Virgil
, which have been lighted up by
Homer
.
Milton
, tho' his own natural Strength of Genius was capable of
furnishing out a perfect Work, has doubtless very much raised and
ennobled his Conceptions, by such an Imitation as that which
Longinus
has recommended.
In this Book, which gives us an Account of the six Days Works, the Poet
received but very few Assistances from Heathen Writers, who were
Strangers to the Wonders of Creation. But as there are many glorious
strokes of Poetry upon this Subject in Holy Writ, the Author has
numberless Allusions to them through the whole course of this Book. The
great Critick I
before mentioned, though an Heathen, has taken
notice of the sublime Manner in which the Lawgiver of the
Jews
has
describ'd the Creation in the first Chapter of
Genesis
; and there are
many other Passages in Scripture, which rise up to the same Majesty,
where this Subject is touched upon.
Milton
has shewn his Judgment very
remarkably, in making use of such of these as were proper for his Poem,
and in duly qualifying those high Strains of Eastern Poetry, which were
suited to Readers whose Imaginations were set to an higher pitch than
those of colder Climates.
Adam's
Speech to the Angel, wherein he desires an Account of what had
passed within the Regions of Nature before the Creation, is very great
and solemn. The following Lines, in which he tells him, that the Day is
not too far spent for him to enter upon such a subject, are exquisite in
their kind.
And the great Light of Day yet wants to run
Much of his Race, though steep, suspense in Heav'n
Held by thy Voice; thy potent Voice he hears,
And longer will delay, to hear thee tell
His Generation, &c.
The Angel's encouraging our first Parent
s
in a modest pursuit after
Knowledge, with the Causes which he assigns for the Creation of the
World, are very just and beautiful. The
Messiah
, by whom, as we are told
in Scripture, the Worlds were made,
forth in the Power of his
Father, surrounded with an Host of Angels, and cloathed with such a
Majesty as becomes his entring upon a Work, which, according to our
Conceptions,
appears
the utmost Exertion of Omnipotence. What a
beautiful Description has our Author raised upon that Hint in one of the
Prophets.
behold there came four Chariots out from between two
Mountains, and the Mountains were Mountains of Brass
.
About his Chariot numberless were pour'd
Cherub and Seraph, Potentates and Thrones,
And Virtues, winged Spirits, and Chariots wing'd,
From th' Armoury of Gold, where stand of old
Myriads between two brazen Mountains lodg'd
Against a solemn Day, harness'd at hand;
Celestial Equipage! and now came forth
Spontaneous, for within them Spirit liv'd,
Attendant on their Lord: Heav'n open'd wide
Her ever-during Gates, Harmonious Sound!
On golden Hinges moving—
I have before taken notice of these Chariots of God, and of these Gates
of Heaven; and shall here only add, that
Homer
gives us the same Idea of
the latter, as opening of themselves; tho' he afterwards takes off from
it, by telling us, that the Hours first of all removed those prodigious
Heaps of Clouds which lay as a Barrier before them.
I do not know any thing in the whole Poem more sublime than the
Description which follows, where the
Messiah
is represented at the head
of his Angels, as looking down into the Chaos, calming its Confusion,
riding into the midst of it, and drawing the first Out-Line of the
Creation.
On Heavenly Ground they stood, and from the Shore
They view'd the vast immeasurable Abyss,
Outrageous as a Sea, dark, wasteful, wild;
Up from the bottom turned by furious Winds
And surging Waves, as Mountains to assault
Heaven's height, and with the Center mix the Pole.
Silence, ye troubled Waves, and thou Deep, Peace!
Said then th' Omnific Word, your Discord end:
Nor staid; but, on the Wings of Cherubim
Up-lifted, in Paternal Glory rode
Far into Chaos, and the World unborn;
For Chaos heard his Voice. Him all His Train
Follow'd in bright Procession, to behold
Creation, and the Wonders, of his Might.
Then staid the fervid Wheels, and in his Hand
He took the Golden Compasses, prepar'd
In God's eternal Store, to circumscribe
This Universe, and all created Things:
One Foot he center'd, and the other turn'd
Round, through the vast Profundity obscure;
And said, Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds,
This be thy just Circumference, O World!
The Thought of the Golden Compasses is conceived altogether in
Homer's
Spirit, and is a very noble Incident in this wonderful Description.
Homer
, when he speaks of the Gods, ascribes to them several Arms and
Instruments with the same greatness of Imagination. Let the Reader only
peruse the Description of
Minerva's
Ægis, or Buckler, in the Fifth Book,
with her Spear, which would overturn whole Squadrons, and her Helmet,
that was sufficient to cover an Army drawn out of an hundred Cities: The
Golden Compasses in the above-mentioned Passage appear a very natural
Instrument in the Hand of him, whom
Plato
somewhere calls the Divine
Geometrician. As Poetry delights in cloathing abstracted Ideas in
Allegories and sensible Images, we find a magnificent Description of the
Creation form'd after the same manner in one of the Prophets, wherein he
describes the Almighty Architect as measuring the Waters in the Hollow
of his Hand, meting out the Heavens with his Span, comprehending the
Dust of the Earth in a Measure, weighing the Mountains in Scales, and
the Hills in a Balance. Another of them describing the Supreme Being in
this great Work of Creation, represents him as laying the Foundations of
the Earth, and stretching a Line upon it: And in another place as
garnishing the Heavens, stretching out the North over the empty Place,
and hanging the Earth upon nothing. This last noble Thought
Milton
has
express'd in the following Verse:
And Earth self-ballanc'd on her Center hung.
The Beauties of Description in this Book lie so very thick, that it is
impossible to enumerate them in this Paper. The Poet has employ'd on
them the whole Energy of our Tongue. The several great Scenes of the
Creation rise up to view one after another, in such a manner, that the
Reader seems present at this wonderful Work, and to assist among the
Choirs of Angels, who are the Spectators of it. How glorious is the
Conclusion of the first Day.
—Thus was the first Day Ev'n and Morn
Nor past uncelebrated nor unsung
By the Celestial Quires, when Orient Light
Exhaling first from Darkness they beheld;
Birth-day of Heav'n and Earth! with Joy and Shout
The hollow universal Orb they fill'd.
We have the same elevation of Thought in the third Day, when the
Mountains were brought forth, and the Deep was made.
Immediately the Mountains huge appear
Emergent, and their broad bare Backs up-heave
Into the Clouds, their Tops ascend the Sky:
So high as heav'd the tumid Hills, so low
Down sunk a hollow Bottom, broad and deep,
Capacious Bed of Waters—
We have also the rising of the whole vegetable World described in this
Day's Work, which is filled with all the Graces that other Poets have
lavish'd on their Descriptions of the Spring, and leads the Reader's
Imagination into a Theatre equally surprising and beautiful.
The several Glories of the Heav'ns make their Appearance on the Fourth
Day.
First in his East the glorious Lamp was seen,
Regent of Day; and all th' Horizon round
Invested with bright Rays, jocund to round
His Longitude through Heav'ns high Road: the gray
Dawn, and the Pleiades before him danced,
Shedding sweet Influence. Less bright the Moon,
But opposite in level'd West was set,
His Mirror, with full face borrowing her Light
From him, for other Lights she needed none
In that aspect, and still that distance keeps
Till Night; then in the East her turn she shines,
Revolv'd on Heav'n's great Axle, and her Reign
With thousand lesser Lights dividual holds,
With thousand thousand Stars! that then appear'd
Spangling the Hemisphere—
One would wonder how the Poet could be so concise in his Description of
the six Days Works, as to comprehend them within the bounds of an
Episode, and at the same time so particular, as to give us a lively Idea
of them. This is still more remarkable in his Account of the Fifth and
Sixth Days, in which he has drawn out to our View the whole Animal
Creation, from the Reptil to the Behemoth.
the Lion and the Leviathan
are two of the noblest Productions in
the
World of living
Creatures, the Reader will find a most exquisite Spirit of Poetry in the
Account which our Author gives us of them. The Sixth Day concludes with
the Formation of Man, upon which the Angel takes occasion, as he did
after the Battel in Heaven, to remind
Adam
of his Obedience, which was
the principal Design of this his Visit.
The Poet afterwards represents the
Messiah
returning into Heaven, and
taking a Survey of his great Work. There is something inexpressibly
Sublime in this part of the Poem, where the Author describes that great
Period of Time, filled with so many Glorious Circumstances; when the
Heavens and Earth were finished; when the
Messiah
ascended up in triumph
thro' the Everlasting Gates; when he looked down with pleasure upon his
new Creation; when every Part of Nature seem'd to rejoice in its
Existence; when the Morning-Stars sang together, and all the Sons of God
shouted for joy.
So Ev'n and Morn accomplished the sixth Day:
Yet not 'till the Creator from his Work
Desisting, tho' unwearied, up return'd,
Up to the Heav'n of Heav'ns, his high Abode;
Thence to behold this new created World,
Th' Addition of his Empire, how it shewed
In prospect from his Throne, how good, how fair,
Answering his great Idea: Up he rode,
Follow'd with Acclamation, and the Sound
Symphonious of ten thousand Harps, that tuned
Angelick Harmonies; the Earth, the Air
Resounding (thou remember'st, for thou heard'sf)
The Heavens and all the Constellations rung;
The Planets in their Station listning stood,
While the bright Pomp ascended jubilant.
Open, ye everlasting Gates, they sung,
Open, ye Heavens, your living Doors; let in
The great Creator from his Work return'd
Magnificent, his six Days Work, a World!
I
conclude this Book upon the Creation, without mentioning a Poem
which has lately appeared under that Title
. The Work was undertaken
with so good an Intention, and is executed with so great a Mastery, that
it deserves to be looked upon as one of the most useful and noble
Productions in our English Verse. The Reader cannot but be pleased to
find the Depths of Philosophy enlivened with all the Charms of Poetry,
and to see so great a Strength of Reason, amidst so beautiful a
Redundancy of the Imagination. The Author has shewn us that Design in
all the Works of Nature, which necessarily leads us to the Knowledge of
its first Cause. In short, he has illustrated, by numberless and
incontestable Instances, that Divine Wisdom, which the Son of
Sirach
has
so nobly ascribed to the Supreme Being in his Formation of the World,
when he tells us, that He created her, and saw her, and numbered her,
and poured her out upon all his Works.
L.
Ovid
On the Sublime
, § 8.
§14.
Longinus, § 9:
"So likewise the Jewish legislator, no ordinary person, having conceived a just idea of the power of God, has nobly expressed it in the beginning of his law. 'And God said,'—What? 'Let there be Light, and there was Light. Let the Earth be, and the Earth was.'"
looks like
Zechariah
vi. i.
this
Sir Richard Blackmore's
Creation
appeared in 1712. Besides
this praise of it from Addison, its religious character caused Dr.
Johnson to say that if Blackmore
'
had written nothing else it would have transmitted him to posterity among the first favourites of the English muse.'
But even with the help of all his epics it has failed to secure him any
such place in the estimation of posterity. This work is not an epic, but
described on its title page as 'a Philosophical Poem, Demonstrating the
Existence and Providence of a God.' It argues in blank verse, in the
first two of its seven books, the existence of a Deity from evidences of
design in the structure and qualities of earth and sea, in the celestial
bodies and the air; in the next three books it argues against objections
raised by Atheists, Atomists, and Fatalists; in the sixth book proceeds
with evidences of design, taking the structure of man's body for its
theme; and in the next, which is the last book, treats in the same way
of the Instincts of Animals and of the Faculties and Operations of the
Soul. This is the manner of the Poem:
The Sea does next demand our View; and there
No less the Marks of perfect skill appear.
When first the Atoms to the Congress came,
And by their Concourse form'd the mighty Frame,
What did the Liquid to th' Assembly call
To give their Aid to form the ponderous Ball?
First, tell us, why did any come? next, why
In such a disproportion to the Dry!
Why were the Moist in Number so outdone,
That to a Thousand Dry, they are but one,
It is hardly a 'mark of perfect skill' that there are five or six
thousand of such dry lines in Blackmore's poem, and not even one that
should lead a critic to speak in the same breath of Blackmore and
Milton.
No. 340 |
Monday, March 31, 1712 |
Steele |
Quis novus hic nostris successit sedibus Hospes?
Quem sese Ore ferens! quam forti Pectore et Armis!
Virg.
I take it to be the highest Instance of a noble Mind, to bear great
Qualities without discovering in a Man's Behaviour any Consciousness
that he is superior to the rest of the World. Or, to say it otherwise,
it is the Duty of a great Person so to demean himself, as that whatever
Endowments he may have, he may appear to value himself upon no Qualities
but such as any Man may arrive at: He ought to think no Man valuable but
for his publick Spirit, Justice and Integrity; and all other Endowments
to be esteemed only as they contribute to the exerting those Virtues.
Such a Man, if he is Wise or Valiant, knows it is of no Consideration to
other Men that he is so, but as he employs those high Talents for their
Use and Service. He who affects the Applauses and Addresses of a
Multitude, or assumes to himself a Pre-eminence upon any other
Consideration, must soon turn Admiration into Contempt. It is certain,
that there can be no Merit in any Man who is not conscious of it; but
the Sense that it is valuable only according to the Application of it,
makes that Superiority amiable, which would otherwise be invidious. In
this Light it is considered as a Thing in which every Man bears a Share:
It annexes the Ideas of Dignity, Power, and Fame, in an agreeable and
familiar manner, to him who is Possessor of it; and all Men who are
Strangers to him are naturally incited to indulge a Curiosity in
beholding the Person, Behaviour, Feature, and Shape of him, in whose
Character, perhaps, each Man had formed something in common with
himself.
such, or any other, are the Causes, all Men have
a
yearning
Curiosity to behold a Man of heroick Worth; and I
had
many Letters from all Parts of this Kingdom, that request I would give
them an exact Account of the Stature, the Mein, the Aspect of the Prince
who lately visited England, and has done such Wonders for the
Liberty of Europe. It would puzzle the most Curious to form to himself
the sort of Man my several Correspondents expect to hear of, by the
Action mentioned when they desire a Description of him: There is always
something that concerns themselves, and growing out of their own
Circumstances, in all their Enquiries. A Friend of mine in Wales
beseeches me to be very exact in my Account of that wonderful Man, who
had marched an Army and all its Baggage over the Alps; and, if possible,
to learn whether the Peasant who shew'd him the Way, and is drawn in the
Map, be yet living. A Gentleman from the University, who is deeply
intent on the Study of Humanity, desires me to be as particular, if I
had Opportunity, in observing the whole Interview between his Highness
and our late General. Thus do Men's Fancies work according to their
several Educations and Circumstances; but all pay a Respect, mixed with
Admiration, to this illustrious Character. I have waited for his Arrival
in Holland, before I would let my Correspondents know, that I have not
been so uncurious a Spectator, as not to have seen Prince Eugene. It
would be very difficult, as I said just now, to answer every Expectation
of those who have writ to me on that Head; nor is it possible for me to
find Words to let one know what an artful Glance there is in his
Countenance who surprized
Cremona
; how daring he appears who forced the
Trenches of
Turin
; But in general I can say, that he who beholds him,
will easily expect from him any thing that is to be imagined or executed
by the Wit or Force of Man. The Prince is of that Stature which makes a
Man most easily become all Parts of Exercise, has Height to be graceful
on Occasions of State and Ceremony, and no less adapted for Agility and
Dispatch: his Aspect is erect and compos'd; his Eye lively and
thoughtful, yet rather vigilant than sparkling; his Action and Address
the most easy imaginable, and his Behaviour in an Assembly peculiarly
graceful in a certain Art of mixing insensibly with the rest, and
becoming one of the Company, instead of receiving the Courtship of it.
The Shape of his Person, and Composure of his Limbs, are remarkably
exact and beautiful. There is in his Look something sublime, which does
not seem to arise from his Quality or Character, but the innate
Disposition of his Mind. It is apparent that he suffers the Presence of
much Company, instead of taking Delight in it; and he appeared in
Publick while with us, rather to return Good-will, or satisfy Curiosity,
than to gratify any Taste he himself had of being popular. As his
Thoughts are never tumultuous in Danger, they are as little discomposed
on Occasions of Pomp and Magnificence: A great Soul is affected in
either Case, no further than in considering the properest Methods to
extricate it self from them. If this Hero has the strong Incentives to
uncommon Enterprizes that were remarkable in
Alexander
, he prosecutes
and enjoys the Fame of them with the Justness, Propriety, and good Sense
of
Cæsar
. It is easy to observe in him a Mind as capable of being
entertained with Contemplation as Enterprize; a Mind ready for great
Exploits, but not impatient for Occasions to exert itself. The Prince
has Wisdom and Valour in as high Perfection as Man can enjoy it; which
noble Faculties in conjunction, banish all Vain-Glory, Ostentation,
Ambition, and all other Vices which might intrude upon his Mind to make
it unequal. These Habits and Qualities of Soul and Body render this
Personage so extraordinary, that he appears to have nothing in him but
what every Man should have in him, the Exertion of his very self,
abstracted from the Circumstances in which Fortune has placed him. Thus
were you to see Prince
Eugene
, and were told he was a private Gentleman,
you would say he is a Man of Modesty and Merit: Should you be told That
was Prince
Eugene
, he would be diminished no otherwise, than that part
of your distant Admiration would turn into familiar Good-will.
I
thought fit to entertain my Reader with, concerning an Hero who never
was equalled but by one Man
; over whom also he has this Advantage,
that he has had an Opportunity to manifest an Esteem for him in his
Adversity.
T.
an earning
Prince Eugene of Savoy, grandson of a duke of Savoy, and
son of Eugene Maurice, general of the Swiss, and Olympia Mancini, a
niece of Mazarin, was born at Paris in 1663, and intended for the
church, but had so strong a bent towards a military life, that when
refused a regiment in the French army he served the Emperor as volunteer
against the Turks. He stopped the march of the French into Italy when
Louis XIV. declared war with Austria, and refused afterwards from Louis
a Marshal's staff, a pension, and the Government of Champagne.
Afterwards in Italy, by the surprise of Cremona he made Marshal Villeroi
his prisoner, and he was Marlborough's companion in arms at Blenheim and
in other victories. It was he who saved Turin, and expelled the French
from Italy. He was 49 years old in 1712, and had come in that year to
England to induce the court to continue the war, but found Marlborough
in disgrace and the war very unpopular. He had been feasted by the city,
and received from Queen Anne a sword worth £5000, which he wore at her
birthday reception. He had also stood as godfather to Steele's third
son, who was named after him.
Marlborough.
No. 341 |
Tuesday, April 1, 1712 |
Budgell1 |
—Revocate animos mœstumque timorem Mittite—
Virg.
Having, to oblige my Correspondent
Physibulus
, printed his Letter last
Friday, in relation to the new Epilogue, he cannot take it amiss, if I
now publish another, which I have just received from a Gentleman who
does not agree with him in his Sentiments upon that Matter.
Sir,
I am amazed to find an Epilogue attacked in your last Friday's Paper, which has been so generally applauded by the Town, and receiv'd such Honours as were never before given to any in an English Theatre.
The Audience would not permit Mrs. Oldfield to go off the Stage the first Night, till she had repeated it twice; the second Night the Noise of Ancoras was as loud as before, and she was again obliged to speak it twice: the third Night it was still called for a second time; and, in short, contrary to all other Epilogues, which are dropt after the third Representation of the Play, this has already been repeated nine times.
I must own I am the more surprized to find this Censure in Opposition to the whole Town, in a Paper which has hitherto been famous for the Candour of its Criticisms.
I can by no means allow your melancholy Correspondent, that the new Epilogue is unnatural because it is gay. If I had a mind to be learned, I could tell him that the Prologue and Epilogue were real Parts of the ancient Tragedy; but every one knows that on the British Stage they are distinct Performances by themselves, Pieces entirely detached from the Play, and no way essential to it.
The moment the Play ends, Mrs. Oldfield is no more Andromache, but Mrs. Oldfield; and tho' the Poet had left Andromache stone-dead upon the Stage, as your ingenious Correspondent phrases it, Mrs. Oldfield might still have spoke a merry Epilogue. We have an Instance of this in a Tragedy2 where there is not only a Death but a Martyrdom. St. Catherine was there personated by Nell Gwin; she lies stone dead upon the Stage, but upon those Gentlemen's offering to remove her Body, whose Business it is to carry off the Slain in our English Tragedies, she breaks out into that abrupt Beginning of what was a very ludicrous, but at the same time thought a very good Epilogue.This diverting Manner was always practised by Mr. Dryden, who if he was not the best Writer of Tragedies in his time, was allowed by every one to have the happiest Turn for a Prologue or an Epilogue. The Epilogues to Cleomenes, Don Sebastian, The Duke of Guise, Aurengzebe, and Love Triumphant, are all Precedents of this Nature.Hold, are you mad? you damn'd confounded Dog,
I am to rise and speak the Epilogue.
I might further justify this Practice by that excellent Epilogue which was spoken a few Years since, after the Tragedy of Phædra and Hippolitus; with a great many others, in which the Authors have endeavour'd to make the Audience merry. If they have not all succeeded so well as the Writer of this, they have however shewn that it was not for want of Good-will.
I must further observe, that the Gaiety of it may be still the more proper, as it is at the end of a French Play; since every one knows that Nation, who are generally esteem'd to have as polite a Taste as any in Europe, always close their Tragick Entertainments with what they call a Petite Piece, which is purposely design'd to raise Mirth, and send away the Audience well pleased. The same Person who has supported the chief Character in the Tragedy, very often plays the principal Part in the Petite Piece; so that I have my self seen at Paris, Orestes and Lubin acted the same Night by the same Man.
Tragi-Comedy, indeed, you have your self in a former Speculation found fault with very justly, because it breaks the Tide of the Passions while they are yet flowing; but this is nothing at all to the present Case, where they have already had their full Course.
As the new Epilogue is written conformable to the Practice of our best Poets, so it is not such an one which, as the Duke of Buckingham says in his Rehearsal, might serve for any other Play; but wholly rises out of the Occurrences of the Piece it was composed for.
The only Reason your mournful Correspondent gives against this Facetious Epilogue, as he calls it, is, that he has mind to go home melancholy. I wish the Gentleman may not be more Grave than Wise. For my own part, I must confess I think it very sufficient to have the Anguish of a fictitious Piece remain upon me while it is representing, but I love to be sent home to bed in a good humour. If Physibulus is however resolv'd to be inconsolable, and not to have his Tears dried up, he need only continue his old Custom, and when he has had his half Crown's worth of Sorrow, slink out before the Epilogue begins.
It is pleasant enough to hear this Tragical Genius complaining of the great Mischief Andromache had done him: What was that? Why, she made him laugh. The poor Gentleman's Sufferings put me in mind of Harlequin's Case, who was tickled to Death. He tells us soon after, thro' a small Mistake of Sorrow for Rage, that during the whole Action he was so very sorry, that he thinks he could have attack'd half a score of the fiercest Mohocks in the Excess of his Grief. I cannot but look upon it as an happy Accident, that a Man who is so bloody-minded in his Affliction, was diverted from this Fit of outragious Melancholy. The Valour of this Gentleman in his Distress, brings to one's memory the Knight of the sorrowful Countenance, who lays about him at such an unmerciful rate in an old Romance. I shall readily grant him that his Soul, as he himself says, would have made a very ridiculous Figure, had it quitted the Body, and descended to the Poetical Shades, in such an Encounter.
As to his Conceit of tacking a Tragic Head with a Comic Tail, in order to refresh the Audience, it is such a piece of Jargon, that I dont know what to make of it.
The elegant Writer makes a very sudden Transition from the Play-house to the Church, and from thence, to the Gallows.
As for what relates to the Church, he is of Opinion, that these Epilogues have given occasion to those merry Jiggs from the Organ-Loft which have dissipated those good Thoughts, and Dispositions he has found in himself, and the rest of the Pew, upon the singing of two Staves culld out by the judicious and diligent Clark.
He fetches his next Thought from Tyburn; and seems very apprehensive lest there should happen any Innovations in the Tragedies of his Friend Paul Lorrain.
In the mean time, Sir, this gloomy Writer, who is so mightily scandaliz'd at a gay Epilogue after a serious Play, speaking of the Fate of those unhappy Wretches who are condemned to suffer an ignominious Death by the Justice of our Laws, endeavours to make the Reader merry on so improper an occasion, by those poor Burlesque Expressions of Tragical Dramas, and Monthly Performances.
I am, Sir, with great Respect,
Your most obedient, most humble Servant,
Philomeides.