footsteps of
a genius that undoubtedly does the highest honour to our
age and nation.
The situation of mind in which I found myself, upon
this occasion, suggested to my remembrance a passage in
Tully, which I thought I never so thoroughly entered into
the spirit of before. That noble author, in one of his
philosophical conversation-pieces, introduces his friend
Atticus as observing the pleasing effect which scenes of
this nature are wont to have upon one's mind: Movemur
enim (says that polite Roman) nescio quo pacto, locis ipsis,
in quibus eorum, quos diligimus aut admiramur, adsunt
vestigia. Me quidem ipsae illae nostrae Athenae, non tam
operibus magnificis exquisitisque antiquorum artibus delec-
tant, quam recordatione summorum virorum, ubi quisque
habitare, ubi sedere, ubi disputare sit solitus.
Thus, you see, I could defend myself by an example of
great authority, were I in danger, upon this occasion, of
being ridiculed as a romantick visionary. But I am too
well acquainted with the refined sentiments of Orontes,
to be under any apprehension he will condemn the
impressions I have here acknowledged. On the contrary,
I have often heard you mention, with approbation, a cir-
cumstance of this kind which is related of Silius Italicus.
The annual ceremonies which that poet performed at
Virgil's sepulchre, gave you a more favourable opinion of
his taste, you confessed, than any thing in his works was
able to raise.
It is certain, that some of the greatest names of anti-
quity have distinguished themselves by the high reverence
they shewed to the poetical character. Scipio, you may
remember, desired to be laid in the same tomb with En-
nius: and I am inclined to pardon that successful madman
15
170
LETTER LIII.
Alexander many of his extravagancies, for the generous
regard he paid to the memory of Pindar, at the sacking
of Thebes.
There seems, indeed, to be something in poetry, that
raises the possessors of that very singular talent far higher
in the estimation of the world in general, than those who
excel in any other of the refined arts. And, accordingly,
we find that poets have been distinguished by antiquity
with the most remarkable honours. Thus Homer, we
are told, was deified at Smyrna; as the citizens of Myti-
lene stamped the image of Sappho upon their publick
coin: Anacreon received a solemn invitation to spend
his days at Athens, and Hipparchus, the son of Pisis-
tratus, fitted out a splendid vessel in order to transport
him thither and when Virgil caine into the theatre at
Rome, the whole audience rose up and saluted him with
the same respect as they would have paid to Augustus
himself.
Painting, one should imagine, has the fairest preten-
sion of rivalling her sister art in the number of admirers;
and yet, where Apelles is mentioned once, Homer is ce-
lebrated a thousand times. Nor can this be accounted for
by urging, that the works of the latter are still extant,
while those of the former perished long since for is
not Milton's Paradise Lost more universally esteemed
than Raphael's cartoons?
The truth, I imagine, is, there are more who are na-
tural judges of the harmony of numbers, than of the
grace of proportions. One meets with but few who have
not, in some degree at least, a tolerable ear; but a judi-
cious eye is a far more uncommon possession. For as
words are the universal medium which all men employ
in order to convey their sentiments to each other, it
seems a just consequence that they should be more gene-
rally formed for relishing and judging of performances in
LETTER LIV.
171
that way: whereas the art of representing ideas by means
of lines and colours, lies more out of the road of common
use, and is, therefore, less adapted to the taste of the
general run of mankind.
I hazard this observation, in the hopes of drawing
from you your sentiments upon a subject, in which no
man is more qualified to decide: as, indeed, it is to the
conversation of Orontes that I am indebted for the dis-
covery of many refined delicacies in the imitative arts,
which, without his judicious assistance, would have lain
concealed to me with other common observers. Adien.
I am, &c.
LETTER LIV.
TO PHIDIPPUS.
1 A AM by no means surprised that the interview you
have lately had with Cleanthes, has given you a much
lower opinion of his abilities than what you had before
conceived and since it has raised your curiosity to know
my sentiments of his character, you shall have them with
all that freedom you may justly expect.
I have always then considered Cleanthes as possessed
of the most extraordinary talents; but his talents are of
a kind, which can only be exerted upon uncommon oc-
casions. They are formed for the greatest depths of bu-
siness and affairs; but absolutely out of all size for the
shallows of ordinary life. In circumstances that require
the most profound reasonings, in incidents that demand
the most penetrating politicks, there Cleanthes would
shine with supreme lustre. But view him in any situa-
tion inferiour to these; place him where he cannot raise
admiration, and he will, most probably, sink into con-
tempt. Cleanthes, in short, wants nothing but the addi-
172
LETTER LV.
tion of certain minute accomplishments, to render him a
finished character: but, being wholly destitute of those
little talents which are necessary to render a man useful
or agreeable in the daily commerce of the world, those
great abilities which he possesses lie unobserved or ne-
glected.
He often, indeed, gives one occasion to reflect how
necessary it is to be master of a sort of under-qualities,
in order to set off and recommend those of a superiour
nature. To know how to descend with grace and ease
into ordinary occasions, and to fall in with the less im-
portant parties and purposes of mankind, is an art of
more general influence, perhaps, than is usually ima-
gined.
If I were to form, therefore, a youth for the world, I
should certainly endeavour to cultivate in him these se-
condary qualifications, and train him up to an address
in these lower arts, which render a man agreeable in
conversation, or useful to the innocent pleasures and
accommodations of life. A general skill and taste of
this kind, with moderate abilities, will, in most instances,
I believe, prove more successful in the world, than a
much higher degree of capacity without them. I am, &c.
LETTER LV.
TO EUPHRONIUS.
July 17, 1730.
If the temper and turn of Timanthes had not long
prepared me for what has happened, I should have re-
ceived your account of his death with more surprise; but
I suspected, from our earliest acquaintance, that his
sentiments and disposition would lead him into a satiety
of life, much sooner than nature would, probably, carry
LETTER LV.
173
him to the end of it. When unsettled principles fall in
with a constitutional gloominess of mind, it is no wonder
the taedium vitae should gain daily strength, till it pushes
a man to seek relief against this most desperate of all
distempers, from the point of a sword, or the bottom of
a river.
But to learn to accommodate our taste to that portion
of happiness which Providence has set before us, is, of
all the lessons of philosophy, surely the most necessary.
High and exquisite gratifications are not consistent with
the appointed measures of humanity: and, perhaps, if
we would fully enjoy the relish of our being, we should
rather consider the miseries we escape, than too nicely
examine the intrinsick worth of the happiness we possess.
It is, at least, the business of true wisdom, to bring to-
gether every circumstance which may light up a flame of
cheerfulness in the mind: and though we must be in-
sensible if it should perpetually burn with the same un-
varied brightness, yet prudence should preserve it as a
sacred fire which is never to be totally extinguished.
I am persuaded this disgust of life is frequently in-
dulged out of a principle of mere vanity. It is esteemed
as a mark of uncommon refinement, and as placing a
man above the ordinary level of his species, to seem
superiour to the vulgar feelings of happiness. True good
sense, however, most certainly consists not in despising,
but in managing our stock of life to the best advantage;
as a cheerful acquiescence in the measures of Providence
is one of the strongest symptoms of a well-constituted
mind. Self-weariness is a circumstance that ever attends
folly and to contemn our being is the greatest, and, in-
deed, the peculiar, infirmity of human nature.
It is a
noble sentiment which Tully puts into the mouth of
15 *
174
LETTER LV.
Cato, in his treatise upon old age: Non lubet mihi (says
that venerable Roman,) deplorare vitam, quod multi, et ii
docti saepè fecerunt; neque me vixisse poenitet: quoniam
ita vixi, ut non frustrà me natum existimem.
It is in the power, indeed, of but a very small propor-
tion of mankind, to act the same glorious part that
afforded such high satisfaction to this distinguished pa-
triot but the number is yet far more inconsiderable of
those who cannot, in any station, secure to themselves a
sufficient fund of complacency to render life justly valu-
able. Who is it that is placed out of the reach of the
highest of all gratifications, those of the generous affec-
tions; and that cannot provide for his own happiness by
contributing something to the welfare of others? As
this disease of the mind generally breaks out with most
violence in those who are supposed to be endowed with
a greater delicacy of taste and reason, than is the usual
allotment of their fellow-creatures, one may ask them,
Whether there is any satiety in the pursuits of useful
knowledge? or, if one can ever be weary of benefiting
mankind? Will not the fine arts supply a lasting feast to
the mind? Or can there be wanting a pleasurable em-
ployment, so long as there remains even one advantage-
ous truth to be discovered or confirmed? To complain
that life has no joys, while there is a single creature
whom we can relieve by our bounty, assist by our coun-
sels, or enliven by our presence, is to lament the loss of
that which we possess, and is just as rational as to die of
thirst with the cup in our hands. But the misfortune is,
when a man is settled into a habit of receiving all his
pleasures from the mere selfish indulgencies, he wears
out of his mind the relish of every nobler enjoyment, at
the same time that his powers of the sensual kind are
growing more languid by each repetition. It is no won
LETTER LVI.
175
der, therefore, he should fill up the measure of his grati-
fications, long before he has completed the circle of his
duration; and either wretchedly sit down the remainder
of his days in discontent, or rashly throw them up in
despair. Farewell. I am, &c.
LETTER LVI.
TO TIMOCLEA.
October 1, 1743.
CERTAINLY, Timoclea, you have a passion for the mar-
vellous beyond all power of gratification. There is not
an adventurer throughout the whole regions of chivalry,
with whom you are unacquainted; and have wandered
through more folios than would furnish out a decent library.
Mine, at least, you have totally exhausted; and have so
cleared my shelves of knights-errant, that I have not a
single hero remaining that ever was regaled in bower or
hall. But, though you have drained me of my whole stock
of romance, I am not entirely unprovided for your enter-
tainment; and have enclosed a little Grecian fable, for
your amusement, which was lately transmitted to me
by one of my friends. He discovered it, he tells me,
among some old manuscripts, which have been long, it
seems, in the possession of his family; and, if you will
rely upon his judgment, it is a translation by Spenser's
own hand.
This is all the history I have to give you of the follow-
ing piece; the genuineness of which I leave to be settled
between my friend and the criticks; and am, &c.
176
LETTER LVI.
THE TRANSFORMATION OF LYCON AND EUPHORMIUS.
I.
DEEM not, ye plaintive crew, that suffer wrong,
Ne thou, O man! who deal'st the tort, misween
The equal gods, who heav'n's sky mansions throng
(Though viewless to the eyne they distant sheen)
Spectators reckless of our actions been.
Turning the volumes of grave sages old,
Where auncient saws in fable may be seen,
This truth I fond in paynim tale enroll'd
Which for ensample drad my Muse shall here unfold.
II.
What time Arcadia's flowret vallies fam'd
Pelasgus, first of monarchs old, obey'd,
There wonn'd a wight, and Lycon was he nam'd,
Unaw'd by conscience, of no gods afraid,
Ne justice rul'd his heart, ne mercy sway'd.
Some held him kin to that abhorred race,
Which heav'n's high tow'rs with mad emprize assay'd;
And some his cruel lynage did ytrace
From fell Erynnis join'd in Pluto's dire embrace.
III.
But he, perdy, far other tale did feign,
And claim'd alliaunce with the sisters nine;
And deem'd himself (what deems not pride so vain?)
The peerless paragon of wit divine,
Vaunting that every foe should rue its tine.
Right doughty wight! yet, sooth, withouten smart,
All pow'rless fell the losel's shafts malign:
'Tis virtue's aim to wield wit's heav'nly dart,
Point its keen barb with force, and send it to the heart,
IV.
One only impe he had, Pastora hight,
Whose sweet amenaunce pleas'd cach shepherd's eye:
Yet pleas'd she not base Lycon's evil spright,
Though blame in her not malice moten spy,
Clear, without spot, as summer's cloudless sky.
LETTER LVI.
177
፡
5
;
{
Hence poets feign'd, Lycean Pan array'd
In Lycon's forin, enflamed with passion high,
Deceiv'd her mother in the covert glade;
And from the stol'u embrace ysprong the heav'nly maid.
3
V.
Thus fabling they meanwhile the damsel fair
A shepherd youth remark'd, as o'er the plain
She deffly pac'd elong so debonair :
Seem'd she as one of Dian's chosen train,
Full many a fond excuse he knew to feign,
In sweet converse to while with her the day,
Till love unwares his heedless heart did gain,
Nor dempt he, simple wight, no mortal may
The blinded God once harbour'd, when he list, foresay.
VI.
Now much he meditates if yet to speak,
And now resolves his passion to conceal :
But sure, quoth he, my seely heart will break
If aye I smother what I aye must feel
At length by hope embolden'd to reveal.
The lab'ring secret dropped from his tong.
Whiles frequent singults check'd his falt'ring tale,
In modest wise her head Pastora hong:
For never maid more chaste inspired shepherd's song.
VII.
What needs me to recount in long detail
The tender parley which these lemans held?
How oft he vow'd his love her ne'er should fail ;
How oft the stream from forth her eyne outwell'd,
Doubting if constancy yet ever dwell'd
In heart of youthful wight: suffice to know,
Each rising doubt he in her bosome quell'd,
So parted they, more blithsome both, I trow:
For rankling love conceal'd, me seems, is deadly woe.
1
VIII.
Eftsoons to Lycon swift the youth did fare,
(Lagg'd ever youth when Cupid urg'd his way?)
And straight his gentle purpose did declare,
178
LETTER LVI.
And sooth the mount'naunce of his herds display.
Ne Lycon meant his suiten to foresay:
"Be thine Pastora (quoth the masker sly)
"And twice two thousand sheep her dow'r shall pay."
Beat then the lover's heart with joyaunce high;
Ne dempt that aught his bliss could now betray,
Ne guess'd that foul deceit in Lycon's bosome lay.
IX.
So forthe he yode to seek his rev'rend sire
(The good Euphormius shepherds him did call)
How sweet Pastora did his bosome fire,
Her worth, her promis'd flocks, he tolden all.
"Ah! nere, my son, let Lycon thee enthrall,
(Reply'd the sage in wise experience old)
"Smooth is his tongue, but full of guile withal,
In promise faithless, and in vaunting bold:
Ne ever lamb of his will bleat within thy fold."
X.
With words prophetick thus Euphormius spake !
And fact confirm'd what wisdom thus foretold.
Full many a mean devise did Lycon make,
The hoped day of spousal to withhold,
Framing new trains when nought mote serve his old.
Nathless he vow'd, Cyllene, cloud-topt hill,
Should sooner down the lowly delve be roll'd,
Than he his plighted promise nould fulfill;
But when, perdy, or where, the caitiff sayen nill.
XI.
Whiles thus the tedious suns had journey'd round,
Ne ought mote now the lovers' hearts divide,
Ne trust was there, ne truth in Lycon found;
The maid with matron Juno for her guide,
The youth by Concord led, in secret hy'd
To Hymen's sacred fane: the honest deed
Each god approv'd, and close the bands were ty'd.
Certes, till happier moments should succeed,
No prying eyne they ween'd their emprize mote areed.
LETTER LVI.
179
XII.
But prying eyne of Lycon 'twas in vain
(Right practick in disguise) to hope beware.
He trac'd their covert steps to Hymen's fane,
And joy'd to find them in his long-laid snare.
Algates, in semblaunt ire, he 'gan to swear,
And roaren loud as in displeasaunce high;
Then out he hurlen forth his daughter fair,
Forelore, the houseless child of misery,
Expos'd to killing cold, and pinching penury.
XIII.
Ah! whither now shall sad Pastora wend,
To want abandon'd, and by wrongs oppress'd?
Who shall the wretched outcast's teen befriend?
Lives mercy then, if not in parent's breast?
Yes, Mercy lives, the gentle goddess blest,
At Jove's right hand, to Jove for ever dear.
Aye at his feet she pleads the cause distrest,
To sorrow's plains she turns his equal ear,
And wafts to heav'n's star-throne fair vertue's silent tear.
XIV.
"Twas SHE that bade Euphormius quell each thought
That well mote rise to check his gen'rons aid.
Though high the torts which Lycon him had wrought,
Though few the flocks his humble pastures fed;
When as he learn'd Pastora's hapless sted,
His breast humane with wonted pity flows,
He op'd his gates, the naked exile led
Beneath his roof; a decent drapet throws
O'er her cold limbs, and sooths her undeserved woes.
XV.
Now loud-tongu'd Rumour bruited round the tale:
Th' astoned swains uneath could credence give,
That in Arcadia's unambitious vale
A faytor false as Lycon e'er did live,
But Jove (who in high heav'n does mortals prive,
And ev'ry deed in golden ballance weighs)
To earth his flaming charet baden drive,
And down descends, enwrapt in peerless blaze,
To deal forth guerdon meet to good and evil ways,
180
LETTER LVI.
XVI.
Where Eurymanthus, crown'd with many a wood,
His silver stream through dasy'd vales does lead,
Stretch'd on the flow'ry marge, in reckless mood,
Proud Lycon sought by charm of jocund reed
To lull the dire remorse of tortious deed.
Him Jove accosts, in rev'rend semblaunce dight
Of good Euphormius, and 'gan mild areed
Of compact oft confirm'd, of fay yplight,
Of nature's tender tye, of sacred rule of right.
XVII.
With lofty eyne, half loth to looke so low,
Him Lycon view'd, and with swoll'n surquedry
'Gan rudely treat his sacred old: When now
Forth stood the God confest that rules the sky,
In sudden sheen of drad divinity:
"And know, false man," the Lord of thunders said,
CC Not unobserv'd by Heav'n's all-present eye
"Thy cruel deeds: nor shall be unappay'd:
"Go! be in form that best beseems thy thews, array'd.”
XVIII.
Whiles yet he spake, th' affrayed trembling wight
Transmew'd to blatant beast, with hidious howl
Rushed headlong forth, in well-deserved plight,
'Midst dragons, minotaurs, and fiends to prowl,
A wolf in form as erst a wolf in soul!
To Pholoë, forest wild, he hy'd away,
The horrid haunt of savage monsters foul.
There helpless innocence is still his prey,
Thief of the bleating fold, and shepherd's dire dismay.
XIX.
Then Jove to good Euphormius' cot did wend,
Where peaceful dwelt the man of vertue high,
Each shepherd's praise and eke each shepherd's friend,
In ev'ry act of sweet humanity,
Him Jove approaching in mild majesty,
Greeted all hail! then bade him join the throng
Of glit'rand lights that gild the glowing sky.
There shepherds nightly view his orb yhong,
Where bright he shines eterne, the brightest stars among.
181
LETTER LVII.
TO CLYTAnder.
Feb. 8, 1739.
If there was any thing in my former letter inconsis-
tent with that esteem which is justly due to the ancients,
I desire to retract it in this, and disavow every expres-
sion which might seem to give precedency to the mo-
derns in works of genius. I am so far, indeed, from en-
tertaining the sentiments you impute to me, that I have
often endeavoured to account for that superiority which
is so visible in the compositions of their poets; and have
frequently assigned their religion as in the number of
those causes which probably concurred to give them this
remarkable pre-eminence. That enthusiasm which is so
essential to every true artist in the poetical way, was
considerably heightened and inflamed by the whole turn
of their sacred doctrines; and the fancied presence of
their Muses had almost as wonderful an effect upon
their thoughts and language, as if they had been really
and divinely inspired. Whilst all nature was supposed
to swarm with divinities, and every oak and fountain
was believed to be the residence of some presiding deity;
what wonder if the poet was animated by the imagined
influence of such exalted society, and found himself trans-
ported beyond the ordinary limits of sober humanity?
The mind, when attended only by mere mortals of su-
periour powers, is observed to rise in her strength; and
her faculties open and enlarge themselves, when she acts
in the view of those, for whom she has conceived a more
than common reverence. But when the force of super-
stition moves in concert with the powers of imagination,
and genius is inflamed by devotion, poetry must shine out
in all her brightest perfection and splendour.
16
182
LETTER LVII.
Whatever, therefore, the philosopher might think of
the religion of his country, it was the interest of the poet
to be thoroughly orthodox. If he gave up his creed, he
must renounce his numbers; and there could be no inspi-
ration where there were no Muses. This is so true, that
it is in compositions of the poetical kind alone, that the
ancients seem to have the principal advantage over the
moderns in every other species of writing, one might
venture, perhaps, to assert, that these latter ages have, at
least, equalled them. When I say so, I do not confine
myself to the productions of our own nation, but com-
prehend, likewise, those of our neighbours: and with that
extent, the observation will possibly hold true, even with-
out any exception in favour of history and oratory.
But whatever may with justice be determined concern-
ing that question; it is certain, at least, that the practice
of all succeeding poets confirms the notion for which I am
principally contending. Though the altars of paganism
have many ages since been thrown down, and groves are
no longer sacred; yet the language of the poets has not
changed with the religion of the times, but the gods of
Greece and Rome are still adored in modern verse. Is
not this a confession, that fancy is enlivened by supersti-
tion, and that the ancient bards catched their rapture
from the old mythology? I will own, however, that I
think there is something ridiculous in this unnatural adop-
tion, and that a modern poet makes but an awkward fi-
gure with his antiquated gods. When the pagan system
was sanctified by popular belief, a piece of machinery of
that kind, as it had the air of probability, afforded a
very striking manner of celebrating any remarkable cir-
cumstance, or raising any common one. But now that
this superstition is no longer supported by vulgar opinion,
it has lost its principal grace and efficacy, and seems to
LETTER LV II.
183
be, in general, the most cold and uninteresting method in
which a poet can work up his sentiments. What, for in-
stance, can be more unaffecting and spiritless, than the
compliment which Boileau has paid to Louis XIV. on his
famous passage over the Rhine? He represents the
Naiads, you may remember, as alarming the god of that
river, with an account of the march of the French mo-
narch; upon which the river god assumes the appear-
ance of an old experienced conmander, and flies to a
Dutch fort, in order to exhort the garrison to sally out and
dispute the intended passage. Accordingly they range
themselves in form of battle, with the Rhine at their
head, who, after some vain efforts, observing Mars and
Bellona on the side of the enemy, is so terrified with the
view of those superiour divinities, that he most gallantly
runs away, and leaves the hero in quiet possession of his
banks. I know not how far this may be relished by cri-
ticks, or justified by custom; but as I am only mentioning
my particular taste, I will acknowledge, that it appears to
me extremely insipid and puerile.
I have not, however, so much of the spirit of Typhoeus
in me, as to make war upon the gods without restriction,
and attempt to exclude them from their whole poetical
dominions. To represent natural, moral, or intellectual
qualities and affections as persons, and appropriate to
them those general emblems by which their powers and
properties are usually typified in pagan theology, may
be allowed as one of the most pleasing and graceful figureş
of poetical rhetorick. When Dryden, addressing himself
to the month of May, as to a person, says,
For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours,
one may consider him as speaking only in metaphor: and
when such shadowy beings are thus just shewn to the
184
LETTER LVII.
imagination, and immediately withdrawn again, they cer-
tainly have a very powerful effect. But I can relish them
no farther than as figures only: when they are extended in
any serious composition beyond the limits of metaphor,
and exhibited under all the various actions of real per-
sons, I cannot but consider them as so many absurdities,
which custom has unreasonably authorized. Thus Spen-
ser, in one of his pastorals, represents the god of love as
flying, like a bird, from bough to bough. A shepherd,
who hears a rustling among the bushes, supposes it to be
some game, and accordingly discharges his bow. Cupid
returns the shot, and after several arrows had been mu-
tually exchanged between them, the unfortunate swain
discovers whom it is he is contending with; but as he is
endeavouring to make his escape, receives a desperate
wound in the heel. This fiction makes the subject of a
very pretty idyllium in one of the Greek poets, yet is ex-
tremely flat and disgusting as it is adopted by our British
bard. And the reason of the difference is plain in the
former it is supported by a popular superstition; whereas
no strain of imagination can give it the least air of proba-
bility, as it is worked up by the latter.
Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. Hor.
:
I must confess, at the same time, that the inimitable
Prior has introduced this fabulous scheme with such un-
common grace, and has paid so many genteel compliments
to his mistress, by the assistance of Venus and Cupid,
that one is carried off from observing the impropriety
of this machinery, by the pleasing address with which he
manages it; and I never read his tender poems of this
kind, without applying to him what Seneca somewhere
says upon a similar occasion: Major ille est qui judicium
abstulit, quam qui meruit.
3
185
LETTER LVIII.
1
To speak my sentiments in one word, I would leave the
gods in full possession of allegorical and burlesque poems:
in all others I would never suffer them to make their ap-
pearance in person, and as agents, but to enter only
in simile, or allusion. It is thus Waller, of all our poets,
has most happily employed them; and his application of
the story of Daphne and Apollo will serve as an instance
in what manner the ancient mythology may be adopted
with the utmost propriety and beauty. Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER LVIII.
TO EUPHRONIUS.
Ang. 8, 1741.
I KNOW not in what disposition of mind this letter may
find you but I am sure you will not preserve your usual
cheerfulness of temper, when I tell you that poor Hydas-
pes died last night.
I will not at this time attempt to offer that consolation
to you, of which I stand in so much need myself. But
may it not somewhat abate the anxiety of our mutual
grief, to reflect, that however considerable our own loss
is, yet, with respect to himself, it scarce deserves to be
lamented that he arrived so much earlier at the grave than
his years and his health seemed to promise? For who,
my friend, that has any experience of the world, would
wish to extend his duration to old age? What, indeed, is
length of days but to survive all one's enjoyments, and
perhaps, to survive even one's very self? I have somewhere
met with an ancient inscription founded upon this senti-
ment, which infinitely pleased me. It was fixed upon a
bath, and contained an imprecation in the following
terms, against any one who should attempt to remove the
building:
16*
186
LETTER LVIII.
QVISQVIS. HOC. SVSTVLERIT.
AVT. IVSSERIT.
VLTIMVS. SVORVM. MORIATVR.
The thought is conceived with great delicacy and just-
ness, as there cannot, perhaps, be a sharper calamity' to a
generous mind, than to see itself stand single amidst the
ruins of whatever rendered the world most desirable.
Instances of the sort I am lamenting, while the im-
pressions remain fresh upon the mind, are sufficient to
damp the gayest hopes, and chill the warmest ambition.
When one sees a person in the full bloom of life, thus
destroyed by one sudden blast, one cannot but consider
all the distant schemes of mankind as the highest folly.
It is amazing indeed that a creature such as man, with
so many memorials around him of the shortness of his
duration, and who cannot ensure to himself even the
next moment, should yet plan designs which run far into
futurity. The business however of life must be carried
on; and it is necessary, for the purpose of human affairs,
that mankind should resolutely act upon very precarious
contingencies. Too much reflection, therefore, is as
inconsistent with the appointed measures of our sta-
tion as too little; and there cannot be a less desirable
turn of mind, than one that is influenced by an over-
refined philosophy. At least it is by considerations of this
sort, that I endeavour to call off my thoughts from pur-
suing too earnestly those reasonings, which the occasion
of this letter is apt to suggest. This use, however, one
may justly make of the present accident, that whilst it
contracts the circle of friendship, it should render it so
much the more valuable to us, who yet walk within its
limits. Adieu. I am, &c.
:
187
LETTER LIX.
TO HORTENSIUS.
May 4, 1740.
If the ingenious piece you communicated to me re-
quires any farther touches of your pencil, I must ac-
knowledge the truth to be, what you are inclined to sus-
pect, that my friendship has imposed upon my judgment.
But though, in the present instance, your delicacy seems
far too refined, yet, in general, I must agree with you, that
works of the most permanent kind are not the effect of a
lucky moment, nor struck out at a single heat. The best
performances, indeed, have generally cost the most la-
bour; and that ease, which is so essential to fine writing,
has seldom been attained without repeated and severe
corrections: Ludentis speciem dabit et torquebitur, is a
motto that may be applied, I believe, to most successful
authors of genius. With as much facility as the num-
bers of the natural Prior seem to have flowed from him,
they were the result (if I am not misinformed) of much
application and a friend of mine, who undertook to
transcribe one of the noblest performances of the finest
genius that this, or perhaps any age can boast, has often
assured me, that there is not a single line, as it is now
published, which stands in conformity with the original
manuscript. The truth is, every sentiment has its pe-
culiar expression, and every word its precise place, which
do not always immediately present themselves, and gen-
erally demand frequent trials before they can be proper-
ly adjusted; not to mention the more important difficul-
ties, which necessarily occur in settling the plan, and
regulating the higher parts which compose the structure
of a finished work.
188
LETTER LIX.
Those, indeed, who know what pangs it cost even the
most fertile genius to be delivered of a just and regular
production, might be inclined, perhaps, to cry out, with
the most ancient of authors, Oh! that mine adversary
had written a book! A writer of refined taste has the
continual mortification to find himself incapable of tak-
ing entire possession of that ideal beauty, which warms
and fills his imagination. His conceptions still rise above
all the powers of his art; and he can but faintly copy
out those images of perfection, which are impressed upon
his mind. Never was any thing, says Tully, more beau-
tiful than the Venus of Apelles, or the Jove of Phidias :
yet were they by no means equal to those high notions
of beauty which animated the geniuses of those wonder-
ful artists. In the same manner, he observes, the great
masters of oratory imaged to themselves a certain per-
fection of eloquence, which they could only contemplate
in idea, but in vain attempted to draw out in expression.
Perhaps no author ever perpetuated his reputation, who
could write up to the full standard of his own judgment:
and I am persuaded that he, who, upon a survey of his
compositions, can, with entire complacency, pronounce
them good, will hardly find the world join with him in
the same favourable sentence.
The most judicious of all poets, the inimitable Virgil,
used to resemble his productions to those of that ani-
mal, who, agreeably to the notions of the ancients, was
supposed to bring her young into the world, a mere rude
and shapeless mass: he was obliged to retouch them
again and again, he acknowledged, before they acquired
their proper form and beauty. Accordingly, we are told,
that after having spent eleven years in composing his
Eneid, he intended to have set apart three more for the
revisal of that glorious performance. But being pre-
LETTER LIX.
189
vented, by his last sickness, from giving those finishing
touches, which his exquisite judgment conceived to be
still necessary, he directed his friends Tucca and Varius
to burn the noblest poem that ever appeared in the Ro-
man language. In the same spirit of delicacy, Mr. Dry-
den tells us, that, had he taken more time in translating
this author, he might, possibly, have succeeded better;
but never, he assures us, could he have succeeded so well
as to have satisfied himself.
66
In a word, Hortensius, I agree with you, that there is
nothing more difficult than to fill up the character of an
author, who proposes to raise a just and lasting admira-
tion; who is not contented with those little transient
flashes of applause, which attend the ordinary race of
writers, but considers only how he may shine out to pos-
terity: who extends his views beyond the present genera-
tion, and cultivates those productions which are to flou-
rish in future ages. What Sir William Temple observes
of poetry, may be applied to every other work, where
taste and imagination are concerned. "It requires the
greatest contraries to compose it; a genius both pene-
trating and solid; an expression both strong and deli-
"cate. There must be a great agitation of mind to in-
'vent, a great calm to judge and correct: there must
"be, upon the same tree, and at the same time, both
flower and fruit." But though I know you would not
value yourself upon any performance, wherein these very
opposite and very singular qualities were not conspicu-
ous; yet, I must remind you, at the same time, that
when the file ceases to polish, it must necessarily weaken.
You will remember, therefore, that there is a medium
between the immoderate caution of that orator, who was
three olympiads in writing a single oration, and the ex-
travagant expedition of that poet, whose funeral pile was
composed of his own numberless productions. Adieu. I
am, &c.
190
LETTER LX.
TO PALEMON.
May 28, 1739:
I WRITE this while Cleora is angling by my side, under
the shade of a spreading elm, that hangs over the banks
of our river. A nightingale, more harmonious even than
Strada's, is serenading us from a hawthorn bush, which
smiles with all the gayety of youth and beauty; while
gentle gales,
Fanning their odorif'rous wings, dispense-
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
Those balmy spoils.
Milton.
Whilst I am thus enjoying the innocent luxury of this
vernal delight, I look back upon those scenes of turbu-
lence, wherein I was once engaged, with more than ordi-
nary distaste and despise myself for ever having enter-
tained so mean a thought as to be rich and great. One of
our monarchs used to say, "that he looked upon those to
"be the happiest men in the nation, whose fortune had
"placed them in the country, above a high-constable,
"and below the trouble of a justice of peace." It is in a
mediocrity of this happy kind that I here pass my life:
with a fortune far above the necessity of engaging in the
drudgery of business, and with desires much too humble
to have any relish for the splendid baits of ambition.
You must not, however, imagine that I affect the stoick,
or pretend to have eradicated all my passions: the sum
of my philosophy amounts to no more, than to cherish
none but such as I may easily and innocently gratify, and
to banish all the rest as so many bold intruders upon my
repose. I endeavour to practise the maxim of a French
poet, by considering every thing that is not within my
possession, as not worth having:
LETTER LXI.
191
pour m'assûrer le seul bien
Que l'on doit estimer au monde,
Tout ce que je n'ai pas, je le compte pour rien.
Is it not possible, Palemon, to reconcile you to these
unaspiring sentiments, and to lower your flight to the
humble level of genuine happiness? Let me, at least,
prevail with you, to spare a day or two from the certami-
na divitiarum (as Horace I think calls them,) from those
splendid contests in which you are engaged, just to take
a view of the sort of life we lead in the country. If there
is any thing wanting to complete the happiness I here
find, it is that you are so seldom a witness to it. Adieu.
I am, &c.
LETTER LXI.
E
2
TO EUPHRONIUS.
July 3, 1744.
THE beauties of style seem to be generally considered
as below the attention both of an author and a reader. I
know not, therefore, whether I may venture to acknow-
ledge, that, among the numberless graces of your late
performance, I particularly admired that strength and
elegance, with which you have enforced and adorned
the noblest sentiments.
There was a time, however, (and it was a period of the
truest refinements) when an excellence of this kind was
esteemed in the number of the politest accomplishments;
as it was the ambition of some of the greatest names of
antiquity to distinguish themselves in the improvements
of their native tongue. Julius Caesar, who was not only
the greatest hero, but the finest gentleman, that ever,
perhaps, appeared in the world, was desirous of adding
this talent to his other most shining endowments; and,
192
LETTER LII.
we are told, he studied the language of his country with
much application, as we are sure he possessed it in its
highest elegance. What a loss, Euphronius, is it to the
literary world, that the treatise which he wrote upon this
subject is perished with many other valuable works of
that age! But though we are deprived of the benefit of
his observations, we are happily not without an instance
of their effects; and his own memoirs will ever remain as
the best and brightest exemplar not only of true general-
ship but of fine writing. He published them, indeed,
only as materials for the use of those who should be
disposed to enlarge upon that remarkable period of the
Roman story; yet the purity and gracefulness of his style
were such, that no judicious writer durst attempt to touch
the subject after him.
Having produced so illustrious an instance in favour of
an art for which I have ventured to admire you, it would
be impertinent to add a second, were I to cite a less
authority than that of the immortal Tully. This noble
author, in his dialogue concerning the celebrated Roman
orators, frequently mentions it as a very high encomium,
that they possessed the elegance of their native language;
and introduces Brutus as declaring, that he should prefer
the honour of being esteemed the great master and
improver of Roman eloquence, even to the glory of many
triumphs.
But to add reason to precedent, and to view this art
în its use as well as its dignity, will it not be allowed of
some importance, when it is considered, that eloquence
is one of the most considerable auxiliaries of truth? No-
thing, indeed, contributes more to subdue the mind to
the force of reason, than her being supported by the
powerful assistance of masculine and vigorous oratory.
As, on the contrary, the most legitimate arguments may
LETTER LXI.
193
be disappointed of that success they deserve, by being
attended with a spiritless and enfeebled expression. Ac-
cordingly, that most elegant of writers, the inimitable
Mr. Addison, observes, in one of his essays, that "there
"is as much difference between comprehending a thought
"clothed in Cicero's language, and that of an ordinary
"writer, as between seeing an object by the light of a
taper and the light of the sun."
It is surely then a very strange conceit of the cele-
brated Malbranche, who seems to think the pleasure
which arises from perusing a well-written piece, is of the
criminal kind, and has its source in the weakness and ef-
feminacy of the human heart. A man must have a very
uncommon severity of temper indeed, who can find any
thing to condemn in adding charms to truth, and gaining
the heart by captivating the ear: in uniting roses with
the thorns of science, and joining pleasure with instruction.
The truth is, the mind is delighted with a fine style,
upon the same principle that it prefers regularity to con-
fusion, and beauty to deformity. A taste of this sort is,
indeed, so far from being a mark of any depravity of our
nature, that I should rather consider it as an evidence,
in some degree, of the moral rectitude of its constitution;
as it is a proof of its retaining some relish, at least, of har-
mony and order.
One might be apt, indeed, to suspect, that certain wri-
ters amongst us had considered all beauties of this sort in
the same gloomy view with Malbranche: or, at least, that
they avoided every refinement in style, as unworthy a
lover of truth and philosophy. Their sentiments are sunk
by the lowest expressions, and seem condemned to the
first curse, of creeping upon the ground all the days of
their life. Others, on the contrary, mistake pomp for
dignity; and, in order to raise their expressions above!
vulgar language, lift them up beyond common apprehen-
17
194
LETTER LXII.
sions; esteeming it (one should imagine) a mark of their
genius, that it requires some ingenuity to penetrate theïr
meaning. But how few writers, like Euphronius, know
to hit that true medium which lies between those distant
extremes? How seldom do we meet with an author whose
expressions, like those of my friend, are glowing, but not
glaring, whose metaphors are natural, but not common,
whose periods are harmonious, but not poetical; in a word,
whose sentiments are well set and shewn to the understanding
in their truest and most advantageous lustre. I am, &c.
LETTER LXII.
TO ORONTES.
I INTENDED to have closed with your proposal, and
passed a few weeks with you at***; but some unlucky
affairs have intervened, which will engage me, I fear, the
remaining part of the season.
Among the amusements which the scene you are in af-
fords, I should have esteemed the conversation of Timo-
clea as a very principal entertainment; and as I know you
are fond of singular characters, I recommend that lady
to your acquaintance.
Timoclea was once a beauty; but ill health, and worse
fortune, have ruined those charms, which time would yet
have spared. However, what has spoiled her for a mis-
tress, has improved her as a companion; and she is far
more conversable now, as she has much less beauty, than
when I used to see her once a week triumphing in the
drawing-room. For, as few women (whatever they may
pretend, will value themselves upon their minds, while
they can gain admirers by their persons, Timoclea never
thought of charming by her wit, till she had no chance of
i
:
;
}
LETTER LXII.
195
making conquests by her beauty. She has seen a good
deal of the world, and of the best company in it, as it is
from thence she has derived whatever knowledge she
possesses. You cannot, indeed, flatter her more, than
by seeming to consider her as fond of reading and retire-
ment. But the truth is, nature formed her for the joys of
society; and she is never so thoroughly pleased as when
she has a circle round her.
It is upon those occasions she appears to full advantage;
as I never knew any person who was endowed with the
talents for conversation to a higher degree. If I were dis-
posed to write the characters of the age, Timoclea is the
first person in the world to whose assistance I should ap-
ply. She has the happiest art of marking out the distin-
guishing cast of her acquaintance, that I ever met with;
and I have known her, in an afternoon's conversation,
paint the manners with greater delicacy of judgment and
strength of colouring than is to be found either in Theo-
phrastus or Bruyere.
She has an inexhaustible fund of wit, but if I may
venture to distinguish, where one knows not even how to
define, I should say it is rather brilliant than strong.
This talent renders her the terrour of all her female ac-
quaintance; yet she never sacrificed the absent, or mor-
tified the present, merely for the sake of displaying the
force of her satire: if any feel its sting, it is those only
who first provoke it. Still, however, it must be owned,
that her resentments are frequently without just founda-
tion, and almost always beyond measure.
But though
she has much warmth, she has great generosity in her
temper; and, with all her faults, she is well worth your
knowing.
And now having given you this general plan of the
strength and weakness of the place, I leave you to make
your approaches as you shall see proper. I am, &c.
196
LETTER LXIII.
TO THE SAME.
I LOOK upon verbal criticism, as it is generally exer-
cised, to be no better than a sort of learned legerdemain,
by which the sense or nonsense of a passage is artfully
conveyed away, and some other introduced in its stead,
as best suits with the purpose of the profound juggler.
The dissertation you recommended to my perusal has but
served to confirm me in these sentiments: for though I
admired the ingenuity of the artist, I could not but greatly
suspect the justness of an art, which can thus press any
author into the service of any hypothesis.
I have sometimes amused myself with considering the
entertainment it would afford to those ancients, whose
works have bad the honour to be attended by our com-
mentators, could they rise out of their sepulchres, and
peruse some of those curious conjectures, that have been
raised upon their respective compositions. Were Horace,
for instance, to read over only a few of those number-
less restorers of his text, and expositors of his meaning,
that have infested the republick of letters,-what a fund
of pleasantry might he extract for a satire on critical eru-
dition! How many harmless words would he see cruelly
banished from their rightful possessions, merely because
they happened to disturb some unmerciful philologist!
On the other hand, he would, undoubtedly, smile at
that penetrating sagacity, which has discovered mean-
ings which never entered into his thoughts, and found
out concealed allusions in his most plain and artless ex-
pressions.
One could not, I think, set the general absurdity of
critical conjectures in a stronger light, than by applying
LETTER LXIII.
197
them to something parallel in our own writers. If the
English tongue should ever become a dead language, and
our best authors be raised into the rank of classick writers,
much of the force and propriety of their expressions,
especially of such as turned upon humour, or alluded to
any manners peculiar to the age, would inevitably be
lost; or at best would be extremely doubtful. How
would it puzzle, for instance, future commentators to
explain Swift's epigram upon our musical contests! I
imagine one might find them descanting upon that little
humorous sally of our English Rabelais, in some such
manner as this:
EPIGRAM ON THE FEUDS BETWEEN HANDEL AND BONONCINI.
Strange all this difference should be
"Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!
NOTES OF VARIOUS AUTHORS.
"Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee.] I am persuaded the
poet gave it Twiddle drum and Twiddle key. To
“twiddle signifies to make a certain ridiculous motion
"with the fingers; what word, therefore, could be more
"proper to express this epigram-writer's contempt of the
"perforinances of those musicians, and of the folly of
“his contemporaries in running into parties upon so ab-
"surd an occasion? The drum was a certain martial in-
"strument used in those times; as the word key is a tech-
"nical term in musick, importing the fundamental note
"which regulates the whole composition. It means also
"those little pieces of wood which the fingers strike against
"in an organ, &c. in order to make the instrument sound.
“The alteration here proposed is so obvious and natural,
"that I am surprised none of the commentators hit upon
"it before. L. C. D."
17 *
198
LETTER LXIII.
"Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee.] These words have
greatly embarrassed the criticks, who are extremely ex-
"pert in finding a difficulty where there is none. Tweedle-
“dum and Tweedle-dee are, most undoubtedly, the names
"of the two musicians; and though they are styled by
"different appellations in the title of this epigram, yet
"that is no objection; for it is well known that persons,
"in those times, had more surnames than one. S. M."
“Absurd! here is evidently an errour of the press, for
"there is not a single hint in all antiquity of the family
"of the Tweedle-dums and Tweedle-dees. The learned
"S. M. therefore nodded when he undertook to explain
"this passage.
The sense will be very plain, if we
"read, with a small alteration, Wheedle-Tom, and Waddle-
“THE; THE being a known contraction for Theodore,
"as Tom is for Thomas. Waddle and Wheedle are like-
"wise classical words. Thus Pope :
"As when a dab-chick waddles through the copse.
"Obliquely waddling to the mark in view.
Dun. ii. 59.
Ib. ii. 150.
"And though, indeed, I do not recollect to have met with
"the verb to wheedle in any pure author, yet it is plain
"that it was in use, since we find the participle wheedling
“in an ancient tragedy composed about these times :
"A laughing, toying, wheedling, wimp'ring she
"Will make him amble on a gossip's message,
"And hold the distaff with a hand as patient
"As e'er did Hercules.”
Jane Shore.
Thomas and Theodore, therefore, were most certainly
"the christian names of these two musicians, to the con-
"tractions of which the words wheedle and waddle are
"added as characteristical of the persons and disposi-
"tions of the men, the former implying that Tom was a
"mean sycophant, and the latter that THE had an awk-
"ward and ridiculous gait. F. J. Z.”
г
1
}
I
LETTER LXIV.
199
I know not, Orontes, how I shall escape your satire, for
venturing to be thus free with a science which is some
times, I think, admitted into a share of your meditations :
yet, tell me honestly, is not this a faithful specimen of the
spirit and talents of the general class of critick-writers?
Far am I, however, from thinking irreverently of those
useful members of the republick of letters, who, with mo-
desty and proper diffidence, bave offered their assistance
in throwing a light upon obscure passages in ancient au-
thors. Even when this spirit breaks out in its highest
pride and petulance of reformation, if it confines itself to
classical inquiries, I can be contented with treating it
only as an object of ridicule. But I must confess, when
I find it, with an assured and confident air, supporting re-
ligious or political doctrines upon the very uncertain
foundation of various readings, forced analogies, and pre-
carious conjectures, it is not without some difficulty I can
suppress my indignation. Farewell. I am, &c.
LETTER LXIV.
TO PHILOTES.
Tunbridge, Aug. 4.
I THINK I promised you a letter from this place: yet
have nothing more material to write than that I got safe
hither. To any other man I should make an apology for
troubling him with an information so trivial: but, among
true friends there is nothing indifferent; and what would
seem of no consequence to others, has, in intercourses of
this nature, its weight and value. A by-stander, unac-
quainted with play, may fancy, perhaps, that the counters
are of no more worth than they appear; but those who
are engaged in the game, know they are to be considered
at a higher rate. You see I draw my allusions from
200
LETTER LXIV.
the scene before me: a propriety which the criticks,
I think, upon some occasions, recommend.
I have often wondered what odd whim could first in-
duce the healthy to follow the sick into places of this
sort, and lay the scene of their diversions amidst the most
wretched part of our species: one should imagine au
hospital the last spot in the world, to which those who
are in pursuit of pleasure would think of resorting. How-
ever, so it is, and by this means the company here fur-
nish out a tragi-comedy of the most singular kind. While
some are literally dying, others are expiring in metaphor ;
and, in one scene, you are presented with the real, and,
in another, with the fantastical pains of mankind. An
ignorant spectator might be apt to suspect, that each par-
ty was endeavouring to qualify itself for acting in the op-
posite character: for the infirm cannot labour more ear-
nestly to recover the strength they have lost, than the ro-
bust to dissipate that which they possess. Thus the dis-
eased pass not more anxious nigh's in their beds, than
the healthy at the hazard-tables; and I frequently see a
game at quadrille occasion as severe disquietudes as a
fit of the gout. As for myself, I perform a sort of mid-
dle part in this motley drama; and am sometimes dis-
posed to join with the invalids in envying the healthy, and
sometimes have spirits enough to mix with the gay in pi-
tying the splenètick.
The truth is, I have found some benefit by the waters;
but I shall not be so sanguine as to pronounce with cer-
tainty of their effects, till I see how they enable me to
pass through the approaching winter. That season, you
know, is the time of trial with me; and if I get over the
next with more ease than the last, I shall think myself
obliged to celebrate the nymph of these springs in grate-
ful sonnet.
LETTER LXV.
201
But let times and seasons operate as they may, there
is one part of me over which they will have no power:
and in all the changes of this uncertain constitution, my
heart will ever continue fixed and firmly yours. I am, &c.
LETTER LXV.
TO ORONTES.
May 6, 1735.
LET others consider you for those ample possessions
you enjoy suffer me to say, that it is your application of
them alone which renders either them or you valuable in
my estimation. Your splendid roofs and elegant accom-
modations I can view without the least emotion of envy :
but when I observe you in the full power of exerting the
noble purposes of your exalted generosity-it is then, I
confess, I am apt to reflect, with some regret, on the
humbler supplies of my own more limited finances. Ni-
hil habet (to speak of you in the same language that the
first of orators addressed the greatest of emperours) fortu-
na tua majus, quàm ut possis, nec natura melius, quàm ut
velis servare quamplurimos. To be able to soften the ca-
lamities of mankind, and inspire gladness into a heart
oppressed with want, is, indeed, the noblest privilege of
an enlarged fortune: but to exercise that privilege in all
its generous refinements, is an instance of the most un-
common elegance both of temper and understanding.
In the ordinary dispensations of bounty, little address
is required: but when it is to be applied to those of a su-
periour rank and more elevated mind, there is as much
charity discovered in the manner as in the measure of
one's benevolence. It is something extremely mortifying
to a well-formed spirit, to see itself considered as an ob-
ject of compassion; as it is the part of improved huma
202
LETTER LXVI.
nity to humour this honest pride in our nature, and to
relieve the necessities without offending the delicacy of
the distressed.
I have seen charity (if charity it might be called) in-
sult with an air of pity, and wound at the same time that
it healed. But I have seen, too, the highest munificence
dispensed with the most refined tenderness, and a bounty
conferred with as much address as the most artful would
employ in soliciting one. Suffer me, Orontes, upon this
single occasion, to gratify my own inclinations in vio-
lence to yours, by pointing out the particular instance I
have in my view; and allow me, at the same time, to
join my acknowledgments with those of the unfortunate
person I recommended to your protection, for the gene-
rous assistance you lately afforded him. I am, &c.
LETTER LXVI.
TO CLEORA.
Sept. 5, 1737.
SHALL I own to you that I cannot repent of an offence
which occasioned so agreeable a reproof? A censure con-
veyed in such genteel terms, charins more than corrects,
and tempts rather than reforms. I am sure, at least,
though I should regret the crime, I shall always admire
the rebuke, and long to kiss the hand that chasteneth in
so pleasing a manner. However, I shall, for the future,
strictly pursue your orders; and have sent you, in this
second parcel, no other books than what my own library
supplied. Among these you will find a collection of let-
ters; I do not recommend them to you, having never
read them; nor, indeed, am I acquainted with their cha-
racters; but they presented themselves to my hands as I
was tumbling over some others; so I threw them in with
LETTER LXVI.
203
the rest, and gave them a chance of adding to your amuse-
ment. I wish I could meet with any thing that had even
the least probability of contributing to mine. But,
forlorn of thee,
Milton.
Whither shall I betake me, where subsist?
Time, that reconciles one to most things, has not been
able to render your absence, in any degree, less uneasy
to me. I may rather be said to haunt the house in which
I live, than to make one of the family. I walk in and
out of the rooms like a restless spirit: for I never speak
till I am spoken to, and then generally answer, like Ban-
quo's ghost in Macbeth, with a deep sigh, and a nod. Thus
abstracted from every thing about me, I am yet quite
ruined for a hermit; and find no more satisfaction in re-
tirement than you do in the company of ***.
How often do I wish myself in possession of that fa-
mous ring you were mentioning the other day, which had
the property of rendering those who wore it invisible! I
would rather be master of this wonderful unique, than of
the kingdom which Gyges gained by means of it; as I
might then attend you, like your guardian angel, without
censure or obstruction. How agreeable would it be to
break out upon you, like Æneas from his cloud, where
you least expected me; and join again the dear compa-
nion of my fortunes in spite of that relentless power who
has raised so many cruel storms to destroy us! But whilst
I employed this extraordinary ring to these and a thou-
sand other pleasing purposes, you would have nothing to
apprehend from my being invested with such an invisible
faculty. That innocence which guards and adorns my
Cleora in her most gay and publick hours, attends her, I
well know, in her most private and retired ones; and she,
who always acts as under the eye of the Best of Beings,
has nothing to fear from the secret inspection of any
mortal. Adieu. I am, &c.
204
LETTER LXVII.
TO EUPHRONIUS.
May 5, 1743.
If you received the first account of my loss from other
hands than mine, you must impute it to the dejection of
mind into which that accident threw me. The blow,
indeed, fell with too much severity, to leave me capable
of recollecting myself enough to write to you immediate-
ly; as there cannot, perhaps, be a greater shock to a
breast of any sensibility, than to see its earliest and most
valuable connexions irreparably broken; than to find it-
self for ever torn from the first and most endeared object
of its highest veneration. At least, the affection and
esteem I bore to that excellent parent were founded
upon so many and such uncommon motives, that his death
has given me occasion to lament not only a most tender
father, but a most valuable friend.
That I can no longer enjoy the benefit of his animating
example, is one among the many aggravating circum-
stances of my affliction; and I often apply to myself,
what an excellent ancient has said upon a similar occa-
sion, Vereor ne nunc negligentiùs vivam. There is no-
thing, in truth, puts us so much upon our guard, as to act
under the constant inspection of one, whose virtues, as
well as years, have rendered venerable.
have rendered venerable. Never, indeed,
did the dignity of goodness appear more irresistible in any
man yet there was something, at the same time, so gen-
tle in his manners, such an innocency and cheerfulness
in his conversation, that he was as sure to gain affection
as to inspire reverence.
It has been observed (and I think by Cowley) "That
"a man in much business must either make himself a
"knave, or the world will make him a fool." If there
LETTER LXVII.
205
is any truth in this observation, it is not, however, with-
out an exception. My father was early engaged in the
great scenes of business, where he continued almost to
his very last hour; yet he preserved his integrity firm and
unbroken, though all those powerful assaults he must
necessarily have encountered in so long a course of
action,
If it were justice, indeed, to his other virtues, to single
out any particular one as shining with superiour lustre to
the rest, I should point to his probity as the brightest part
of his character. But the truth is, the whole tenour of his
conduct was one uniform exercise of every moral quality
that can adorn and exalt human nature. To defend the
injured, to relieve the indigent, to protect the distressed,
was the chief end and aim of all his endeavours; and his
principal motive both for engaging and persevering in his
profession was, to enable himself more abundantly to gra-
tify so glorious an ambition.
No man had a higher relish of the pleasures of retired
and contemplative life; as none was more qualified to en-
ter into those calm scenes with greater ease and dignity.
He had nothing to make him desirous of flying from the
reflections of his own mind, nor any passions which his
moderate patrimony would not have been more than suf-
ficient to have gratified. But to live for himself only
was not consistent with his generous and enlarged senti-
ments. It was a spirit of benevolence that led him into
the active scenes of the world; which, upon any other
principle, he would either never have entered, or soon
have renounced. And it was that godlike spirit which
conducted and supported him through his useful progress,
to the honour and interest of his family and friends, and
to the benefit of every creature that could possibly be
comprehended within the extensive circle of his bene-
ficence.
18
206
LETTER LXVIII.
I well know, my dear Euphronius, the high regard you
pay to every character of merit in general, and the esteem
in which you held this most valuable man in particular.
I am sure, therefore, you would not forgive me, were I to
make an apology for leaving with you this private monu-
ment of my veneration for a parent, whose least and low-
est claim to my gratitude and esteem is, that I am in-
debted to him for my birth. Adieu. I am, &c.
LETTER LXVIII.
TO PHILOTES.
I AM particularly pleased with a passage in Homer,
wherein Jupiter is represented as taking off his eyes, with
a sort of satiety, from the horrour of the field of battle, and
relieving himself with a view of the Hippomolgi, a people
famous, it seems, for their innocence and simplicity of
manners. It is in order to practise the same kind of ex-
periment, and give myself a short remission from that
scene of turbulence and contention in which I am en-
gaged, that I now turn my thoughts on you, Philotes,
whose temperance and moderation may well justify me in
calling you a modern Hippomolgian.
I forget which of the ancients it is that recommends
this method of thinking over the virtues of one's acquaint-
ance but I am sure it is sometimes necessary to do so,
in order to keep one's self in humour with our species,
and preserve the spirit of philanthropy from being en-
tirely extinguished. Those who frequent the ambitious
walks of life, are apt to take their estimate of mankind
from the small part of it that lies before them, and consi-
der the rest of the world as practising in different and
under parts, the same treachery and dissimulation which
f
1
LETTER LXVIII.
207
mark out the characters of their superiours. It is difficult,
indeed, to preserve the mind from falling into a general
contempt of our race, whilst one is conversant with the
worst part of it. I labour, however, as much as possible,
to guard against that ungenerous disposition; as nothing
is so apt to kill those seeds of benevolence which every
man should endeavour to cultivate in his breast.
Ill surely, therefore, have those wits employed their
talents, who have made our species the object of their
satire, and affected to subdue the vanity, by derogating
from the virtues of the human heart. But it will be
found, I believe, upon an impartial examination, that
there is more folly than malice in our natures, and that
mankind oftener act wrong through ignorance than de-
sign. Perhaps the true measure of human merit is nei-
ther to be taken from the histories of former times, nor
from what passes in the more striking scenes of the pre-
sent generation. The greatest virtues have, probably,
been ever the most obscure; and I am persuaded, in all
ages of the world, more genuine heroism has been over-
looked and unknown, than either recorded or observed.
That aliquid divinum, as Tully calls it, that celestial spark,
which every man who coolly contemplates his own mind,
may discover within him, operates where we least look
for it; and often raises the noblest productions of virtue
in the shade and obscurity of life.
But it is time to quit speculation for action, and return
to the common affairs of the world. I shall certainly do
so with more advantage, by keeping Philotes still in my
view; as I shall enter into the interests of mankind with
more alacrity, by thus considering the virtues of his honest
heart as less singular, than I am sometimes inclined to
suppose. Adieu. I am, &e.
208
LETTER LXIX.
TO THE SAME.
46
Aug. 3, 1735.
LET it not be any discouragement to you, Philotes, that
you have hitherto received but little satisfaction from
those noble speculations wherein you are employed.
"Truth (to use the expression of the excellent Mr. Wol-
laston) is the offspring of unbroken meditations, and of
thoughts often revised and corrected." It requires, in-
deed, great patience and resolution to dissipate that
cloud of darkness which surrounds her; or (if you will
allow me to go to an old philosopher for my allusion) to
draw her up from that profound well in which she lies
concealed.
There is, however, such a general connexion in the
operations of nature, that the discovery even of a single
truth opens the way to numberless others; and when once
the mind has hit upon a right scent, she cannot wholly
pursue her inquiries in vain.
......Canes ut montivagae persaepe feraï
Naribus inveniunt intectas fronde quietes,
Cùm semel institerint vestigia certa viaï
Sic aliud ex alio per te tute ipse videre
...in rebus poteris, caecâ que latebras
Insinuare omnes, et verum protrahere inde.
Lucret.
It must be owned, nevertheless, that after having ex-
erted all our sagacity and industry, we shall scarce arrive
at certainty in many speculative truths. Providence does
not seem to have intended that we should ever be in pos-
session of demonstrative knowledge, beyond a very limited
compass; though, at the same time, it cannot be supposed,
without the highest injustice to the benevolent Author of
}
LETTER LXIX.
209
our natures, that he has left any necessary truths without
evident notes of distinction. But while the powers of the
mind are thus limited in their extent, and greatly fallible,
likewise, in their operations, is it not amazing, Philotes,
that mankind should insult each other for difference in
opinion, and treat every notion that opposes their own,
with obloquy and contempt? Is it not amazing that a
creature, with talents so precarious and circumscribed,
should usurp that confidence which can only belong to
much superiour beings, and claim a deference which is
due to perfection alone? Surely, the greatest arrogance
that ever entered into the human heart, is that which not
only pretends to be positive itself in points wherein the
best and wisest have disagreed, but looks down with all
the insolent superiority of contemptuous pity on those
whose impartial reasonings have led them into opposite
conclusions.
There is nothing, perhaps, more evident, than that
our intellectual faculties are not formed by one general
standard; and, consequently, that diversity of opinion is
of the very essence of our natures. It seems probable
that this disparity extends even to our sensitive powers:
and though we agree, indeed, in giving the same names
to certain visible appearances,—as whiteness, for instance,
to snow,-yet it is by no means demonstration, that the
particular body which affects us with that sensation, raises
the same precise idea in any two persons who shall hap-
pen to contemplate it together. Thus I have often heard
you mention your youngest daughter as being the exact
counter-part of her mother: now she does not appear to
me to resemble her in any single feature. To what can
this disagreement in our judgments be owing, but to a
difference in the structure of our organs of sight? Yet as
justly, Philotes, might you disclaim me for your friend,
and look upon me with contempt for not discovering a
18 *
210
LETTER LXIX.
similitude which appears so evident to your eyes, as any
man can abuse or despise another for not apprehending
the force of that argument which carries conviction to his
own understanding.
Happy had it been for the peace of the world, if our
maintainers of systems, either in religion or politicks, had
conducted their several debates with the full impression
of this truth upon their minds. Genuine philosophy is
ever, indeed, the least dogmatical; and I am always in-
clined to suspect the force of that argument which is
obtruded with arrogance and sufficiency.
I am wonderfully pleased with a passage I met with the
other day, in the preface to Mr. Boyle's Philosophical
Essays and would recommend that cautious spirit, by
which he professes to have conducted himself in his phy-
sical researches, as worthy the imitation of inquirers after
truth of every kind.
46
46
<6
66
Perhaps you will wonder," says he, "that in almost
'every one of the following essays, I should use so often
'perhaps, it seems, it is not improbable, as argue a diffi-
"dence of the truth of the opinions I incline to; and that
"I should be so shy of laying down principles, and some-
"times of so much as venturing at explications. But I
"must freely confess, that having met with many things
"of which I could give myself no one probable cause, and
some things of which several causes may be assigned, so
differing as not to agree in any thing, unless in their being
all of them probable enough, I have often found such
“difficulties in searching into the causes and manner of
'things, and I am so sensible of my own disability to sur-
"mount those difficulties, that I dare speak confidently
"and positively of very few things, except matter of
"fact. And when I venture to deliver any thing by way
of opinion, I should, if it were not for mere shame, speak
་་
LETTER LXIX.
211
66
yet more diffidently than I have been wont to do. Nor
"have my thoughts been altogether idle-in forming no-
“tions, and attempting to devise hypotheses. But I
"have hitherto (though not always, yet not unfrequently)
"found, that what pleased me for a while, was soon after
disgraced by some farther or new experiment. And,
"indeed, I have the less envied many (for I say not all)
"of those writers, who have taken upon them to deliver
“the causes of things, and explicate the mysteries of na-
“ture; since I have had an opportunity to observe how
many of their doctrines after having been, for a while, ap-
plauded, and even admired, have afterwards been con-
"futed by some new phenomenon in nature, which was
"either unknown to such writers, or not sufficiently con-
"sidered by them.”
46
If positiveness could become any man, in any point of
mere speculation, it must have been this truly noble phi-
losopher, when he was delivering the result of his studies
in a science, wherein, by the united confession of the whole
world, he so eminently excelled. But he had too much
generosity to prescribe his own notions as a measure to the
judgment of others, and too much good sense to assert
them with heat or confidence.
Whoever, Philotes, pursues his speculations with this
humble, unarrogating temper of mind, and with the best
exertion of those faculties which Providence bas as-
signed him, though he should not find the conviction,
never, surely, can he fail of the reward of truth. I
am, &c.
4
212
LETTER LXX.
TO PALAMEDES.
Ir malice had never broke loose upon the world, till
it seized your reputation, I might reasonably condole with
you on falling the first prey to its unrestrained rage. But
this spectre has haunted merit almost from its earliest
existence: and when all mankind were as yet included
within a single family, one of them, we know, rose up in
malignity of soul against his innocent brother. Virtue, it
should seem, therefore, has now been too long acquainted
with this her constant persecutor, to be either terrified or
dejected at an appearance so common. The truth of it
is, she must either renounce her noblest theatre of action,
and seclude herself in cells and deserts, or be contented
to enter upon the stage of the world with this fiend in her
train. She cannot triumph, if she will not be traduced;
and she should consider the clamours of censure, when
joined with her own conscious applause, as so many accla-
mations that confirm her victory.
Let those who harbour this worst of human disposi-
tions consider the many wretched and contemptible cir-
cumstances which attend it: but it is the business of him
who unjustly suffers from it, to reflect how it may be turn-
ed to his advantage. Remember, then, my friend, that
generosity would lose half her dignity, if malice did not
contribute to her elevation; and he that has never been
injured, has never had it in his power to exercise the no-
blest privilege of heroick virtue. There is another conso-
lation which may be derived from the rancour of the world,
as it will instruct one in a piece of knowledge of the most
singular benefit in our progress through it: it will teach
us to distinguish genuine friendship from counterfeit. For
LETTER LXX.
213
}
he only who is warmed with the real flame of amity, will
rise up to support his single negative, in opposition
to the clamorous votes of an undistinguishing multi-
tude.
He, indeed, who can see a cool and deliberate injury
done to his friend, without feeling himself wounded in
his most sensible part, has never known the force of the
most generous of all the human affections. Every man,
who has not taken the sacred name of friendship in vain,
will subscribe to those sentiments which Homer puts into
the mouth of Achilles, and which Mr. Pope has opened
and enlarged with such inimitable strength and spirit :
A gen'rous friendship no cold medium knows,
Burns with one love, with one resentment glows:
One should our int'rests and our passions be;
My friend must hate the man that injures me.
ix. 609.
It may greatly also allay the pain which attends the
wounds of defamation, and which are always most se-
verely felt by those who least deserve them, to reflect,
that though malice generally flings the first stone, it is
folly and ignorance, it is indolence or irresolution,
which are principally concerned in swelling the heap.
When the tide of censure runs strongly against any par-
ticular character, the generality of mankind are too care-
less or too impotent to withstand the current; and thus,
without any particular malice in their own natures, are
often indolently carried along with others, by tamely
falling in with the general stream. The number of those
who really mean one harm, will wonderfully lessen after
the deductions which may fairly be made of this sort:
and the cup of unjust reproach must surely lose much of
its bitterness, where one is persuaded that malevolence
has the least share in mingling the draught. For nothing,
perhaps, stings a generous mind more sensibly in wrongs
214
LETTER LXXI.
of this sort, than to consider them as evidences of a ge-
neral malignity in human nature. But, from whatever
causes these storms may arise, Virtue would not be true
to her own native privileges, if she suffered herself to
sink under them. It is from that strength and firmness,
which upright intentions will ever secure to an honest
mind, that Palamedes, I am persuaded, will stand supe-
riour to those unmerited reproaches which assault his cha-
racter, and preserve an unbroken repose amidst the little
noise and strife of ignorant or malicious tongues. Fare-
well. I am, &c.
LETTER LXXI.
TO PHILOTES.
April 9, 1740.
THERE is no advantage which attends a popular genius,
that I am so much inclined to envy, as the privilege of ren-
dering merit conspicuous. An author who has raised the at-
tention of the publick to his productions, and gained a whole
nation for his audience, may be considered as guardian
of the temple of Fame, and invested with the preroga-
tive of giving entrance to whomsoever he deems worthy
of that glorious distinction. But the praise of an ordinary
writer obstructs rather than advances the honour due to
merit, and sullies the lustre it means to celebrate. Im-
potent panegyrick operates like a blight wherever it falls,
and injures all that it touches. Accordingly, Henry the
IVth. of France, was wont humorously to ascribe his
early grey hairs to the effect of numberless wretched
compliments which were paid him by a certain ridicu-
lous orator of his times. But though the wreaths of folly
should not disgrace the temple they surround, they
wither, at least, as soon as received; and if they should
1
LETTER LXXI.
215
not be offensive, most certainly, however, they will be
transient. Whereas those, on the contrary, with which
an Horace or a Boileau, an Addison or a Pope, have
crowned the virtues of their contemporaries, are as per-
manent as they are illustrious, and will preserve their co-
lours and fragrance to remotest ages.
If I could thus weave the garlands of unfading applause,
-if I were in the number of those chosen spirits, whose
approbation is fame,-your friend should not want that
distinguishing tribute which his virtues deserve, and you
request. I would tell the world, (and tell it in a voice
that should be heard far, and remembered long) that Euse-
bes, with all the knowledge and experience of these later
ages, has all the innocence and simplicity of the earliest :
that he enforces the doctrines of his sacred function, not
with the vain pomp of ostentatious eloquence, but with
the far more powerful persuasion of active and exemplary
virtue that he softens the severity of precept with the
ease and familiarity of conversation; and, by generously
mingling with the meanest committed to his care, insinuates
the instructer under the air of the companion: that, whilst
he thus fills up the circle of his private station, he still
turns his regards to the publick, and employs his genius, his
industry, and his fortune, in prosecuting and perfecting
those discoveries, which tend most to the general benefit of
mankind in a word, that whilst others of his order are con-
tending for the ambitious prizes of ecclesiastical dignities,
it is his glorious pre-eminence to merit the highest, with-
out enjoying or soliciting even the lowest. This, and yet
more than this, the world should hear of your friend, if the
world were inclined to listen to my voice. But though
you, perhaps, Philotes, may be willing to give audience to
my muse,
:
namque tu solebas
Meas esse aliquid putare nugas.
Catul.
216
LETTER LXXII.
can she hope to find favour, likewise, in the sight of the
publick? Let me, then, rather content myself with the
silent admiration of those virtues, which I am not worthy
to celebrate; and leave it to others to place the good
works of Eusebes, where they may shine forth before men.
I am, &c.
LETTER LXXII.
TO THE SAME.
Dec. 7, 1737.
THE visits of a friend, like those of the sun at this
season, are extremely enlivening. I am sure, at least,
they would both be particularly acceptable to me at pre-
sent, when my mind is as much overcast as the heavens.
I hope, therefore, you will not drop the design your let-
ter intimates, of spending a few days with me, in your
way to ***. Your company will greatly contribute to
disperse those clouds of melancholy which the loss of a
very valuable friend has hung over me. There is some-
thing, indeed, in the first moments of separation from
those whom a daily commerce and long habitude of
friendship has grafted upon the heart, that disorders our
whole frame of thought and discolours all one's enjoy-
ments. Let philosophy assist with the utmost of her
vaunted strength, the mind cannot immediately recover
the firmness of its posture, when those amicable props,
upon which it used to rest, are totally removed. Even
the most indifferent objects with which we have long been
familiar, take some kind of root in our hearts and “I
"should hardly care" (as a celebrated author has with
great good nature observed) "to have an old post pulled
:
up, which I remembered ever since I was a child."
LETTER LXXIII.
217
To know how to receive the full satisfaction of a pre-
sent enjoyment, with a disposition prepared at the same
time to yield it up without reluctance, is hardly, I doubt,
reconcileable to humanity: pain, in being disunited from
those we love, is a tax we must be contented to pay, if
we would enjoy the pleasures of the social affections.-
One would not wish, indeed, to be wholly insensible to
disquietudes of this kind; and we must renounce the
most refined relish of our being, if we would, upon all oc-
casions, possess our souls in a stoical tranquillity.
That ancient philosopher, whose precept it was to
converse with our friends, as if they might one day prove
our enemies, has been justly censured as advancing a very
ungenerous maxim. To remember, however, that we
must one day most certainly be divided from them, is a
reflection, methinks, that should enter with us into our
tender connexions of every kind. From the present dis-
composure, therefore, of my own breast, and from that
share which I take in whatever may affect the repose of
yours, I cannot bid you adieu, without reminding you, at
the same time, of the useful caution of one of your poeti-
cal acquaintance :
Quicquid amas, cupias non placuisse nimis.
LETTER LXXIII.
I am, &c.
TO PALAMEDES.
Feb. 13, 1741.
If one would rate any particular merit according to
its true valuation, it may be necessary, perhaps, to con-
sider how far it can be justly claimed by mankind in ge-
neral. I am sure, at least, when I read the very uncom-
19
218
LETTER LXXIII.
mon sentiments of your last letter, I found their judi-
cious author rise in my esteem, by reflecting, that there is
not a more singular character in the world than that of a
thinking man. It is not merely having a succession of
ideas which lightly skim over the mind, that can with any
propriety be styled by that denomination. It is observ-
ing them separately and distinctly, and ranging them un-
der their respective classes; it is calmly and steadily
viewing our opinions on every side, and resolutely tracing
them through all their consequences and connexions, that
constitutes the man of reflection, and distinguishes reason
from fancy. Providence, indeed, does not seem to have
formed any very considerable number of our species
for an extensive exercise of this higher faculty as the
thoughts of the far greater part of mankind are necessa-
rily restrained within the ordinary purposes of animal
life. But even if we look up to those who move in much
superiour orbits, and who have opportunities to improve,
as well as leisure to exercise, their understandings, we
shall find that thinking is one of the least exerted
privileges of cultivated humanity.
It is, indeed, an operation of the mind which meets
with many obstructions to check its just and free direc-
tion; but there are two principles which prevail more or
less in the constitutions of most men, that particularly
contribute to keep this faculty of the soul unemployed:
I mean pride and indolence. To descend to truth through
the tedious progression of well-examined deductions, is
considered as a reproach to the quickness of understand-
ing; as it is much too laborious a method for any but
those who are possessed of a vigorous and resolute acti-
vity of mind. For this reason, the greater part of our
species generally choose either to seize upon their con-
clusions at once, or to take them by rebound from others,
as best suiting with their vanity or their laziness. Ac-
LETTER LXXIII.
219
cordingly Mr. Locke observes, that there are not so many
errours and wrong opinions in the world as is generally
imagined. Not that he thinks mankind are by any
means uniform in embracing truth; but because the ma-
jority of them, he maintains, have no thought or opinion
at all about those doctrines concerning which they raise
the greatest clamour. Like the common soldiers in an
army, they follow where their leaders direct, without
knowing or even inquiring into the cause for which they
so warmly contend.
This will account for the slow steps by which truth has
advanced in the world, on one side; and for those absurd
systems, which, at different periods, have had an univer-
sal currency on the other. For there is a strange dispo-
sition in human nature, either blindly to tread the same
paths that have been traversed by others, or to strike out
into the most devious extravagancies: the greater part of
the world will either totally renounce their reason, or
reason only from the wild suggestions of an heated ima-
gination.
From the same source may be derived those divisions
and animosities which break the union both of publick
and private societies, and turn the peace and harmony of
human intercourse into dissonance and contention. For
while men judge and act by such measures as have not
been proved by the standard of dispassionate reason,
they must equally be mistaken in their estimates both of
their own conduct and that of others.
If we turn our view from active to contemplative life,
we may have occasion, perhaps, to remark, that thinking
is no less uncommon in the literary than the civil world.
The number of those writers who can, with any justness
of expression, be termed thinking authors, would not
form a very copious library, though one were to take in
all of that kind which both ancient and modern times
220
LETTER LXXIII.
have produced. Necessarily, I imagine, must one ex-
clude from a collection of this sort, all criticks, commen-
tators, modern Latin poets, translators, and, in short, all
that numerous under-tribe in the commonwealth of lite-
rature, that owe their existence merely to the thoughts
of others. I should reject, for the same reason, such
compilers as Valerius Maximus and Aulus Gellius: though
it must be owned, indeed, their works have acquired an
accidental value, as they preserve to us several curious
traces of antiquity, which time would otherwise have
entirely worn out. Those teeming geniuses, likewise,
who have propagated the fruits of their studies through a
long series of tracts, would have little pretence, I believe,
to be admitted as writers of reflection. For this reason,
I cannot regret the loss of those incredible numbers of
compositions which some of the ancients are said to have
produced:
Quale fuit Casst rapido ferventius amni
Ingenium; capsis quem fama est esse librisque
Ambustum propriis.
Horace.
Thus Epicurus, we are told, left behind him three hun-
dred volumes of his own works, wherein he had not in-
serted a single quotation; and we have it upon the au-
thority of Varro's own words,* that he himself composed
four hundred and ninety books. Seneca assures us, that
Didymus, the grammarian, wrote no less than four thou-
sand; but Origen, it seems, was yet more prolifick, and
* This passage is to be found in Aulus Gellius, who quotes it from a treatise
which Varro had written concerning the wonderful effects of the number seven.
But the subject of this piece cannot be more ridiculous than the style in
which it appears to have been composed: for that most learned author of his
times (as Cicero, if I mistake not, somewhere calls him) informed his readers
in that performance, se jam dunderimam annorum hebdomadam ingressum
esse, et ad eum diem septuaginta hebdomadas librorum conscripsisse. Aul.
Gell. iii. 10.
I
1
i
LETTER LXXIV.
221
extended his performances even to six thousand treatises.
It is obvious to imagine with what sort of materials the
productions of such expeditious workmen were wrought
up: sound thought and well matured reflections could
have no share, we may be sure, in these hasty perform-
ances. Thus are books multiplied, whilst authors are
scarce; and so much easier is it to write than to think!
But shall I not myself, Palamedes, prove an instance that
it is so, if I suspend, any longer, your own more important
reflections, by interrupting you with such as mine? Adieu.
I am, &c.
LETTER LXXIV.
TO ORONTES.
It is with much pleasure I look back upon that philo-
sophical week which I lately enjoyed at ***; as there is
no part, perhaps, of social life, which affords more real
satisfaction, than those hours which one passes in rational
and unreserved conversation. The free communication
of sentiments amongst a set of ingenious and speculative
friends, such as those you gave me the opportunity of
meeting, throws the mind into the most advantageous
exercise, and shews the strength or weakness of its opi-
nions with greater force of conviction, than any other
method we can employ.
That it is not good for man to be alone, is true in more
views of our species than one; and society gives strength
to our reason, as well as polish to our manners. The
soul, when left entirely to her own solitary contempla-
tions, is insensibly drawn by a sort of constitutional
bias, which generally leads her opinions to the side of her
inclinations. Hence it is that she contracts those pecu-
19 *
222
LETTER LXXIV.
4
But
liarities of reasoning, and little habits of thinking, which
so often confirm her in the most fantastical errours.
nothing is more likely to recover the mind from this false
bent, than the counter-warmth of impartial debate.
Conversation opens our views and gives our faculties a
more vigorous play; it puts us upon turning our notions
on every side, and holds them up to a light that discovers
those latent flaws, which would, probably, have lain con-
cealed in the gloom of unagitated abstraction. Accord-
ingly, one may remark, that most of those wild doctrines
which have been let loose upon the world, have generally
owed their birth to persons whose circumstances or dis-
positions have given them the fewest opportunities of can-
vassing their respective systems, in the way of free and
friendly debate. Had the authors of many an extrava-
gant hypothesis discussed their principles in private cir-
eles, ere they had given vent to them in publick, the ob-
servation of Varro had never, perhaps, been made (or
never, at least, with so much justice) that "there is no
opinion so absurd, but has some philosopher or other to
produce in its support."
66
16
Upon this principle, I imagine, it is, that some of the
finest pieces of antiquity are written in the dialogue man-
ner. Plato and Tully, it should seem, thought truth
could never be examined with more advantage, than
amidst the amicable opposition of well regulated con-
verse. It is probable, indeed, that subjects of a serious
and philosophical kind were more frequently the topicks
of Greek and Roman conversations, than they are of
ours; as the circumstances of the world had not yet given
occasion to those prudential reasons, which may now, per-
haps, restrain a more free exchange of sentiments amongst
us. There was something, likewise, in the very scenes
themselves where they usually assembled, that almost
LETTER LXXIV.
223
stream of their conversations.
Their rooms and gardens were
:
unavoidably turned the
into this useful channel.
generally adorned, you know, with the statues of the
greatest masters of reason that had then appeared in
the world; and while Socrates or Aristotle stood in their
view, it is no wonder their discourse fell upon those sub-
jects, which such animating representations would natu-
rally suggest. It is probable, therefore, that many of
those ancient pieces which are drawn up in the dialogue
manner, were no imaginary conversations invented by
their authors, but faithful transcripts from real life and
it is this circumstance, perhaps, as much as any other,
which contributes to give them that remarkable advan-
tage over the generality of modern compositions, which
have been formed upon the same plan. I am sure, at
least, I could scarce name more than three or four of
this kind, which have appeared in our language, worthy
of notice. My lord Shaftesbury's dialogue, entitled The
Moralists; Mr. Addison's upon Ancient Coins; Mr.
Spence's upon the Odyssey; together with those of my
very ingenious friend Philemon to Hydaspes, are almost
the only productions, in this way, which have hitherto
come forth amongst us with advantage. These, indeed,
are all master-pieces of the kind, and written in the true
spirit of learning and politeness. The conversation in
each of these most elegant performances is conducted
not in the usual absurd method of introducing one dis-
putant to be tamely silenced by the other, but in the
more lively dramatick manner, where a just contrast of
characters is preserved throughout, and where the seve-
ral speakers support their respective sentiments with all
the strength and spirit of a well-bred opposition.
But of all the conversation pieces, whether ancient or
modern, either of the moral or polite kind, I know not
224
LETTER LXXIV.
one which is more elegantly written than the little anony-
mous dialogue concerning the rise and decline of elo-
quence among the Romans. I call it anonymous, though
I am sensible it has been ascribed not only to Tacitus
and Quintilian but even to Suetonius.
The reasons,
however, which the criticks have respectively produced,
are so exceedingly precarious and inconclusive, that one
must have a very extraordinary share of classical faith
indeed, to receive it as the performance of any of those
celebrated writers. It is evidently, however, a compo-
sition of that period in which they flourished; and, if I
were disposed to indulge a conjecture, I should be in-
clined to give it to the younger Pliny. It exactly coin-
cides with his age; it is addressed to one of his particu-
lar friends and correspondents; it is marked with some
similar expressions and sentiments. But, as arguments
of this kind are always more imposing than solid, I recom-
mend it to you as a piece, concerning the author of which
nothing satisfactory can be collected. This I may, one
day or other, perhaps, attempt to prove in form, as I have
amused myself with giving it an English dress. In the
mean time, I have enclosed my translation in this packet;
not only with a view to your sentiments, but in return to
your favour. I was persuaded I could not make you a
better acknowledgment for the pleasure of that conver-
sation which I lately participated through your means,
than by introducing you to one, which (if my copy is not
extremely injurious to its original) I am sure, you cannot
attend to without equal entertainment and advantage.
Adieu. I am, &c.
મ
225
A
DIALOGUE CONCERNING ORATORY.*
TO FABIUS.
You have frequently, my friend, required me to assign
a reason, whence it has happened, that the oratorical cha-
racter, which spread such a glorious lustre upon former
ages, is now so totally extinct among us, as scarce to
preserve even its name. It is the ancients alone, you
observed, whom we distinguish with that appellation;
while the eloquent of the present times are styled only
pleaders, patrons, advocates, or any thing, in short, but
orators.
Hardly, I believe, should I have attempted a solution
of your difficulty, or ventured upon the examination of a
question, wherein the genius of the moderns, if they can-
not, or their judgment, if they will not, rise to the same
heights, must necessarily be given up; had I nothing of
greater authority to offer upon the subject, than my own
particular sentiments. But having been present, in the
very early part of my life, at a conversation between
some persons of great eloquence, considering the age in
which they lived, who discussed this very point, my me-
mory, and not my judgment, will be concerned, whilst I
endeavour, in their own style and manner, and according
to the regular course of their debate, to lay before you
the several reasonings of those celebrated geniuses: each
*It is necessary to inform those readers of the following dialogue, whe
may be disposed to compare it with the original, that the edition of Heu-
mannus, printed at Gottingen, 1719, has been generally followed.
226
A DIALOGUE
of them, indeed, agreeably to the peculiar turn and cha-
racter of the speaker, alleging different, though proba-
ble causes of the same fact; but all of them supporting
their respective sentiments with ingenuity and good
Nor were the orators of the present age without
an advocate in this debate: for one of the company took
the opposite side, and treating the ancients with much
severity and contempt, declared in favour of modern-elo-
quence.
sense.
Marcus Aper and Julius Secundus, two distinguished
geniuses of our forum, made a visit to Maternus the day
after he had publickly recited his tragedy of Cato: a
piece, which gave, it seems, great offence to those in
power, and was much canvassed in all conversations.
Maternus, indeed, seemed, throughout that whole per-
formance, to have considered only what was suitable to
the character of his hero, without paying a proper re-
gard to those prudential restraints, which were necessary
for his own security. I was, at that time, a warm ad-
mirer and constant follower of those great men; inso-
much, that I not only attended them when they were en-
gaged in the courts of judicature; but, from my fond at-
tachment to the arts of eloquence, and with a certain
ardency peculiar to youth, I joined in all their parties,
and was present at their most private conversations.
Their great abilities, however, could not secure them
from the criticks. They alleged, that Secundus had by
no means an easy elocution; whilst Aper, they pretend-
ed, owed his reputation, as an orator, more to nature than
to art. It is certain, nevertheless, that their objections
were without foundation. The speeches of the former
were always delivered with sufficient fluency; and his
expression was clear, though concise as the latter had,
most undoubtedly, a general tincture of literature. The
CONCERNING ORATORY.
227
truth is, one could not so properly say he was without, as
above the assistance of learning. He imagined, perhaps,
the powers and application of his genius would be so
much the more admired, as it should not appear to de-
rive any of its lustre from the acquired arts.
We found Maternus, when we entered his apartment,
with the tragedy in his hand which he had recited the
day before. "Are you then," said Secundus, addressing
himself to him, “so little discouraged with the malicious
insinuations of these ill-natured censures, as still to cherish
this obnoxious tragedy of yours? Or, perhaps, you are
revising it, in order to expunge the exceptionable pas-
sages; and purpose to send your Cato into the world, I
will not say with superiour charms, but, at least, with
greater security than in its original form?"-"You may
peruse it," returned be, "if you please; you will find it
remains just in the same situation as when you heard it
read. I intend, however, that Thyestes shall supply the
defects of Cato: for I am meditating a tragedy upon that
subject, and have already, indeed, formed the plan. I
am hastening, therefore, the publication of this play in
my hand, that I may apply myself entirely to my new
design.".
"" Are you then in good earnest,” replied Aper,
so enamoured of dramatick poetry, as to renounce the
business of oratory in order to consecrate your whole
leisure to--Medea, I think, it was before, and now, it
seems, to Thyestes? when the causes of so many worthy
friends, the interests of so many powerful communities,
demand you in the forum: a task more than sufficient
to employ your attention, though neither Cato nor Do-
mitius had any share of it; though you were not con-
tinually turning from one dramatick performance to an-
other, and adding the tales of Greece to the history of
Rome."
228
A DIALOGUE
"I should be concerned," answered Maternus, “at
the severity of your rebuke, if the frequency of our de-
bates, upon this subject, had not rendered it somewhat
familiar to me. But how," added he, smiling,
"can you
accuse me of deserting the business of my profession,
when I am every day engaged in defending poetry against
your accusations? And I am glad," continued he, looking
towards Secundus, "that we have now an opportunity of
discussing this point before so competent a judge. His
decision will either determine me to renounce all preten-
sions to poetry for the future, or, which I rather hope,
will be a sanction for my quitting that confined species of
oratory, in which, methinks, I have sufficiently laboured,
and authorize the devoting myself to the more enlarged
and sacred eloquence of the muses."
“Give me leave,” interposed Secundus, "before Aper
takes exception to his judge, to say, what all honest ones
usually do in the same circumstances, that I desire to be
excused from sitting in judgment upon a cause, wherein I
must acknowledge myself biassed in favour of a party con-
cerned. All the world is sensible of that strict friendship
which has long subsisted between me and that excellent
man, as well as great poet, Saleius Bassus. To which let
me add, if the muses are to be arraigned, I know of none
who can offer more prevailing bribes.”
"I have nothing to allege against Bassus," returned
Aper, or any other man, who, not having talents for the
bar, chooses to establish a reputation of the poetical kind.
Nor shall I suffer Maternus (for I am willing to join issue
with him before you) to evade my charge, by drawing
others into his party. My accusation is levelled singly
against him; who, formed as he is, by nature, with a most
masculine and truly oratorical genius, chooses to suffer so
noble a faculty to lie waste and uncultivated. I must
CONCERNING ORATORY.
229
remind him, however, that, by the exercise of this com-
manding talent, he might at once both acquire and support
the most important friendships, and have the glory to see
whole provinces and nations rank themselves under his
patronage; a talent, of all others, the most advantageous,
whether considered with respect to interest or to honours ;
a talent, in short, that affords the most illustrious means
of propagating a reputation, not only within our own
walls, but throughout the whole compass of the Roman
empire, and, indeed, to the most distant nations of the
globe."
If utility ought to be the governing motive of every
action and every design of our lives; can we possibly be
employed to better purpose, than in the exercise of an art,
which enables a man, upon all occasions, to support the
interest of his friend, to protect the rights of the stranger,
to defend the cause of the injured? that not only renders
him the terrour of his open and secret adversaries, but
secures him, as it were, by the most firm and permanent
guard?
The particular usefulness, indeed, of his profession is
evidently manifested in the opportunities it supplies of
serving others, though we should have no occasion to ex-
ert it in our own behalf: but should we, upon any occur-
rence, be ourselves attacked, the sword and buckler is
not a more powerful defence in the day of battle, than
oratory in the dangerous season of publick arraignment.
What had Marcellus lately to oppose to the united resent-
ment of the whole senate, but his eloquence? Yet,
supported by that formidable auxiliary, he stood firm and
unmoved, amidst all the assaults of the artful Helvidius;
who, notwithstanding he was a man of sense and elocu-
tion, was totally inexpert in the management of this sort
of contests. But I need not insist farther on this head;
20
230
A DIALOGUE
well persuaded, as I am, that Maternus will not controvert
so clear a truth. Rather let me observe the pleasure
which attends the exercise of the persuasive art: a plea-
sure which does not arise only once, perhaps, in a whole
life, but flows in a perpetual series of gratifications. What
can be more agreeable to a liberal and ingenuous mind,
formed with a relish of rational enjoyments, than to see
one's levee crowded with a concourse of the most illus-
trious personages, not as followers of your interest or your
power; not because you are rich, and destitute of heirs;
but singly in consideration of your superiour qualifications.
It is not unusual, upon these occasions, to observe the
wealthy, the powerful, and the childless, addressing
themselves to a young man (and probably no rich one)
in favour of themselves or their friends. Tell me now,
has authority or wealth a charm equal to the satisfac-
tion of thus beholding persons of the highest dignity,
venerable by their age, or powerful by their credit,
in the full enjoyment of every external advantage, court-
ing your assistance, and tacitly acknowledging that, great
and distinguished as they are, there is something still
wanting to them more valuable than all their possessions?
Represent to yourself the honourable crowd of clients con-
ducting the orator from his house, and attending him in his
return; think of the glorious appearance he makes in
publick, the distinguishing respect that is paid to him in
the courts of judicature, the exultation of heart when he
rises up before a full audience, hushed in solemn silence
and fixed attention, pressing round the admired speaker,
and receiving every passion he deems proper to raise ! Yet
these are but the ordinary joys of eloquence, and visible
to every common observer. There are others, and those
far superiour, of a more concealed and delicate kind, and
of which the orator himself can alone be sensible. Does
he stand forth prepared with a studied harangue? As the
{
CONCERNING ORATORY.
231
composition, so the pleasure, in this instance, is more
solid and equal. If, on the other hand, he rises in a new
and unexpected debate, the previous solicitude, which he
feels upon such occasions, recommends and improves the
pleasure of his success; as indeed the most exquisite satis-
faction of this kind is, when he boldly hazards the unpre-
meditated speech. For it is in the productions of genius,
as in the fruits of the earth; those which arise sponta-
neously, are ever the most agreeable. If I may venture
to mention myself, I must acknowledge, that neither the
satisfaction I received when I was first invested with the
laticlave, nor even when I entered upon the several high
posts in the state; though the pleasure was heightened to
me, not only as those honours were new to my family, but
as I was born in a city by no means favourable to my pre-
tensions :-the warm transports, I say, which I felt at
those times, were far inferiour to the joy which has glowed
in my breast, when I have successfully exerted my hum-
ble talents in defence of those causes and clients committed
to my care. To say truth, I imagined myself, at such
seasons, to be raised above the highest dignities, and in
the possession of something far more valuable, than either
the favour of the great, or the bounty of the wealthy can
ever bestow.
"Of all the arts or sciences, there is no one which
crowns its votaries with a reputation in any degree com-
parable to that of eloquence. It is not only those of a
more exalted rank in the state, who are witnesses of the
orator's fame; it is extended to the observation even of
our very youth of any hopes or merit. Whose example,
for instance, do parents more frequently recommend to
their sons? Or who are more the gaze and admiration of
the people in general? Whilst every stranger that arrives,
is curious of seeing the man, of whose character he has
232
A DIALOGUE
heard such honourable report. I will venture to affirma
that Marcellus, whom I just now mentioned, and Vibius
(for I choose to produce my instances from modern times,
- rather than from those more remote) are as well known in
the most distant corners of the empire, as they are at Ca-
pua or Vercellæ, the places, it is said, of their respective
nativity: an honour for which they are by no means in-
debted to their immense riches. On the contrary, their
wealth may justly, it should seem, be ascribed to their elo-
quence. Every age, indeed, can produce persons of genius,
who, by means of this powerful talent, have raised them-
selves to the most exalted station. But the instances I
just now mentioned, are not drawn from distant times:
they fall within the observation of our own eyes. Now
the more obscure the original extraction of those illustri
ous persons was, the more humble the patrimony to which
they were born, so much stronger proof they afford of the
great advantage of the oratorical arts. Accordingly,
without the recommendation of family or fortune, without
any thing very extraordinary in their virtues (and one of
them rather contemptible in his address) they have for
many years maintained the highest credit and authority
among their fellow-citizens. Thus, from being chiefs in
the forum, where they preserved their distinguished em-
inence as long as they thought proper, they have passed
on to the enjoyment of the same high rank in Vespasian's
favour, whose esteem for them seems to be mixed even
with a degree of reverence: as indeed they both support
and conduct the whole weight of his administration. That
excellent and venerable prince (whose singular character
it is, that he can endure to hear truth) well knows that
the rest of his favourites are distinguished only as they are
the objects of his munificence; the supplies of which he
can easily raise and with the same facility confer on others,
CONCERNING ORATORY.
233
Whereas Crispus and Marcellus recommended themselves
to his notice, by advantages which no earthly potentate
either did or could bestow. The truth of it is, inscriptions
and statues, and ensigns of dignity, could claim but the
lowest rank, amidst their more illustrious distinctions.
Not that they are unpossessed of honours of this kind, any
more than they are destitute of wealth or power; advan-
tages, much oftener affectedly depreciated, than sincerely
despised.
"Such, my friends, are the ornaments, and such the
rewards of an early application to the business of the fo-
rum, and the arts of oratory! But poetry, to which Ma-
ternus wishes to devote his days (for it was that which
gave rise to our debate) confers neither dignity to her fol-
lowers in particular, nor advantage to society in general.
The whole amount of her pretensions is nothing more than
the transient pleasure of a vain and fruitless applause.
Perhaps what I have already said, and am going to add,
may not be very agreeable to my friend Maternus; how-
ever, I will venture to ask him, what avails the eloquence
of his Jason or Agamemnon? What mortal does it either
defend or oblige? Who is it that courts the patronage, or
joins the train of Bassus, that ingenious (or if you think
the term more honourable) that illustrious poet? Emi-
nent as he may be, if his friend, his relation, or himself,
were involved in any litigated transactions, he would be
under the necessity of having recourse to Secundus, or,
perhaps, to you, my friend :* but by no means, however,
as you are a poet, and in order to solicit you to bestow
some verses upon him: for verses he can compose him-
self, fair, it seems, and goodly.-Yet, after all, when he
has at the cost of much time, and many a laboured lucubra-
* Maternus.
20 *
234
A DIALOGUE
:
tion, spun out a single canto, he is obliged to traverse the
whole town in order to collect an audience. Nor can he
procure even this compliment, slight as it is, without
actually purchasing it for the hiring a room, erecting
a stage, and dispersing his tickets, are articles which
must necessarily be attended with some expense. And
let us suppose his poem is approved: the whole admira-
tion is over in a day or two, like that of a fine flower
which dies away without producing any fruit. In a word,
it secures to him neither friend nor patron, nor confers
even the most inconsiderable favour upon a single crea-
ture. The whole amount of his humble gains is the fleet-
ing pleasure of a clamorous applause! We looked upon
it, lately, as an uncommon instance of generosity in Ves-
pasian, that he presented Bassus with fifty thousand ses-
terces.* Honourable, I grant, it is, to possess a genius
which merits the imperial bounty: but how much more
glorious (if a man's circumstances will admit of it) to ex-
hibit in one's own person an example of munificence and
liberality? Let it be remembered, likewise, if you would
succeed in your poetical labours, and produce any thing
of real worth, in that art, you must retire, as the poets
express themselves,
To silent grottoes and sequester'd groves :
that is, you must renounce the conversation of your
friends, and every civil duty of life, to be concealed in
gloomy and unprofitable solitude.
66
If we consider the votaries of this idle art with re-
spect to fame, that single recompense which they pretend
to derive, or, indeed, to seek, from their studies, we shall
find they do not, by any means, enjoy an equal proportion
of it with the sons of oratory. For even the best poets
fall within the notice of but a very small proportion of
* About four hundred pounds of our money.
7
CONCERNING ORATORY.
235
mankind: whilst indifferent ones are universally disre-
garded. Tell me, Maternus, did ever the reputation of
the most approved rehearsal of the poetical kind reach
the cognizance even of half the town; much less extend
itself to distant provinces? Did ever any foreigner, up-
on his arrival here, inquire after Bassus? or if he did, it
was merely as he would after a picture or a statue; just
to look upon him, and pass on. I would in no sort be
understood as discouraging the pursuit of poetry in those
who have no talents for oratory; if happily they can, by
that means, amuse their leisure, and establish a just cha-
racter. I look upon every species of eloquence as vene-
rable and sacred; and prefer her, in whatever guise she
may think proper to appear, before any other of her sis-
ter arts: not only, Maternus, when she exhibits herself
in your chosen favourite, the solemn tragedy, or lofty
heroick, but even in the pleasant lyrick, the wanton elegy,
the severe iambick, the witty epigram, or in one word, in
whatever other habit she is pleased to assume.
But (I
repeat it again) my complaint is levelled singly against
you; who, designed as you are, by nature, for the most
exalted rank of eloquence, choose to desert your station,
and deviate into a lower order. Had you been endued
with the athletick vigour of Nicostratus, and born in
Greece, where arts of that sort are esteemed not unwor-
thy of the most refined characters; as I could not pa-
tiently have suffered that uncommon strength of arm,
formed for the nobler combat, to have idly spent itself
in throwing the javelin, or tossing the quoit: so I now call
you forth from rehearsals and theatres, to the forum, and
business, and high debate: especially, since you cannot
urge the same plea for engaging in poetry which is now
generally alleged, that it is less liable to give offence
than oratory. For the ardency of your genius has al-
236
A DIALOGUE
ready flamed forth, and you have incurred the displeasure
of our superiours: not, indeed, for the sake of a friend ;-
that would have been far less dangerous; but in support
truly of Cato! Nor can you offer, in excuse, either the
duty of your profession, justice to your client, or the un-
guarded heat of debate. You fixed, it should seem, upon
this illustrious and popular subject with deliberate design,
and as a character that would give weight and authority
to your sentiments. You will reply (I am aware) ‘it
was that very circumstance which gained you such uni-
'versal applause, and rendered you the general topick of
'discourse.' Talk no more, then, I beseech you, of se-
curity and repose, whilst you thus industriously raise up
to yourself so potent an adversary. For my own part, at
least, I am contented with engaging in questions of a
more modern and private nature; wherein, if in defence
of a friend, I am under a necessity of taking liberties un-
acceptable, perhaps, to my superiours, the honest freedom
of my zeal will, I trust, not only be excused, but applaud-
ed."
Aper having delivered this with his usual warmth
and earnestness, "I am prepared," replied Maternus, in
a milder tone, and with an air of pleasantry, "to draw
up a charge against the orators, no less copious than my
friend's panegyrick in their behalf. I suspected, indeed,
he would turn out of his road, in order to attack the
poets though I must own, at the same time, he has some-
what softened the severity of his satire, by certain con-
cessions he is pleased to make in their favour. He is
willing, I perceive, to allow those whose genius does not
point to oratory, to apply themselves to poetry. Never-
theless, I do not scruple to acknowledge, that, with some
talents, perhaps, for the forum, I choose to build my re-
CONCERNING ORATORY.
237
:
putation on dramatick poetry. The first attempt I made
for this purpose was by exposing the dangerous power of
Vatinius a power which even Nero himself disapproved,
and which that infamous favourite abused, to the profa-
nation of the sacred muses. And I am persuaded, if I
enjoy any share of fame, it is to poetry, rather than to
oratory, that I am indebted for the acquisition. It is my
fixed purpose, therefore, entirely to withdraw myself
from the fatigue of the bar. I am by no means ambi-
tious of that splendid concourse of clients, which Aper
has represented in such pompous colours, any more than
I am of those sculptured honours which he mentioned;
though, I must confess, they have made their way into my
family, notwithstanding my inclinations to the contrary.
Innocence is, now at least, a surer guard than eloquence;
and I am in no apprehension I shall ever have occasion
to open my lips in the senate, unless, perhaps, in defence
of a friend.
"Woods, and groves, and solitude, the objects of
Aper's invective, afford me, I will own to him, the most
exquisite satisfaction. Accordingly, I esteem it one of
the great privileges of poetry, that it is not carried on in
the noise and tumult of the world, amidst the painful
importunity of anxious suitors, and the affecting tears of
distressed criminals. On the contrary, a mind ena-
moured of the muses, retires into scenes of innocence and
repose, and enjoys the sacred haunts of silence and con-
templation. Here genuine eloquence received her birth,
and here she fixed her sacred and sequestered habitation.
'Twas here, in decent and becoming garb, she recom-
mended herself to the early notice of mortals, inspiring
the breast of the blameless and the good: here first the
voice divine of oracles was heard. But she of modern
growth, offspring of lucre and contention, was born in
238
A DIALOGUE
evil days, and employed (as Aper very justly expresses
it) instead of weapons: whilst happier times, or, in the
language of the muses, the golden age, free alike from
orators and from crimes, abounded with inspired poets,
who exerted their noble talents, not in defending the
guilty, but in celebrating the good. Accordingly, no cha-
racter was ever more eminently distinguished, or more
augustly honoured: first by the gods themselves, to whom
the poets were supposed to serve as ministers at their
feasts, and messengers of their high behests, and after-
wards by that sacred offspring of the gods, the first vene-
rable race of legislators. In that glorious list we read
the names, not of orators, indeed, but of Orpheus, and
Linus, or, if we are inclined to trace the illustrious roll
still higher, even of Apollo himself.
"But these, perhaps, will be treated by Aper as he-
roes of romance. He cannot, however, deny, that Ho-
mer has received as signal honours from posterity as De-
mosthenes; or that the fame of Sophocles or Euripides is
as extensive as that of Lysias or Hyperides; that Ci-
cero's merit is less universally confessed than Virgil's; or
that not one of the compositions of Asinius or Messalla
is in so much request as the Medea of Ovid, or the
Thyestes of Varius. I will advance even farther, and ven-
ture to compare the unenvied fortune, and happy self-
converse of the poet, with the anxious and busy life of
the orator; notwithstanding the hazardous contentions of
the latter may possibly raise him even to the consular dig-
nity. Far more desirable, in my estimation, was the
calm retreat of Virgil: where yet he lived not unhonour-
ed by his prince, nor unregarded by the world. If the
truth of either of these assertions should be questioned,
the letters of Augustus will witness the former; as the
latter is evident from the conduct of the whole Roman
people, who, when some verses of that divine poet were
1
CONCERNING ORATORY.
239
repeated in the theatre, where he happened to be pre-
sent, rose up to a man, and saluted him with the same
respect that they would have paid to Augustus himself.
But, to mention our own times, I would ask whether
Secundus Pomponius is any thing inferiour, either in dig-
nity of life, or solidity of reputation, to Afer Domitius?
As to Crispus or Marcellus, to whom Aper refers me for
an animating example, what is there in their present ex-
alted fortunes really desirable? Is it that they pass their
whole lives either in being alarmed for themselves, or in
striking terrour into others? Is it that they are daily
under a necessity of courting the very men they hate;
that, holding their dignities by unmanly adulation, their
masters never think them sufficiently slaves, nor the peo-
ple sufficiently free? And, after all, what is this their so
much envied power? Nothing more, in truth, than what
many a paltry freed-man has frequently enjoyed. But-
Me let the lovely muses lead,' (as Virgil sings) ' to si-
'lent groves and heavenly-haunted streams, remote from
'business and from care; and still superiour to the painful
'necessity of acting in wretched opposition to my better
'heart. Nor let me more, with anxious steps and dan-
gerous, pursue pale fame amidst the noisy forum! May
'never clamorous suitors, nor panting freed-man with
'officious haste, awake my peaceful slumbers! Uncer-
'tain of futurity, and equally unconcerned, ne'er may I
'bribe the favour of the great; by rich bequests to ava-
'rice insatiate; nor accumulation vain! amass more
'wealth than I may transfer as inclination prompts,
whenever shall arrive my life's last fatal period: and
'then, not in horrid guise of mournful pomp, but crowned
'with chaplets gay, may I be entombed; nor let a friend,
'with unavailing zeal, solicit the useless tribute of posthu-
mous memorials !'''
240
A DIALOGUE
“
Maternus had scarce finished these words, which he
uttered with great emotion, and with an air of inspiration,
when Messalla entered the room; who, observing much
attention in our countenances, and imagining the conver-
sation turned upon something of more than ordinary im-
port: "Perhaps," said he, “
you are engaged in a consul-
tation; and, I doubt, I am guilty of an unseasonable in-
terruption."—" By no means," answered Secundus: " on
the contrary, I wish you had given us your company
sooner; for I am persuaded, you would have been ex-
tremely entertained. Our friend Aper has, with great
eloquence, been exhorting Maternus to turn the whole
strength of his genius and his studies to the business of
the forum; while Maternus, on the other hand, agree-
ably to the character of one who was pleading the cause
of the muses, has defended his favourite art with a bold-
ness and elevation of style more suitable to a poet than
an orator."
"It would have afforded me infinite pleasure," replied
Messalla, “to have been present at a debate of this kind.
And I cannot but express my satisfaction, in finding the
most eminent orators of our times, not confining their
geniuses to points relating to their profession; but can-
vassing such other topicks, in their conversation, as give
a very advantageous exercise to their faculties, at the
same time that it furnishes an entertainment of the most
instructive kind, not only to themselves, but to those who
have the privilege of being joined in their party. And
believe me, Secundus, the world received, with much ap-
probation, your history of J. Asiaticus, as an earnest that
you intend to publish more pieces of the same nature. On
the other side," continued he, with an air of irony, "it is
observed, with equal satisfaction, that Aper has not yet
bid adieu to the questions of the schools, but employs his
{
CONCERNING ORATORY.
241
A
Is
leisure rather after the example of the modern rhetori-
cians, than of the ancient orators."
"I perceive," returned Aper, "that you continue to
treat the moderns with your usual derision and contempt,
while the ancients alone are in full possession of your es-
teem. It is a maxim, indeed, I have frequently heard you
advance, (and, allow me to say, with much injustice to
yourself, and to your brother) that there is no such thing
in the present age as an orator. This you are the less
scrupulous to maintain, as you imagine it cannot be
imputed to a spirit of envy; since you are willing, at
the same time, to exclude yourself from a character,
which every body else is inclined to give you."
"I have, hitherto," replied Messalla, "found no rea-
son to change my opinion, and I am persuaded, that even
you yourself, Aper, (whatever you may sometimes affect
to the contrary,) as well as my other two friends here, join
with me in the same sentiments. I should, indeed, be glad,
if any of you would discuss this matter, and account for so
remarkable a disparity, which I have often endeavoured in
my own thoughts. And what to some appears a satisfacto-
ry solution of this phenomenon, to me, I confess, heightens
the difficulty: for I find the very same difference prevails
among the Grecian orators; and that the priest Nicetes,
together with others of the Ephesian and Mytilenean
schools, who humbly content themselves with raising the
acclamations of their tasteless auditors, deviate much
farther from Eschines or Demosthenes, than you, my
friends, from Tully or Asinius.”
The question you have started," said Secundus, "is a
very important one, and well worthy of consideration.
But who so capable of doing justice to it as yourself? who,
besides the advantages of a fine genius and great literature,
have given, it seems, particular attention to this inquiry."
21
242
A DIALOGUE
-“I am very willing," answered Messalla, “to lay before
you my thoughts upon the subject, provided you will assist
me with yours as I go along.' "-" I will engage for two of
us," replied Maternus: "Secundus, and myself, will speak
to such points as you shall, I do not say omit, but think
proper to leave us. As for Aper, you just now informed
us, it is usual with him to dissent from you in this article :
and, indeed, I see he is already preparing to oppose us, and
will not look with indifference upon this our association in
support of the ancients."
'Undoubtedly," returned Aper, “ I shall not tamely
suffer the moderns to be condemned, unheard and unde-
fended. But first let me ask, whom is it you call ancients ?
What age of orators do you distinguish by that designa-
tion? The word always suggests to me a Nestor, or an
Ulysses, men who lived above a thousand years since:
whereas you seem to apply it to Demosthenes and Hype-
rides, who, it is agreed, flourished so late as the times of
Philip and Alexander, and, indeed, survived them. It ap-
pears, from hence, that there is not much above four hun-
dred years distance between our age and that of Demosthe-
nes: a portion of time, which, considered with respect to
human duration, appears, I acknowledge, extremely long :
but, if compared with that immense era which the philoso-
phers talk of, is exceedingly contracted, and seems almost
but of yesterday. For if it be true, what Cicero observes
in his treatise inscribed to Hortensius, that the great and
genuine year is that period in which the heavenly bodies
return to the same position, wherein they were placed
when they first began their respective orbits; and this
revolution contains 12,954 of our solar years; then Demos-
thenes, this ancient Demosthenes of yours, lived in the
same year, or rather, I might say, in the same month, with
ourselves. But to mention the Roman orators: I presume,
CONCERNING ORATORY.
243
you will scarcely prefer Menenius Agrippa (who may, with
some propriety, indeed, be called an ancient) to the men
of eloquence among the moderns. It is Cicero, then, I
suppose, together with Coelius, Caesar, and Calvus, Brutus,
Asinius, and Messalla, to whom you give this honourable
precedency: yet I am at a loss to assign a reason, why
these should be deemed ancients rather than moderns.
To instance in Cicero: he was killed, as his freedman
Tiro informs us, on the 26th of December, in the consul-
ship of Hirtius and Pansa, in which year Augustus and
Pedius succeeded them in that dignity. Now, if we take
fifty-six years for the reign of Augustus, and add twenty-
three for that of Tiberius, about four for that of Caius,
fourteen apiece for Claudius and Nero, one for Galba,
Otho, and Vitellius, together with the six that our present
excellent prince* has enjoyed the empire, we shall have
about one hundred and twenty years from the death of
Cicero to these times: a period to which it is not impos-
sible that a man's life may extend. I remember, when
I was in Britain, to have met with an old soldier, who as-
sured me, he had served in the army which opposed Cae-
sar's descent upon that island. If we suppose this per-
son, by being taken prisoner, or by any other means, to
have been brought to Rome, he might have heard Caesar
and Cicero, and likewise any of our contemporaries. I
appeal to yourselves, whether at the last publick donative
there were not several of the populace who acknowledged
they had received the same bounty, more than once, from
the hands of Augustus ? It is evident, therefore, that these
From this passage Fabricius asserts, that this dialogue was written in the
6th year of Vespasian's reign; but he evidently mistakes the time in which
the scene of it is laid, for that in which it was composed. It is upon arguments
not better founded, that the criticks have given Tacitus and Quintilian the hon-
⚫ur of this elegant performance. Vid. Fabric. Bib. Lat. V. I, 559.
244
A DIALOGUE
people might have been present at the pleadings both of
Corvinus and Asinius: for Corvinus was alive in the mid-
dle of the reign of Augustus, and Asinius towards the latter
end. Surely, then, you will not split a century, and call
one orator an ancient, and another a modern, when the
very same person might be an auditor of both; and thus
as it were render them contemporaries.
"The conclusion I mean to draw from this observa-
tion is, that whatever advantages these orators might de-
rive to their characters, from the period of time in which
they flourished, the same will extend to us: and, indeed,
with much more reason than to S. Galba, or to C. Car-
bonius. It cannot be denied that the compositions of
these last are very inelegant and unpolished performances;
as I could wish, that not only your admired Calvus and
Coelius, but I will venture to add too, even Cicero him-
self (for I shall deliver my sentiments with great freedom)
had not considered them as the proper models of their
imitation. Suffer me to premise, however, as I go along,
that eloquence changes its qualities as it runs through
different ages. Thus, as Gracchus, for instance, is much
more copious and florid than old Cato, so Crassus rises
into a far higher strain of politeness and refinement than
Gracchus. Thus, likewise, as the speeches of Tully are
more regular, and marked with superiour elegance and
sublimity, than those of the two orators last mentioned;
so Corvinus is considerably more smooth and harmonious
in his periods, as well as more correct in his language,
than Tully. I am not considering which of them is most
eloquent: all I endeavour to prove at present is, that
oratory does not manifest itself in one uniform figure, but
is exhibited by the ancients under a variety of different
appearances. However, it is by no means a just way of
reasoning, to infer, that one thing must necessarily be
CONCERNING ORATORY.
245
worse than another, merely because it is not the same :
Yet such is the unaccountable perversity of human na-
ture, that whatever has antiquity to boast, is sure to be
admired, as every thing novel is certainly disapproved.
There are criticks, I doubt not, to be found, who prefer
even Appius Caecus to Cato; as it is well known that
Cicero had his censurers, who objected that his style was
swelling and redundant, and by no means agreeable to
the elegant conciseness of attick eloquence. You have
certainly read the letters of Calvus and Brutus to Cicero.
It appears, by those epistolary collections, that Cicero
considered Calvus as a dry, unanimated orator, at the
same time that he thought the style of Brutus negligent
and unconnected. These, in their turn, had their objec-
tions, it seems, to Cicero: Calvus condemned his ora-
torical compositions, for being weak and enervated; as
Brutus (to use his own expression) esteemed them feeble
and disjointed. If I were to give my opinion, I should
say, they each spoke truth of one another. But I shall
examine these orators separately hereafter; my present
design is only to consider them in a general view.
The admirers of antiquity are agreed, I think, in ex-
tending the era of the ancients as far as Cassius Severus ;
whom they assert to have been the first that struck out
from the plain and simple manner, which, till then, pre-
vailed. Now I affirm that he did so, not from any defi-
ciency in point of genius or learning, but from his su-
periour judgment and good sense. He saw it was neces-
sary to accommodate oratory, as I observed before, to
the different times and taste of the audience. Our an-
cestors, indeed, might be contented (and it was a mark
of their ignorance and want of politeness that they were
so) with the immoderate and tedious length of speeches,
which was in vogue in those ages; as, in truth, to be
21*
246
A DIALOGUE
able to harangue for a whole day together was itsel
looked upon, at that illiterate period, as a talent worthy
of the highest admiration. The immeasurable introduc-
tion, the circumstantial detail, the endless division and
subdivision, the formal argument drawn out into a dull
variety of logical deductions, together with a thousand
other impertinencies of the same tasteless stamp, which
you may find laid down among the precepts of those
driest of all writers, Hermagoras and Apollodorus, were
then held in supreme honour. And, to complete all, if
the orator had just dipped into philosophy, and could
sprinkle the harangue with some of the most trite maxims
of that science, they thundered out his applauses to the
skies. For these were new and uncommon topicks to
them; as, indeed, very few of the orators themselves had
the least acquaintance with the writings either of the phi-
losophers or the rhetoricians. But in our more enlight-
ened age, where even the lowest part of an audience have
at least some general notion of literature, eloquence is
constrained to find out new and more florid paths. She
is obliged to avoid every thing that may fatigue or offend
the ears of her audience; especially as she must now ap-
pear before judges, who decide, not by law, but by au-
thority; who prescribe what limits they think proper to
the orator's speech: nor calmly wait till he is pleased to
come to the point, but call upon him to return, and
openly testify their impatience whenever he seems dis-
posed to wander from the question. Who, I beseech you,
would, in our days, endure an orator, who should open
his harangue with a tedious apology for the weakness of
his constitution? Yet almost every oration of Corvinus
sets out in that manner. Would any man now have pa-
tience to hear out the five long books against Verres? or
those endless volumes of pleading in favour of Tully, or
CONCERNING ORATORY.
247
Caecina? The vivacity of our modern judges even pre-
vents the speaker; and they are apt to conceive some
sort of prejudice against all he utters, unless he has the
address to bribe their attention by the strength and spirit
of his arguments, the liveliness of his sentiments, or the
elegance and brilliancy of his descriptions. The very
populace have some notion of the beauty of language, and
would no more relish the uncouthness of antiquity in a
modern orator, than they would the gesture of old Roscius
or Ambivius in a modern actor. Our young students too,
who are forming themselves to eloquence, and for that
purpose attend the courts of judicature, expect not merely
to hear, but to carry home something worthy of remem-
brance and it is usual with them, not only to canvass
among themselves, but to transmit to their respective
provinces, whatever ingenious thought or poetical orna-
ment the orator has happily employed. For even the
embellishments of poetry are now required: and those
too, not copied from the heavy and antiquated manner of
Attius or Pacuvius, but formed in the lively and elegant
spirit of Horace, Virgil, and Lucan. Agreeably, there-
fore, to the superiour taste and judgment of the present
age, our orators appear with a more polished and grace-
ful aspect. And most certainly it cannot be thought that
their speeches are the less efficacious, because they soothe
the ears of the audience with the pleasing modulation of
harmonious periods. Has eloquence lost her power, be-
cause she has improved her charms? Are our temples less
durable than those of old, because they are not formed
of rude materials, but shine out in all the polish and
splendour of the most costly ornaments?
"To confess the plain truth, the effect which many of
the ancients have upon me, is to dispose me either to
laugh or sleep. Not to mention the more ordinary race of
248
A DIALOGUE
orators, such as Canutius, Arrius, or Furnius, with some
others of the same dry and unaffecting cast; even Calvus
himself scarce pleases me in more than one or two short
orations though he has left behind him, if I mistake
not, no less then one and twenty volumes. And the
world in general seems to join with me in the same opi-
nion of them: for how few are the readers of his invec-
tive against Asinius or Drusus? Whereas, those against
Vatinius are in every body's hands, particularly the se-
cond, which is, indeed, both in sentiment and language,
a well written piece. It is evident, therefore, that he
had an idea of just composition, and rather wanted ge-
nius than inclination, to reach a more graceful and ele-
vated manner. As to the orations of Coelius, though they
are by no means valuable upon the whole, yet they have
their merit, so far as they approach to the exalted ele-
gance of the present times. Whenever, indeed, his com-
position is careless and unconnected, his expression low,
and his sentiments gross, it is then he is truly an ancient;
and I will venture to affirm, there is no one so fond of
antiquity as to admire him in that part of his character.
We may allow Caesar, on account of the great affairs in
which he was engaged, as we may Brutus, in consideration
of his philosophy, to be less eloquent than might other-
wise be expected of such superiour geniuses. The truth
is, even their warmest admirers acknowledge, that, as
orators, they by no means shine with the same lustre
which distinguished every other part of their reputation.
Caesar's speech, in favour of Decius, and that of Brutus,
in behalf of king Dejotarus, with some others of the same
coldness and languor, have scarcely, I imagine, met with
any readers; unless, perhaps, among such who can relish
their verses. For verses, we know, they writ, (and pub-
lished too,) I will not say with more spirit, but undoubted-
CONCERNING ORATORY.
249
ly with more success, than Cicero, because they had the
good fortune to fall into much fewer hands. Asinius, one
would guess, by his air and manner, to have been con-
temporary with Menenius, and Appius: though, in fact,
he lived much nearer to our times. It is visible he was
a close imitator of Attius and Pacuvius, not only in his
tragedies, but also in his orations; so remarkably dry and
unpolished are all his compositions! But the beauty of
eloquence, like that of the human form, consists in the
smoothness, strength, and colour of its several parts.
Corvinus I am inclined to spare, though it was his own
fault that he did not equal the elegant refinements of mo-
dern compositions, as it must be acknowledged his ge-
nius was abundantly sufficient for that purpose.
The next I shall take notice of is Cicero; who had
the same contest with those of his own times, as mine,
my friends, with you. They, it seems, were favourers
of the ancients, whilst he preferred the eloquence of his
contemporaries; and, in truth, he excels the orators of
his own age in nothing more remarkably, than in the so-
lidity of his judgment. He was the first who set a polish
upon oratory; who seemed to have any notion of deli-
cacy of expression, and the art of composition. Accord-
ingly, he attempted a more florid style; as he now and
then breaks out into some lively flashes of wit; particu-
larly in his later performances, when much practice and
experience (those best and surest guides) had taught him
a more improved manner. But his earlier compositions
are not without the blemishes of antiquity. He is tedious
in his exordiums, too circumstantial in his narrations, and
careless in retrenching luxuriances. He seems not easily
affected, and is but rarely fired; as his periods are sel-
dom either properly rounded, or happily pointed; he has
nothing, in fine, you would wish to make your own, His
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A DIALOGUE
speeches, like a rude edifice, have strength, indeed, and
permanency; but are destitute of that elegance and
splendour, which are necessary to render them perfectly
agreeable. The orator, however, in his compositions, as
the man of wealth in his buildings, should consider orna-
ment as well as use; his structure should be, not only
substantial but striking; and his furniture not merely
convenient, but rich, and such as will bear a close and
frequent inspection: whilst every thing that has a mean.
and awkward appearance ought to be totally banished.—
Let our orator, then, reject every expression that is ob-
solete, and grown rusty, as it were, by age: let him be
careful not to weaken the force of his sentiments by a
heavy and inartificial combination of words, like our dull
compilers of annals: let him avoid all low and insipid
raillery; in a word, let him vary the structure of his
periods, nor end every sentence with the same uniform
close.
"I will not expose the meanness of Cicero's conceits,
nor his affectation of concluding almost every other pe-
riod with, as it should seem, instead of pointing them with
some lively and spirited turn. I mention even these with
reluctance, and pass over many others of the same inju-
dicious cast. It is singly, however, in little affectations
of this kind, that they who are pleased to style them-
selves ancient orators, seem to admire and imitate him.
I shall content myself with describing their characters,
without mentioning their names; but, you are sensible,
there are certain pretenders to taste who prefer Lucilius
to Horace, and Lucretius to Virgil? who hold the elo-
quence of your favourite Cassus or Nonianus in the ut-
most contempt, when compared with that of Sisenna or
Varro in a word, who despise the productions of our
modern rhetoricians, yet are in raptures with those of
CONCERNING ORATORY.
251
Calvus. These curious orators prate in the courts of
judicature after the manner of the ancients, (as they call
it) till they are deserted by the whole audience, and are
scarce supportable even to their very clients. The truth
of it is, that soundness of eloquence, which they so much
boast, is but an evidence of the natural weakness of their
genius, as it is the effect alone of tame and cautious art.
No physician would pronounce a man to enjoy a proper
constitution, whose health proceeded entirely from a stu-
died and abstemious regimen. To be only not indispos-
ed, is but a small acquisition; it is spirits, vivacity, and
vigour that I require: whatever comes short of this, is
but one remove from imbecility.
"Be it then (as with great ease it may, and, in fact, is)
the glorious distinction of you, my illustrious friends, to
ennoble our age with the most refined eloquence. It is
with infinite satisfaction, Messalla, I observe, that you
single out the most florid among the ancients for your
model. And you, my other two ingenious friends,* so
happily unite strength of sentiment with beauty of ex-
pression such a pregnancy of imagination, such a sym-
metry of ordonnance, distinguish your speeches; so co-
pious or so concise in your elocution, as different occa-
sions require; such an inimitable gracefulness of style,
and such an easy flow of wit, adorn and dignify your com-
positions in a word, so absolutely you command the pas-
sions of your audience, and so happily temper your own,
that, however the envy and malignity of the present age
may withhold that applause which is so justly your due,
posterity, you may rely upon it, will speak of you in the
advantageous terms which you well deserve."
*Maternus and Secundus.
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A DIALOGUE
When Aper had thus finished: "It must be owned,"
said Maternus, "our friend has spoken with much force
and spirit. What a torrent of learning and eloquence has
he poured forth in defence of the moderns! and how com-
pletely vanquished the ancients with those very weapons
which he borrowed from them! However," continued he,
applying himself to Messalla, "you must not recede from
your engagement. Not that we expect you should enter
into a defence of the ancients, or suppose (however Aper
is pleased to compliment) that any of us can stand in
competition with them. Aper, himself, does not sincerely
think so, I dare say; but takes the opposite side in the
debate, merely in imitation of the celebrated manner of
antiquity. We do not desire you, therefore, to entertain
us with a panegyrick upon the ancients: their well-estab-
lished reputation places them far above the want of our
encomiums. But what we request of you is, to account
for our having so widely departed from that noble species
of eloquence which they displayed: especially since we
are not, according to Aper's calculation, more than a hun-
dred and twenty years distant from Cicero."
I shall endeavour," returned Messalla, "to pursue the
plan you have laid down to me.-I shall not enter into
the question with Aper, (though, indeed, he is the first
that ever made it one) whether those who flourished
above a century before us, can properly be styled ancients.
I am not disposed to contend about words; let them be
called ancients, or ancestors, or whatever other name he
pleases, so it be allowed their oratory was superiour to ours.
I admit too, what he just now advanced, that there are
various kinds of eloquence discernible in the same period;
much more in different ages. But, as among the attick
orators, Demosthenes is placed in the first rank, then
Eschines, Hyperides next, and, after him, Lysias and
CONCERNING ORATORY.
253
Lycurgus; an era which, on all hands, is agreed to have
been the prime season of oratory: so amongst us, Cicero
is, by universal consent, preferred to all his contempora-
ries; as, after him, Calvus, Asinius, Caesar, Coelius, and
Brutus, are justly acknowledged to have excelled all our
preceding or subsequent orators. Nor is it of any impor-
tance to the present argument, that they differ in manuer,
since they agree in kind. The compositions of Calvus, it
is confessed, are distinguished by their remarkable con-
ciseness; as those of Asinius are, by the harmonious flow of
his language. Brilliancy of sentiment is Caesar's charac-
teristick as poignancy of wit is that of Coelius. Solidity
recommends the speeches of Brutus; while copiousness,
strength, and vehemence are the predominant qualities
in Cicero. Each of them, however, displays an equal
soundness of eloquence; and one may easily discover a
general resemblance and kindred likeness run through
their several works, though diversified, indeed, according to
their respective geniuses. That they mutually detracted
from each other, (as it must be owned there are some
remaining traces of malignity in their letters) is not to
be imputed to them as orators, but as men. Calvus,
Asinius, and even Cicero himself, were liable, no doubt,
to be infected with jealousy, as well as with other human
frailties and imperfections. Brutus, however, I will
singly except from all imputations of malignity, as I am
persuaded he spoke the sincere and impartial sentiments
of his heart: for can it be supposed that He should envy
Cicero, who does not seem to have envied even Caesar
himself? As to Galba, Laelius, and some others of the
ancients, whom Aper has thought proper to condemn; I
am willing to admit that they have some defects, which
must be ascribed to a growing and yet immature elo-
quence.
22
254
A DIALOGUE
After all, if we must relinquish the nobler kind of ora-
tory, and adopt some lower species, I should certainly
prefer the impetuosity of Gracchus, or the incorrectness
of Crassus, to the studied foppery of Maecenas, or the
childish jingle of Gallio: so much rather would I see elo-
quence clothed in the most rude and negligent garb, than
decked out with the false colours of affected ornament!
There is something in our present manner of elocution,
which is so far from being oratorical, that it is not even
manly; and one would imagine our modern pleaders, by
the levity of their wit, the affected smoothness of their
periods, and licentiousness of their style, had a view to
the stage in all their compositions. Accordingly, some
of them are not ashamed to boast (which one can scarce
even mention without a blush) that their speeches are
adapted to the soft modulation of stage-musick. It is this
depravity of taste which has given rise to the very inde-
cent and preposterous, though very frequent expression,
that such an orator speaks smoothly, and such a dancer
moves eloquently. I am willing to admit, therefore, that
Cassius Severus (the single modern whom Aper has
thought proper to name) when compared to these his
degenerate successors, may justly be deemed an orator;
though, it is certain, in the greater part of his composi-
tions, there appears far more strength than spirit. He
was the first who neglected chastity of style, and propriety
of method. Inexpert in the use of those very weapons
with which he engages, he ever lays himself open to a
thrust, by always endeavouring to attack; and one may
much more properly say of him, that he pushes at ran-
dom, than that he comports himself according to the just
rules of regular combat. Nevertheless, he is greatly supe-
riour, as I observed before, in the variety of his learning,
the agreeableness of his wit, and the strength of his genius,
CONCERNING ORATORY.
255
to those who succeeded him: not one of whom, however,
has Aper ventured to bring into the field. I imagined,
that after having deposed Asinius, and Coelius, and Calvus,
he would have substituted another set of orators in their
place, and that he had numbers to produce in opposition
to Cicero, to Caesar, and the rest whom he rejected; or,
at least, one rival to each of them. On the contrary,
he has distinctly and separately censured all the ancients,
while he has ventured to commend the moderns in general
only. He thought, perhaps, if he singled out some, he
should draw upon himself the resentment of all the rest:
for every declaimer among them modestly ranks himself,
in his own fond opinion, before Cicero, though, indeed,
after Gabinianus. But what Aper was not hardy enough
to undertake, I will be bold to execute for him; and draw
out his oratorical heroes in full view, that it may appear
by what degrees the spirit and vigour of ancient eloquence
was impaired and broken."
"Let me rather entreat you," said Maternus, inter-
rupting him, "to enter, without any farther preface, upon
the difficulty you first undertook to clear. That we are
inferiour to the ancients, in point of eloquence, I by no
means want to have proved; being entirely of that opin-
ion; but my present inquiry is how to account for our sink-
ing so far below them? A question, it seems, you have
examined, and which I am persuaded you would discuss
with much calmness, if Aper's unmerciful attack upon
your favourite orators had not a little discomposed you."
I am nothing offended," returned Messalla, "with the
sentiments which Aper has advanced; neither ought you,
my friends, remembering always that it is an established
law in debates of this kind, that every man may, with en-
tire security, disclose his unreserved opinion.”—“ Proceed
then, I beseech you," replied Maternus, "to the examina-.
1
256
A DIALOGUE
tion of this point concerning the ancients, with a free-
dom equal to theirs: from which I suspect, alas! we
have more widely degenerated, than even from their elo-
quence."
"The cause," said Messalla, resuming his discourse,
"does not lie very remote: and, though you are pleased
to call upon me to assign it, is well known, I doubt not,
both to you and to the rest of this company. For is it
not obvious that eloquence, together with the rest of
the politer arts, has fallen from her ancient glory, not for
want of admirers, but through the dissoluteness of our
youth, the negligence of parents, the ignorance of pre-
ceptors, and the universal disregard of ancient manners?
evils which derived their source from Rome, and thence
spread themselves through Italy, and over all the pro-
vinces; though the mischief, indeed, is most observable
within our own walls. I shall take notice, therefore, of
those vices to which the youth of this city are more pecu-
liarly exposed; which rise upon them in number as they
increase in years. But before I enter farther into this
subject, let me premise an observation or two concerning
the judicious method of discipline practised by our ances-
tors, in training up their children.
In the first place, then, the virtuous matrons of those
wiser ages did not abandon their infants to the mean
hovels of mercenary nurses, but tenderly reared them up
at their own breasts; esteeming the careful regulation of
their children, and domestick concerns, as the highest
point of female merit. It was customary with them,
likewise, to choose out some elderly female relation, of
approved conduct, with whom the family in general en-
trusted the care of their respective children, during their
infant years. This venerable person strictly regulated,
not only their more serious pursuits, but even their very
CONCERNING ORATORY.
257
amusements; restraining them, by her respected pre-
sence, from saying or acting any thing contrary to de-
cency and good manners. In this manner,
In this manner, we are in-
formed, Cornelia, the mother of the two Gracchi, as also
Aurelia and Attia, to whom Julius and Augustus Caesar
owed their respective births, undertook this office of fa-
mily education, and trained up those several noble youths
to whom they were related. This method of discipline
was attended with one very singular advantage: the minds
of young men were conducted sound and untainted to
the study of the noble arts. Accordingly, whatever pro-
fession they determined upon, whether that of arms, elo-
quence, or law, they entirely devoted themselves to that
single pursuit, and, with undissipated application, pos-
sessed the whole compass of their chosen science.
"But, in the present age, the little boy is delegated to
the care of some paltry Greek chamber-maid, in con-
junction with two or three other servants, (and even those
generally of the worst kind) who are absolutely unfit for
every rational and serious office. From the idle tales
and gross absurdities of these worthless people, the ten-
der and uninstructed mind is suffered to receive its ear-
liest impressions. It cannot, indeed, be supposed, that
any caution should be observed among the domesticks;
since the parents themselves are so far from training their
young families to virtue and modesty, that they set them
the first examples of luxury and licentiousness. Thus our
youth gradually acquire a confirmed habit of impudence,
and a total disregard of that reverence they owe both to
themselves and to others. To say truth, it seems as if a
fondness for horses, actors, and gladiators, the peculiar
and distinguishing folly of this our city, was impressed
upon them even in the womb and when once a passion
22 *
258
A DIALOGUE
of this contemptible sort has seized and engaged the
mind, what opening is there left for the noble arts?
"All conversation in general is infected with topicks of
this kind; as they are the constant subjects of discourse,
not only amongst our youth, in their academies, but even
of their tutors themselves. For it is not by establishing
a strict discipline, or by giving proofs of their genius, that
this order of men gains pupils: it is by the meanest com-
pliances and most servile flattery. Not to mention how
ill-instructed our youth are in the very elements of lite-
rature, sufficient pains are by no means taken in bringing
them acquainted with the best authors, or in giving them
a proper notion of history, together with a knowledge of
men and things. The whole that seems to be considered
in their education, is to find out a person for them called
a rhetorician. I shall take occasion, immediately, to
give you some account of the rise and progress of this
profession in Rome, and shew you with what contempt it
was received by our ancestors. But it will be necessary
to lay before you a previous view of that scheme of dis-
cipline which the ancient orators practised; of whose
amazing industry, and unwearied application to every
branch of the polite arts, we meet with many remarkable
accounts in their own writings.
"I need not inform you, that Cicero, in the latter end of
his treatise entitled "Brutus," (the former part of which
is employed in commemorating the ancient orators) gives
a sketch of the several progressive steps by which he
formed his eloquence. He there acquaints us, that he
studied the civil law under Q. Mucius; that he was in-
structed in the several branches of philosophy by Philo
the academick, and Diodorus the stoick; that, not satisfied
with attending the lectures of those eminent masters, of
which there were, at that time, great numbers in Rome,
CONCERNING ORATORY.
259
he made a voyage into Greece and Asia, in order to en-
large his knowledge, and embrace the whole circle of sci-
ences. Accordingly he appears, by his writings, to have
been master of logick, ethicks, astronomy, and natural phi-
losophy, besides, being well versed in geometry, musick,
grammar, and, in short, in every one of the fine arts.-
For thus it is, my worthy friends, from deep learning and
the united confluence of the arts and sciences, the resist-
less torrent of that amazing eloquence derived its strength
and rapidity.
"The faculties of the orator are not exercised, indeed,
as in other sciences, within certain precise and determi-
nate limits on the contrary, eloquence is the most com-
prehensive of the whole circle of arts. Thus, he alone
can justly be deemed an orator, who knows how to em-
ploy the most persuasive arguments upon every question,
who can express himself suitably to the dignity of his
subject with all the powers of grace and harmony; in a
word, who can penetrate into every minute circumstance,
and manage the whole train of incidents to the greatest
advantage of his cause. Such, at least, was the high idea
which the ancients formed of this illustrious character.-
In order, however, to attain this eminent qualification,
they did not think it necessary to declaim in the schools,
and idly waste their breath upon feigned or frivolous
controversies. It was their wiser method to apply them-
selves to the study of such useful arts as concern life and
manners, as treat of moral good and evil, of justice and
injustice, of the decent and the unbecoming in actions.
And, indeed, it is upon points of this nature that the bu-
siness of the orator principally turns. For example, in
the judiciary kind, it relates to matters of equity; as in
the deliberate it is employed in determining the fit and
the expedient: still, however, these two branches are
not so absolutely distinct, but that they are frequently
260
A DIALOGUE
blended with each other. Now it is impossible, when
questions of this kind fall under the consideration of an
orator, to enlarge upon them in all the elegant and enli-
vening spirit of an efficacious eloquence, unless he is per-
fectly well acquainted with human nature; unless he un-
derstands the power and extent of moral duties, and can
distinguish those actions which do not partake either of
vice or virtue.
:
"From the same source, likewise, he must derive his
influence over the passions. For if he is skilled, for in-
stance, in the nature of indignation, he will be so much.
the more capable of soothing or enflaming the breasts of
his judges: if he knows wherein compassion consists, and
by what workings of the heart it is moved, he will the
more easily raise that tender affection of the soul. An
orator trained up in this discipline, and practised in these
arts, will have full command over the breasts of his audi-
ence, in whatever disposition it may be his chance to find
them and thus furnished with all the numberless powers.
of persuasion, will judiciously vary and accommodate his
eloquence, as particular circumstances and conjunctures
shall require. There are some, we find, who are most
struck with that manner of elocution, where the argu-
ments are drawn up in a short and close style: upon
such an occasion, the orator will experience the great ad-
vantage of being conversant in logick. Others, on the
contrary, admire flowing and diffusive periods, where the
illustrations are borrowed from the ordinary and familiar
images of common observation here the Peripatetick
writers will give him some assistance; as, indeed, they
will, in general, supply him with many useful hints in all
the different methods of popular address. The Acade-
micks will inspire him with a becoming warmth: Plato
with sublimity of sentiments, and Xenophon with an easy
CONCERNING ORATORY.
261
and elegant diction. Even the exclamatory manner of
Epicurus, or Metrodorus, may be found, in some circum-
stances, not altogether unserviceable. In a word, what
the Stoicks pretend of their wise men, ought to be verified
in our orator, and he should actually possess all human
knowledge. Accordingly, the ancients who applied them-
selves to eloquence, not only studied the civil laws, but
also grammar, poetry, musick, and geometry. Indeed,
there are few causes (perhaps I might justly say there
are none) wherein a skill in the first is not absolutely ne-
cessary; as there are many in which an acquaintance
with the last mentioned sciences is highly requisite.
"If it should be objected, that 'eloquence is the single
'science requisite for the orator; as an occasional re-
course to the others will be sufficient for all his pur-
'poses,' I answer in the first place, there will always
be a remarkable difference in the manner of applying
what we take up, as it were, upon loan, and what we pro-
perly possess; so that it will ever be manifest, whether
the orator is indebted to others for what he produces, or
derives it from his own unborrowed fund. And in the
next, the sciences throw an inexpressible grace over our
compositions, even where they are not immediately con-
cerned; as their effects are discernible where we least
expect to find them. This powerful charm is not only
distinguished by the learned and the judicious, but strikes
even the most common and popular class of auditors ;
insomuch that one may frequently hear them applauding
a speaker of this improved kind, as a man of genuine eru-
dition; as enriched with the whole treasures of elo-
quence; and, in one word, acknowledge the complete
orator. But I will take the liberty to affirm, that no
man ever did, nor, indeed, ever can, maintain that ex-
alted character, unless he enters the forum supported by
262
A DIALOGUE
the full strength of the united arts. Accomplishments,
however, of this sort, are now so totally neglected, that
the pleadings of our orators are debased by the lowest
expressions; as a general ignorance both of the laws of
our country and the acts of the senate is visible through-
out their performances. All knowledge of the rights and
customs of Rome is professedly ridiculed, and philoso-
phy seems at present to be considered as something that
ought to be shunned and dreaded. Thus eloquence, like
a dethroned potentate, is banished her rightful dominions,
and confined to barren points and low conceits: and she,
who was once mistress of the whole circle of sciences,
and charmed every beholder with the goodly appearance
of her glorious train, is now stripped of all her attend-
ants, (I had almost said of all her genius) and seems as
one of the meanest of the mechanick arts. This, there-
fore, I consider as the first, and the principal reason of
our having so greatly declined from the spirit of the an-
cients.
"If I were called upon to support my opinion by au-
thorities, might I not justly name, among the Grecians,
Demosthenes? who, we are informed, constantly attend-
ed the lectures of Plato: as, among our own countrymen,
Cicero himself assures us, (and in these very words, if I
rightly remember) that he owed whatever advances he
had made in eloquence, not to the rhetoricians, but to the
academick philosophers.
"Other, and very considerable reasons might be pro-
duced for the decay of eloquence. But I leave them, my
friends, as it is proper I should, to be mentioned by you ;
having performed my share in the examination of this
question: and with a freedom, which will give, I imagine,
as usual, much offence. I am sure, at least, if certain of
our contemporaries were to be informed of what I have
CONCERNING ORATORY.
263
here maintained, I should be told, that in laying it down
as a maxim, that a knowledge both of law and philosophy
are essential qualifications in an orator, I have been fondly
pursuing a phantom of my own imagination.”
"I am so far from thinking," replied Maternus; “you
have completed the part you undertook, that I should
rather imagine you had only given us the first general
sketch of your design. You have marked out to us, in-
deed, those sciences wherein the ancient orators were in-
structed, and have placed in strong contrast their suc-
cessful industry, with our unperforming ignorance. But
something farther still remains; and, as you have shewn
us the superiour acquirements of the orators in those more
improved ages of eloquence, as well as the remarkable
deficiency of those in our own times, I should be glad you
would proceed to acquaint us with the particular exer-
cises by which the youth of those earlier days were wont
to strengthen and improve their geniuses. For I dare
say you will not deny that oratory is acquired by practice
far better than by precept: and our other two friends
here seem willing, I perceive, to admit it."
To which, when Aper and Secundus had signified their
assent, Messalla, resuming his discourse, continued as
follows:
Having, then, as it should seem, disclosed to your sa-
tisfaction the seeds and first principles of ancient elo-
quence, by specifying the several kinds of arts to which
the ancient orators were trained, I shall now lay before
you the method they pursued, in order to gain a facility
in the exertion of eloquence. This, indeed, I have, in
some measure, anticipated, by mentioning the prepara-
tory arts to which they applied themselves for it is im-
possible to make any progress in a compass so various and
so abstruse, unless we not only strengthen our knowledge
264
A DIALOGUE
by reflection, but improve a general aptitude by frequent
exercise. Thus it appears that the same steps must be
pursued in exerting our oratory, as in attaining it. But
if this truth should not be universally admitted; if any
should think that eloquence may be possessed without
paying previous court to her attendant sciences; most
certainly, at least, it will not be denied, that a mind duly
impregnated with the polite arts, will enter with so much
the more advantage upon those exercises peculiar to the
oratorical circus.
66
Accordingly, our ancestors, when they designed a
young man for the profession of eloquence, having previ-
ously taken due care of his domestick education, and sea-
soned his mind with useful knowledge, introduced him to
the most eminent orator in Rome. From that time, the
youth commenced his constant follower, attending him
upon all occasions, whether he appeared in the publick
assemblies of the people, or in the courts of civil judica-
ture. Thus he learned, if I may use the expression, the
arts of oratorical conflict in the very field of battle. The
advantages which flowed from this method were consi-
derable: it animated the courage and quickened the
judgment of youth, thus to receive their instructions in
the eye of the world, and in the midst of affairs, when no
man could advance an absurd or a weak argument, with-
out being rejected by the bench, exposed by his adver-
sary, and, in a word, despised by the whole audience.-
By this method they imbibed the pure and uncorrupted
streams of genuine eloquence. But though they chiefly
attached themselves to one particular orator, they heard,
likewise, all the rest of their contemporary pleaders, in
many of their respective debates. Hence, also, they had
an opportunity of acquainting themselves with the various
sentiments of the people, and of observing what pleased
CONCERNING ORATORY.
265
or disgusted them most in the several orators of the fo-
rum. By this means they were supplied with an instruc-
ter of the best and most improving kind, exhibiting, not
the feigned semblance of eloquence, but her real and
lively manifestation: not a pretended, but a genuine ad-
versary, armed in earnest for the combat; an audience,
ever full and ever new, composed of foes as well as
friends, and where not a single expression could fall un-
censured or unapplauded. For you will agree with me,
I am well persuaded, when I assert, that a solid and last-
ing reputation of eloquence must be acquired by the cen-
sure of our enemies, as well as by the applause of our
friends; or rather, indeed, it is from the former that it
derives its surest and most unquestioned strength and
firmness. Accordingly, a youth thus formed to the bar,
a frequent and attentive hearer of the most illustrious
orators and debates, instructed by the experience of
others, acquainted with the popular state, and daily con-
versant in the laws of his country, to whom the solemn
presence of the judges, and the awful eyes of a full au-
dience, were familiar, rose at once into affairs, and was
equal to every cause. Hence it was that Crassus, at the
age of nineteen, Caesar at twenty-one, Pollio at twenty-
two, and Calvus when he was but a few years older, pro-
nounced those several speeches against Carbo, Dola-
bella, Cato, and Vatinius, which we read to this hour
with admiration.
"On the other hand, our modern youth receive their
education under certain declaimers, called rhetoricians :
a set of men who made their first appearance in Rome, a
little before the time of Cicero. And that they were by
no means approved by our ancestors, plainly appears
from their being enjoined, under the censorship of Cras-
sus and Domitius, to shut up their schools of impudence,
23
266
A DIALOGUE
as Cicero expresses it.-But I was going to say, we are
sent to certain academies, where it is hard to determine
whether the place, the company, or the method of in-
struction is most likely to infect the minds of young peo-
ple, and produce a wrong turn of thought. For nothing,
certainly, can there be of an affecting solemnity in an
audience, where all who compose it are of the same low
degree of understanding; nor any advantage to be re-
ceived from their fellow-students, where a parcel of boys
and raw youths of unripe judgments, harangue before each
other, without the least fear or danger of criticism. And
as for their exercises, they are ridiculous in their very
nature. They consist of two kinds, and are either decla-
matory or controversial. The first, as being easier and
requiring less skill, is assigned to the younger lads: the
other is the task of more mature years. But, good gods!
with what incredible absurdity are they composed! The
truth is, the style of their declamations is as false and
contemptible, as the subjects are useless and fictitious.
Thus, being taught to harangue, in a most pompous dic-
tion, on the rewards due to tyrannicides, on the election
to be made by deflowered virgins,* on the licentiousness
of married women, on the ceremonies to be observed in
times of pestilence, with other topicks of the same uncon-
cerning kind, which are daily debated in the schools, and
scarce ever at the bar; they appear absolute novices in
'the affairs of the world, and are by much too elevated
for common life.'"
•
Here Messalla paused: when Secundus, taking his
'turn in the conversation, began with observing, that'
*It was one of the questions usually debated in these rhetorick schools,
whether the party who had been ravished should choose to marry the violator
of her chastity, or rather have him put to death.
+ The latter part of Messalla's discourse, together with what immediately
followed it in the original, is lost: the chasm, however, does not seem to be so
CONCERNING ORATORY.
267
*
the true and lofty spirit of genuine eloquence, like that
of a clear and vigorous flame, is nourished by proper fuel,
excited by agitation, and still brightens as it burns. "It
was in this manner," said he, "that the oratory of our
ancestors was kindled and spread itself. The moderns
have as much merit of this kind, perhaps, as can be ac-
quired under a settled and peaceable government: but far
inferiour, no doubt, to that which shone out in the times
of licentiousness and confusion, when he was deemed the
ablest orator, who had most influence over a restless and
ungoverned multitude. To this situation of publick affairs
was owing those continual debates concerning the Agra-
rian laws, and the popularity consequent thereupon;
those long harangues of the magistrates, those impeach-
ments of the great, those factions of the nobles, those
hereditary enmities in particular families; and, in fine,
those incessant struggles between the senate and the
commons; which, though each of them prejudicial to the
state, yet most certainly contributed to produce and en-
courage that rich vein of eloquence which discovered it-
self in those tempestuous days. The way to dignities lay
directly through the paths of Eloquence. The more a
man signalized himself by his abilities in this art, so much
the more easily he opened his road to preferment, and
maintained an ascendant over his colleagues, at the same
great as some of the commentators suspect. The translator, therefore, has
ventured to fill it up in his own way, with those lines which are distinguished
by inverted commas. He has, likewise, given the next subsequent part of the
conversation to Secundus; though it does not appear in the original to whom
it belongs. It would be of no great importance to the English reader to justify
this last article: though, perhaps, it would not be very difficult, if it were
necessary.
To save the reader the trouble of turning to a second note upon a like
occasion, it is proper to observe in this place, that he will find the same
inverted commas in page 272. The words included between them are also an
addition of the translator's; and for the same reason as that just now men-
vioned,
268
A DIALOGUE
患
​time that it heightened his interest with the nobles, his
authority with the senate, and his reputation with the
people in general. The patronage of these admired ora-
tors was courted even by foreign nations; as the several
magistrates of our own endeavoured to recommend them-
selves to their favour and protection, by shewing them
the highest marks of honour whenever they set out for
the administration of their respective provinces, and by
studiously cultivating a friendship with them at their re-
turn. They were called upon, without any solicitation on
their own part, to fill up the supreme dignities of the state.
Nor were they even in a private station without great
power, as, by means of the persuasive arts, they had a
very considerable influence over both the senate and the
people. The truth is, it was an established maxim in
those days, that, without the oratorical talents, no man
could either acquire or maintain any high post in the go-
vernment. And, no wonder, indeed, that such notions
should universally prevail; since it was impossible for any
person, endued with this commanding art, to pass his
life in obscurity, how much soever it might be agreeable
to his own inclinations; since it was not sufficient merely
to vote in the senate, without supporting that vote with
good sense and eloquence; since, in all publick impeach-
ments or civil causes, the accused was obliged to answer
to the charge in his own person; since written deposi-
tions were not admitted in judicial matters, but the wit-
nesses were called upon to deliver their evidence in open
court. Thus our ancestors were eloquent, as much by
necessity as by encouragements. To be possessed of the
persuasive talents, was esteemed the highest glory; as
the contrary character was held in the utmost contempt.
In a word, they were incited to the pursuit of oratory, by
a principle of honour, as well as by a view of interest.
They dreaded the disgrace of being considered rather as
CONCERNING ORATORY.
269
clients than patrons; of losing those dependents which
their ancestors had transmitted to them, and seeing them
mix in the train of others; in short, of being looked upon
as men of mean abilities, and consequently either passed
over in the disposal of high offices, or despised in the ad-.
ministration of them.
n
I know not whether those ancient historical pieces,
which were lately collected and published by Mucianus,
from the old libraries where they have hitherto been pre-
served, have yet fallen into your hands. This collection
consists of eleven volumes of the publick journals, and
three of epistles; by which it appears that Pompey and
Crassus gained as much advantage from their eloquence,
as their arms; that Lucullus, Metellus, Lentulus, Curio,
and the rest of those distinguished chiefs, devoted them-
selves with great application to this insinuating art; in a
word, that not a single person, in those times, rose to
any considerable degree of power, without the assistance
of the rhetorical talents.
To these considerations may be farther added, that
the dignity and importance of the debates in which the
ancients were engaged, contributed greatly to advance
their eloquence. Most certain, indeed, it is, that an
orator must necessarily find a great difference with respect
to his powers, when he is to harangue only upon some
trifling robbery, or a little paltry form of pleading; and
when the faculties of his mind are warmed and enlivened
by such interesting and animating topicks as bribery at
elections, as the oppression of our allies, or the massacre
of our fellow-citizens. Evils these, which, beyond all
peradventure, it were better should never happen; and
we have reason to rejoice that we live under a govern-
ment where we are strangers to such terrible calamities;
still it must be acknowledged, that wherever they did
happen, they were wonderful incentives to eloquence.

23*
270
A DIALOGUE
1
*
For the orator's genius rises and expands itself in propor
tion to the dignity of the occasion upon which it is ex-
erted, and I will lay it down as a maxim, that it is im-
possible to shine out in all the powerful lustre of genuine
eloquence, without being inflamed by a suitable impor-
tance of subject. Thus the speech of Demosthenes against
his guardians, scarcely, I imagine, established his charac-
ter; as it was not the defence of Archias, or Quinctius,
that acquired Cicero the reputation of a consummate
orator. It was Catiline, and Milo, and Verres, and Mark
Anthony, that warmed him with that noble glow of elo-
quence, which gave the finishing brightness to his un-
equalled fame. Far am I from insinuating, that such
infamous characters deserve to be tolerated in a state, in
order to supply convenient matter of oratory: All I
contend for is, that this art flourishes to most advantage
in turbulent times. Peace, no doubt, is infinitely pre-
ferable to war; but it is the latter only that forms the
soldier. It is just the same with Eloquence: the oftener
she enters, if I may so say, the field of battle, the more
wounds she gives and receives; the more powerful the
adversary with which she contends, so much the more
ennobled she appears in the eye of mankind. For it
is the disposition of human nature always to admire what
we see is attended with danger and difficulty in others,
how much soever we may choose ease and security for
ourselves.
"Another advantage which the ancient orators had over
the moderns, is, that they were not confined in their
pleadings, as we are, to a few hours. On the contrary,
they were at liberty to adjourn as often as they thought
proper: they were unlimited as to the number of days
or of counsel, and every orator might extend his speech
to the length most agreeable to himself. Pompey, in his

CONCERNING ORATORY.
271
X
third consulship, was the first who curbed the spirit of
eloquence: still, however, permitting all causes to be
heard, agreeably to the laws, in the forum and before the
praetors. How much more considerable the business of
those magistrates was, than that of the centumvirs, who,
at present, determine all causes, is evident from this cir-
cumstance, that not a single oration of Cicero, Caesar, or
Brutus, or, in short, of any one celebrated orator, was
spoken before these last, excepting only those of Pollio
in favour of the heirs of Urbinia. But then it must be
remembered, that these were delivered about the middle
of the reign of Augustus, when a long and uninterrupted
peace abroad, a perfect tranquillity at home, together
with the general good conduct of that wise prince, had
damped the flames of eloquence as well as those of
sedition.

•
"You will smile, perhaps, at what I am going to say,
and I mention it for that purpose; but is there not some-
thing in the present confined garb of our orators, that has
an ill effect even upon their elocution, and makes it ap-
pear low and contemptible? · May we not suppose, like-
wise, that much of the spirit of oratory is sunk, by that
close and despicable scene wherein many of our causes
are now debated? For the orator, like a generous steed,
requires a free and open space wherein to expatiate;
otherwise, the force of his powers is broken, and half
the energy of his talents is checked in their career.
There is another circumstance also exceedingly prejudi-
cial to the interest of eloquence, as it prevents a due at-
tention to style: we are now obliged to enter upon our
speech whenever the judge calls upon us; not to men-
tion the frequent interruptions which arise by the exa-
mination of witnesses. Besides, the courts of judicature
are, at present, so unfrequented, that the orator seems to
272
A DIALOGUE
';
stand alone, and talk to bare walls. But eloquence re-
joices in the clamour of loud applause, and exults in a
full audience, such as used to press round the ancient
orators, when the forum stood thronged with nobles; when
a numerous retinue of clients, when foreign ambassadors,
and whole cities assisted at the debate; and when even
Rome herself was concerned in the event. The very ap-
pearance of that prodigious concourse of people, which
attended the trials of Bestia, Cornelius, Scaurus, Milo,
and Vatinius, must have inflamed the breast of the cold-
est orator. Accordingly, we find, that of all the ancient.
orations now extant, there are none which have more
eminently distinguished their authors, than those which
were pronounced under such favourable circumstances.
To these advantages we may farther add, likewise, the
frequent general assemblies of the people, the privilege
of arraigning the most considerable personages, and the
popularity of such impeachments; when the sons of ora-
tory spared not even Scipio, Sylla, or Pompey; and when,
in consequence of such acceptable attacks upon sus-
pected power, they were sure of being heard by the peo-
ple with the utmost attention and regard. How must
these united causes contribute to raise the genius, and
inspire the eloquence of the ancients!
Maternus, who, you will remember, was in the midst
' of his harangue in favour of poetry, when Messalla first
'entered into the room, finding Secundus was now silent,
'took that opportunity of resuming his invective against
'the exercise of the oratorical arts in general.'
"That
species of eloquence," said he," wherein poetry is con-
cerned, is calm and peaceable, moderate and virtuous :
whereas, that other supreme kind which my two friends
here have been describing, is the offspring of licentious-
ness (by fools miscalled liberty) and the companion of se-
+
i

CONCERNING ORATORY.
273
تایل
dition; bold, obstinate, and haughty, unknowing how to
yield, or how to obey, an encourager of a lawless popu-
lace, and a stranger in all well-regulated communities.
Who ever heard of an orator in Lacedaemon or Crete ?
Cities which exercised the severest discipline, and were
governed by the strictest laws. We have no account of
Persian or Macedonian eloquence, or, indeed, of that of
any other state which submitted to a regular administra-
tion of government. Whereas, Rhodes and Athens (places
of popular rule, where all things lay open to all men)
swarmed with orators innumerable. In the same manner,
Rome, whilst she was under no settled policy; while she
was torn with parties, dissensions, and factions; while
there was no peace in the forum, no harmony in the se-
nate, no moderation in the judges; while there was nei-
ther reverence paid to superiours, nor bounds prescribed
to magistrates-Rome, under these circumstances, pro-
duced, beyond all dispute, a stronger and brighter vein of
eloquence; as some valuable plants will flourish even in
the wildest soil. But the tongue of the Gracchi did no-
thing compensate the republick for their seditious laws;
nor the superiour eloquence of Cicero make him any
amends for his sad catastrophe.
The truth is, the forum (that single remain which
now survives of ancient oratory) is, even in its present
situation, an evident proof that all things amongst us are
not conducted in that well-ordered manner one could
wish. For, tell me, is it not the guilty or the miserable
alone, that fly to us for assistance? When any communi-
ty implores our protection, is it not because it either is
insulted by some neighbouring state, or torn by domestick
feuds? And what province ever seeks our patronage, till
she has been plundered or oppressed? But far better it
surely is, never to have been injured, than, at last, to be
redressed. If there was a government in the world free
274
A DIALOGUE
Æ
from commotions and disturbances, the profession of
oratory would there be as useless, as that of medicine to
the sound: and, as the physician would have little prac-'
tice or profit among the healthy and the strong, so nei-
ther would the orator have much business or honour
where obedience and good manners universally prevail.
To what purpose are studied speeches in a senate, where
the better and the major part of the assembly are already
of one mind? What the expediency of haranguing the
populace, where publick affairs are not determined by the
voice of an ignorant and giddy multitude, but by the
steady wisdom of a single person? To what end volunta-
ry informations, where crimes are unfrequent and incon-
siderable? or of laboured and invidious defences, where
the clemency of the judge is ever on the side of the ac-
cused? Believe me, then, my worthy (and, as far as the
circumstances of the age require, my eloquent) friends,
had the gods reversed the date of your existence, and
placed you in the times of those ancients we so much ad-
mire, and them in yours: you would not have fallen short
of that glorious spirit which distinguished their oratory,
nor would they have been destitute of a proper tempera-
ture of moderation. But, since a high reputation for elo-
quence is not consistent with great repose in the publick,
let every age enjoy its own peculiar advantages, without
derogating from those of a former.”
Maternus having ended, Messalla observed, that there
were some points which his friend had laid down, that
were not perfectly agreeable to his sentiments: as there
were others, which he wished to hear explained more at
large: "but the time is now," said he, "too far advanced."
-"If I have maintained any thing," replied Maternus,
"which requires to be opened more explicitly, I shall be
ready to clear it up in some future conference :" at the
CONCERNING ORATORY.
275
same time, rising from his seat and embracing Aper
Messalla and I," continued he, 'smiling, "shall arraign
you, be well assured, before the poets and admirers of
the ancients."—" And I, both of you," returned Aper,
"before the rhetoricians." Thus we parted in mutual
good-humour.
THE END.