UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 

 
 IVERSITY of CAL1FUHWU 
 
 U)S ANGELES 
 LIBRARY
 
 
 r £
 
 I 
 
 TABLE OP CONTENTS. ? 
 
 Paqk, 
 
 Song for St. Cecilia's Day, . . 207 
 
 To Sir Godfrey Kneller. 210 
 
 The Countess of Manchester at Paris, .... 214 
 
 Song. — My Love was fickle once, ... . . 214 
 
 Imitation of our English Lyrics, . . . , 215 
 
 Prologue to the Tender Husband, .... 217 
 
 Epilogue to the British Enchanters, 218 
 
 Epilogue to the Distressed Mother, 219 
 
 Dramas, . 221 
 
 Rosamond, 223 
 
 Introductory Remarks to Rosamond, 225 
 
 Tickell's Verses to the Author of Rosamond, . . . 227 
 
 The Drummer, 265 
 
 Introductory Remarks to the Drummer, .... 266 
 
 Steele's Epistle Dedicatory to Mr. Congreve, . . 267 
 
 To the Countess of Warwick on her Marriage, . . 283 
 
 Preface to the Drummer. , , . 235 
 
 Epilogue, . 362 
 
 Cato, 366 
 
 Introductory Remarks to Cato, 869 
 
 Verses to the Author of the Tragedy of Cato, . . . 375 
 
 Prologue, by Mr. Pope, 386 
 
 Epilogue, by Dr. Garth, 402 
 
 To the Princess of Wales, with the Tragedy of Cato, . . 464 
 
 Poemata, 467 
 
 Introductory Remarks, 458 
 
 Honoratissimo Viro Carolo Montagu, . 471 
 
 Pax G-nlielmi Auspiciis Europaj Reddita, 1697, . . 473 
 
 Baroinetri Descriptio, .... . . 479 
 
 Pradium inter PygmfflOB et Grues Commissum, . . 4£1 
 
 Resunectio Delineata ad Altare Col. Magd. Oxon, . . 4d7 
 
 ..
 
 91 TABCE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PAU1' 
 
 Sp'iseristerium, 4£1 
 
 Ad D. D. Hannes, Insignissimum Medicum et Poetam, 493 
 
 Machinae Gesticulantes, 495 
 
 Ad Insignissimum Virum D. Tho. Burnettum, Sacrse Theoria? 
 
 Telluric Autorem, Ah$
 
 PREFAC E 
 
 BY THE AMERICAN EDITOR. 
 
 Iw r , »v<i have been more careful of their litenry rep- 
 ntatiji', \\mv A.ddison. The last words that he wrote for 
 the public eve, were a dedication of his works to his friend 
 Mr. Craggs. At the same time he gave Tickell particular 
 directions about collecting and publishing them, justly feel- 
 ing that there was nothing in them which he could look 
 back upon with regret, even from his death-bed. Two 
 years afterwards, the first edition appeared in four hand- 
 some quartos, with an engraving from Kneller's portrait, 
 an emblematical vignette, and a full list of subscribers. 
 Tickell undoubtedly meant to do justice to the memory of 
 his patron, but his jealousy of Steele prevented him from 
 calling Addison's earliest and most intimate friend to 
 his assistance, and with the exception of the papers from 
 the Taller, which were pointed out by Steele at Addison's 
 request, there is nothing in this edition which any oiliei 
 editor rnighl Dot have dime equally well. The only inedited 
 pieces were! the Dialogues on Rtedals and the Treatise of 
 
 VOL. I. A
 
 Vlll PEFACE BY THE AMERICAN EDITOR. 
 
 the Christian religion. The Drummer was omitted, much 
 to Steele's mortification, who immediately republished it 
 with many bitter complaints of the editor's carelessness and 
 malignity. But if Trekell did less than he might have 
 done for the illustration of Addison's life and writings, lie 
 paid a noble tribute to his virtues in the ' verses to the 
 Earl of Warwick,' which still continues, what Goldsmith 
 pronounced it to be, nearly a hundred years ago, 'one of 
 the finest elegies in our lana-uac-e.' 
 
 Many years passed before another edition appeared. 
 Meanwhile Steele died without fulfilling his promise of 
 making up for Tickell's omissions ; Tickell himself added 
 nothing to his original edition ; and all the members of that 
 'little senate,' each of whom might have told us many 
 things we should have been glad to know, passed away one 
 by one, leaving us as much in the dark concerning some of 
 the most interesting, events of Addison's literary life, as if 
 he had passed all his days among men who had no preten 
 sions to scholarship. Particular works were reprinted from 
 time to time ; the Spectator oftenest of all ; the letter from 
 Italy retaining its place in miscellanies and collections ; 
 and Cato never completely losing its hold upon the stage 
 Finally the whole works were republished by Baskerville, 
 with that typographical elegance which has given his edi- 
 tions so high a value for the lovers of handsome books ; and 
 again in London in 1804 ; but merely as reprints of the 
 original edition of 1721. 
 
 "At last Bishop Hurd, resting a while from polemics 
 and his Boswellian contemplation of Warburton, betook
 
 PREFACE BY THE AMERICAN EDITOR. IX 
 
 himself to a serious study of the great master of English 
 prose. No two men could have been more unlike than 
 Addison and Hard. Addison mild, genial and indepen- 
 dent ; Hurd bitter, irascible and cringing; the one raising 
 himself to the highest rank by the force of talent, without 
 the sacrifice of a friendship or a principle ; the other mak- 
 ing his way by subtle servility, and eagerly grasping at 
 every means of promotion. 
 
 Still Hard possessed some qualifications for his task. 
 He was an admirer of good writing, and though cold, was 
 not deficient in taste. He came with the feelings of a gram- 
 marian of the old school, to weigh words and start, ques- 
 tions of syntax ; and Addison furnishes abundant materials 
 for both. It is amusing to see with what a tone the learned 
 prelate pronounces sentence upon offending particles, and 
 how rigorously he keeps sense and sentiment out of sight. 
 Now and then, it is true, he betrays an indistinct con- 
 sciousness that there is something more in his text than 
 mere specimens of style ; but most of his raptures are re- 
 served for some happy construction or a word of pecu- 
 liar elegance. It is of no use to ask for the explanation of 
 an historical allusion, for he has none to give you. Manners 
 and customs he passes by as though they had no bearing 
 upon the subject ; and leaves you to deal with proper names 
 as if every body could be his own biographical dictionary. 
 Si ill his notes are not without their value for the mi- 
 nute st'idy of language. Von may read them as yon do 
 151air's critical examination/ and find yourself strength- 
 ened ir verbal criticism ; and though it is impossible not
 
 1 PREFACE BY THE AMERICAN EDITOR. 
 
 to feel that when the Bishop of Worcester took up his pen 
 to commentate Addison, he ought to have taken a wider 
 range ; yet within the limits which he set himself the task 
 is well done, and his commentary will always find its place 
 in a variorum. 
 
 A little before Hard began his grammatical commen- 
 tary, a writer of vastly higher qualifications announced his 
 intention of giving a new edition of Addison. This was 
 Beattie, who had made the Spectator his model in prose, 
 and who sympathized, both in prose and in verse, with the 
 classic taste of his master. Unfortunately this design was 
 never fully carried out ; other occupations and ill health 
 compelling him to confine himself to a reprint and occa- 
 sional commentary of the miscellaneous pieces. And it 
 will ever continue a matter of surprise, that while Swift 
 and Dryden found an editor like Scott ; and Pope, already 
 so loaded down with commentation, reappeared in two 
 rival editions, no one should have felt that the best service 
 that could be rendered to the cause of virtue and pure 
 taste, would be an accurate edition of Addison. 
 
 The present edition, without pretending to contain all 
 that might be done for the illustration of this eminent 
 writer, claims to be, in some respects, superior to all its 
 predecessors. The poems, which were carelessly thrown 
 together in former editions, without any regard to their 
 subject or their relative importance, have been accurately 
 arranged, and, where the occasion required it, illustrated 
 by notes. Several of Addison's finest poems were origi- 
 nal!} published in the Guardian and Spectator : these are
 
 PREFACE BY THE AMERICAN EDITOR. XT 
 
 now placed under their proper heads. Portions of his cor- 
 respondence, always the most faithful picture of a great 
 man's heart, have been inserted at various rimes in differ- 
 ent publications, particularly in the Addisoniana and in 
 the life of Addison by Miss Aikin. These are now care- 
 fully collected and classed, as they deserve to be, among 
 his works. The political tracts have been classed with the 
 purely political essays ; and the " Old Whig," which was 
 omitted in all the other editions, is given in this in its pro- 
 per place. Many of Addison's writings originally possessed 
 a local and temporary interest, which they have not only 
 lost for the modern reader, but have lost with it somewhat 
 of that charm which arises from a familiarity with the 
 names raid circumstances to which they allude. As far as 
 notes can revive it, it is hoped that the charm is in some 
 measure restored in the present edition. The original 
 orthography had been modernized by Hurd, whose system 
 will be found, with a few exceptions, to correspond to the 
 best usage of the present day. The American editor has 
 not felt himself at liberty to reduce it to any cisatlantic 
 standard. A list of the principal editions of Addwou 
 will be found in the fifth volume. 
 New-York, August 16, 1853.
 
 -•* 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 1 
 
 BY THOMAS BABINGTON MAOAULAY. 
 
 To Addison we arc bound by a sentiment as much like affection as 
 any sentiment can be which is inspired by one who has been sleep- 
 ing a hundred and twenty years in Westminster Abbey. "We trust, 
 however, that this feeling will not betray us into that abject idolatry 
 which we have often had occasion to reprehend in others, and which 
 seldom fails to make both the idolater and the idol ridiculous. A man 
 of genius and virtue is but a man. All his powers cannot be equally 
 developed ; nor can we expect from him perfect self-knowledge. "We 
 need not. therefore, hesitate to admit that Addison has left us some 
 compositions that do not rise above mediocrity, some heroic poems 
 hardly equal to Parnell's, some criticisms as superficial as Dr. Blair's, 
 and a tragedy not very much better than Dr. Johnson's. It is praise 
 enough to say of a writer, that, in a high department of literature, in 
 which many eminent writers have distinguished themselves, he has had 
 no equal ; and this may with strict justice be said of Addison. 
 
 As a man he may not have deserved the adoration which he received 
 from those, who, bewitched by his fascinating society, and indebted for 
 all the comforts of life to his generous and delicate friendship, worshipped 
 him nightly in his favorite temple at Button's. But, after full inquiry 
 and impartial reflection, we have long been convinced, that he deserved 
 a- much !o\c and esteem as can be justly claimed by any of our inlinn 
 and erring race. Some blemishes may undoubtedly be detected in his 
 
 i 'n selecting a critical review of the life and writings ;>f Addison, il.ere could be no best- 
 .ation iii giving the pr< R rence to Macaulay's celebrated essay, one of tbe most elaborate "f 
 dli brilllait collection Tbe Introductory paragraph, which refers especially to Mi.is Aiklu'» 
 ife of Addison, baa lieen omitted.— G.
 
 Xrv LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 character ; but the more carefully it is examined, the more will it ap- 
 pear, to upc the phrase of the old anatomists, sound in the noble parts 
 — free from all taint of perfidy, of cowardice, of cruelty, of ingratitude, 
 of envy. Men ma} r easily be named in whom some particular good dis- 
 position has been more conspicuous than in Addison. But the just har- 
 mony of qualities, the exact temper between the stern and the humane 
 virtues, the habitual observance of every law. not only of moral recti- 
 tude, but of moral grace and dignity, distinguish him from a^m^n who 
 have been tried by equally full information. *"* 
 
 His father was the It jverend Lancelot Addison, who, though eclipsed 
 by his more celebrated son made some figure in the world, and occupies 
 with credit two folio pages in the " Biographia Britannica." Lancelot 
 was sent up, as a poor scholar, from Westmoreland to Queen's College, 
 Oxford, in the time of the Commonwealth; made some progress in 
 learning; became, like most of his fellow-students, a violent royalist; 
 lampooned the heads of the university, and was forced to ask pardon 
 on his bended knees. AVhen he had left college, he earned an humble 
 subsistence by reading the liturgy of the fallen church to the families 
 of those sturdy squires whose manor-houses were scattered" over the 
 Wild of Sussex. After the restoration, bis royalty was rewarded with 
 the post of chaplain to the garrison of Dunkirk. When Dunkirk was 
 sold to France, he lost his employment. But Tangier had been ceded 
 by Portugal to England as part of the marriage portion of the Infanta 
 Catharine ; and to Tangier Lancelot Addison was sent. A more mise- 
 rable situation can hardly be conceived. It was difficult to say whether 
 the unfortunate settlers were more tormented by the heats or by the 
 rains ; by the soldiers within the wall or the Moors" without it. One 
 advantage the chaplain had. He enjoyed an excellent opportunity of 
 studying the history and manners of the Jews and Mohammedans ; 
 and of this opportunity he appears to have made excellent use. On his 
 return to England, after some years of banishment, he published an in- 
 teresting volume on the polity and religion of Barbary ; and another on 
 the Hebrew customs, and the state of rabbinical learning. He rose to 
 eminence in his profession, and became one of the royal chaplains, a 
 doctor of divinity, archdeacon of Salisbury and dean of Litchfield. It 
 is said that he would have been made a bishop after the Revolution, if 
 he hail not given offence to the government by strenuously opposing 
 the convocation of 16S9. the liberal policy of William and Tillotson. 
 
 In 1672, not long after Dr. Addison's return from Tangier, his son 
 Joseph was born. Of Joseph's childhood we know little. He learned 
 his rudiments at schools in his father's neighborhood, and was then sent
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. iV 
 
 tc the Charter House. The' anecdotes which are popularly related about 
 his boyish tricks do not harmonize very well with what we know of 
 his riper years. There remains a tradition that he was the ringleader 
 in a barring-out ; and another tradition that he ran away from school ' 
 and hid himself in a wood, where he fed on berries and slept in a hollow 
 tree, till after a long search he was discovered and brought home. If 
 these stories be true, it would be curious to know by what moral dis- 
 cipline so mutinous and enterprising a lad was transformed into the gen- 
 tlest and most modest of men. 
 
 We have abundant proof that, whatever Joseph's pranks may have 
 been, he pursued his studies vigorously and successfully. x\t fifteen he 
 was not only fit for the university, but carried thither a classical taste, 
 and a stuck of learning which would have done honor to a master of 
 arts. He was entered at Queen's College. Oxford ; but he had not been 
 many months there, when some of his Latin verses fell by accident into 
 the hands of Dr. Lancaster, dean of Magdalene College. The young 
 scholar's diction and versification were already such as veteran professors 
 might envy. Dr. Lancaster was desirous to serve a boy of such promise; 
 nor was an opportunity long wanting. The Revolution had just taken 
 place; and nowhere had it been hailed with more delight than at Mag- 
 dalene College. That great and opulent corporation had been treated 
 by James, and by his chancellor, with an insolence and injustice which, 
 even in such a prince and in such a minister, may justly excite amaze- 
 ment; and which had done more than even the prosecution of the 
 bishops to alienate the Church of England from the throne. A presi- 
 dent, duly elected, had been violently expelled from his dwelling. A 
 papist had been set over the society by a royal mandate: the Fellows 
 wiio. in conformity with their oaths, refused to submit to this usurper 
 had been driven forth from their quiet cloisters and gardens, to die of 
 want or to live on charity. Hut the day of redress and retribution 
 speedily came. The intruders were ejected; the venerable house was 
 again inhabited by its old inmates: learning tlourished under the rule 
 of the wise and virtuous Hough; and with learning was united a mild 
 and liberal spirit, too often wanting in the princely colleges of Oxford 
 In consequence of tie- troubles through which the society had passed 
 there had been no election of new members during the year LG88. In 
 li 89, therefore, there was twice the ordinary number of vacancies ; and 
 thus Dr Lancaster found it easy to procure lor his young friend admit 
 tance to the advantages of a foundation then generally esteemed the 
 wealthiest in Europe. 
 
 At .Magdalene. Addison resided during ten years. He was. at first 
 
 A*
 
 ■ 
 
 XVI LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 r 
 
 one of those scholars who are called demies; but was subsequently 
 elected a fellow. 1 His college is still proud of his name ; his portrait 
 still hangs in the hall ; and strangers are still told that his favorite 
 walk was under the elms which fringe the meadow on the banks of the 
 CherwelL* It is said, and is highly probable, that he was distinguished 
 among his fellow-students by the delicacy of his feelings, by the shyness 
 of his maimers, and by the assiduity with which he often prolonged 
 his studies far into the night. It is certain that his reputation for abili- 
 ty and learning stood high. Many years later the ancient doctors of 
 Magdalene continued to talk in their common room of boyish composi- 
 tions, and expressed their sorrow that no copy of exercises so remarka- 
 ble had been preserved. 
 / It is proper, however, to remark, that Miss Aikin has committed the 
 
 error, very pardonable in a lady, of overrating Addison's classical at- 
 tainments. In one department of learning, indeed, his proficiency was 
 such as it is hardly possible to overrate./ His knowledge of the Latin 
 poets, from Lucretius and Catullus down to Claudian and Prudentius, 
 was singularly exact and profound./ He understood them thoroughly, 
 entered into their spirit, and had the finest and most discriminating 
 perception of all their peculiarities of style and melody ; nay, he copied 
 their manner with admirable skill, and surpassed, we think, all their 
 British imitators who had preceded him, Buchanan and Milton alone 
 excepted. This is high praise ; and beyond this we cannot with justice 
 go. It is clear that Addison's serious attention, during his residence at 
 the university, was almost entirely concentrated on Latin poetry ; and 
 that, if he did not wholly neglect other provinces of ancient literature; 
 he voi 1 -hsafed to them only a cursory glance. He does not appear to 
 have attained more than an ordinary acquaintance with the political and 
 mora 1 writers of Borne ; nor was his own Latin prose by any meat i 
 
 l V i, became fellow in course ; Demies being students upon scholarships, who succeed 
 in their order to the vacant fellowships. — G. 
 
 t Addison's walk- at Oxford. "Passing to the rear of Magdalene College, on the left 
 there opens a park filled with very ancient and noble trees, making that ' chequered shade ' 
 upon the short and verdant grass which poets love to talk about; while here and there are 
 groups of deer standing up or lying down with an air of satisfaction and contentment lie- 
 longing to creatures occupying their native possessions. Then turning to the right you enter 
 through a tasteful iron gate and over a slight bridge, upon a walk, which, extending some 
 distance to the left, turns abruptly to the right, when it stretches along the Cherwell and 
 makes the circuit of the meadow. The trees throw a perpetual shade overhead, and the 
 Cherwell keeps up a tinkling and gurgling melody beside you. Here a rustic mill catches 
 the eye, there, the towers of some of the colleges appear, half concealed by the intervening 
 trees, heft and right of the walk are the brightest, meadows; further off are views of the 
 richly cultivated country. And this is Addison's walk." — Tappan's Step from the New 
 World to the Ol<t.—Y. 1, p. 140.
 
 l:fe and writings of addison. xvi'i 
 
 equal to his Latin vei-.se. His knowledge of Greek, though douhtless 
 such as was. in his time, thought respectable at Oxford, was evidently 
 less than that which many lads now carry away every year from Eton 
 and RugBy. A minute examination of his work, if we had time to 
 make such an examination, would full}- bear out these remarks. We 
 will briefly advert to a few of the facts on which our judgment is 
 grounded. 
 
 Great praise is due to the notes which Addison appended to his version 
 of the second and third books of the Metamorphoses. Yet these notes, 
 while they show him to have been, in his own domain, an accomplished 
 scholar, show also how confined that domain was. They are rich in appo- 
 site references to Virgil, Statins, and Claudian ; but they contain not a 
 single illustration drawn from the Greek poets. Now if, in the whole 
 compass of Latin literature, there be a passage which stands in need of 
 illustration drawn from the Greek poets, it is the story of Pentheus in 
 the third book of the Metamorphoses. Ovid was indebted for that 
 story to Euripides and Theocritus, both of whom he has sometimes 
 followed minutely. But neither to Euripides nor to Theocritus does 
 Addison make the faintest allusion ; "and we, therefore, believe that we 
 do not wrong him by supposing that he had little or no knowledge of 
 their works. 
 
 His travels in Italy, again, abound with classical quotations, hap- 
 pily introduced ; but his quotations, with scarcely a single exception, 
 are taken from Latin verse. He draws more illustrations from Auso- 
 nius and Manilius than from Cicero. Even his notions of the political 
 and military affairs of the Romans seem to be derived from poets and 
 poetasters. Spots made memorable b}' events which have changed the 
 destinies of the world, and have been worthily recorded by great histo- 
 rians, bring to his mind only scraps of some ancient Pye or Hayley. 
 In the gorge of the Apennines he naturally remembers the hardships 
 which Hannibal's army endured, and proceeds to cite, not the authen- 
 tic narrative of Polybius, not the picturesque narrative of Livy, 
 but the languid hexameters of Silius Italicus. On the banks of the 
 Rubicon he never thinks of Plutarch's lively description ; or of the 
 stern conciseness of the commentaries ; or of those letters to Atticus 
 which so forcibly express the alternations of hope and fear in a sensi- 
 tive mind at a great crisis. His only authority for the events of the 
 civil war is Lucan. 
 
 All the best ancient works of art at Rome and Florence are Greek. 
 Addison saw them, however, without recalling one single verse of 
 Pindar, of Callimachus, or of the Attic dramatists j but they brought
 
 ZV1U LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 to his recollection innumerable passages in Horace, Juvenal, 3tatiua> 
 and Ovid. 
 
 The same may be said of the '• Treatise on Medals." In that pleas- 
 ing work we find about three hundred passages extracted with great 
 judgment from the Roman poets ; but we do not recollect a single pas- 
 sage taken from any Roman orator or historian ; and we are confident 
 that not a line is quoted from any Greek writer. No person who had 
 derived all his information on the subject of medals from Addison, 
 would suspect that the Greek coins were in historical interest equal, and 
 in beauty of execution far superior to those of Rome. 
 
 If it were necessary to rind any further proof that Addison's classi- 
 cal knowledge was confined within narrow limits, that proof would he 
 furnished by his " Essay on the Evidences of Christianity." The 
 Roman poets throw little or no light on the literary and historical ques- 
 tions which he is under the necessity of examining in that essay. He 
 is, therefore, left completely in the dark ; and it is melancholy to see 
 how helplessly he gropes his way from blunder to blunder. He assigns 
 as grounds for his religious belief, stories as absurd as that of the Cock- 
 lane ghost, and forgeries as rank as Ireland's •• Vortigern ;" puts faith 
 in the lie about the thundering legion ; is convinced that Tiberius moved 
 the senate to admit Jesus among the gods ; and pronounces the letter 
 of AbgaruSj king of Edessa, to be a record of great authority. Xor 
 were these errors the effects of superstition ; for to superstition Addison 
 was by no means prone. The truth is, that he was writing about what 
 he did not understand. 
 
 Miss Aikin has discovered a letter from which it appears that, while 
 Addison resided at Oxford, he was one of several writers whom the 
 booksellers engaged to make an English version of Herodotus ; and she 
 infers that he must have been a good Greek scholar. 3 We can allow 
 very little weight to this argument, when we consider that his fellow- 
 laborers were to have been Boyle and Blackmore. Boyle is remem- 
 bered chiefly as the nominal author of the worst book on Greek history 
 and philology that ever was printed ; and this hook, bad as it is. Boyle 
 was unable to produce without help. Of Blackmore's attainments in 
 the ancient tongues, it may be sufficient to say that, in his prose, he 
 has confounded an aphorism with an apophthegm, and that when, in 
 
 Adilinon's knowledge of Greek. Mr. Macaulay is probably right in his estimate of 
 IririiSon's Crock; yet we often find him quoting passages from Greek writu's with great 
 apparent fan iliarity.— V. Spectator. 253. kc. ; and it is not unfair therefore^ suppose that 
 he extended his circle of Greek reading after he left the University. The. same accusation 
 was brought against Johnson, who was not a little annoyed by it — G.
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. Xli 
 
 his verse, he treats of classical subjectSj his habit is to regale his readers 
 with four false quantities to a page ! 
 
 It is probable that the classical acquirements of Addison were of as 
 much service to him as if they had been more extensive. The world 
 generally gives its admiration, not to the man who does what nobody 
 dse even attempts to do. but to the man who dues best what multi- 
 tudes do welL/Bentley was so immeasurably superior to all the other 
 scholars of his time that very few among them could discover his supe- 
 riority. But the accomplishment in which Addison excelled his con- 
 temporaries was then, as it is now. highly valued and assiduously cul- 
 tivated at all English seats of learning. Everybody who had been at a 
 public school had written Latin verses ; many had written such verses 
 with tolerable success; and were quite able to appreciate, though by no 
 means able to rival, the .-kill witli which Addison imitated Virgil. His 
 lines on the Barometer, and the Bowling-Green, were applauded by 
 hundreds to whom the " Dissertation on the Epistles of Phalaris" was 
 as unintelligible as the hierogtyphics on an obelisk. 
 
 Purity of st yle, and an easy flow of numbers, are common to all__ 
 Addison's Latin poems. Our favourite piece is the Battle of the Cranes 
 and Pygmies; for in that piece we discern a gleam of the fancy and 
 humour which many years later enlivened thousands of breakfast tables. 
 Swift boasted that he was never known to steal a hint : and he certainly A 
 owed as little to his predecessors as any modern writer. Vet we can- 
 not help suspecting that he borrowed, perhaps unconsciously. <mcof the 
 happiest touches in his Voyage to Lilliput from A Idison's verses. Let 
 our readers judge. 
 
 ••The Emperor." says Gulliver, "is taller by about the breadth of , 
 my nail than any of his court, which alone is enough to strike an awe 
 into the beholders." 
 
 About thirty years before Gulliver's Travels appeared, Allison, 
 svrote these lines : — 
 
 " Jamqne a<-iis inter medios sese arduns infl-rt. 
 Pygmeadum ductor, qui, majestate verendus, 
 [ncetssuqne gravis, reliquos snpeicminet onines 
 Mole gigantea, mediaaiqae exsnrgit in ulnam." 
 
 '!'!.•• Latin poems of Addison were greatly and justly admired both 
 at Oxford and Cambridge, before his name bad ever been heard by the 
 wits who thronged the coffee-houses round Drury Lane theatre. In his 
 twenty-second year he ventured to appear before the public as a writer 
 of English verse, lie addn >im complimentary lines to Dryden,
 
 XX LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 who after many triumphs and many reverses, had at length reached a 
 secure and lonely eminence among the literary men of that age. Dry- 
 den appears to have been much gratified by the young scholar's praise ; 
 and an interchange of civilities and good offices followed. Addison was 
 probably introduced by Dryden to Congreve, and was certainly present- 
 ed by Congreve to Charles Montagu, who was then chancellor of the 
 exchequer, and leader of the wdiig party in the House of Commons. 
 
 At this time Addison seemed inclined to devote himself to poetry. 
 He published a translation of part of the fourth Georgic, Lines to King 
 William, and other performances of equal value ; that is to say. of no 
 value at all. But in those days the public were in the habit of receiving 
 with applause pieces which would now have little chance of obtaining 
 the Newdigate prize, or the Seatonian prize. And the reason is obvious. 
 The heroic couplet was then the favorite measure. The art of arrang- 
 ing words in that measure, so that the lines may flow smoothly, that 
 the accents may fall correctly, that the rhymes may strike the ear strong- 
 ly, and that there may be a pause at the end of every distich, is an art 
 as mechanical as that of mending a kettle, or shoeing a horse ; and may 
 be learned by any human being who has sense enough to learn any 
 thing. But, like other mechanical arts, it was gradually improved by 
 means of many experiments and many failures. It was reserved for 
 Pope to discover the trick, to make himself complete master of it, and 
 to teach it to every body else. From the time when his £; Pastorals " 
 appeared, heroic versification became matter of rule and compass ; and. 
 before long, all artists were on a level. Hundreds of dunces who never 
 blundered on one happy thought or expression were able to write reams 
 of couplets which, as far as euphony was concerned, could not be dis- 
 tinguished from those of Pope himself, and which very clever writers of 
 the reign of Charles the Second — Rochester, for example, or Marvel, or 
 Oldham — would have contemplated with admiring despair. 
 
 Ben Jonson was a great man. Hoole a very small man. But Hoole. 
 coming after Pope, had learned how to manufacture decasyllabic verses : 
 and poured them forth by thousands and tens of thousands, all as well 
 turned, as smooth, and as like each other as the blocks which have 
 passed through Mr. Brunell's mill, in the dockyard at Portsmouth. 
 Ben's heroic couplets resemble blocks rudely hewn out by an unprac- 
 tised hand, with a blunt hatchet. Take as a specimen his translation 
 •){ a celebrated passage in the yl'meid : — 
 
 " This child our parent earth, stirred up with spite 
 Of all the gods, brought forth, mid. us sonic write, 
 She was last sister of that giant race 
 That sought to stale Jove's court, rightswift of pace,
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON XXI 
 
 l 
 
 And swifter far of win<r. a monster vast 
 
 And dreadful. Look, how many plumes are placed 
 
 On her huge corpse, so many waking eyes 
 
 Stick underneath, and, which may stranger rise 
 
 lu the report, as many tongues she wears.' 1 
 
 Compare with these jagged misshapen distichs the neat fabric which 
 Hoole's machine produces in unlimited abundance. We take the first 
 lines on which we open in his version of Tasso. They are neither better 
 rtor worse than the rest : — 
 
 "0 thou, whoe'er thou art, whose steps are led 
 By choice or fate, these lonely shores to tread, 
 No greater wonders east or west can boast 
 Than yon small island on the pleasing coast. 
 If e'er thy sight would blissful scenes explore, 
 The current pass, and seek the further shore." 
 
 Ever since the time of Pope there has been a glut of lines of this 
 sort ; and we are now as little disposed to admire a man for being able 
 to write them as for being able to write his name. But in the days of 
 William the Third such versification was rare ; and a rhymer who had 
 any skill in it passed for a great poet; just as in the dark ages a person 
 who could write his name passed for a great clerk. Accordingly. Duke, 
 Stepney, Granville. Walsh, and others, whose only title to fame was 
 that they said in tolerable metre what might have been as well said in 
 prose, or what was not worth saying at all. were honoured with marks 
 of distinction which ought to be reserved for genius. With these Ad- 
 dison must have ranked, if he had not earned true and lasting glory by 
 performances which very little resembled his juvenile poems. 
 
 Dryden was now busied with Virgil, and obtained from Addison a 
 critical preface to the Gedrgics; In return for this service, and for other 
 services of the same kind, the veteran poet, in the postscript to the trans- 
 lation of the yi-lneid. complimented his young friend with great liberality, 
 and indeed with more liberality than sincerity. He affected to be afraid 
 thai his own performance would not sustain a comparison with the ver- 
 sion Of tli" fourth Georgia by i: the most ingenious Mr. Addison oi Ox- 
 ford." "After his bees." added Dfyderi, "my latter swarm is scarcely 
 worth the hiving:" 
 
 The time had now arrived when it was necessary for Addison to 
 choose a calling. Every thine- seemed to point his course toward the 
 clerical profession. His habits were regular, his opinions orthodrx. 
 lb college had large ecclesiastical preferment in its gift, and boasts that 
 
 is given at least one bishop to alu.ost every see in England. Dr
 
 Xill LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 Lancelot Addison held an honourable place in the church, and had set 
 his heart on seeing his son a clergyman. It is clear, from some expres- 
 sions in the young man's rhymes, that his intention was to take orders 
 But Charles Montagu interfered. Montagu first brought himself into 
 notice by verses, well-timed and not contemptibly written, but never. 
 we think, rising above mediocrity. Fortunately for himself and for his 
 country, he early quitted poetry, in which he could never have obtained 
 a rank as high as that of Dorset or Roscommon, and turned his mind 
 to official and parliamentary business. It is written that the ingenious 
 person who undertook to instruct Rasselas, prince of Abyssinia, in the 
 art of flying ascended an eminence, waved his wings, sprang into the 
 air. and instantly dropped into the lake. But it is added that the wings 
 which were unable to support him through the sky, bore him up effec- 
 tually as soon as he was in the water. This is no bad type of the fate 
 of Charles Montagu, and of men like him. When he attempted to soar 
 into the regions of poetical invention, he altogether failed ; but as soon 
 as he had descended from his ethereal elevation into a lower and grosser 
 element, his talents instantly raised him above the mass. He became a 
 distinguished financier, debater, courtier, and part) - leader. He still re- 
 tained his fondness for the pursuits of his early days ; hut he showed 
 that fondness, not by wearying the public with his own feeble perform- 
 ances, but by discovering and encouraging literary excellence in others. 
 A crowd of wits and poets, who would easily have vanquished him as a 
 competitor, revered him as a judge and a patron. In his plans for the 
 encouragement of learning, he was cordially supported by the ablest and 
 most virtuous of his colleagues, the lord keeper Somers. Though both 
 these great statesmen had a sincere love of letters, it was not solely from 
 a love of letters that they were desirous to enlist youths of high intel- 
 lectual qualifications in the public service. The Revolution had altered 
 the whole system of government. Before that event, the press had been 
 controlled by censors, and the Parliament had sat only two months in 
 eight years. Now the press was free, and had begun to exercise unpre- 
 cedented influence on the public mind. Parliament met annually and 
 sat long. The chief power in the state had passed to the House of Com- 
 mons. At such a conjuncture, it was natural that literary and oratori- 
 cal talents should rise in value. There was danger that a government 
 which neglected such talents might be subverted by them. It was. 
 therefore, a profound and enlightened policy which led Montagu and 
 Somers to attach such talents to the whig party, by the strongest ties 
 both of interest and of gratitude. 
 
 It is remarkable that, in a neighboring country, we have recently
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. Xilll 
 
 seen similar effects from similar causes. The Revolution of July. 1830 
 established representative government in France. The men of letters 
 instantly rose to the highest importance in the state. At the present 
 moment, most of the persons whom we see at the head both of the 
 administration and of the opposition have been professors, historians; 
 journalists, poets. The influence of the literary class in England, du- 
 ring the generation which followed the Revolution was great, but by no 
 means so great as it has lately been in France. For. in England, the 
 aristocracy of intellect had to contend with a powerful and deeply rooted 
 aristocracy of a very different kind. France had no Somersets and 
 Shrewsburies to keep down her Addisons and Priors. 
 
 It was in the year 1699, when Addison had just computed his 
 twenty-seventh year, that the course of his life was finally determined. 
 Both the great chief's of the ministry were kindly disposed towards him. 
 In political opinions he already was. what he continued to be through 
 life, a firm, though moderate whig. He had addressed the most polished 
 and vigorous of his early English lines to Somers ; and had dedicated 
 to Montagu a Latin poem, truly Virgilian, both in style and rhyme, on 
 the peac of llyswick. The wish of the young poet's great friends was, 
 it should seem, to employ him in the service of the crown abroad. But 
 an intimate knowledge of the French language was a qualification indis- 
 pensable to a dip' omatist ; and this qualification Addison had not ac- 
 quired. It was. therefore, thought desirable that he should pass some 
 time on the Continent in preparing himself for official employment. 
 His own means were not such as would enable him to travel ; but a 
 pension of £300 a year was procured for him by the interest of the lord 
 keeper. It seems to have been apprehended that some difficulty might 
 be started by the rulers of .Magdalene College, lint the chancellor of 
 the exchequer wrote in the strongest terms to [lough. The state— such 
 was the purport of Montagu's letter— could not. at that time, spare to 
 the church such a man as Addison. Too many high posts were already 
 occupied by adventurers, who, destitute of every liberal art and senti- 
 ment, al once pillaged and disgraced the country which they pretended 
 to serve. It had become necessary to recruit for the public service 
 from a very different class, from that class of which Addison was the 
 representative. The close of the minister's letter was remarkable. " I 
 am called," he -aid. "an enemy of the church. Bui I will never do it 
 tnv other injury than keeping Mr. Addison out of it." 
 
 This interference was successful ; and in the summer of 1699, Add] 
 son, made a ri'li man by his pension, and still retaining his fellow hip, 
 quitted his beloved Oxford,and si I oul on his travels, lie crossed from
 
 XXIV tIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISOI. 
 
 Dover to Calais, proceeded to Paris, and was received there with great 
 kindness and politeness by a kinsman of his friend Montagu. Charles 
 Earl of Manchester, who had just been appointed ambassador to the 
 court of France. The countess, a whig and a toast, was probably as 
 gracious as her lord ; for Addison long retained an agreeable recollec- 
 tion of the impression which she at this time made on him, and, in some 
 lively lines written on the glasses of the Kit-Cat club, described the 
 envy which her checks, glowing with the genuine bloom of England, 
 had excited among the painted beauties of Versailles. 
 
 Louis XIV. was at this time expiating the vices of his youth by a 
 devotion which had no root in reason, and bore no fruit in charity. 
 The servile literature of France had changed its character to suit the 
 changed character of the prince. No book appeared that had not an air 
 of sanctity. Racine, who was just dead, had passed the close of his life 
 in writing sacred dramas ; and Dacier was seeking for the Athanasian 
 nrysteries of Plato. Addison described this state of things in a short 
 but lively and graceful letter to Montagu. Another letter, written 
 about the same time to the lord keeper, convejed the strongest assur- 
 ances of gratitude and attachment. " The only return I can make to 
 your lordship," said Addison, '- will be to apply myself entirety to my 
 business." With this view he quitted Paris and repaired to Blois ; a 
 place where it was supposed that the French language was spoken in its 
 highest purity, and where not a single Englishman could be found. 
 Here he passed some months pleasantly and profitably. Of his way of 
 life at Blois, one of his associates, an abbe named Philippeaux, gave an 
 account to Joseph Spence. If this account is to be trusted, Addison 
 studied much, mused much, talked little, had fits of absence, and either 
 had no love affairs, or was too discreet to confide them to the abbe. A 
 man who, even when surrounded by fellow-countrymen and fellow- 
 students, had always been remarkably shy and silent, was not likely to 
 be loquacious in a foreign tongue, and among foreign companions. But 
 it is clear from Addison's letters, some of which were long after pub- 
 lished in the " Guardian," that while he appeared to be absorbed in his 
 own meditations, he was really observing French society with that 
 keen and sly, yet not ill-natured side-glance which vvas peculiarly his 
 own. 
 
 From Blois he returned to Paris ; and having now mastered the 
 French language, found great pleasure in the society of French philoso- 
 phers and poets, He gave an account, in a letter to Bishop Hough, of 
 two highly interesting conversations, one with Malebranche. the other 
 with Boileau. Malebranche expressed great partiality for the English.
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. XXV 
 
 and extolled the genius of Newton, but shook his head when Ilobbes 
 was mentioned, and was indeed so unjust as to call the author of the 
 •' Leviathan " a poor silly creature. Addison's modesty restrained him 
 from full}- relating, in Ids letter, the circumstances of his introduction 
 to, Boileau. Boileau, having survived the friends and rivals of his 
 youth, old. deaf, and melancholy, lived in retirement, seldom went either 
 to court or to the academy, and was almost inaccessible to strangers. 
 Of the English and of English literature he knew nothing. He had 
 hardly heard the najae of Dryden. Some of our countrymen-, in the 
 warmth of their patriotism, have asserted that this ignorance must have 
 been affected. We orn that we see no ground for such a supposition. 
 English literature was to the French of the age of Louis XIV. what 
 German literature wa.i to our own grandfathers. Very few. we sus 
 pect, of the accomplish*. 'I men who, sixty or seventy years ago. used to 
 dine in Leicester Square with Sir Joshua, or at Streatham with Mrs. 
 Thrale, had the slightest motion that Wieland was one of the first wits 
 and poets, and Lessing, beyond ail dispute, the first critic in Europe. 
 Boileau knew just as littles about the " Paradise Lost," and about 
 <; Absalom and Ahitophel ; " bi f . he had read Addison's Latin poems, 
 and admired them greatly. They had given him, he said, quite a new 
 notion of the state of learning and taste among the English. Johnson 
 will have it that these praises wei s insincere. " Nothing," says he, 
 •' is better known of Boileau than that he had an injudicious and peev- 
 ish contempt of modern Latin ; and therefore his profession of regard 
 was probably the effect of his civility ratter than approbation." Now, 
 nothing is better known of Boileau than ti.xt he was singularly sparing 
 of compliments. We do not remember that either friendship or fear 
 ever induced him to bestow praise on any composition which he did not 
 approve. On literary questions, his caustic, disdainful, and self-confi- 
 dent spirit rebelled against that authority to which every thing else in 
 France bowed down. He had the spirit to tell Louis XIV. (irmly, and 
 even rudely, that his majesty knew nothing about poetry, and admired 
 verses which were detestable. What was there in Addison's position 
 that could induce the satirist, whose stern and fastidious temper had 
 been the dread of two generations-, to turn sycophant for the first and 
 last time ? Nor was Boileau's contempt of modern Latin either injudi- 
 cious or peevish. He thought, indeed, that no poem of the first order 
 would ever be written in a dead language. And did he think amiss ? 
 Has not the experience of centuries continued his opinion? Boileau 
 also thought it probable thai, in the best modern Latin, a writer of the 
 Augustan age would have detected ludicrous improprieties. And who
 
 XXVI LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 can think otherwise ? What modern scholar can honestly declare that 
 he sees the smallest impurity in the style of Livy ? Yet is it not cer- 
 tain that, in the style of Livy. Pollio, whose taste had heen formed on 
 the banks of the Tiber, detected the inelegant idiom of the Po ? 4 Has 
 any modern scholar understood Latin better than Frederick the Great 
 understood French? Yet is it not notorious that Frederick the Great 
 after reading, speaking, writing French, and nothing but French dining 
 more than half a century — after unlearning his mother tongue in order 
 to learn French, after living familiarly during many years with French 
 associates — could not, to the last, compose in French, without imminent 
 risk of committing some mistake which would have moved a smile in 
 the literary circles of Paris? Do we believe that Erasmus and Fracas- 
 torius wrote Latin as well as Dr. Robertson and Sir Walter Scott 
 wrote English ? And are there not in the Dissertation on India (the 
 last of Dr. Robertsons works), in Waverley, in Marmion, Scotticisms 
 at which a London apprentice would laugh? But does.it follow, be- 
 cause we think thus, that we can find nothing to admire in the noble 
 alcaics of Gray, or in the playful elegiacs of Vincent Bourne? Surely 
 not. Nor was Boileau so ignorant or tasteless as to be incapable of 
 appreciating good modern Latin. In the very letter to which Johnson 
 alludes, Boileau says — " Ne croyez pas pourtant que je veuille par la 
 blamer ies vers Latins, que vous m'avez envoyes d'un de vos illustres 
 academiciens. Je ies ai trouves fort beaux, et dignes de Yida et de 
 
 4 Et in Tito Livio mira? facundue viro putet inesse Pollio Asinius quandam Pr.tavinitatem. — 
 Quint. L. viii.. c. 1. But Pollio was known rather as a captious than a just critic, and failed 
 sadly in his own attempt to write history. Horace says, it is true, in one of his finest odes, 
 
 Jam nuncniinnci mnnnnre cormium 
 
 t'elStlihgis 11 l't-6, ,':<'. I arm. I .. i i. c. 1 . 
 
 Put Polljo was a patron, and his -work not yet published. If, however, the rule hold good, 
 we should have very little genuine Roman Latin to go by. Virgil was born at .Mantua, not 
 very far from Padua. Cornelius Nepos, near Verona. Sallust was a Sabine. Neither Cice- 
 ro, nor Horace, nor indeed scarcely any of the most eminent Roman writers, were natives 
 of Pome, and yet they all escaped the charge of provincialism. Fleury, in his excellent 
 "Trail" <!,- fetndes," takes very nearly the same ground with Macaulay. Gibbon compla- 
 cently he itates in speaking of his own French (V. G. Mem., p. 51)), though his English is one 
 nf the strongest illustrations of the principle. Erasn us and Fracastorius, when they read 
 i.a in. read classic Latin. Uobertson and Scott passed all their lives hearing and using Scot- 
 tii i 11 s m their daily intercourse. In these cases, therefore, the parallel hardly holds good. 
 I:a ian literature furnishes Instances fir both sides. None of the greater poets hut Ikmte 
 an.l Petrarch were native Tuscans, and Petrarch went, to France at nine; yet Ariosto and 
 Tasso are now cited by the Crusca. Then again Alfieri, in his prose could not always forget 
 his French education; yet Botta, born and educated in Piedmont, and living iu Paris, 
 wrote the purest Italian of the age, unless we should except Cesari, Giordani, and Colombo, 
 none of whom were Tuscans. Arguing by examples, therefore, we sho ild say, Difficile si, ma 
 Hon impossibilc. — G.
 
 LITE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. XXV11 
 
 Sannazar, mais non pas d'Horace el de Virgile." Several poems, in 
 modern Latin have b m praised by Boileau quire as liberally as it was 
 his habit to praise any thing. He says for example, of Pere Fragnier's 
 epigrams, that Catullus seems to have come to life again. But the best 
 proof that Boileau did not feel (lie undiscerning contempt for modern 
 Latin verses has been imputed to him. is, that he wrote :nd pub- 
 
 ished ha: in verses in several metres. Indeed, it happens, curiously 
 enough, that the most severe censure ever pronounced by him on modern 
 Latin, is conveyed in Latin hexameters. We allude to the fragment 
 which begins — 
 
 "Quid uumeris iternm me balbutire Lafinis, 
 Longe Alpes ciira catum de patre Siuambro, 
 Musa, jubes? " 
 
 For these reasons we feel assured that the praise which Boileau \ 
 iwed on the Machines Gest iculani 'e.s , and the Gerano-Pygmceo- 
 niach ia, was sincere. He certainly opened himself to Addison with a 
 freedom which was a sure indication of esteem. Literature was the 
 chief subject of conversation. The old man talked on his favorite 
 them-:. in sed, as his young hearer thought, incompara- 
 
 bly well. Boileau had undoubtedly some of the qualities of a great 
 critic, lie wanted imagination; but he had strong sense. His literary 
 code was formed on narrow principles; but in applying it, he showed 
 great judgment and penetration. In mere style, abstracted from the 
 ideas of which style is the garb, his taste was excellent. He was well 
 acquainted with the great Greek writers ; and, though unable fully to 
 appreciate their creative genius, admired the majestic simplicity of their 
 manner, and had learned from them to despise bombast and tinsel. It 
 is easy, we think, to discover, in the " Spectator" and the " Guardian," 
 traces of the influence, in part salutary and in part pernicious, which 
 the mind of Boileau had on the mind of Addison. 
 
 While Addison was at Paris, an event took place which made that 
 
 capital . eable residence lor an Englishman and a whin'. Charles, 
 
 ccond ol he name King of Spain, died; and bequeathed his dominions 
 
 to Philip Luke of Anjou, a younger sou of the dauphin. The King of 
 
 France in direct violation of his engagements both with Greal Britain 
 
 and with the states-general, accepted the bequest on behalf of his 
 
 . n. The house of Bourbon was at the summit of human gian- 
 
 ! land had been outwitted and found herself in a situation at 
 
 ouce degrading and perilous. The people of France, not presaging (he 1/ 
 
 calamities by which tiny were destined to expiate the perfidy of their 
 
 Sovereign, went mad with pride and delight. Every man locked as if a
 
 XXV111 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 great estate had just been left him. " The French conversation." said 
 Addison, " begins to grow insupportable ; that which -was before the 
 vainest nation in the world, is now worse than ever." Sick of the 
 arrogant exultation of the Parisians, and probably foreseeing that the 
 peace between France and England could not be of long duration, he 
 set oil" for Italy. ' 
 
 In December, 1700, he embarked at Marseilles. As he glided 
 along the Ligurian coast, he was delighted by the sight of myrtles and 
 olive-trees, which retained their verdure under the winter solstice. 
 Soon, however, he encountered one of the black storms of the Mediter- 
 ranean. The captain of the ship gave up all for lost, and confessed 
 himself to a capuchin who happened to be on board. The English 
 heretic, in the mean time, fortified himself against the terrors of death 
 with devotions of a very different kind. How strong an impression 
 this perilous voyage ma'Je on him, appears from the ode — " How are thy 
 servants blest. Lord ! " which was long after published in the Specta- 
 tor. After some days of discomfort and danger, Addison was glad to 
 land at Savona, and to make his way, over mountains where no road 
 had yet been hewn out by art, to the city of Genoa. 
 
 At Genoa, still ruled by her own doge, and by the nobles whose 
 names were inscribed on her book of gold. Addison made a short stay. 
 He admired the narrow streets overhung by long lines of towering 
 palaces, the walls rich with frescoes, the gorgeous temple of the Annun- 
 ciation, and the tapestries whereon were recorded the long glories of 
 the house of Doria Thence he hastened to Milan, where he contem- 
 plated the Gothic magnificence of the cathedral with more wonder than 
 pleasure. He passed lake Benacus while a gale was blowing, and saw 
 the waves raging as they raged when Virgil looked upon them. A t 
 Venice, then the gayest spot in Europe, the traveller spent the carnival, 
 the gayest season of the year, in the midst of masques, dances, and 
 serenades. Here he was at once diverted and provoked by the absurd 
 dramatic pieces which then disgraced the Italian stage. To one of those 
 pieces, however, he was indebted for a valuable hint. He was present 
 when a ridiculous play on the death of Cato was performed, fatoj it 
 seems, was in love with a daughter of Scipio. The lady had giv.m her 
 heart to Caesar. The rejected lover determined to destroy Imnself 
 Ele appeared seated in his librar}', a dagger in his hand, a Plutarch and 
 a Tasso before him : and in this position he pronounced a sol ; loquj 
 before he struck the blow. We are surprised that so remarl able a 
 circumstance as this should have escaped the notice of all Addison's 
 biographers. There cannot, w« conceive, be the smallest douK that
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. XX1£ 
 
 .htj scene, in spite of its absurdities and anachronisms, struck the tra- 
 veller's imagination, and suggested to him the thought of bringing Cato 
 on the English stage. It is well known that about this time he began 
 his tragedy, and that he finished the first four acts before he returned 
 to England. 
 
 On his way from Venice to Rome, he was drawn some miles out of 
 the beaten road by a wish to see the smallest independent state in 
 Europe. On a rock where the snow still lay. though the Italian spring 
 was now far advanced, was perched the little fortress of San Marino. 
 The roads which led to the secluded town were so bad that few travel- 
 lers had ever visited it. and none had ever published an account of it. 
 Addison could not suppress a good-natured smile at the simple manners 
 and institutions of this singular community. But he observed, with 
 the exultation of a whig, that the rude mountain tract which formed 
 the territory of the republic, swarmed with an honest, healthy, con- 
 tented peasantry : while the rich plain which surrounded the metropolis 
 of civil and spiritual tyranny was scarcely less desolate than the un- 
 cleared wilds of America. 
 
 At Rome. Addison remained on his first visit only long enough to 
 catch a glimpse of St. Peter's, and of the Pantheon. His haste is the 
 more extraordinary, because the holy week was close at hand. He has 
 given us no hint which can enable us to pronounce why he chose 
 to fly from a spectacle which excry year allures from distant regions 
 persons of far less taste and sensibility than his. Possibly, travelling 
 as he did. at the charge of a government distinguished by its enmity tc 
 the Church of Rome, he may have thought that it would be imprudent 
 in him to assist at the most magnificent rite of that church. Many eyes 
 would, be upon him ; and he might find it difficult to behave in such 
 a manner as to give offence neither to his patrons in England, nor to 
 those among whom he resided. Whatever his motives may have been, 
 lie tinned his back on the most august and affecting ceremony which is 
 known among men, and posted along the A.ppian was- to Naples. 
 
 Naples was then destitute of what are now. perhaps, its chief attrac- 
 tions. The lovely bay and the awful mountain were indeed there. Rut 
 a farm-house stood on the theatre of llerculanenm, and rows of vines 
 
 v over the streets of Pompeii. The temples of Paestum had not 
 indeed been hidden from the eye of man by am great convulsion of 
 aaturi ; hut. strange to say, their existence was a secret even to arti 
 
 1 antiquaries. Though situated within a few hours' journey of a great 
 •apilai. where Salvator had nol long before painted, and where VicO was 
 then lecturing, tho.s'' noble remains were as little known to Europe as
 
 XXX LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 the ruined cities overgrown by the forests of Yucatan. "What was to be 
 seen at Naples, Addison saw. He climbed Vesuvius, explored the tun- 
 nel of Posiiipo. and wandered among the vines and almond-trees of 
 Caprese. But neither the wonders of nature nor those of art could so 
 occupy his attention as to prevent him from noticing, though cursorily, 
 the abuses of the government and the misery of the people. The great 
 kingdom which had just descended to Philip V. was in a state of para 
 ly tic dotage. Even Castile and Arragon were sunk in wretchedness. 
 Yet, compared with the Italian dependencies of the Spanish crown, 
 Castile and Arragon might be called prosperous. It is clear that all 
 the observations which Addison made in Italy tended to confirm him in 
 the political opinions which he had adopted at home. To the last he 
 always spoke of foreign travel as the best cure for Jacobitism. In his 
 Freeholder, the tory foxhunter asks what travelling is good for, except 
 to teach a man to jabber French, and to talk against passive obedience. 
 
 From Naples Addison returned to Rome by sea, along the coast 
 which his favorite Virgil had celebrated. The felucca passed the head- 
 land where the oar and trumpet were placed by the Trojan adven- 
 turers on the tomb of Misenus. and anchored at night under the shelter 
 of the fabled promontory of Circe. The voyage ended in the Tiber, still 
 overhung with dark verdure, and still turbid with yellow sand, as when 
 it met the eves of ^Eneas. From the ruined port of Ostia, the stranger 
 hurried to Home ; and at Rome he remained during those hot and sickly 
 months when even in the Augustan age. all who could make their 
 escape fled from mad dogs and from streets black with funerals, to 
 gather the List figs of the season in the country. It is probable that 
 when he, long after, poured forth in verse his gratitude to the Provi- 
 dence which had enabled him to breathe unhurt in tainted arr. he was 
 thinking of the August and September which he passed at Rome. 
 
 It was not till the latter end of October that he tore himself away 
 from the masterpieces of ancient and modern art. which are collected in 
 the city so long the mistressof the world. He then journeyed northward, 
 passed through Sienna, and for a moment forgot his prejudices in favor 
 of classic architecture as he looked on the magnificent cathedral. At 
 Florence he spent some days with the Duke of Shrewsbury, who. cloyed 
 with the pleasures of ambition, and impatient of its pains, fearing both 
 parties, and loving neither, had determined to hide in an Italian retreat 
 talents and accomplishments which, if they had been united with fixed 
 principles and civil coinage, might have made him the- foremost man of his 
 age. These days, we are told, passed pleasantly ; and we can easily believe 
 it. For Addison was a delightful companion when he was at his ease; and
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. XXXI 
 
 the duke, though he seldom forgot that he was a Talbot, had the invalu- 
 able art of putting at ease all who came near him. 
 
 Addison gave some time to Florence, and especially to the sculptures 
 in the Museum.- which he preferred even to those of the Vatican. He 
 then pursued his journey through a country in which the ravages of 
 the last war were still discernible, and in which all men were looking 
 forward with dread to a still fiercer conflict. Eugene had already de- 
 scended from the Rhaetian Alps, to dispute with Oatinat the. rich plain 
 of IiOinbardy. The faithless ruler of Savoy was still reckoned among 
 the allies of Louis. England had not yet actually declared war against 
 Franc : But Manchester had left Paris ; and the negotiations which 
 produced the grand alliance against the house of Bourbon were in pro- 
 gress. Under such circumstances, it was desirable for an English 
 traveller to reach neutral ground without delay. Addison resolved to 
 cross Mont Cenis. It was December: and the road was very different 
 from that which now reminds the stranger of the power and genius of 
 Napoleon. The winter, however, was mild, and the passage was, for 
 those times, easy. To this journey Addison alluded, when, in the ode 
 which we have already quoted, he said that for him the divine goodness 
 had " warmed the hoary Alpine hills." 
 
 It was in the midst of the eternal snow that he composed his Epistle 
 to his friend Montagu, now Lord Halifax. That Epistle, once widely 
 renowned, is now known only to curious readers; and will hardly be 
 considered by those to whom it is known as in any perceptible degree 
 heightening Addison's fame. It is. however, decidedly superior to any 
 English composition which he had previously published. Nay, M*e think 
 it quite as good as any poem in heroic metre which appeared during the 
 interval between the death of Dryden and the publication of the "Essay 
 on Criticism." It contains passages as good as the second-rate passages 
 of Pope, and would have added to the reputation of Parnell or Prior. 
 
 But, whatever be the literary merits or defects of the Epistle, it un- 
 doubtedly does honor to the principles and spirit of the author. Hali- 
 fax had now nothing to give. He had fallen from power, bad been held 
 up to obloquy, had been impeached by the House of Commons ; and, 
 though his peers had dismissed the impeachment, had. as it seemed, 
 tie chance of ever again filling high office. The Epistle, written at 
 Bach a time, is one among many proofs that there was no mixture of 
 cowardice or meanness in the suavity and moderation which distin- 
 guished Addison from all the other public men (if those stormy times. 
 
 At Geneva, the traveller learned thai a partial change of ministry 
 liad taken place in England and that the Earl of Manchester had be 
 
 VOL. i. R
 
 XXX11 IIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISOM. 
 
 come secretary of state. Manchester exerted himself to serve his yo jng 
 friend. It was thought advisable that an English agent should be near 
 the person of Eugene in Italy ; and Addison, whose diplomatic education 
 was now finished, was the man selected. He was preparing to enter on 
 his honorable functions, when all his prospects were for a time dark- 
 ened by the death of William TIL 
 
 Anne had long felt a strong aversion, personal, political, and reli- 
 gious, to the whig party. That aversion appeared in the first measures 
 of her reign. Manchester was deprived of the seals after he had held 
 them only a few weeks. Neither Somers nor Halifax was sworn of the 
 Privy Council. Addison shared the fate of his three patrons. His hopes 
 of employment in the public service were at an end; his pension was 
 stopped; and it was necessary for him to support himself by his own 
 exertions. He became tutor to a young English traveller ; and appears 
 to have rambled with his pupil over great part of Switzerland and 
 Germany. At this time he wrote his pleasing treatise on " Medals." 
 It was not published till after his death ; but several distinguished 
 scholars saw the manuscript, and gave just praise to the grace of the 
 style, and to the learning and ingenuity evinced by the quotations. 
 
 From Germany. Addison repaired to Holland, where he learned the 
 news of his father's death. After passing some months in the United 
 Provinces, he returned about the close of the year 1703 to England. He 
 was there cordially received by his friends, and introduced by them into 
 the Kit-Cat Club — a society in which were collected all the various 
 talents and accomplishments which then gave lustre to the whig party. 
 
 Addison was, during some months after his return from the Conti- 
 nent, hard pressed by pecuniary difficulties. But it was soon in the 
 power of his noble patrons to serve him effectually. A political change, 
 silent and gradual, but of the highest importance, was in daily progress. 
 The accession of Anne had been hailed by the tories with transports of 
 joy and hope ; and for a time it seemed that the whigs had fallen never 
 to rise again. The throne was surrounded by men supposed to be at- 
 tached to the prerogative and to the church ; and among these none 
 stood so high in the favor of the sovereign as the lord-treasurer Godol- 
 pliin and the captain-general Marlborough. 
 
 The country gentlemen and county clergymen had fully expected 
 that the policy of these ministers would be directly opposed to that 
 which had been almost constantly followed by William ; that the landed 
 interest would be favored at the expense of trade; that no addition 
 would be made to the funded debt; that the privileges conceded to 
 lissenters by the late king would be curtailed, if not withdrawn; that
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. XXXlll 
 
 the war with France, if there must be such a war. would, on our part. 
 be almost entirely naval ; and that the government would avoid close 
 connections with foreign powers, and. above all, with Holland. 
 
 But the country gentlemen and country clergymen were fated to be 
 deceived, not for the last time. The prejudices and passions which raged 
 without control in vicarages, in cathedral closes, and in the ie.anoi--liou.-es 
 of fox-hunting squires, were not shared by the chiefs of the ministry. 
 Those statesmen saw that it was both for the public interest, and tor 
 their own interest, to adopt a whig policy ; at least as respected the alli- 
 ances of the country and the conduct of the war. But if the foreign 
 policy of the whigs were adopted, it was impossible to abstain from 
 adopting also their financial policy. The natural consequences followed. 
 The rigid tories were alienated from the government. The votes of the 
 whigs became necessary to it. The votes of the whigs could be secured 
 only by further concessions ; and further concessions the queen was in- 
 duced to make. 
 
 At the beginning of the year 1704, the state of parties bore a close 
 analogy to the state of parties in 1820. In 1826, as in 1704, there was 
 a tory ministry divided into two hostile sections. The position of Mr. 
 Canning and his friends in 1826 corresponded to that which Marlbo- 
 rough and Godolphin occupied in 1704. Nottingham and Jersey were, 
 in 1704. what Lord Eldon and Lord Westmoreland were in 1826. The 
 whigs of 1704 were in a situation resembling that in which the whigs 
 of 1*20 stood. In 1704. Somers, Halifax. Sunderland, Cowper, were 
 not in office. There was no avowed coalition between them and the 
 moderate tories. It is probable that no direct communication tending 
 to such a coalition had yet taken place ; yet all men saw that such a 
 coalition was inevitable, nay. that it was already half formed. Such, or 
 nearly such, was the state of things when tidings arrived of the great 
 hat tie fought at Blenheim on the loth August, 1704. By the whigs 
 the news was now hailed with transports of joy and pride. No fault. 
 no cause of quarrel, could he remembered by them against the command- 
 er whose genius hail, in one day. changed the face of Europe, saved the 
 imperial throne, bumbled the house of Bourbon, and secured the act of 
 sett lemenl against foreign hostility. The feeling ol the tories was very 
 different. They could not. indeed, without imprudence, openly express 
 
 ret at an event so glorious to their countrj ; Out their congratula- 
 tions wi cold and sullen as to give deep disgust to the victorious 
 general and hi.- friends. 
 
 Godolphin was not a reading man. Whatever time he could spare 
 trom business he was in the habit of spending at Newmarket or at tho
 
 XSX1V LIFE AND WRITINGS Oi' ADDISON. 
 
 card-table. "But he was not absolutely indifferent to poetry; and he 
 \v;is too intelligent an observer not to perceive that literature was a for- 
 midable engine of political warfare ; and that the great whig leaders had 
 strengthened their party, and raised their character, by extending a libe- 
 ral and judicious patronage to good writers. lie was mortified, and not 
 without reason, by the exceeding badness of the poems which appeared 
 in honor of the battle of Blenheim. One of these poems has been res 
 cued from oblivion by the exquisite absurdity of three lines' 
 
 "Think of two thousand gentlemen at least, 
 And each man mounted on his capering beast; 
 Into the Danube they were pushed by shoals." 
 
 Where to piocure better verses the treasurer did not know. He 
 undei stood how to negotiate a loan, or remit a subsidy. He was also 
 well versed in the historvof running horses and fichting cocks; but 
 his acquaintance among the poets was very small. He consulted Hali- 
 fax ; but Halifax affected to decline the office of adviser.. He had. he 
 baid, done his best, when he had power, to encourage men whose abili- 
 ties and acquirements might do honor to their country. Those times 
 were over. Other maxims had prevailed. Merit was suffered to pine 
 in obscurity ; the public money was squandered on the undeserving 
 "I do know," he added, ' a gentleman who would celebrate the battle 
 in a manner worthy of the subject. But 1 will not name him." Go- 
 dolphin, who was expert at the soft answer which turneth away wrath, 
 and who was under the necessity of paying court to the \\ bigs, gently 
 replied, that there was too much ground for Halifax's complaints, but 
 that what was amiss should in time be rectified ; and that in the mean 
 time the services of a man such as Halifax had described should be libe- 
 rally rewarded. Halifax then mentioned Addison, but. mindful of the 
 dignity as well as of the pecuniary interest of his friend, insisted that the 
 minister should apply in the most courteous maimer to Addison him 
 self; and this Godolphin promised to do. 
 
 Addison then occupied a garret up three pair of stairs, over a small 
 shop in the Havmarket. In this humble lodging he was surprised, on 
 the morning which followed the conversation between Godolphin and 
 Halifax, by a visit from no less a person than the Right Honorable 
 Henry Boyle, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, and afterwards Lord 
 Oarleton. This high-born minister had been sent by the lord-treasu- 
 rer as ambassador to the needy poet. Addison readily undertook the 
 proposed task, a task which to so good a whig was probably a pleasure. 
 When the poem was little more than half finished, he showed it to Go-
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. XXXV 
 
 dolphin, who was delighted with it. and particularly with the famous 
 similitude of the angel. Addison was instantly appointed to a commis- 
 sionership. with about two hundred pounds a year, and was assured 
 that this appointment was only an earnest of greater favors. 
 
 The •• Campaign " came forth, and was as much admired by tlie pub- 
 lic as by the minister. It pleases us less on the whole than the " Epis- 
 tle to Halifax." Yet it undoubtedly ranks high among the poems which 
 appeared during the interval between the death of Dryden and the dawn 
 of Pope's genius. The chief merit of the '• Campaign." we think, is that 
 which was noticed by Johnson — the manly and rational rejection of fic- 
 tion. The first great poet whose works have come down to us sang of 
 war long before war became a science or a trade. If, in his time, there 
 was enmity between two little Greek towns, each poured forth its crowd 
 of citizens, ignorant of discipline, and armed with implements of labor 
 rudely turned into weapons. On each side appeared conspicuous a few 
 chiefs, whose wealth had enabled them to procure good armor, horses, 
 anil chariots, and whose leisure had enabled them to practise military 
 exercises. One such chief, if he woe a man of great strength, agility, 
 and courage, would probably be more formidable than twenty common 
 men ; and the force and dexterity with which he hurled his spear might 
 have no inconsiderable share in deciding the event of the day. Such 
 were probably the battles with which Homer was familiar. But Ho- 
 mer related the actions of men of a former generation — of men who 
 sprang from the gods, and communed with the gods face to face — of 
 men. one of whom could with ease hurl rocks which two sturdy hinds 
 of a later period would he unable even to lift. He therefore naturally 
 represented their martial exploits as resembling in kind, but fir sur- 
 passing in magnitude, those of the stoutest and most expert combatants 
 of bis own age. Achilles, clad in celestial armor, drawn by celestial 
 coursers, grasping the spear which none but himself could raise, driving 
 all Troy and Lycia before him. and choking the Scamander with dead, 
 was only a magnificent exaggeration of the real hero, who, strong, fear- 
 less, accustomed to the use of weapons, guarded by a shield and helmet 
 of the best Sidonian fabric, and whirled along by horses of Thessalian 
 breed, struck down with his own right arm foe after foe. In all rude 
 
 ieties similar notions are found. There are at this day countries 
 where the life-guardsman Shaw would be considered as a much greater 
 warrior than the Duke of Wellington. Bonaparte loved to describe the 
 
 mishment with which the Mamelukes looked at his diminutive fig- 
 ure. Mourad Bey, distinguished above all his fellows by his bodily 
 strength, and by the skill with which he managed his horse and his
 
 XXXVI L I F E AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 sabre, could not believe that a man who was scarcely five feet high, and 
 rode like a butcher, was the greatest soldier in Europe, 
 
 Homer's descriptions of war had therefore as much truth as poetry 
 requires. But truth was altogether wanting to the performances of 
 those who, writing about battles which had scarcely any thing in com- 
 mon with the battles of his times, servilely imitated his manner. The 
 folly of Silius Italicus, in particular, is positively nauseous. He under- 
 took to record in verse the vicissitudes of a great struggle between gen- 
 erals of the first order ; and his narrative is made up of the hideous 
 wounds which these generals inflicted with their own hands. Asdrubal 
 flings a spear which grazes the shoulder of consul Nero ; but Nero sends 
 his spear into Asdrubal's side. Fabius slays Thuris, and Butes, and 
 Mans, and Arses, and the long-haired Adherbes, and the gigantic Thy- 
 lis, and Sapharus, and Monsesus, and the trumpeter Morinus. Hanni- 
 bal runs Perusinus through the groin with a stake, and breaks the thigh 
 bone of Telesinus with a huge stone. This detestable fashion was copied 
 in modern times, and continued to prevail down to the age of Addison. 
 Several versifiers had described William turning thousands to flight by 
 his single prowess, and dyeing the Boyne with Irish blood. Nay, so 
 estimable a writer as John Philips, the author of the "Splendid Shil- 
 ling," represented Marlborough as having won the battle of Blenheim 
 merely by strength of muscle and skill in fence. The following lines 
 may serve as m example : — 
 
 " Churchill viewing where 
 iTie violence of Tallard most prevailed, 
 Came to oppose his slaughtering arm. With speed 
 Precipitate he rode, urging his way 
 O'er hills of gasping heroes, and fallen steeds 
 Rolling in death. Destruction, grim with blood, 
 Attends his furious course. Around his head 
 The glowing balls play innocent, while he 
 With dire impetuous sway deals fatal blows 
 Among the flying Gauls. In Gallic blood 
 He dyes his reeking sword, and strews the ground 
 With headless ranks. What can they do? Or how 
 Withstand his wide-destroying sword?" 
 
 Addison, with excellent sense and taste, departed from this ridicu 
 lous fashion. He reserved his praise for the qualities which made Marl- 
 borough truly great, energy, sagacity, military science. But, above all. 
 the poet extolled the firmness of that mind which, in the midst of con- 
 fusion, uproar, and slaughter, examined and disposed every thing with 
 the serene wisdom of a higher intelligence. 
 
 Here it was that he introduced the famous comparison of Marlbo
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. XXX VI] 
 
 rough to an angel guiding the whirlwind. We will not dispute the gen- 
 eral justice of Johnson's remarks on this passage. But we must point 
 out one circumstance which appears to have escaped all the critics. 5 The 
 extraordinary effect which this simile produced when it first appeared, 
 and which to the following generations seemed inexplicable, is doubtless 
 to be chiefly attributed to a line which most readers now regard as a 
 feeble parenthesis — 
 
 "Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd." 
 
 Addison spoke, not of a storm, but of the storm. The great tempest of 
 November, 170)3. the only tempest which in our latitude has equalled 
 the rage of a tropical hurricane, had left a dreadful recollection in the 
 minds of all men. No other tempest was ever in this country the occa- 
 sion of a parliamentary address or of a public fast. Whole fleets had 
 been cast away. Large mansions had been blown down. One prelate 
 had been buried beneath the ruins of his palace. London and Bristol 
 had presented the appearance of cities just sacked. Hundreds of fami- 
 lies were still in mourning. The prostrate trunks of large trees, and the 
 ruins of houses, still attested, in all the southern counties, the fury of 
 the blast. The popularity which the simile of the angel enjoyed among 
 Addison's contemporaries, has always seemed to us to be a remarkable 
 instance of the advantage which, in rhetoric and poetry, the particular 
 has over the general. 
 
 Soon after the Campaign, was published Addison's Narrative of his 
 Travels in Italy. The first effect produced by this narrative was disap- 
 pointment. The crowd of readers who expected politics and scandal, 
 speculations on the projects of Victor Amadeus. and anecdotes about the 
 jollities of convents and the amours of cardinals and nuns, were con- 
 founded by finding that the writer's mind was much more occupied by 
 the war between the Trojans and Rutulians than by the war between 
 France and Austria; and that he seemed to have heard no scandal of 
 later date than the gallantries of the Empress Faustina. In time, how- 
 ever, the judgment of the many was overruled by that of the few; and 
 before the book was reprinted, it was so eagerly sought that it sold for 
 five times the original price. It is still read with pleasure: the style is 
 pure and flowing ; the classical quotations and allusions are numerous 
 and happy; and we are now and thm charmed by that singularly hu- 
 mane and delicate humor in which Addison excelled all men. Yet this 
 aereeable work even when considered merely as the history of a litera- 
 
 '. Escaped nil the critics. Here Macaulay la mistaken, for this circumstance had i^lr.^iy 
 hn-u noticed many years before by a critic, cited in No. 158 of the Addleonlana.
 
 XXXV111 LIFE AND WRITINGS V ADDISON 
 
 ry tour, may justly be censured on account of its faults of omission 
 "We have already said that, though rich in extracts from the Latin poets, 
 it contains scarcely any references to the Latin orators and historians. 
 We must add that it contains little, or rather no information, respecting 
 the history and literature of modern Italy. To the best of our remem- 
 brance. Addison does not mention Dante. Petrarch. Boccaccio, Boiardo. 
 Berni, Lorenzo de' Medici, Machiavelli. He coldly tells us, that at Fer- 
 rara he saw the tomb of Ariosto, and that at Venice he heard the gondo- 
 liers sing verses of Tasso. But for Tasso and Ariosto he cared far less 
 than for Valerius Flaccus and Sidonius Anollinaris. The gentle flow of 
 the Ticin brings a line of Silius to his mind. The sulphurous stream of 
 Albula suggests to him several passages of Martial. But he has not a 
 word to say of the illustrious dead of Santa Croce ; he crosses the wood 
 of Ravenna without recollecting the Spectre Huntsman ; and wanders 
 up and down Rimini without one thought of Francesca. At Paris, he 
 eagerly sought an introduction to Boileau ; but he seems not to have 
 been at all aware, that at Florence he was in the vicinity of a poet with 
 whom Boileau could not sustain a comparison, of the greatest lyric poet 
 of modern times, of Vincenzio Filicaja. This is the more remarkable, 
 because Filicaja was the favorite poet of the all-accomplished Somers. 
 under whose protection Addison travelled, and to whom the account of 
 the Travels is dedicated. The truth is, that Addison knew little, and 
 cared less, about the literature of modern Italy. His favorite models 
 were Latin. His favorite critics were French. Half the Tuscan poetry 
 that he had read seemed to him monstrous, and the other half tawdry. 
 
 His Travels were followed by the lively opera of " Rosamond." 
 This piece was ill set to music, and therefore failed on the stage ; but it 
 completely succeeded in print, and is indeed excellent in its kind. The 
 smoothness with which the verses glide, and the elasticity with which 
 they bound, is, to our ears at least, very pleasing. We are inclined to 
 think that if Addison had left heroic couplets to Pope, and blank verse 
 to Rowe, and had employed himself in writing airy and spirited songs, 
 his reputation as a poet would have stood far higher than it now does. 
 Pome years after his death. "Rosamond" was set to new music by Doc- 
 tor Arne; and was performed with complete success. Several passages 
 long retained their popularity, and were daily sung, during the latter 
 part of George the Second's reign, at all the harpsichords in England. 
 
 While Addison thus amused himself, his prospects and the pros- 
 pects of his party were constantly becoming brighter and brighter. In 
 the spring of 1705 the ministry were freed from the restraint imposed 
 by a House of Commons, in which tories of the most perverse clas? had
 
 LIFE AND \VR TINGS )F ADDISON. XXXIX 
 
 the ascendency. The elections were favorable to the whigs. The 
 coalition which had been tacitly and gradually formed was now openly 
 avowed. The great seal was given to Cowper. Somers and Halifax 
 were sworn of the council. Halifax was sent in the following year to 
 carry the decorations of the garter to the electoral prince of Hanover, 
 and was accompanied on this honorable mission by Addison, who had 
 just been made under-secretary of state. The secretary of state under 
 whom Addison first served was Sir Charles Hedges, a toiy. But 
 Hedges was soon dismissed to make room for the most vehement of 
 whigs, Charles, Earl of Sunderland. In every department of the state, 
 indeed, the high churchmen were compelled to give place to their 
 opponents. At the close of 1707 the tories who still remained in office 
 strove to rally, with Harley at their head. But the attempt, though 
 favored by the queen, who had always been a tory at heart, and who 
 hud now quarrelled with the Duchess of Marlborough, was unsuccessful. 
 The time was not yet. The captain-general was at the height of popu 
 larit3" and glory. The low-church party had a majority in Parliament. 
 The country squires and rectors, though occasionally uttering a savage 
 growl, were fur the most part in a state of torpor, which lasted till they 
 were roused into activity, and indeed into madness, by the prosecution 
 of Sacheverell. Harley and his adherents were compelled to retire. 
 The victory of the whigs was complete. At the general election of 
 1708 their strength in the House of Commons became irresistible; 
 and before the end of that year, Somers was made lord-president of tha 
 council, and Wharton lord-lieutenant of Ireland. 
 
 Addison sat for Malmsbury in the House of Commons which was 
 elected in 1708. But the House of Commons was not the field for him. 
 The bashfulness of his nature made his wit and eloquence useless in 
 debate, lie once rose, but could not overcome his diffidence, and ever 
 after remained silent. Nobody can think it strange that a great writer 
 should fail as a speaker. But many, probably, will think it strange 
 that Addison's failure as a speaker should have had no unfavorable 
 effect on his success as a politician.' In our time, a man of high rank 
 and great fortune might, though speaking very little and very ill, hold 
 a considerable post. But it is inconceivable that a mere adventurer, a 
 man who. when out of office, must live by his pen, should in a I'vw 
 years become successively under-secretary of state, chief secretary for 
 Ireland and secretary of state, without some oratorical. talent. Addi- 
 
 SOD will, out high birth, and with little property, rose to a post which 
 
 dukes, the heads of the great houses of Talbot, Russell, and Bentinck, 
 
 hu\e thought it an honor to fill. Without opening his lips in 
 
 I;
 
 Xl LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 Rebate, ho rose to a post the highest that Chatham or Fox ever reached 
 And this he did before he had been nine years in Parliament. "We 
 must look for the explanation of this seeming miracle to the peculiar 
 circumstances in which that generation was placed. During the inter- 
 val which elapsed between the time when the censorship of the press 
 ceased and the time when parliamentary proceedings began to be freely 
 reported, literary talents were, to a public man, of much more impor- 
 tance, oratorical talents of much less importance, than in our time. At 
 present, the best way of giving rapid and wide publicity to a statement 
 or an argument, is to introduce that statement or argument into a 
 speech made in Parliament. If a political tract were to appear superior 
 to the conduct of the Allies, or to the best numbers of the Freeholder, the 
 circulation of such a tract would be languid indeed when compared with 
 the circulation of every remarkable word uttered in the deliberations of 
 the legislature. A speech made in the House of Commons at four in the 
 morning, is on thirty thousand tables before ten. A speech made on the 
 Monday is read on the Wednesday by multitudes in Antrim and Aber- 
 deenshire. The orator, by the help of the short-hand writer, has to a 
 great extent superseded the pamphleteer. It was not so in the reign 
 of Anne. The best speech could then produce no effect except on those 
 who heard it. It was only by means of the press that the opinion of 
 the public without doors could be influenced ; and the opinion of the 
 public without doors could not but be of the highest importance in a 
 country governed by parliaments ; and indeed at that time governed by 
 triennial parliaments. The pen was, therefore, a more formidable po- 
 litical engine than the tongue. Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox contended only 
 in Parliament. But Walpole and Pulteney, the Pitt and Fox of an 
 earlier period, had not done half of what was necessary, when they sat 
 down amidst the acclamations of the House of Commons. They had 
 still to plead their cause before the country, and this they could, do only 
 by means of the press. Their works are now forgotten. But it is cer- 
 tain that there were in Grub-street few more assiduous scribblers of 
 thoughts, letters, answers, remarks, than these two great chiefs of par- 
 ties. Pulteney, when leader of the opposition, andXpossessed of £311,000 
 a year, edited the " Craftsman." Walpole. though not a man of liter- 
 ary habits, was the author of at least ten pamphlets; and retouched 
 and corrected many more. These facts sufficiently show of how 
 great importance literary assistance then was to the contending parties. 
 St. John was certainly, in Anne's reign, the best tory speaker; Cow- 
 per was probably the best whig speaker. But it may well be doubted 
 whether St. John did so much for the tories as Swift, and whether
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. xll 
 
 Cowper did so much for the whigs as Addison. "When these things 
 are duly considered, it will not be thought strange that Addison should 
 have climbed higher in the state than any other Englishman has ever, 
 by means merely of literary talents, been able to climb. Swift would, 
 in all probability, have climbed as high, if he had not been encumbered 
 by his cassock and his pudding-sleeves. As far as the homage of the 
 great went. Swift had as much of it as if he had been lord-treasurer. 
 
 To the influence which Addison derived from his literary talents, 
 was added all the influence which arises from character. The world, 
 always ready to think the worst of needy political adventurers, was 
 forced to make one exception. Restlessness, violence, audacity, laxity 
 of principle, are the vices ordinarily attributed to that class of men. 
 But faction itself could not deny that Addison had, through all changes 
 of fortune, been strictly faithful to his early opinions, and to his early 
 friends ; that his integrity was without stain ; that his whole deport- 
 ment indicated a fine sense of the becoming ; that, in the utmost heat 
 of controversy, his zeal was tempered by a regard for truth, humanity, 
 and social decorum ; that no outrage could ever provoke him to retalia- 
 tion unworthy of a Christian and a gentleman ; and that his only faults 
 were a too sensitive delicacy, and a modesty which amounted to bash- 
 fulness. 
 
 He was undoubtedly one of the most popular men of his time ; and 
 much of his popularity he owed, we believe, to that very timidity which 
 his friends lamented. That timidit}- often prevented him from exhibit- 
 ing his talents to the best advantage. But it propitiated Nemesis. It 
 averted that envy which would otherwise have been excited by fame so 
 splendid, and by so rapid an elevation. No man is so great a favorite 
 with the public, as he who is at once an object of admiration, of respect, 
 and of pit}' ; and such were the feelings which Addison inspired. 
 Those who enjoyed the privilege of hearing his familiar conversation, 
 declared with one voice that it was superior even to his writings. The 
 brilliant Mary Montagu said that she had known all the wits, and that 
 Addison was the best company in the world. The malignant Pope was 
 
 * The malignant Pope. With ail "iir respect for Macau lay, we must enter our prote t 
 against bis Injustice to Pope, of whom be scarcely ever speaks without some derogatory 
 epithet The man who could not only write sucli vorsesas those, hut live up to them, lia* 
 at least some claim tC our respect 
 
 To rod tin cradle of ri pneing a^<- 
 
 Within (lend a mother*! breath — 
 
 Make languor &uiile, uml smooth the bed of deaths 
 
 Explore ui- ■ Mktog eya, 
 
 And V --i> it laaat uiio p»reul from the »ky. — Q. Pnl. to Ut Sahru.
 
 ilil LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 forced to own, that there was a charm in Addison's talk which could 
 be found nowhere else. Swift, when burning with animosit}^ against 
 the whigs. could not but confess to Stella, that, after all, he had never 
 known any associate so agreeable as Addison. Steele, an excellent 
 judge of lively conversation, said, that the conversation of Addison was 
 at once the most polite, and the most mirthful, that could be imagined ; 
 — that it was Terence and Catullus in one, heightened by an exquisite 
 something that was neither Terence nor Catullus, but Addison alone. 
 Young, an excellent judge of serious conversation, said, that when Addi- 
 son was at his ease, he went on in a noble strain of thought and lan- 
 guage, so as to chain the attention of every hearer. Nor were his greax 
 colloquial powers more admirable than the courtesy and softness of 
 heart which appeared in his conversation. At the same time, it 
 would be too much to say that he was wholly devoid of the malice 
 which is, perhaps, inseparable from a keen sense of the ludicrous. He 
 had one habit which both Swift and Stella applauded, and which we 
 hardly know how to blame. If his first attempts to set a presuming 
 dunce right, were ill received, he changed his tone, : ' assented with civil 
 leer," and lured the flattered coxcomb deeper and deeper into absurdi- 
 ty. That such was his practice we should, we think, have guessed 
 from his works. The Tatler's criticisms on Mr. Softly's sonnet, and 
 the Spectator's dialogue with the politician, who is so zealous for the 
 honor of Lady Q — p— t — s, are excellent specimens of this innocer.t 
 mischief. 
 
 Such were Addison's talents for conversation. But his rare gifts 
 were not exhibited to crowds or to strangers. As soon as he entered a 
 large company, as soon as he saw an unknown face, his lips were sealed. 
 and his manners became constrained. None who met him only in great 
 assemblies, would have been able to believe that he was the same man 
 who had often kept a few friends listening and laughing round a table 
 from the time when the play ended, till the clock of St. Paul's in Covcnt- 
 Garden struck four. Yet, even at such a table, he was not seen to the 
 best advantage. To enjoy his conversation in the highest perfection, it 
 was necessary to be alone with him, and to hear him. in his own phrase, 
 think aloud. "There is no such thing," he used to say. "as real conver- 
 sion, but between two persons." . 
 This timidity, a timidity surely neither ungraceful nor unamiable. 
 '■< d Addison into the two most serious faults which can with justice be 
 imputed to him. He found that wine broke the spell which lay on his 
 line intellect, and was therefore top easily seduced into convivial excess. 
 Such excess was in that age regarded, even by grave men, as the mop*
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. xliii 
 
 renial of all peccadilloes ; and was so far from being a mark of ill- 
 breeding that it was almost essential to the character of a fine gentle* 
 man. But the smallest speck is seen on a white ground* and almost 
 all the biographers of Addison have said something about this failing. 
 Of any other statesman or writer of Queen Anne's reign, we should no 
 more think of saying that he sometimes took too much wine, than that 
 he wore a long wig and a sword. 
 
 To the excessive modesty of Addison's nature, we must ascribe 
 another fault which generally arises from a very different cause. He 
 became a little too fond of seeing himself surrounded by a small circle 
 of admirers, to whom lie was as a king or rather as a god. All these 
 men were far inferior to him in ability, and some of them had very seri- 
 ous faults. Nor did those faults escape his observation ; for. if ever 
 there was an eye which saw through and through men. it was the eye 
 of Addison. But with the keenest observation, and the finest sense of 
 the ridiculous, he had a large charity. The feeling with which he look- 
 ed on most of his humble companions was one of benevolence, slightly 
 tinctured with contempt. He was at perfect ease in their company ; he 
 was grateful for their devoted attachment; and he loaded them with 
 benefits. Their veneration for him appears to have exceeded that with 
 which Johnson was regarded by Boswell, or Warburton by Hurd. It 
 was not in the power of adulation to turn such a head, or deprave such 
 a heart as Addison's. But it must in candor be admitted, that he con- 
 tracted some of the faults which can scarcely be avoided by any per- 
 son who is so unfortunate as to be the oracle of a small literary co- 
 terie. 
 
 One member of this little society was Eustace Budgell,' a young 
 templar of some literature, and a distant relation of Addison. There 
 was at this time no stain on the character of Budgell. and it is not im- 
 probable that his career would have been prosperous and honorable, if 
 the life of his cousin had been prolonged. But when the master was 
 laid in the grave, the disciple broke loose from all restraint; descended 
 rapidly from one degree of vice and misery to another; ruined his for- 
 tun" by follies ; attempted to repair it by crimes ; and at length closed 
 ii wicked and unhappy life by self-murder. Yet. to the f si', (be wretch- 
 ed man. gambler. lampooner, cheatj forger, as he was. retained bis all' <•- 
 • ncration for Addison; and recorded thosi feelings in the last 
 
 - /,'//"'[/.//, Fie forged s «iM Dr. Tindal's rind drowned himself to escape prosecution. 
 
 walking down to tin determined to drown him If, 
 
 be might, Ifhe plea • ■'!, without any apprehension <>f danger, have turned aside and fust sot 
 
 ar.- t'i St James' Palace.— BOS WELL'S Juhntun, v. 11, p, I 11*. — G.
 
 xliv LIFE AND W 11. TINGS OF ADDISON 
 
 lines which he traced before h° hid himself from infamy under London 
 Bridge. 
 
 Another of Addison's favorite companions was Ambrose Phillipps, 
 a good whig and a middling poet, who had the honor of bringing into 
 fashion a species of composition which has been called after his name. 
 Namby- Pamby . But the most remarkable members of the little sen- 
 ate, as Pope long afterwards called it. were Richard Steele and Thomas 
 Tickell. 
 
 Steele had known Addison from childhood. They had been toge- 
 ther at the Charter House and at Oxford ; but circumstances had then, 
 for a time, separated them widely. Steele had left college without tak- 
 ing a degree, had been disinherited by a rich relation, had led a vagi ant 
 life, had served in the army, had tried to find the philosopher's stone, 
 and had written a religious treatise ami several comedies. He was one 
 of those people whom it is impossible either to hate or to respect. His 
 temper was sweet, his affections warm, his spirits lively, his passions 
 strong, and his principles weak. His life was spent in sinning and re- 
 penting, in inculcating what was right, and doing what was wrong. Iu 
 speculation, he was a man of \mty and honor; in practice, he was 
 much of the rake and a little of the swindler. He was, however, so 
 good-natured that it was not easy to be seriously angry with him, and 
 that even rigid moralists felt more inclined to pity than to blame him, 
 when he diced himself into a spunging-house, or drank himself into a 
 fever. Addison regarded Steele with kindness not unmingled with 
 scorn, 8 — tried, with little success, to keep him out of scrapes, introducing 
 him to the great, procured a good place for him, corrected his plays, 
 and, though by no means rich, lent him large sums of money. One of 
 these loans appears, from a letter dated in August, 1708, to have 
 amounted to a thousand pounds. These pecuniary transactions proba ■ 
 bly led to frequent bickerings. It is said that, on one occasion. Steele's 
 negligence, or dishonesty, provoked Addison to repay himself by the 
 help of a bailiff. We cannot join with Miss Aikin in rejecting this 
 story. Johnson heard it from Savage, who heard it from Steele. Few 
 private transactions which took place a hundred and twenty j'ears ago 
 are proved by stronger evidence than this. But we can by no means 
 agree with those who condemn Addison's severity. The most amiable 
 of mankind may well be moved to indignation, when what he has earned 
 
 8 Steele. " Not unmingled with scorn " — a strong expression, and which should have been 
 supported by something bet"3r than conjecture. The story of Steele's arrest stands, at 
 Macaulay says, on the best e~ lence, but the picture in the text is too much of a fancy piee« 
 to be admitted as history. — G.
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. XIV 
 
 hardly, and lent with great inconvenience to himself, for the purpose of 
 relieving a friend in distress, is squandered with insane profusion. We 
 will illustrate our meaning by an example, which is not the less striking 
 because it is taken from fiction. Dr. Harrison, in Fielding's " Amelia." 
 is represented as the most benevolent of human beings ; yet he takes 
 in execution, not only the goods, but the person of his friend Booth. 
 Dr. Harrison resorts to this strong measure because he has been inform- 
 ed that Booth, while pleading poverty as an excuse for not paying just 
 debts, has been buying tine jeweller}-, and setting up a coach. No per- 
 son who is well acquainted with Steele's life and correspondence, can 
 doubt that he behaved quite as ill to Addison as Booth was accused of 
 behaving to Dr. Harrison. The real histor}-, we have little doubt, was 
 something like this: — A letter comes to Addison, imploring help in 
 pathetic terms, and promising reformation and speedy repayment. Poor 
 Dick declares that he has not an inch of candle, or a bushel of coals, or 
 credit with the butcher for a shoulder of mutton. Addison is moved. 
 He determines to deny himself some medals which are wanting to his 
 series of the Twelve Caesars; to put off bu3 r ing the new edition of 
 " Bayle's Dictionary " and to wear his old sword and buckles another 
 year, in this way he manages to send a hundred pounds to his friend. 
 The next day he calls on Steele, and finds scores of gentlemen and ladies 
 assembled. The fiddles are playing. The table is groaning under 
 Champagne, Burgundy, and pyramids of sweetmeats. Is it strange 
 that a man whose kindness is thus abused, should send sheriff's officers 
 to reclaim what is due to him 1 
 
 Tickell was a young man, fresh from Oxford, who had introduced 
 himself to public notice by writing a most ingenious and grateful little 
 poem in praise of the opera of "Rosamond." He deserved, and at 
 length attained, the first place in Addison's friendship. For a time 
 Steele and Tickell were on good terms. But they loved Addison too 
 much to love each other; and at length became as bitter enemies as the 
 rival bulls in Virgil. 
 
 At the close of 1708, Wharton became lord-lieutenant of Ireland. 
 and appointed Addison chief secretary. Addison was consequently un- 
 der the necessity of quiting London for Dublin. Besides the chief secre- 
 taryship, which was then worth about two thousand pounds a year, he 
 obtained a patent appointing him keeper of the Irish records tin- life, 
 with a salary of three or four hundred a year. Budgell accompanied 
 his cousin in the capacity of private secretary. 
 
 Wharton and Addison had nothing in common but whiggism. The 
 lord-lieutenant was not only licentious and corrupt, but was distinguish-
 
 xlvi LIFE AND WHITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 ed from other libertines and jobbers by a callous impudence which pre 
 sented the strongest contrast to the secretary's gentleness and delicacy 
 Many parts of the Irish administration at this time appear to have tie- 
 served serious blame. But against Addison there was not a murmur. 
 He long afterwards asserted, what all the evidence which we have ever 
 .seen tends to prove, that his diligence and integrity gained the friendship 
 of all the most considerable persons in Ireland. 
 
 The parliamentary career of Addison in Ireland has, we think 
 escaped the notice of all his biographers. He was elected member for 
 the borough of Cavan in the summer of 1709 ; and in the journals of 
 two sessions his name frequently occurs. Some of the entries appear 
 to indicate that he so far overcame his timidity as to make speeches. 
 Nor is this by any means improbable ; for the Irish House of Commons 
 was a far less formidable audience than the English house ; and many 
 tongues which were tied by fear in the greater assembly became fluent 
 in the smaller. Gerard Hamilton, for example, who, from fear of losing 
 the fame gained by his "single speech," sat mute at Westminster during 
 forty years, spoke with great eftect at Dublin when he was secretary to 
 Lord Halifax. 
 
 While Addison was in Ireland, an event occurred to which he owes 
 his high and permanent rank among British writers. As yet his fame 
 rested on performances which, though highly respectable, were not built 
 for duration, and would, if he had produced nothing else, have now been 
 almost forgotten, on some excellent Latin verses, on some English verses 
 which occasionally rose above mediocrity, and on a book of travels, 
 agreeably written, but not indicating any extraordinary powers of mind. 
 These works showed him to be a man of taste, sense, and learning. 
 The time had come when he was to prove himself a man of genius, and 
 to enrich our literature with compositions which will live as long as the 
 English language. 
 
 In the spring of 1709, Steele formed a literary project, of which hi 
 was far indeed from foreseeing the consequences. Periodical papers had 
 durin»- many years been published in London. Most of these were 
 political ; but in some of them questions of morality, taste, and love- 
 casuistry had been discussed. The literary merit of these works was 
 small indeed ; and even their names are now known only to the curi- 
 ous. 
 
 Steele had been appointed gazetteer by Sunderland, at the request 
 it is said, of Addison ; and thus had access to foreign intelligence earliei 
 and more authentic than was in those times within the reach of an ordi- 
 nary news-writer. This circumstance seem'* ^ hs™ .spotted to him
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. xlvil 
 
 ,he S' heme of publishing a periodical paper on a new p'.an. It was to 
 appear on the days on which the post left London for the country, which 
 were, in that generation, the Tuesdays. Thursdays, and Saturdays. It 
 was to contain the foreign news, accounts of theatrical representatii hs, 
 and the literary gossip of Will's and of the Grecian. It was also to con- 
 tain remarks on the fashionable topics of the day. compliments to beau- 
 ties, pasquinades on noted sharpers, and criticisms on popular preachers. 
 The aim of Steele does not appear to have been at first higher than this. 
 He was not ill qualified to conduct the work which he had planned. 
 His public intelligence he drew from the best sources. He knew the 
 town, and had paid dear for his knowledge. He had read much more 
 than the dissipated men of that time were in the habit of reading. lie 
 was a rake among scholars, and a scholar among rakes. His style was 
 easy and not incorrect ; and though his wit and humor were of no 
 higher order, his gay animal spirits imparted to his compositions an air 
 of vivacity which ordinary readers could hardly distinguish from comic 
 genius. His writings have been well compared to those light wines, 
 which, though deficient in body and flavor, are yet a pleasant small 
 drink, jf not kept too long, or carried too far. 
 
 Isaac Bickerstatf, Esquire. Astrologer, was an imaginary person, 
 almost as well known in that age as Mr. Paul Pry or Mr. Pickwick in 
 ours. Swift had assumed the name of Bickerstatf in a satirical pamphlet 
 against Partridge, the almanac-maker. Partridge had been fool enough 
 to publish a furious reply. Bickerstaff had rejoined in a second pamphlet 
 still more diverting than the first. All the wits had combined to keep 
 up the joke, and the town was long in convulsions of laughter. Steele 
 determined to employ the name which this controversy had made popu- 
 lar ; and. in April. 1709, it was announced that fsaac Bickerstaff, Es- 
 quire. Astrologer, was about to publish a paper called the •• Tatler." '■' 
 
 \ Idison had not been consulted about this scheme; hut as soon as 
 he heard of it lie determined to give it his assistance. The effect of that 
 assistance cannot be better described than in Steele's own words. : ' I 
 fared." he .-aid. "like a distressed prince who calls in a powerful neighbor 
 to his aid. J was undone by my auxiliary. When I had once called 
 him in. I could not subsist without dependence on him." "The paper," 
 he says elsewhere, "was advanced indeed. It was raised to a greater 
 thing than I intended it." 
 
 It i po ible thai Addison, when he senl across St. George's Chan- 
 
 s 7V" Tutler. Wycho"l writing to Pope about tin uco of his Miscellanies, mention! 
 the 7 'atl -r as "a whimsical cw newspaper which I suppose you have seen." — Wvch. to 
 Pow, UUi May, I7u».— O.
 
 &} - Hi LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 nel his first contributions to the Tatler. had no notion of the extent and 
 variet} of his own powers. He was the possessor of a vast mine, rich 
 with a hundred ores. But he had been acquainted only with the least 
 precious part of his treasures ; and had hitherto contented himself with 
 producing sometimes copper and sometimes lead, intermingled with a 
 little silver. All at once, and by mere accident, he had lighted on an 
 inexhaustible vein of the finest gold. The mere choice and arrangement 
 of his words would have sufficed to make his essays classical. For 
 never, not even by Dryden, not even by Temple, had the English lan- 
 guage been written with such sweetness, grace, and facility. But this 
 was the smallest part of Addison's praise. Had he clothed his thoughts 
 in the half French style of Horace Walpole. or in the half Latin style of 
 Dr. Johnson, or in the half German jargon of the present day, his genius 
 would have triumphed over all faults of manner. 
 
 As a moral satirist, he stands unrivalled. If ever the best Tatlers 
 and Spectators were equalled in their own kind, we should be inclined 
 to guess that it must have been by the lost comedies of Menander. 
 
 In wit, properl}- so called. Addison was not inferior to Cowley or 
 Butler. No single ode of Cowley contains so many happy analogies as 
 are crowded into the lines to Sir Godfrey Kneller ; and we would under- 
 take to collect from the " Spectators " as great a number of ingenious 
 illustrations as can be found in '• Hudibras." The still higher faculty 
 of invention Addison possessed in still larger measure. The numerous 
 fictions, generally original, often wild and grotesque, but always singu- 
 larly graceful and happy, which are found in his essays, fully entitle 
 him to the rank of a great poet — a rank to which his metrical composi- 
 tions give him no claim. As an observer of life, of manners, of all the 
 shades of human character, he stands in the first class. And what he 
 observed he had the art of communicating in two widely different ways. 
 Fie could describe virtues, vices, habits, wlritns. as well as Clarendon. 
 But he could do something better. He could call human beings into 
 existence, and make them exhibit themselves. If we wish to find any 
 thing more vivid than Addison's best portraits, we must go either to 
 Shakspeare or to Cervantes. 
 
 Bui what shall we say of Addison's humor, of his sense of the 
 ludicrous, of his power of awakening that sense in others, an I of draw- 
 ing mirth from incidents which occur ever}' day. and from little peculi- 
 arities of temper and manner, such as may be found in every man ? 
 We feel the charm. We give ourselves up to it. But we strive in vain 
 to analyze it. 
 
 Perhaps tb" best waj r of describing Addison's peculiar pleasantry, is
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP ADDISON. xlix 
 
 to compare it with the pleasantry of some other great satirist. Tlio 
 three most eminent masters of the art of ridicule, during the eighteenth 
 century, were, we conceive, Addison, Swift, and Voltaire. Which of 
 the three had the greatest power of moving laughter may be questioned. 
 But each of them, within his own domain, was supreme. Voltaire is 
 (.lie prince of buffoons. His merriment is without disguise or restraint. 
 lie gambols; he grins ; he shakes his sides; he points the finger ; he 
 turns up the nose ; he shoots out the tongue. The manner of Swift is 
 the very opposite to this. lie moves laughter, but never joins in it. 
 He appears in his works such as he appealed in socict}-. All the com- 
 pany are convulsed in merriment, while the dean, the author of all the 
 mirth, preserves an invincible gravity, and even sourness of aspect; and 
 gives utterance to the most eccentric and ludicrous fancies, with the air 
 of a man reading the conmiination-service. v. 
 
 The manner of Addison is as remote from that of Swift as from that 
 of Voltaire. He neither laughs out like the French wit, nor. like the 
 Irish wit, throws a double portion of severity into his countenance while 
 laughing inly ; but preserves a look peculiarly his own, a look of demure 
 serenity, disturbed only b} r an arch sparkle of the eye, an almost imper- 
 ceptible elevation of the brow, an almost imperceptible curl of the lip. 
 His tone is never that either of a Jack Pudding or of a cynic. It is 
 that of a gentleman, in whom the quickest sense of the ridiculous is 
 constantly tempered by good nature and good breeding. 
 
 We own that the humor of Addison is, in our opinion, of a more 
 delicious flavor than the humor of either Swift or Voltaire. Thus 
 much, at least, is certain, that both Swift and Voltaire have been sue- 
 fully mimicked, and that no man has yet been able to mimic Addi- 
 son. The letter of the Abbe Coyer to Pansophe is Voltaire all over, 
 and imposed, during a Ion;:' time, on the academicians of Paris. There 
 are passages in Arbuthnot's satirical works, which we, at least, cannot 
 distinguish from Swift's best writing. But of the many eminent men \ 
 who have made Addison their model, though many have copied his 
 mere diction with happy effect, none has been able to catch the tone of 
 his pleasantry. In the World, in the Connoisseur, in the Mirror, in the 
 Lounger, there are numerous papers written in obvious imitation of his 
 Tatlers and Spectators. Most of these papers have some merit; many 
 are very lively and amusing; but there is not a single one which could 
 be passed off as Addison's on a critic of the smallest perspicacity. 
 
 But that which chiefly distinguishes Addison from Swift, from 
 Voltaire, from almost all the Other great masters of ridicule, is the grace, 
 the nobleness, the moral purity, which we find even in his merriment
 
 I LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 Severity gradually hardening and darkening- into misanthropy, charac- 
 terizes the works of Swift. The nature of Voltaire was. indeed, not 
 inhuman ; but he venerated nothing. Neither in the masterpieces of 
 art nor in the purest examples of virtue, neither in the Great Fust 
 Cause nor a the awful enigma of the grave, could he see any thing but 
 subjects for drollery. The more solemn and august the theme, the 
 more monkey-like was his grimacing and chattering. The mirth of 
 Swift is the injrth,of Mephistophiles ; the mirth of Voltaire is the mirth 
 of Puck. If, as Soame Jennings oddly imagined, a portion of the happi- 
 ness of seraphim and just men made perfect be derived from an exquisite 
 perception of the ludicrous, their mirth must surely he none other than 
 the mirth of Addison ;— a mirth consistent with tender compassion for 
 all that is frail, and with profound reverence for all that is sublime. 
 Nothing great, nothing amiable, no moral duty, no doctrine of natural 
 or revealed religion, has ever been associated by Addison with any 
 degrading idea. His humanity is without a parallel in literary history. 
 The highest proof of human virtue is to possess boundless power with- 
 n\ out abusing it. Xo kind of power is more formidable than the power 
 of making men ridiculous ; and that power Addison possessed in bound- 
 less measure. How grossly that power was abused by Swift and Vol- 
 taire is well known. But of Addison it may be confidently affirmed 
 that he has blackened no man's character, nay, that it would be diffi- 
 cult, if not impossible, to find in all the volumes which he has left us a 
 single taunt which can be called ungenerous or unkind. Yet he had 
 detractors, whose malignity might have seemed to justify as terrible a 
 revenge as that which men, not superior to him in genius, wreaked on 
 Bettesworth and on Franc de Pompignan. He was a politician ; he was 
 the best writer of his party ; he lived in times of fierce excitement— 
 in times when persons of high character and station stooped to scurrility 
 such as is now practised by- the basest of mankind. Yet no provocation 
 and no example could induce him to return railing for railing. 
 
 Of the service which his essays rendered to morality it is difficult to 
 speak .00 highly. It is true that, when the Tatler appeared, that age 
 of outrageous profaneness and licentiousness which followed the Res- 
 toration had passed away- Jeremy Collier had shamed the theatres 
 in,. i something which, compared with the excesses of Etherege and 
 Wycherley, might be called decency. Yet there still lingered in the 
 public mind a pernicious notion that there was some connectkn between 
 genius and profligacy — between the domestic virtues and the sullen for- 
 mality of the Puritans. That error it is the glory of Addison to have 
 dispelled. He taught the nation that the faith and the morality ot
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 1) 
 
 Hale and Tillotson might be found in company with wit more sparkling 
 than the wit of Congreve. and with humor richer than the humor of 
 Vanbrngh. So effectually, indeed, did he retort on vice the mockery 
 which had recently been directed againsl virtue, thai. since his time, the- 
 ipei on of decency has always been considered among us as the 
 
 sure mark of a fool. And this revolution, the greatest and most salu 
 tary ever effected by any satirist, he accomplished, be it remembered, 
 without writing one personal lampoon. 
 
 In the early contributions of Addison to the Tatler. his peculiar v' 
 powers were not fully exhibited. Yet from the first his superiority to 
 his coadjutors was evident. Some of his later Tatlers are fully equal 
 to any thing that he ever wrote. Among the portraits, we most admire 
 Tom Folio Ned Softly, and the Political Upholsterer. The- proceedings 
 of the Court of Honor, the Thermometer of Zeal, the story of the 
 Frozen Words, the Memoirs of the Shilling, are excellent specimens of 
 that ingenious and lively species of fiction in which Addison excelled all 
 men. 'there is one still better paper, of the same class, but though 
 that paper, a hundred and thirty-three years ago. was probably thought 
 as edifying as one of Smalridge's sermons, we dare not indicate it to 
 the squeamish readers of tie' nineteenth century. 
 
 Durmg the session of Parliament which commenced in November, 
 1709. and which the impeachment of Sacheverell has made memorable, 
 Addison appears to have resided in London. The Tatler was now more 
 popular than any periodical paper had ever been ; an 1 his connection 
 with it was generally known. It was not known, however, that almost 
 i". ry thing good in the Tatler was his. The truth is. that the fifty or 
 sixty numbers which we owe to him were not merely the hest. but so 
 ledlj tie.' best, that any five of them are more valuable than all ihe 
 two hun ire 1 numbers in which he had no shire. 
 
 Ih required, 'it this time, all the solace which he could derive from 
 
 liierarj success. The queen had always disliked the whigs. She had 
 
 during some years disliked the Marlborough family, lint, reigning by 
 
 a disputed title, she could not venture direct!} to oppose herself to a 
 
 majority of both Houses of Parliament ; and. engaged as she was in a 
 
 war, on the event of which her own crown was staked, she could n 
 
 venture to d .i ao 1 succe sful general. But at length, in 
 
 171 i. tl ■ which had re-trained her from showing her 
 
 low church party ceased tooperate. The ..rial of Sache- 
 
 oduced an outbreak of public feeling scarcely less violent than 
 
 those which we can ourselves remember in 18*20, and in 1831. The 
 
 i-oii.iiiy gentlemen, the country clergymen) the rabble of the towns
 
 Lii LIFE AND WRITINGS OF AD11S0N. 
 
 were all for once, on the same side. Tt was clea that, if a general 
 election took place before the excitement abated, the lories would have 
 a majority. The services of Marlborough had been so splendid that 
 they were no longer necessary. The queen's throne was secure from 
 all attacks on the part of Louis. Indeed, it seemed much more likely 
 that the English and German armies would divide the spoils of Versailles 
 and Marli. than that a marshal of France would bring back the Pre- 
 tender to St. James's. The queen, acting by the advice of Harley. de- 
 termined to dismiss her servants. In June the change commenced. 
 Sunderland was the first who fell. The tories exulted over his fail. 
 The whigs \ried. during a few weeks, to persuade themselves that her 
 majesty ha 1 acted only from personal dislike to the secretary, and that 
 she medita ed no further alteration. But. early in August. Godolphin 
 was surpri ;ed by a letter from Anne, which directed him to break his 
 white staff Even after this event, the irresolution or dissimulation of 
 Harley ke >t up the hopes of the whigs during another month ; and then 
 the ruin jecame rapid and violent. The Parliament was dissolved. 
 The mini tiers were turned out. The tories were called to office. The 
 tide of popularity rah violently in favor of the high church party. 
 That pa ty. feeble in the late House of Commons, was now irresistible. 
 The power which the tories had thus suddenly acquired, they used with 
 blind and stupid ferocity. The howl which the whole pack set up for 
 prey and for blood, appalled even him who had roused and unchained 
 them. When at this distance of time, we cahnl} r review the conduct of 
 the discarded ministers, we cannot but feel a movement of indignation 
 at the injustice with which they were treated. No body of men had 
 ever administered the government with more energy, ability, and mode- 
 ration ; and their success had been proportioned to their wisdom. They 
 had saved Holland and Germany. They had humbled France. They 
 had, as it seemed, all but torn Spain from the house of Bourbon. They 
 had made England the first power in Europe. At home they had united 
 England and Scotland. They had respected the rights of conscience 
 and the liberty of the subject. They retired leaving their country at 
 the height of prosperity and glory. And yet they were pursued to their 
 retreat by such a roar of obloquy as was never raised against the gov- 
 ernment which threw away thirteen colonies ; or agaiust'the government 
 which sent a gallant army to perish in the ditches of "Walcheren. 
 
 None of the whigs suffered more in the general wreck than Addison 
 He had just sustained some heavy pecuniary losses, of the nature ol 
 which we are imperfectly informed, when his secretaryship was taker 
 from him. lie had reason to believe that he should also be deprived of
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF IDDISON. liii 
 
 the small Irish office which he held by patent. He had just resigned 
 his fellowship. It seems probable that he had already ventured to raise 
 his eyes to a great lady ; and that, while his political friends were all 
 powerful, and while his own fortunes were rising, he had been, in the 
 phrase of the romances which were then fashionable, permitted to hope. 
 But Mr. Addison, the ingenious writer, and Mr. Addison, the chief 
 secretary, were, in her ladyship's opinion, two very different persons. 
 All these calamities united, however, could not disturb the serene cheer- 
 fid ness of a mind conscious of innocence, and rich in its own wealth 
 He told his friends, with smiling resignation, that thej r ought to admire 
 his philosophy, that he had lost at once his fortune, his place, his fellow 
 ship, and his mistress, that he must think of turning tutor again, anc 
 yet that his spirits were as good as ever. 
 
 He had one consolation. Of the unpopularity which his friends had 
 incurred, he had no share. Such was the esteem with which he was 
 regarded, that while the most violent measures were taken for the pur- 
 pose of forcing tory members on whig corporations, he was returned to 
 Parliament without even a contest. Swift, who was now in London, 
 and who had already determined on quitting the whigs, wrote to Stella 
 in these words : — " The torics carry it among the new members six to 
 one. Mr. Addison's election has passed easy and undisputed ; and I 
 believe if he had a mind to be king, lie would hardly be refused/' 
 
 The good-will with which the tories regarded Addison is the more 
 honoraMe to him. because it had not been purchased by any conci- 
 sion on his part. During the general election he published a political 
 journal, entitled the " Whig Examiner." Of that journal it may be 
 sufficient to say that Johnson, in spite of his strong political prejudices, 
 pronounced it to be superior in wit to any of Swift's writings on the 
 other side. When it ceased to appear. Swift, in a letter to Stella, ex- 
 pressed his exultation at the death of so formi 'able an antagonist. 
 •• He might well rejoice," says Johnson, " at the death of that which he 
 could not have killed." "On no occasion." he adds, "was the genius 
 of Addison more vigorously exerted, and in none did the superiority of 
 hi powers more evidently appear." 
 
 The only use which Addison appears to have made of the favor 
 with which he was regarded by the tories. was to save some of ids 
 friend- from the general ruin of the whig parly. He felt himself to be 
 in a situation which made it his duty to take a decided part in politics. 
 Bui the case 'of Steele and of Ambrose Phillipps was different. For 
 Phillippa A idison even condescended to solicit ; with what success we 
 have not ascertained. Steele held two places, lie was gazetteer and
 
 liv LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 he was also a commissioner of stamps. The gazette was taken from 
 him. But he was suffered to retain his place in the stamp- office, on an 
 'mplied understanding that he should not he active against the new 
 government ; and he was, during more than two years, induced by Ad- 
 dison to observe this armistice with tolerable fidelity. 
 
 Isaac Bickerstaff accordingly became silent upon politics, and the 
 article of news, which had once formed about one-third of his paper, 
 altogether disappeared. The Tatler had completely changed its char- 
 acter. It was now nothing but a series of essays on books, morals, and 
 manners. Steele, therefore, resolved to bring it to a close, and to com- 
 mence a new work on an improved plan. It was announced that this 
 new work would be published daily. The undertaking was generally 
 regarded as bold, or rather rash ; but the event amply justified the con- 
 fidence with which Steele relied on the fertility of Addison's genius. 
 On the 2d of January, 17 ll, appeared the last Tatler. On the 1st of 
 March following appeared the first of an incomparable series of papers, 
 containing observations on life and literature by an imaginary spec- 
 tator. 
 
 The Spectator himself was conceived and drawn by Addison ; and 
 it is not easy to doubt that the portrait was meant to be in some fea- 
 tures a likeness of the painter. The Spectator is a gentleman who, after 
 passing a studious youth at the university, has. travelled on classic 
 ground, and has bestowed much attention on curious points of antiquity. 
 He has. .on his return. fixed his residence in London, and has observed 
 all the forms of life which are to be found in that great city ; — has daily 
 listened to the wits of Will's, has smoked with the philosophers of 
 the Grecian, and has mingled with the parsons' ac Child's, and with 
 the politicians at the St. James's. In the morning he often listens to 
 the hum of the Exchange; in the evening his face is constantly to be 
 seen in the pit of Drury-lane theatre. But an insurmountable bashful- 
 ness prevents him from opening his mouth, except iu a small circle of 
 intimate friends. 
 
 These friends were first sketched by Steele. Four of the club, the 
 templar, the clergyman, the soldier, and the merchant, were uninterest- 
 ing figures, fit only for a background. But the other two, an old coun- 
 try baronet, and an old town rake, though not delineated with a very 
 (I licate pencil, had some good strokes. Addison took the rude outlines 
 into his own bands, retouched them, colored them, and is in truth the 
 creator of the Sir Roger de Coverley and the Will Honeycomb with 
 whom we are all familiar. 
 
 The plan of the Spectator must be allowed to be both original and
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. lv 
 
 eminently happy. Every valuable essay in the series ma}^ be read with 
 pleasure separately ; yet the five or six hundred essays form a whole, 
 and a whole which has the interest of a novel. It must be remembered. 
 too. that at that time, no novel, giving a lively and powerful picture of 
 the common life and manners of^England had appeared. Richardson 
 was working as a compositor. Fielding was robbing bird's nests. 
 Smollett was not j'et born. The narrative, therefore, which connects 
 together the Spectator's essays, gave to our ancestors their lirst taste 
 of an exquisite and untried pleasure. That narrative was indeed con- 
 structed with no art or labor. The events were such events as occur 
 every day. Sir Roger conies up to town to see Eugenio, as the worthy 
 baronet always calls Prince Eugene, goes with the Spectator on the 
 water to .Spring Gardens, walks among the tombs in the abbey, is fright- 
 ened by the Mohawks, but conquers his apprehension so far as to go to 
 the theatre, when the "Distressed Mother " is acted. The Spectator 
 pays a visit in the summer to Coverley Hall, is charmed with the old 
 house, the old butler, and. the old chaplain, eats a Jack caught by Will 
 Wimble, rides to the assizes, and hears a point of law discussed by Tom 
 Touchy. At last a letter from the honest butler brings to the club the 
 news that Sir Roger is dead. Will Honeycomb marries and reforms at 
 sixty. The club breaks up ; and the Spectator resigns his functions. 
 Such events can hardly be said to form a plot, yet they are related with 
 such truth, such grace, such wit. such humor, such pathos, such know- 
 ledge of the human heart, such knowledge of the ways of the world, 
 that llie\ charm us on the hundredth perusal. We have not the least 
 doulit that, if Addison had written a novel, on an extensiveplan.it 
 would have been superior to airy that we possess. As it is, he is entitled 
 to be considered, not only as the greatest of the English essayists, but 
 a- the forerunner of the great English novelists. 
 
 We -ay this of Addison alone; for Addison is the Spectator. About 
 three-sevenths of the work are his ; and it is no exaggeration to say, that 
 li s tir-' essay is as good as the best essay of any of his coadjutors. His 
 best essaj s approach near to absolute perfection ; nor is their excellence 
 more wonderful than their variety. His invention never seems to flag; 
 nor is he ever under the necessity of repeating himself, or of wearing 
 out a subject. There are no dregs in his wine. He regales us after the 
 fashion of thai prodigal nabob who held that there was only one good 
 glass in a Lottie. '"' As soon as we have tasted the first sparkling foam 
 of a jest, it is withdrawn, and a fresh glass of nectar is at our lips. On 
 the Monday wc have an allegory as lively and ingenious .as I ucian'c 
 Auction of Lives; on the Tuesday an eastern apologue as richly colored 
 vm.. r. c
 
 lvi LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 as the Talcs of Scherezade ; on the Wednesday, a character described 
 with the skill of La Bray ere; on the Thursday; a scene from common 
 life equal to the best chapters in the Vicar of Wakefield ; on the Friday, 
 some sly Horatian pleasantry on the fashionable follies — on hoops, 
 patches, or puppet-shows ; and on the Saturday a religious meditation 
 which will bear a comparison with the finest passages in Massillon. 
 
 It is dangerous to select where there is so much that deserves the 
 highest praise. We will venture, however, to say, that any persons 
 who wish to form a just notion of the extent and variety of Addison's 
 powers, will do well to read at one sitting the following papers: — the 
 two Visits to the Abbey, the Visit to the Exchange, the Journal of the. 
 Retired Citizen, the Vision of Mirza, the Transmigrations of Pug the 
 Monkey, and the Death of Sir Roger de Coverley. 
 
 The least valuable of Addison's contributions to the Spectator are, 
 in the judgment of our age, his critical papers. Yet his critical jpapers 
 are always luminous, and often ingenious. The very worst of them 
 must be regarded as creditable to him, when the character of the school 
 in which he had been trained is fairly considered. The best of them 
 were much too good for his readers. In truth, he was not so far behind 
 our generation as he was before his own. No essays in the Spectator 
 were more censured and derided than those in which he raised his voice 
 against the contempt with which our fine old ballads were regarded ; 
 and showed the scoffers that the same gold which, burnished and polish- 
 ed, gives lustre to the iEneid and the Odes of Horace, is mingled with 
 the rude dross of Chevy Chace. 
 
 It is not strange that the success of the Spectator should have been 
 such as no similar work has ever obtained. The number of copies 
 daily distributed was at fiist three thousand. It subsequently increas- 
 ed, and had risen to near four thousand when the stamp-tax was 
 imposed. That tax was fatal to a crowd of journals. The Spectator, 
 however, stood its ground, doubled its price, and though its circulation 
 fell off, still yielded a large revenue both to the state and to the authors. 
 For particular papers, the demand was immense ; of some, it is said 
 twenty thousand copies were required. But tins was not all. To 
 have the Spectator served up every morning with the bohea and rolls, 
 was a luxury for the few ; the majority were content to wait till essays 
 enough had appeared to form a volume. Ten thousand copies of each 
 volume were immediately taken off, and new editions were called for 
 It must be remembered, that the population of England was then hardh 
 a third of what it now is. The number of Englishmen who were in the 
 habit of reading, was probably not a sixth of what it now is. A shop-
 
 LIFE AND 'WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 1 
 
 V1J 
 
 keeper or a farmer who found any pleasure in literature, was a rarity. 
 Nay, there was doubtless more than one knight of the shire whose 
 country-seat did not contain ten hooks — receipt-hooks, and hooks on 
 farriery included. Under these circumstances, the sale of the Spectator ' 
 must he considered as indicating a popularity quite as great as that* of 
 the most successful works of Sir Walter Scott and Mr. Dickens in our 
 own time. 
 
 At the close of 1712, the Spectator ceased to appeal'. It was proba- 
 bly felt that the short-faced gentleman and his club had been long 
 enough hefore the town : and that it was time to withdraw them, and 
 to replace them by a new set of characters. In a few weeks the first 
 number of the "Guardian" was published. But the Guardian was 
 unfortunate both in its birth and in its death. It began in dulness 
 and disappeared in a tempest of faction. The original plan was had. 
 Addison contributed nothing till sixty-six numbers had appeared ; and 
 it was then impossible even for him to make the Guardian what the 
 Spectator had been. Nestor Ironside and the Miss Lizards were people 
 to whom even he could impart no interest. He could only furnish 
 some excellent little essays, both serious and comic ; and this he did. 
 
 Why Addison gave no assistance to the Guardian during tlv first 
 two months of iis existence, is a question which has puzzled the editors 
 and biographers, hut which seems to us to admit of a very easy solu- 
 tion, lie was then engaged in bringing his Cato on the stage. 
 
 The first four acts of this drama had been lying in his desk ^hice 
 his return from Italy. His modest and sensitive nature shrank from 
 the risk of a public and shameful failure; and, though all who saw the 
 manuscript were loud in praise, some thought it possible that an 
 audience might become impatient even of wry good rhetoric.; and ad- 
 vised Addison to print the play without hazarding a representation. 
 At length, after many tits of apprehension, the poet yielded to the 
 urgency of his political friends, who hoped that the public would dis- 
 cover some analogy between the followers of C;esar and the tories, 
 
 between Semproniua and the apostate whigs, between Cato. struggling 
 to tin lasl Inr the liberties of Rome, ami the hand of patriots who still 
 stood linn round Halifax and Wharton. 
 
 Addison gave the play to da' managers of Drury-lane theatre, 
 without stipulating for any advantage to himself. They, therefore 
 thought themselves hound to span- no cost in scenery and dresses. 
 
 The decorations, il is true, would not have pleased the skilful eye of Mr 
 
 Macready. Juba's waistcoal blazed with void lace; Marcia's hoop was 
 
 worthy Of a duchess on the birthday ; and Cato wore a wig worth fifty 
 
 c*
 
 l-'iii LIFE AND WRITINGS OF A t) D I S O N 
 
 guineas. The prologue was written by Pope, and is undoubtedly a 
 dignified and spirited composition. The part of the hero was excellent- 
 ly played by Booth. Steele undertook to pack a house. The boxes 
 were in a blaze with the stars of the peers in opposition. The pit was 
 crowded with attentive and friendly listeners from the inns of court 
 and the literary coffee-houses. Sir Gilbert Heathcotc, governor of the 
 Bank of England, was at the head of a powerful body of auxiliaries 
 from the city ;— warm men and true whigs, but better known at Jona- 
 than's and Garrowy's than in the haunts of wits and critics. 
 
 These precautions were quite superfluous. The tories, as a body, 
 regarded Addison with no unkind feelings. Nor was it for their 
 interest. — professing, as they did, profound reverence for law and pre- 
 scription, and abhorrence both of popular insurrections and of standing 
 armies — to appropriate to themselves reflections thrown on the 
 great military chief and demagogue, who, with the support of the 
 legions and of the common people, subverted all the ancient institutions 
 of his country. Accordingly, every shout that was raised by the 
 members of the Kit-Cat was re-echoed by the high churchmen of the 
 October ; and the curtain at length fell amidst thunders of unanimous 
 applause. 
 
 The delight and admiration of the town were described by the 
 Guardian in terms which we might attribute to partiality, were it not 
 that the Examiner, the organ of the ministry, held similar language. 
 The tories, indeed, found much to sneer at in the conduct of their 
 opponents. Steele had on this, as on other occasions, shown more zeai 
 than taste or judgment. The honest citizens who marched under the 
 orders of Sir Glibby, as he was facetiously called, probably knew 
 better when to buy and sell stock than when to clap and when to 
 hiss at a play ; and incurred some ridicule by making the hypocritical 
 Sempronius their favorite, and by giving to his insincere rants 
 louder plaudits than they bestowed on the temperate eloquence of Cato. 
 Wharton, too. who had the incredible effrontery to applaud the lines 
 about flying from prosperous vice and from the power of impious men 
 to a private station, did not escape the sarcasms of those who justly 
 thought that he could fly from nothing more vicious or impious than 
 himself. The epilogue, which was written by (birth, a zealous whig, 
 was severely and not unreasonably censured as ignoble and out of place. 
 But Addison was described, even by the bitterest tory writers, as a gen- 
 tleman of wit and virtue, and in whose friendship many persons of both 
 parties were happy, and whose name ought not to be mixed up with fac- 
 tious squabbles.
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. li* 
 
 Of the jests by which the triumph of the whig party was disturbed, 
 the most severe and happy was Bolingbroke's. Between two arts, ho 
 sent for Booth to his box. and presented him, before the whole theatre, 
 with a purse of fifty guineas, for defending the cause of liberty so well 
 against a perpetual dictator. 
 
 It was April; and in April, a hundred and thirty years ago, the 
 London season was thought to be far advanced. During a whole month, 
 however, Cato was performed to overflowing houses, and brought into 
 the treasury of the theatre twice the gains of an ordinary spring. In 
 th'' summer, the Drury Lane company went down to act at Oxford, and 
 there, before an audience which retained an affectionate remembrance 
 of Addison's accomplishments and virtues, his tragedy was acted dming 
 several days. The gownsmen began to besiege the theatre in the fore- 
 noon, and by one in the afternoon all the seats were filled. 
 
 About the merits of the piece which had so extraordinary an effect, 
 the public, we suppose has made up its mind. To compare it with the 
 masterpieces of the Attic stage, with the great English dramas of. the 
 time of Elizabeth, or even with the productions of Schiller's manhood, 
 would be absurd indeed. Yet it contains excellent dialogue and decla- 
 mation ; and. among plays fashioned on the French model, must be al- 
 lowed to rank high ; not indeed with Athalie. Zaire, or Saul, but, we 
 think, not below China; and certainly above any other English tragedy 
 of the same school, above many of the plays of Corneille. above many 
 of the plays of Voltaire and Alfieri. and above some plays of Racine. 
 Be this as it may. we have little doubt that Cato did as much as the 
 Tatlers, Spectators, and Freeholders united, to raise Addison's fame 
 among his contemporaries. 
 
 The modesty and good nature of the successful dramatist ljad tamed 
 ev n the malignity of faction. But literary envy, it should seem, is a 
 fierci i passion than party spirit. It was by a zealous whig that the 
 fiercest attack on the wing tragedy was made. -John Dennis published 
 ..ill.- '::i Cato, which were written with some acuteness and with 
 much coarseness and asperity. But Addison neither defended himself 
 nor retaliated. <>n many points be had an excellent defence; and no- 
 thing would have been easier than to retaliate; for Dennis had written 
 ba i o 'e-. bad tragedies, had comedies: he had. moreover, a larger share 
 than in" t men of those infirmities and eccentricities which excite laugh- 
 ter; and Addison's power of turning either an absurd hook or an ah- 
 ! man into ridicule was unrivalled. Addison, however, serenely con- 
 scious of his Bupi iority, looked with pity on his assailant, whose temper,
 
 Lx L,FE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 naturally irritable and gloomy, had been soured by want, by controver- 
 sy, and by literary failures. 
 
 But among- the young candidates for Addison's favor there was one 
 distinguished b}' talents above the rest, and distinguished, we fear, not 
 less by malignity and insincerity. Pope was only twenty-five. But 
 his powers had expanded to their full maturity ; and his best poem, the 
 " Rape of the Lock," had recently been published. Of his genius, \d- 
 dison had always expressed high admiration. But Addison had clearly 
 discerned, what might indeed have been discerned by an eye less pene- 
 trating than his, that the diminutive, crooked, sickly bo3^ was eager to 
 revenge himself on society for the unkindness of nature. In the Spec- 
 tator, the Essay on Criticism had been praised with cordial warmth ; 
 but a gentle hint had bpen added, that the writer of such an excellent 
 poem would have done well to avoid ill-natured personalities. Pope, 
 though evidently more galled by the censure than gratified by the praise, 
 returned thanks for the admonition, and promised to profit by it. The 
 two writers continued to exchange civilities, counsel, and small good 
 offices. Addison publicly extolled Pope's miscellaneous pieces, and 
 Pope furnished Addison with a prologue. This did not last long. Pope 
 hated Dennis, whom he had injured without provocation. The appear- 
 ance of the Remarks on Cato, gave the irritable poet an opportunity of 
 venting his malice under the show of friendship; and such an opportu- 
 ne could not but be welcome to a nature which was implacable in en- 
 mity, and which always preferred the tortuous to the straight path. 
 He published, accordingly, the <: Narrative of the Frenzy of John Den- 
 nis." But Pope had mistaken his powers. He was a great master of 
 invective and sarcasm. He could dissect a character in terse and sono- 
 rous couplets, brilliant with antithesis. But of dramatic talent he was 
 altogether destitute. If he had written a lampoon on Dennis, such as 
 that on Atticus, or that on Sporus, the old grumbler would have been 
 crushed. But Pope writing dialogue resembled — to borrow Horace's 
 .magery and his own — a wolf which, instead of biting, should take to 
 Kicking, or a monkey which should try to sting. The Narrative is ut- 
 terly contemptible. Of argument there is not even the show ; and the 
 jests are such as, if they were introduced in a farce, would call forth 
 the hisses of the shilling gallery. Dennis raves about the drama ; and 
 th 3 nurse thinks that he is calling for a drain. 'There is," he cries 
 (; nc peripetia in the tragedy, no change of fortune, no change at all." 
 "Pray, good sir, be not angry," said the old woman ; " I'll fetch change.'- 
 This is not exactly the pleasantry of Addison. 
 
 There can be no doubt that Addison saw through this officious zeal
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 1X1 
 
 and felt himself deeply aggrieved hy it. So foolish and spiteful a 
 pamphlet could do him no good, and, if he were thought to have any 
 hand in it, must do him harm. Gifted with incomparable powers of 
 ridicule, he had never, even in self-defence, used those powers inhumanly 
 or uncourteously ; and he was not disposed to let others make his fame 
 and his interests a pretext under which they might commit outrages 
 from which he had himself constantly abstained. He accordingly de- 
 clared that he had no concern in the '•Narrative," that he disapproved 
 of it. and that, if he answered the " Remarks," he would answer them 
 like a gentleman ; -and he took care to communicate this to Dennis. 
 Pope was bitterly mortified ; and to this transaction we are inclined to 
 ascribe the hatred with which he ever after regarded Addison. 
 
 In September, 1713. the Guardian ceased to appear. Steele had 
 gone mad about politics. A general election had just taken place; he 
 had been chosen member for Stockbridge, and fully expected to play a 
 first part in Parliament. The immense success of the Tatlcr and Spec- 
 tator had turned his head. He had been the editor of both those papers ; 
 and was not aware how entirely they owed their influence and popu- 
 larity to the genius of his friend. His spirits, alwaj-s violent, were 
 now excited by vanity, ambition, and faction, to such a pitch that ho 
 every day committed some offence against good sense and good taste. 
 All the discreet and moderate members of his own party regretted and 
 condemned his folly, 'dam in a thousand trou hies," Addison wrote, 
 " about poor Dick, and wish that his zeal for the public may not be 
 ruinous to himself. But he has sent me word that he is determined to 
 go on. and that any advice I may give him in this particular will have 
 no weight with him." 
 
 Steele s*et up a political paper called ''The Englishman," which, as 
 it was not supported by contributions from Addison, complexly failed. 
 By this work, by some other writings of the same kind, and Iry the 
 airs which he gave himself at the first meeting of the new Parliament. 
 he made the tories so angry that they determined to expel him. The 
 whigS stood by him gallantly ; but were unable to save him. The 
 vote of expulsion was regarded by all dispassionate men as a tyrannical 
 of th>' power of the majority. But Steele's violence and lolly, 
 though they by no means justified the steps which his enemies took, 
 had completely disgusted his friends ; nor did he ever regain the place 
 which he had held in the public estimation. 
 
 Addison about this time conceived the design of adding an eighth 
 volume to the Spectator. In June. 1714, the first number of the new 
 ncries appeared, and during about six months, three papers were pub*
 
 lxii LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 lished weekly. Nothing can be oiore striking than the contrast be- 
 tween the Englishman and the eighth volume of the Spectator — be- 
 tween Steele without Addison, and Addison without Steele. The 
 "Englishman"' is forgotten; the eighth volume of the Spectator con- 
 tains, perhaps, the finest essays, both serious and playful, in the Eng- 
 lish language. 
 
 Before this volume was completed, the death of Anne produced an 
 entire change in the administration of public affairs. The blow fell 
 suddenly. It found the tory party distracted by internal feuds, and 
 unprepared for any great effort. Ilarley had just been disgraced. Bo- 
 lingbroke. it was supposed, would be the chief minister. But the 
 queen was on her deathbed before the white staff had been given, and 
 her last public act was to deliver it with a feeble hand to the Duke of 
 Shrewsbur}'. The emergency produced a coalition between all sections 
 of public men who were attached to the Protestant succession. George 
 the First was proclaimed without opposition. A council, in which the 
 leading whigs had seats, took the direction of affairs till the new king 
 should arrive. The first act of the lords justices was to appoint Addi- 
 son their secre-tar}^. 
 
 There is an idle tradition that he was directed to prepare a letter to 
 the king, that he could not satisfy himself as to the style of this com- 
 position, and that the lords justices called in a clerk who at once did 
 what was wanted. It is not strange that a story so flattering to medi- 
 ocrit}- should be popular ; aud we are sony to deprive dunces of their 
 consolation. But the truth must be told. Tt was well observed by 
 Sir James Mackintosh, whose knowledge of these times was unequalled, 
 that Addison never, in an} r official document, affected wit or eloquence ; 
 and that his despatches are, without exception, remarkable for uripre- 
 tending simplicity. Every body who knows with what ease Addison's 
 finest essays were produced, must be convinced that if well-turned 
 phrases had been wanted he would have had no difficulty in finding 
 them. We are, however, inclined to believe that the story is not abso- 
 lutely without a foundation. It may well be that Addison did not 
 know, till he had consulted experienced clerks, who remembered the 
 times when William was absent on the Continent, in what form a letter 
 from the council of regency to the king ought to be drawn. We think 
 it very likely that the ablest statesmen of our time. Lord John Russell, 
 Sir Robert Peel. Lord Palmerston. for example, would, in similar cir- 
 cumstances, be found quite as ignorant. Every office has some little 
 mysteries which the dullest man may learri with a little attention, and 
 which the greatest man cannot possibly know by intuition. One paper
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. lxill 
 
 must be signed by the chief of the department, another by his deputy. 
 To a third the royal sign-manual is necessary. One communication is 
 to be registered, and another is not. One sentence must be in black 
 ink and another in red ink. If the ablest secretary for Ireland were 
 moved to the Indian board, if the ablest president of the India board 
 were moved to the War-Office, he would require instruction on points 
 like these ; and we do not doubt that Addison required such instruction 
 when he became, for the first time, secretary to the lords justices. 
 
 George the First took possession of his kingdom without opposition. 
 A new ministry was formed, and a new parliament favorable to the 
 whigs chosen. Sunderland was appointed lord-lieutenant of Ireland, 
 and Addison again went to Dublin as chief secretary. 
 
 At Dublin Swift resided, and there was much speculation about the 
 way in which the dean and the secretary would behave towards each 
 other. The relations which existed between these remarkable men 
 form an interesting and pleasing portion of literary history. They had 
 early attached themselves to the same political party and to the same 
 patrons. While Anne's whig ministry was in power, the visits of 
 Swift to London and the official residence of Addison in Ireland had 
 given them opportunities of knowing each other. They were the two 
 shrewdest observers of their age. But their observations on each other 
 had led them to favorable conclusions. Swift did full justice to the 
 rare powers of conversation which were latent under the bashful de- 
 portment of Addison. Addison, on the other hand, discerned much 
 good nature under the severe look and manner of Swift; and. in 
 deed, the Swift of 1708 and the Swift of 1738 were two very differen 
 men. 
 
 lint the paths of the two friends diverged widely. The whig states- 
 men loaded Addison with solid benefits. They praised Swift, asked 
 him to dinner, and did nothing more for him. His profession laid them 
 under a difficulty. In the state they could not promote him ; and 
 they had reason to fear that, by bestowing preferment in the church on 
 the author of the Tale of a Tub, they might give scandal to the pubho, 
 which had no high opinion of their orthodoxy. I!e did not make fair 
 allowance for the difficulties which prevented Halifax and Somers from 
 serving him; thought himself an ill-used man; sacrificed honor and 
 je ; joined Mi'' torie . and became their most for 
 midable champion. II ■ ioon found, however, that his old friends were 
 i blame than he had supposed. The dislike with which the queen 
 and the heads of the church regarded him was insurmountable; and 
 it was with the greatest difficulty that he obtained an ecclesiastics
 
 IxiY LIFE AND W R I T IN . S OF ADDISON. 
 
 dignit} r of no great value, on condition of fixing his residence in a coun- 
 try which he detested. 
 
 Difference of political opinion had produced, not, indeed, a quarrel 
 hut a coolness between Swift and Addison. They at length ceased 
 altogether to see each other. Yet there was between them a tacit 
 lompact like that between the hereditary guests in the Iliad. 
 
 " Eyx f a °"' aAA?']Aa>i/ aKeci/mda Kai 5i 6/iiAoi/ ' 
 IloAAot ij.Ii/ yap ifioi Tpe&Ss kAcitoi t' iwiKovpot, 
 Kreiveiv, %v Ke Seo's ye iropi] Kai noffai kix^'hd, 
 IIuAAot 5' aii aoi 'Amatol, iva'ipefxev, bi> Ke Siivrjai. 
 
 It is not strange that Addison, who calumniated and insulted no- 
 body, should not have calumniated or insulted Swift. But it is re- 
 markable that Swift, 1 " to whom neither genius nor virtue was sacred, 
 and who generally seemed to rind, like most other renegades, a pecu- 
 liar pleasure in attacking old friends, should have shown so much re- 
 spect and tenderness to Addison. 
 
 Fortune had now changed. The accession of the house of Hanover 
 had secured in England the liberties of the people, and in Ireland the 
 dominion of the Protestant caste. To that caste Swift was more odious 
 than any other man. He was hooted and even pelted in the streets of 
 Dublin; and could not venture to ride along the Strand for his health 
 without the attendance of armed servants. Many whom he had for- 
 merly served now libelled and insulted him. At this time Addison ar- 
 rived. He had been advised not to show the smallest civility to the 
 dean of St. Patrick's. But he answered with admirable spirit, that it 
 might be necessary for men whose fidelity to their party was suspected 
 to hold no intercourse with political opponents ; but that one who had 
 been a steady whig in the worst times might venture, when the good 
 cause was triumphant, to shake hands with an old friend who was one 
 of the vanquished tories. His kindness was soothing to the proud and 
 cruelly wounded spirit of Swift ; and the two great satirists resumed 
 their habits of friendly intercourse. 
 
 Those associates of Addison, whose political opinions agreed with his. 
 shared his good fortune. He took Tickell with him to Ireland. He 
 
 10 But it in remarkable that Swift (p. 162). Would it riot have been fair to have deduced 
 from this circumstance something rather more favorable to Swift? But in this too Mr 
 Macaulay is singularly unjust. When he speaks of Swift in l"us and Swift in 173S, he 
 neglects to add that during at least twenty of those thirty years Swift had been suffering 
 from the gradual inroads of that disease which at last reduced him to 'diocy. There can 
 be no greater injustice thar> to compare the temper of a sick man with that of a man in 
 souud hea: h.— G.
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. Ixv 
 
 procured for Budgcll a lucrative place in the same kingdom. Ambrose 
 Phillipps was provided for in England. Steele had injured himself so 
 much by his eccentricity and perverseness. that he obtained but a very 
 small part of what he thought his due. He was, however, knighted. 
 He had a place in the household; and he subsequently received other 
 marks of favor from the court. 
 
 Addison did not remain long in Ireland. In 1715 he quitted his sec- 
 retaryship for a seat at the Board of Trade. In the same year his co- 
 medy of the Drummer was brought on the stage. The name of the au- 
 thor was not announced ; the piece was coldly received; and some crit- 
 ics have expressed a doubt whether it were really Addison's. To us the 
 evidence, both external and internal, seems decisive. It is not in Addi- 
 son's best manner : but it contains numerous passages which no other 
 writei- known to us could have produced. It was again performed after 
 Addison's death, and. being known to be his. was loudly applauded. 
 
 Towards the close of the year 1715. while the Rebellion was still 
 raging in Scotland, Addison published the first number of a paper 
 called the " Freeholder." Among his political works the Freeholder is 
 entitled to the first place. Even in the Spectator there are few serious 
 papers nobler than the character of his friend Lord Somers ; and cer- 
 tainly no satirical papers superior to those in which the tory fox-hunter 
 is introduced. This character is the original of Squire Western, and is 
 drawn with all Fielding's force, and with a delicacy of which Fielding 
 was altogether destitute. As none of Addison's works exhibit stronger 
 marks of his genius than the Freeholder, so none does more honor to 
 his moral character. It is difficult to extol too highly the candor and 
 humanity of a political writer, whom even the excitement of civil war 
 cannot hurry into unseemly violence. Oxford, it is well known, was 
 then the stronghold of toryism. The High street had been repeatedly 
 lined with bayonets in order to keep down the disaffected gownsmen ; 
 and traitors pursued by the messengers of the government had been 
 concealed in the garrets of several colleges. Yet the admonition which. 
 even under such circumstances, Addison addressed to the university, is 
 singularly gentle, respectful, and even affectionate. Indeed, he could 
 not find it in his heart to dial harshly even with imaginary persons. 
 lli^ fox-hunter, though ignorant, stupid, and violent, is at heart a good 
 fellow, and is at last reclaimed by the clemency of the king. Steele was 
 dissatisfied with his friend's moderation, and though he acknowledged 
 
 that the I ■ holder was excellently written, complained that the minis- 
 try played on a lute when it was necessary to blow the trumpet. He 
 accordingly determined to execute a flourish after his own fashion and
 
 IxVl LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 tried to rouse the public spirit of the nation by means of a paper called 
 the Town Talk, which is now as utterly forgotten as his Englishman 
 as his Crisis, as his letter to the Bailiff of Stockbridge, as his Reader — 
 in short, as every thing that he wrote without the help of Addison. 
 
 In the same year in which the Drummer was acted, and in which 
 the first numbers of the Freeholder appeared, the estrangement of Pope 
 and Addison became complete. Addison had from the first seen that 
 Pope was false and malevolent. Pope had discovered that Addison was 
 jealous. The discovery was made in a strange manner. Pope had 
 written the Rape of the Lock, in two cantos, without supernatural ma- 
 chinery. These two cantos had been loudly applauded, and by none 
 more loudly than by Addison. Then Pope thought of the Sylphs and 
 Gnomes, Ariel. Momentilla, Crispissa, and Umbriel ; and resolved to in- 
 terweave the Rosicrucian mythology with the original fabric. lie asked 
 Addison's advice. Addison said that the poem as it stood was a deli- 
 cious little thing, and entreated Pope not to run the risk of marring 
 what was so excellent in trying to mend it. Pope afterwards de- 
 clared" that this insidious counsel first opened his eyes to the baseness 
 of him who gave it. 
 
 Now there can be no doubt that Pope's plan was most ingenious, 
 and that he afterwards executed it with great skill and success. But 
 does it necessarily follow that Addison's advice was bad? And if Ad- 
 dison's advice was bad, does it necessarily follow that it was given from 
 bad motives ? If a friend were to ask us whether we would advise him 
 to risk a small competence in a lotterj r of which the chances were ten to 
 one aeainst him. we should do our best to dissuade him from running 
 such a risk. Even if he were so lucky as to get the thirty thousand 
 pound prize, we should not admit that we had counselled him ill ; and 
 we should certainly think it the height of injustice in him to accuse us 
 of being actuated by malice. We think Addison's advice good advice. 
 It rested on a sound principle, the result of long and wide experience. 
 The general rule undoubtedly is, that, when a successful work of imagi- 
 nation has been produced, it should not be recast. We cannot at this 
 moment call to mind a single instance in which this rule has been trans- 
 gressed with happy effect, except the instance of the Rape of the Lock. 
 Tasso recast his Jerusalem. Akenside recast his Pleasures of the Imaci- 
 
 ii Ptipe afterwards declared — Where? This story is taken from Warburton, and not from 
 I'ope. Whenever Mr. Macaulay speaks of Pope it would be well to compare his opinions 
 uinl statements with Roscoe. If Tope was such a man as M. makes him, he iva< the greatest 
 monster of perfidy and meani ess that ever existed, and not only his works, hut his conduct 
 towards his parents and his fr jnds through the whole of a life embittered by constant bodily 
 tin ff* ring, becomes perfectly unintelligible. — G.
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. lx\ii 
 
 nation, and his Epistle to Curio. Pope himself emboldened no doubt 
 by the success with which he had expanded and remodelled the 
 Rape of the Lock, made the same experiment on the Dunciad. All 
 these attempts failed. Who was to foresee that Pope would, once in 
 his life, be able to do what he could not himself do twice, and what no- 
 body else lias ever done? 
 
 Addison's advice was good. But had it been bad. why should we 
 pronounce it dishonest 1 Scott tells us that one of his best friends pre- 
 dicted the failure of Waverley. Herder adjured Goethe not to take so 
 unpromising a subject as Faust. Hume tried to dissuade Robertson 
 from writing- the history of Charles V. Nay, Pope himself was one of 
 those who prophesied that Cato would never succeed on the stage; and 
 advised Addison to print it without risking a representation. But Scott, 
 Goethe. Robertson, Addison, had the good sense and generosity to give 
 their advisers credit for the best intentions. Pope's heart was not of 
 the same kind with theirs. 
 
 In 1715, while he was engaged in translating the Iliad, he met Ad- 
 dison at a coffee-house. Pbillipps and Budgell were there. But their 
 sovereign got rid of them, and asked Pope to dine with him alone. Af- 
 ter dinner. Addison said that he lay under a difficulty which he had for 
 some time wished to explain. i: Tickell," he said. " translated some time 
 aco the first book of the Iliad. I have promised to look it over and 
 correct it. T cannot, therefore, ask to see yours ; for that would be dou- 
 ble-dealing." Pope made a civil reply, and begged that his second book 
 oncht have the advantage of Addison's revision. Addison readily 
 agreed, looked over the second book, and sent it back with warm com- 
 mendations. 
 
 Tickell's version of the first book appeared soon after this conversa- 
 tion. In the preface all rivalry was earnestly disclaimed. Tickell de- 
 clared lie should not go on with the Iliad. That enterprise he should 
 leave to powers which he admitted to be superior to his own. His only 
 view, he said, in publishing this specimen was to bespeak the favor of 
 the public to a translation of the Odyssey, in which he had made some 
 
 progi 
 
 Addisfln. and Addison's devoted followers, pronounced both the ver- 
 sions goo 1. but maintained that Tickell's had more of the original. The 
 town gave a decided preference to Pope's. We do not think it worth 
 wn ach a question of precedence. Neither of the rivals can 
 
 l,e -aid to have translated the Iliad, unless indeed, the word translation 
 be used in the sense which il bears in the Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 When B)ttoi i makes bis appearance with an ass's la ad instead of his
 
 lxvili LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 own, Peter Quince exclaims, " Bless thee ! Bottom, bless thee ! thou art 
 translated." In this sense, undoubtedly, the readers of either Pope or 
 Tickell may very properly exclaim, " Bless thee ! Homer ; thou art 
 translated indeed." 
 
 Our readers will, we hope, agree with us in thinking that no man in 
 Addison's situation could have acted more fairty and kindly, both to- 
 wards Pope and towards Tickell, than he appears to have done. But 
 an odious suspicion had sprung up in the mind of Pope. He fancied, 
 and he soon firmly believed that there was a deep conspiracjr against 
 his fame and his fortunes. The work on which ne had staked his repu- 
 tation was to be depreciated. The subscription, on which rested his 
 hopes of a competence, was to be defeated. With this view Addison 
 had made a rival translation; Tickell had consented to fa tlier it ; and 
 the wits of Button's had united to puff it. 
 
 Is there any external evidence to support this grave accusation ? 
 The answer is short. There is absolutely none. 
 
 Was there any internal evidence which proved Addison to be the 
 author of this version ? Was it a work which Tickell was incapable of 
 producing ? Surely not. Tickell was a fellow of a college at Oxford, 
 and must be supposed to have been able to construe the Iliad ; and he 
 was a better versifier than his friend. We are not aware that Pope 
 pretended to have discovered any turns of expression peculiar to Addi- 
 son. Had such turns of expression been discovered, they would be suf- 
 ficiently accounted for by supposing Addison to have corrected his 
 fiend's lines, as he owned that he had done. 
 
 Is the^e any thing in the character of the accused persons which 
 makes the accusation probable ? We answer confidently — nothing. 
 Tickell was long after this time described by Pope himself as a very 
 fair and worthy man. Addison had been, during many years, before 
 the public. Literary rivals, political opponents, had kept their eyes on 
 him. But neither envy nor faction, in their utmost rage, had ever im- 
 puted to him a single deviation from the laws of honor and of social 
 morality. Had he been indeed a man meanly jealous of fame, and capable 
 of stooping to base and wicked arts for the purpose of injuring his com- 
 petitors, would his vices have remained latent so long ? He was a wri- 
 ter of tragedy : had he ever injured Rowe ? He was a writer of Come- 
 dy : had he not done ample justice to Congreve, and given valuable help 
 to Steele ? He was a pamphleteer : have not his good-nature and gene- 
 rosity been acknowledged by Swift, his rival in fame and his adversary 
 in politics l 
 
 That Tickell should have been guilty of a villany seems to us hijh-
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. lxix 
 
 ly improbable. That Addison should have been guilt}- of a villain- 
 seems to us highly improbable. But that these two men should have 
 conspired together to commit a villany seems to us improbable in a ten 
 fold degree. All that is known to us of their intercourse tends to piove 
 that it was not the intercourse of two accomplices in crime. These are 
 some of the lines in which Tickell poured forth his sorrow over the cof- 
 fin of Addison : — 
 
 "Or dost thou warn p :ur mortals left behind, 
 A task well suited to thy gentle mind? 
 Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend. 
 To me thine aid, thou guardian genius, lend, 
 When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, 
 When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, 
 In silent whisperings pnrer thoughts impart, 
 And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; 
 Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before. 
 Till bliss shall join, nor death can part hs more." 
 
 Tn what words, we should like to know, did this guardian genius 
 invite his pupil to join in a plan such as the editor of the Satirist would 
 hardly dare to propose to the editor of the Age ? 
 
 We do not accuse Pope of bringing an accusation which he knew to 
 be false. We have not the smallest doubt that he believed it to be true ; 
 and the evidence on which he believed it he found in his own bad heart. 
 His own life was one long series of tricks, as mean and as malicious as 
 that of which he suspected Addison and Tickell. He was all stiletto 
 and mask. To injure, to insult, to save himself from the consequence 
 of injury and insult by lying and equivocating, was the habit of his life. 
 lie published a lampoon on the Duke of Ghandos; he was taxed with 
 it; and he lied and equivocated, lie published a lampoon on Aaron 
 Hill ; he was taxed with it ; and he lied and equivocated. He published 
 :i -till fouler lampoon on Lady Mary Worthy Montagu; he was taxed 
 with it ; and he lied with more than usual effrontery and vehemence. 
 He pulled himself ami abused his enemies under feigned names. He 
 robbed himself of bis own letters, and then raised the hue and cry after 
 them. Besides his frauds of malignity, of fear, of interest, and of vani- 
 ty, there were frauds which he seems to have committed from love of 
 fraud alone. He bad a habit of stratagem — a pleasure in outwitting all 
 who came near him. Whatever his objeel might be, the indirect road 
 to it was that which he preferred. For Bolingbroke Pope undoubtedly 
 felt as much love and veneration as it was in bis nature to feel fo] any 
 human being. Yet Pope was scarcely dead when it was discovered that
 
 lxX LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 from no motive except the mere love of artifice, he had been guilty of 
 an act of gross perfidy to Bolingbrol< e. 
 
 Nothing- was more natural than that such a man as this should at- 
 tribute to others that which he felt within himself. A plain, probable, 
 coherent explanation is frankly given to him. He is certain that it is 
 all a romance. A line of conduct scrupulously fair, and even friendly, 
 is pursued towards him. He is convinced that it is merely a cover for 
 a vile intrigue by which he is to be disgraced and ruined. It is vain to 
 ask him for proofs. He has none, and wants none, except those which 
 he carries in his own bosom. 
 
 Whether Pope's malignity at length provoked Addison to retaliate 
 for the first and last time, cannot now be known with certainty. We 
 have only Pope's story, which runs thus. A pamphlet appeared con- 
 taining some reflections which stung Pope to the quick. What those 
 reflections were, and whether they were reflections of which he had a 
 right to complain, we have now no means of deciding. The Earl of 
 Warwick, a foolish and vicious lad, who regarded Addison with the 
 feelings with which such lads generally regard their best friends, told 
 Pope, truly or falsely, that this pamphlet had been written by Addi- 
 son's direction. When we consider what a tendency stories have to 
 grow, in passing even from one honest man to another honest man, and 
 when we consider that to the name of honest man neither Pope 
 nor the Earl of Warwick had a claim, we are not disposed to attach 
 much importance to this anecdote. 
 
 It is certain, however, that Pope was furious. He had already 
 sketched the character of Atticus in prose. In his anger he turned 
 this prose into the brilliant and energetic lines which everv body knows 
 by heart, or ought to know by heart, and sent them to Addison. One 
 charge which Pope has enforced with great skill is probably not with- 
 out foundation. Addison was, we are inclined to believe, too fond of 
 presiding over a circle of humble friends. Of the other imputations 
 which these famous lines are intended to convey, scarcety one has ever 
 been proved to be just, and some are certainly false. That Addison 
 was not in the habit of '• damning with faint praise," appears from in- 
 numerable passages in his writings ; and from none more than from 
 those in which he mentions Pope. And it is not merely unjust, but 
 ridiculous to describe a man who made the fortune of almost every one 
 of bis intimate friends, as "so obliging that he ne'er obliged." 
 
 That Addison felt the sting of Pope's satire keenly, we cannot 
 doubt. That he was conscious of one of the weaknesses with which he 
 was reproached, is highly probable. But his heart, we firmly believe.
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS DF ADDISON. liX' 
 
 acquitted him of the gravest part of the accusation. He ac ccrl like 
 himself. As a satirist he was. at his own weapons, more than Pope's 
 match ; and he would have been at no loss for topics. A distorted and 
 diseased body, tenanted by a yet more distorted and diseased mind — 
 spite and envy thinly disguised by sentiments as benevolent and noble 
 as those which Sir Peter Teazle admired in Mr. Joseph Surface — a- 
 fee! de. sickly licentiousness — an odious love of filthy and noisome 
 images — these were things which a genius less powerful than that to 
 which we owe the Spectator could easily have held up to the mirth 
 and hatred of mankind. Addison had. moreover, at his command other 
 means of vengeance which a bad man would not have scrupled to use. 
 He was powerful in the state. Pope was a Catholic; and. in those 
 times, a minister would have found it easy to harass the most innocent 
 Catholic by innumerable petty vexations. Pope, near twenty years 
 later, said, that "through the lenity of the government alone he could 
 live with comfort." " Consider." he exclaimed. " the injury that a man 
 of high rank and credit may do to a private person, under penal laws 
 and many other disadvantages." It i.-, pleasing to reflect that the only 
 revenge which Addison took was to insert in the Freeholder a warm 
 encomium on the translation of the Iliad ; and to exhort all lovers of 
 learning to put down their names as subscribers. There could he no 
 doubt he said, from the specimens already published, that the masterly 
 hand of Pops would do as much for Homer as Dryden had done for 
 Virgil. From that time to the end of his life, he always treated Pope 
 by Pope's own acknowledgment, with justice. Friendship was. ol 
 cour.-e. at an end. 
 
 One reason which induced the Earl of Warwick to play the igno 
 minimis part of the talebearer on this occasion, may have been his dis- 
 like of the marriage which was about to take place between his mothe* 
 and Addison. The countess-dowager, a daughter of the old and hon- 
 orable family of the Myddletons of Chirk, a family which, in any coun- 
 try but ours, would be called noble, resided at Holland House. Ad- 
 dison had, during sonic years, occupied at Chelsea a small dwelling, 
 oner the abode of Nell Gwyn. Chelsea is now a district of London. 
 and Holland House may he called a town residence. Hut, in tilt* d*ys 
 of Anne and George !.. milkmaids and sportsmen wandered, between 
 n I over fields bright with daisies, from Kensington al- 
 ios! to the shore of the Thames. Addison and Lady Warwick ivero 
 sountry neighbors, and became intimate friends. The great wit and 
 scholar tried to allure the young lord from the fashionable amusements 
 of beating watchmen, breaking windows, and rolling women m bog*
 
 lxxil LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON 
 
 heads down Holborn Hill, to the study of letters and the practice of 
 virtue. These well meant exertions did little good, however, either tc 
 the disciple or to the master. Lord Warwick grew up a rake, and 
 Addison fell in love. The mature beauty of the countess has been 
 celebrated by poets in language which, after a very large allowance 
 has been made for flattery, would lead us to believe that she was a 
 fine woman ; and her rank doubtless heightened her attractions. The 
 courtship was long. The hopes of the lover appear to have risen and 
 fallen with the fortunes of his party. His attachment was at length 
 matter of such notoriety that, when he visited Ireland for the last time, 
 Rpwe addressed some consolatory verses to the Chloe of Holland House. 
 It strikes us as a little strange that, in these verses, Addison should be 
 called Lycidas ; a name of singularly evil omen for a swain just about 
 to cross the St. George's Channel. 
 
 At length Chloe capitulated. Addison was indeed able to treat 
 with her on equal terms. He had reason to expect preferment even 
 higher than that which he had attained. He had inheritedthe fortune 
 of a brother who died governor of Madras. He had purchased an 
 estate in Warwickshire, and had been welcomed to his domain in very 
 tolerable verse by one of the neighboring squires, the poetical fox- 
 hunter, William Somerville. In August, 1716, the newspapers an- 
 nounced that Joseph Addison, Esquire, famous for many excellent 
 works both in verse and prose, had espoused the countess-dowager of 
 Warwick. 
 
 He now fixed his abode at Holland House — a house which can 
 boast of a greater number of inmates distinguished in political and lite- 
 rary history than any other private dwelling in England. His portrait 
 now hangs there. The features are pleasing ; the complexion is re- 
 markably fair ; but, in the expression, we trace rather the gentleness 
 of liis disposition than the force and keenness of his intellect. 
 
 Not long after his marriage he reached the height of civil greatness. 
 The whig government had, during some time, been torn by internal 
 dissensions. Lord Townshend led one section of the cabinet ; Lord 
 Sunderland the other. At length, in the spring of 1717, Sunderland 
 triumphed. Townshend retired from office, and was accompanied by 
 Walpole and Cowper. Sunderland proceeded to reconstruct the inin 
 is try ; and Addison was appointed secretan* of state. It is certain tha 
 the seals were pressed upon him, and were at first declined by him. 
 Men equally versed in official business might easily have been found 
 and his colleagues knew that they could not expect assistance from
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. lxxii'l 
 
 hin. in debate. He owed his elevation to his popularity ; to his stain- 
 less probity, and to his literary fame. 
 
 But scarcely had Addison entered the cabinet when his strength 
 began to fail. From one serious attack he recovered in the autumn ; 
 and his recovery was celebrated in Latin verses, worth}' of his own 
 pen. by Vincent Bourne, who was then at Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 A relapse soon took place ; and, in the following spring, Addison was 
 prevented by a severe asthma from discharging the duties of his post. 
 He resigned it. and was succeeded by his friend Craggs ; a young man 
 whose natural parts, though little improved by cultivation, were quick 
 and showy, whose graceful person and winning manners had made him 
 generally acceptable in society, and who, if he had lived, would pro- 
 bably have been the most formidable of all the rivals of Walpole. 
 
 As 3 - et there was no Joseph Hume. The ministers, therefore, were 
 able to bestow on Addison a retiring pension of £1500 a year. In 
 what form this pension was given we are not told by his biographers, 
 and have not time to inquire. But it is certain that Addison did not 
 vacate his seat in the House of Commons. 
 
 Best of mind and body seemed to have re-established his health ; 
 and he thanked God, with cheerful piety, for having set him free both 
 from his office and from his asthma. Many years seemed to be before 
 him. and he meditated many works — a traged}" on the death of So- 
 crates, a translation of the Psalms, a treatise on the evidences of Chris- 
 tianity. Of this last performance a part, which we could well spare, 
 has come down to us. 
 
 But the fatal complaint soon returned, and gradually prevailed 
 against all the resources of medicine. It is melancholy that the last 
 months of such a life should have been overclouded both by domestic 
 and by political vexations. A tradition which began early, which has 
 been generally received, and to which we have nothing to oppose, has 
 represented his wife as an arrogant and imperious woman. It is 
 said that till his health failed him he was glad to escape from the 
 countess-dowager and her magnificent dining-room, blazing with the 
 gilded devices of the house of Rich, to some tavern where he could en- 
 joy a laugh, to talk about Virgil and Boileau, and a bottle of claret, 
 with the friends of his happier days. All those friends, however, were 
 not left to him. Sir Richard Steele had been gradually estranged by 
 various causes. He considered himself as one who. in evil times, had 
 braved martyrdom for his political principles, and demanded, when the 
 whig party was triumphant, a large compensation for what he had 
 I'iferod when it was militant. The whig leaders took a very different
 
 IxXlV LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 view of his claims. They thought that he had, by his own petulance 
 ami folly, brought thern as well as himself into trouble; and though 
 they did not absolutely neglect him, doled out favors to him with a 
 sparing hand. It was natural that he should be angry with them, and 
 especially angry with Addison. But what above all seems to have 
 disturbed Sir Richard was the elevation of Tickell. who, at thirty, was 
 made by Addison uncler-secretary of state ; while the editor of the 
 Tatler and Spectator, the author of the Crisis, the member for Stock- 
 bridge who had been persecuted for firm adherence to the house of 
 Hanover, was, at near fifty, farced, after many solicitations and com- 
 plaints, to content himself with a shire in the patent of Drury-lane 
 theatre. Steele himself says, in his celebrated letter to Congreve, 
 that Addison, by his preference of Tickell. ki incurred the warmest re- 
 sentment of other gentlemen ; " and every thing seems to indicate that, 
 of those resentful gentlemen Steele was himself one. 
 
 While poor Sir Richard was brooding over what he considered as, 
 Addison's unkindness, a new cause of quarrel arose. The whig party, 
 already divided against itself, was rent by a new schism. The cele- 
 brated bill for limiting the number of peers had been brought in The 
 proud Duke of Somerset, first in rank of all nobles whose religion per- 
 mitted them to sit in Parliament, was the ostensible author of the 
 measure. But it was supported, and, in truth, devised by the prime 
 minister. 
 
 We are satisfied that the bill was most pernicious ; and we fear that 
 the motives which induced Sunderland to frame it were not honorable 
 to him. But we cannot deny that it was supported by many of the 
 best and wisest men of that age. Nor was this strange.. The royal 
 prerogative had. within the memory of the generation then in the vigor 
 of life, been so grossly abused, that it was still regarded with a jealousy 
 which, when the peculiar situation of the house of Brunswick is consid- 
 ered, may perhaps be called immoderate. The prerogative of creating 
 peers had, in the opinion, of the vvhigs, been grossly abused by Queen 
 Anne's last ministry; and even the tories admitted that her majesty, in 
 swamping, as it has since been called, the Upper House, had done what 
 only an extreme case could justify. The theory of the English constitu- 
 tion, according to many high authorities, was, that three independent 
 powers, the monarchy, the nobility, and the commons, ought constantly 
 to act as checks on each other. If this theory were sound, it seemed tc 
 follow that to put one of these powers under the absolute control of the 
 other two, was absurd: But if the number of peers were unlimited, it 
 could not hi denied that the Upper House was under the absolute coit'
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. lxXV 
 
 tfol of the crown and the commons, and was indebted only to their 
 moderation for any power which ii might l>e suffered to retain 
 
 Steele took part with the opposition ; Addison with the ministers. 
 Steele, in a paper called the " Plebeian," vehemently attacked the bill. 
 Sunderland called for help on Addison, and Addison obeyed the call 
 In a paper called the "Old Whig," he answered, and indeed refuted, 
 Steele's arguments. It seems to us, that the premises of both the con- 
 troversialists were unsound ; that, on those premises, Addison reasoned 
 well and Steele ill ; and that consequently Addison brought out a false 
 conclusion, while Steele blundered upon the truth. In style, in wit. 
 and in politeness. Addison maintained his superiority, though the Old 
 Whig is by no means one of his happiest performances. 
 
 At first, both the anonymous opponents observed the laws of pro 
 priety. But at length Steele so far forgot himself as to throw an odious 
 imputation on the morals of the chiefs of the administration. Addison 
 replied with severity; but. in our opinion, with less severity than was 
 due to so grave an offence against morality and decorum; .nor did he, 
 in his just anger, forget for a moment the laws of good taste and good 
 breeding. One calumny which has been often repeated, and never yet 
 contradicted, it is our duty to expose. It is asserted in the Biographia 
 Britanniea, that Addison designated Steele as "little Dicky." This 
 assertion was repeated by Johnson, who had never seen the Old Whig, 
 and was therefore excusable. It has also been repeated by 3liss Aikin, 
 who has seen the Old Whig, and for whom, therefore, there is less 
 Now. it is true that the words "little Dicky" occur in the 
 Old Whig, and that Steele's name was Richard. It is equally true that 
 the words -little Isaac" occur in the Duenna, and that Newton's 
 name was I<aac. But we confidently affirm that Addison's little Dicky 
 had no more to do with Steele, than Sheridan's little Isaac with New- 
 ton. If we apply the words "little Dicky" to Steele, we deprive a 
 very lively and ingenious passage, not only of all its wit. but of all its 
 meaning. Little Dicky was evidently the nickname of some comic 
 actor who played the usurer Gomez, then a most popular part, in Dry- 
 di n's Spanish Friar. 
 
 'fie- merited reproof which Steele had received, though softened by 
 kind and courteous expressions, galled* him bitterly. He replied 
 with little force and urea' acrimony ; but no rejoinder appeared. Addi- 
 son hastening to his grave; and had. as we may well suppose. 
 disposition to prosecute a quarrel with an old friend. His com- 
 plaint had terminated in dropsy. He bore up long and manfully. Bui
 
 lxXVl LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 at length he abandoned all hope, dismissed his physicians, and calmly 
 prepared to die. 
 
 His works he intrusted to the care of Tickell ; and dedicated them a 
 very few days before his death to Craggs, in a letter written with the 
 sweet and graceful eloquence of a Saturday's Spectator. In this, his 
 last composition, he alluded to his approaching end in words so manly, 
 so cheerful, and so tender, that it is difficult to read them without tears. 
 At the same time he "earnestly recommended the interests of Tickell tr> 
 the care of Craggs. 
 
 Within a few hours of the time at which this dedication was written, 
 Addison sent to beg Gay, who was then living by his wits about town, 
 to come to Holland House. Gay went and was received with great 
 kindness. To his amazement his forgiveness was implored by the dying 
 man. Poor Gay, the most good-natured and simple of mankind, could 
 not imagine what he had to forgive. There was, however, some wrong, 
 the remembrance of which weighed on Addison's mind, and which he 
 declared himself anxious to repair. He was in a state of extreme 
 exhaustion ; and the parting was doubtless a friendly one on both sides. 
 Gay supposed that some plan to serve him had been in agitation at 
 court, and had been frustrated by Addison's influence. Nor is this 
 improbable. Gay had paid assiduous court to the royal family. But 
 in the queen's days he had been the eulogist of Bolingbroke, and was 
 still connected with many tories. It is not strange that Addison, while 
 heated by conflict, should have thought himself justified in obstructing 
 the preferment of one whom he might regard as a political enemy. 
 Neither is it strange that, when reviewing his whole life, and earnestly 
 scrutinizing all his motives, he should think that he had acted an 
 unkind and ungenerous part, in using his power against a distressed 
 man of letters, who was as harmless and as helpless as a child. 
 
 One inference may be drawn from this anecdote. It appears that 
 Addison, on his death-bed, called himself to a strict account; and was 
 not at ease tifl he had asked pardon for an injury which it was not even 
 suspected that he had committed— for an injury which would have 
 caused disquiet only to a very tender conscience. Is it not then reason- 
 able to infer that, if he had really been guilty of forming a base coti 
 -piracy against the fame and fortunes of a rival, he would have express- 
 ed some remorse for so serious a crime? But it is unnecessary to 
 multiply arguments and evidence for the defence, when there is neithei 
 argument nor evidence for the accusation. 
 
 The last moments of Addison were perfectly serene. His interview 
 with his son-in-law is universally known "See," he said, "how a
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP ADDISON. lxxvii 
 
 Christian can die ! " The piety of Addison was, in truth, of a singular- 
 ly cheerful character. The feeling: which predominates in all his devo- 
 tional writings, is gratitude. God was to him the all-wise and all- 
 powerful friend, who had watched over his cradle with more than 
 maternal tenderness ; who had listened to his cries before they could 
 form themselves in prayer; who hail preserved his youth from the 
 snares of vice; who had made his cup run over with worldly blessings; 
 who had doubled the value of those blessings, by bestowing a thankful 
 heart to enjoy them, and dear friends to partake them ; .who had 
 relinked the waves of the Ligurian gulf, had purified the autumnal air 
 of the Cainpagna, and had restrained the avalanches of Mont Cenis. 
 Of the Psalms, his favorite was that which represents the Ruler of all 
 things under the endearing image of a shepherd, whose crook guides 
 the flock safe, through gloomy and desolate glens, to meadows well 
 watered and rich with herbage. On that goodness to which he ascrib- 
 ed all the happiness of his life, he relied in the hour of death with the 
 love which casteth out fear. He died on the 17th of June. 1719. He 
 had just entered his forty -eighth year. 
 
 His body lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber, and was borne 
 thence to the Abbey at (had of night. The choir sang a funeral hymn. 
 Bishop Atterbury, one of those tones who had loved and honored the 
 most accomplished of the Whigs, met the corpse, and led the procession 
 by torch-light, round the shrine of .Saint Edward and the graves of the 
 Plantagenets, to the chapel of Henry the Seventh. On the north side 
 of that chapel, in the vault of the house of Albemarle, the coffin of 
 Addison lies next to the coffin of Montagu. Yet a few months — and 
 the same mourners passed again along the same aisle. The same sad 
 anthem was again chanted. The same vault was again opened ; and 
 the coffin of Craggs was placed close to the coffin of Addison. 
 
 Many tributes were paid to the memory of Addison. But one alone 
 is now remembered. Tickell bewailed his friend in an elegy which 
 would do honor to the greatest name in our literature ; and which 
 unites the energy and magnificence of Drydcn to the tenderness and 
 purity of Cowper. This fine poem was prefixed to a superb edition of 
 Addison's works, which was published in 1721. by subscription. The 
 name of the subscribers proved how widely his fame had been spread. 
 That his countrymen should he eager to possess his writings, even in a 
 jostly form, is not wonderful. But it is wonderful that, though 
 English literature was then little studied on the Continent, Spanish 
 grandees, Italian prelates, marshals of France, should he found in thu 
 list. Among the mosl remarkable names are those of the Queen ol
 
 IXXVU1 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON. 
 
 Sweden, of Prince Eugene, of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, of the Dukes 
 of Parma. Modena, and Guastalla, of the Doge of Genoa, of the Regent 
 Orleans, and of Cardinal Dubois. We ought to add, that this edition, 
 though eminently beautiful, is in some important points defective: nor, 
 indeed, do we yet possess a complete collection of Addison's writings. 
 
 It is strange that neither his opulent and noble widow, nor any of 
 his powerful and attached friends, should have thought of placing even 
 a simple tablet, inscribed with his name, on the walls of the Abbey. 
 It was not till three generations had laughed and wept over his pages 
 that the omission was supplied by the public veneration. At length, in 
 our own time, his image, skilfully graven, appeared in Poet's Corner. 
 It represents him, as we can conceive him. clad in his dressing-gown, 
 and freed from his wig, stepping from his parlor at Chelsea into his trim 
 little garden, with the account of the Everlasting Club, or the Loves 
 of Hilpa and Shalum. just finished for the next day's Spectator, in his 
 hand. Such a mark of national respect was due to the unsullied states- 
 man, to the accomplished scholar, to the master of pure English elo- 
 quence, to the consummate painter of life and manners. It was due, 
 •, above all. to the great satirist, who alone knew how to use ridicule 
 without abusing it, who, without inflicting a wound, effected a great 
 social reform, and who reconciled wit and virtue, after a long and disas 
 trous separation, during which wit had been led astray by profligacy, 
 and virtue by fanaticism.
 
 [Richard Hurd, Bishcp of Worcester, was denominated by 
 gibbon, who has left a careful examination of his commentary on 
 Horace's epistles, " one of those valuable authors who cannot be 
 read without improvement." He was born at Congreve, Staf- 
 fordshire, January, 13, 1721, and died May, 1808. He studied 
 at Cambridge, rose through the various degrees of preferment, 
 from fellow to bishop ; was preceptor to the Prince of Wales and 
 Duke of York; attracted attention by several critical and theo- 
 logical works ; a defence of religion against Hume, and his friend- 
 ship with Warburton — of whom he was both biographer and edi- 
 tor His edition of Addison was published in G vols. 8vo. 
 
 The notes are chiefly confined to verbal criticism, and the fol- 
 lowing notice and extracts are the only preface. — O.] 
 vol. i. — 1
 
 Mr. Addison is generally allowed to be the m st correct and elegant 
 of all our writers ; yet some inaccuracies of style have escaped him, which 
 it is the chief design of the following notes to point out. A work of this 
 sort, well executed, would be of use to foreigners who study our language; 
 and even to such of our countrymen, as wish to write it in perfect purity. 
 
 R. WORCESTER. 
 
 Extract from a Letter of Bisuop Warburton, to Dr. IIurd. 
 
 " Gloucester, Sept 10, 1770. 
 — " Your grammatical pleasures, which you 
 enjoy in studying the most correct of our great writers, Mr. Addison, can 
 not be greater than the political ones I taste, in reading, over again, the 
 most incorrect of all good writers (though not from his incorrectness, 
 which is stupendous) Lord Clarendon, in the late published continuation 
 of his History. 
 
 " I charge you bring your Addison to town. Nothing is minutiae to 
 me which you write or thi?ik." 
 
 See " Letters from a late eminent Prelate,'''' &c. — Letter 227. 4to. 1S03 
 
 And in Letter 2'28, in the same collection, October 16, 1770, the 
 
 Bishop says — 
 
 — "Your reflections on Lord Clarendon are the truth itself. The His- 
 tory of his Life and Administration I have just finished. Every thing i? 
 admirable in it but the style: in which your favourite and amiable author 
 [Mr. Addison] has infinitely the advantage. Bring him with you to town. 
 There, I own, }'our late amusements have the advantage of mine. It was 
 an advantage I envied you ;" — 
 
 Extract of a Letter from Dr. Hurd to the Reverend Mr. Mason, 
 Residentiary of Yorke. 
 
 "TnuKC aston, Oct 26, 1770. 
 — "You will ask what I have done in this long leisure. Not much 
 indeed, to any purpose. My lecture has slept : But I found an amuse- 
 ment in turning over the works of Mr. Addison. I set out, many years 
 ago, with a warm admiration of this amiable writer. I then took a surfeit 
 of his natural, easy manner; and was taken, like my betters, with the rap- 
 tures and high flights of Shakespeare. My maturer judgment, or lenient 
 age (call it which 3 T ou will), has now led me back to the favourite of my 
 youth. And, here, I think, I shall stick: for such useful sense, in so 
 charming words, I find not elsewhere. His taste is so pure, and his Vir- 
 gilian prose (as Dr. Young stj'les it) so exquisite, that I have but now 
 found out, at the close of a critical life, the full value of his writings." —
 
 Sistriptton to 3St. au&ison, mrittcn in I BOS. 
 
 EXIMIO TIRO, 
 
 JOSEPnO ADDISON : 
 
 GRATIA, FAMA, FORTUNA COMMEXDATO ; 
 
 HUMAXIOPD3US I.ITERIS FXICE IXSTRUOTO { 
 
 HAUD IGXOBILI POET^E ; 
 
 IX ORATIOXE SOLUTA COXTEXEXDA 
 
 SUMMO ARTIFICi; 
 
 CEXSORI MORCM 
 
 GRAVI SAXE, SED ET PEEJTJCUNDO, 
 
 LEYI0RD3US IX ARGUMEXTIS 
 
 SUP.RIDEXTI SPAVITER, 
 
 RES ETIAM SERIA8 
 
 LEPORE QUODAM SUO CONTINGENT! J 
 
 PIETATIS, PORRO, SINCERE, 
 
 HOO EST, CHRISTIANS, 
 
 FIDE, VITA, SCRIPTIS 
 
 8TDDIOSISSIMO CULTORI : 
 
 EXIMIO, PROIXDE, VIRO, 
 
 JOSEPnO ADDISON, 
 
 HOC MOXUMEXTUM SACRUM E8TO. 
 
 H W 1S05, Sept. i.
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 JAMES CRAGGS, Esq., 
 
 BIS MAJESI T'S PRINCIPAL SECRETARY OF STATE* 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I C4.KNOT wish that any of my writings should last longer 
 than the memory of onr friendship, and therefore I thus 
 publicity bequeathe them to you, in return for the many 
 valuable instances of your affection. 
 
 That they may come to you with as little disadvantage 
 as possible, I have left the care of them to one, whom, by 
 the experience of some years, I know well qualified to an- 
 swer my intentions. He has already the honour and hap- 
 piness of being under your protection ; and, as he will very 
 much stand in need of it, I cannot wish him better, than 
 that he may continue to deserve the favour and counte- 
 nance of such a patron. 
 
 I have no time to lay out in forming such compliments, 
 as would but ill suit that familiarity between us, which 
 w;is once my greatest pleasure, and will be my greatest 
 honour hereafter. Instead of them, accept of my hearty 
 wishes, that the great reputation you have acquired so 
 
 ' llii- di-dii-.-it i<m iiml prcfiii-f hilong to (lie original edition of Addi 
 ■on'a works by TickelL — G.
 
 5 DEDICATION. 
 
 earl) may increase more and more : and that you may long 
 serve your country with those excellent talents and un- 
 blemished integrity, which have so powerfully recommend- 
 ed you to the most gracious and amiable monarch that 
 ever filled a throne. May the frankness and generosity of 
 your spirit continue to soften and subdue your enemies, 
 and gain you many friends, if possible, as sincere as your- 
 self. When you have found such, they cannot wish you 
 more true happiness than I, who am, with the greatest 
 
 zeal, 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Yo u most entirely affectionate Friend, 
 
 And faithful obedient Servant, 
 
 J. Addison. 
 June 4 1719
 
 TICKELLS PREFACE. 
 
 Joseph Addison, the son of Lancelot Addison, D. B., and of 
 Jane, the daughter of Nathaniel Gulston, B. D., and sister of Dr. 
 William Gulston, Bishop of Bristol, was born at Milston, near 
 Ambrosebury, in the county of Wilts, in the year 167 1. 1 His 
 father, who was of the county of Westmoreland, and educated at 
 Queen's College in Oxford, passed many years in his travels 
 through Europe and Africa, where he joined, to the uncommon 
 and excellent talents of nature, a great knowledge of letters and 
 things ; of which several books published by him are ample tes- 
 timonies. He was rector of Milston above-mentioned, when Mr. 
 Addison, his eldest son was born ; and afterwards became Arch- 
 deacon of Coventry, and Bean of Litchfield. 
 
 Mr. Addison received his first education at the Chartreux, 
 from whence he was removed very early to Queen's College in 
 Oxford. He had been there about two years, when the accidental 
 sight of a paper of his verses, in the hands of Br. Lancaster, then 
 Bean of that house, occasioned his being elected into Magdalen 
 College. He employed his first years in the study of the old 
 Greek and Roman writers; whose language and manner he 
 caught at that time of life, as strongly as other young people 
 gain a French accent, or a genteel air. An early acquaintance 
 with the classics is what may be called the good breeding of po- 
 etry, as it gives a certain gracefulness which never forsakes a 
 
 'A singular mistake. The real date is May 1st, 1672.
 
 THE PREFACE, 
 
 mind, that contracted it in youth, hut is seldom or never hit by 
 those, who would learn it too late. He first distinguished him- 
 self by his Latin compositions, published in the Musce Angli- 
 cance, and was admired as one of the best authors since the Au- 
 gustan age, in the two Universities, and the greatest part of 
 Europe, before he was talked of as a poet in town. There is 
 not, perhaps, any harder task than to tame the natural wildness 
 of wit, and to civilize the fancy. The generality of our old Eng 
 !ish poets abound in forced conceits, and affected phrases ; and 
 even those, who are said to come the nearest to exactness, are but 
 too often fond of unnatural beauties, and aim at something bet- 
 ter than perfection. If Mr. Addison's example and precepts be 
 the occasion, that there now begins to be a great demand for cor 
 rectness, we may justly attribute it to his being first fashioned 
 by the ancient models, and familiarized to propriety of thought, 
 and chastity of style. Our country owes it to him, that the fa- 
 mous Monsieur Boileau first conceived an opinion of the English 
 genius f ir poetry, by perusing the present he made him of the 
 Musce Anglicance. It has been currently reported, that this fa- 
 mous French poet, among the civilities he showed Mr. Addison 
 on that occasion, affirmed, that he would not have written against 
 Perrault, had he before seen siich excellent pieces by a modern 
 hand. Such a saying would have been impertinent and unworthy 
 Boileau, whose dispute with Perrault turned chiefly upon some 
 passages in the ancients, which he rescued from the mis-interpre- 
 tations of his adversary. The true and natural compliment made 
 by him, was, that those books had given him a very new idea of 
 the English politeness, and that he did not question but there 
 were excellent compositions in the native language of a country 
 that possessed the Roman genius in so eminent a degree. 
 
 ~The first English performance made public by him, is a short 
 opy of verses to Mr. Dryden, with a view particularly to his
 
 THE PKEflCE. 9. 
 
 translations. This was soon followed by a version of the fourth 
 Georgic of Virgil, of which Mr. Dryden makes very honourable 
 mention, in the postscript to his own translation of all Virgil's 
 works : wherein I have often wondered that he did not, at the 
 same time, acknowledge his obligation to Mr. Addison, for giving 
 him the Essay upon the Georgics, prefixed to Mr. Dryden's trans 
 •lation. Lest the honour of so exquisite a piece of criticism 
 should hereafter be transferred to a wrong author, I have taken 
 care to insert it in this collection of his works. 
 
 Of some other copies of verses, printed in the miscellanies, 
 while he was young, the largest is An Account of the greatest 
 English Poets ; in the close of which he insinuates a design he 
 then had of going into holy orders, to which he was strongly im- 
 port uued by his father. His remarkable seriousness and mo- 
 desty, which might have been urged as powerful reasons for his 
 choosing that life, proved the chief obstacles to it. These quali- 
 ties, by which the priesthood is so much adorned, represented 
 the duties of it as too weighty for him ; and rendered him still 
 the more worthy of that honour, which they made him decline. 
 It is happy that this very circumstance has since turned so much 
 to the advantage of virtue and religion, in the cause of which he 
 has bestowed his labours the more successfully, as they were his 
 voluntary, not his necessary employment. The world became in- 
 sensibly reconciled to wisdom and goodness, when they saw them 
 recommended by him with at least as much spirit and elegance, 
 as they had been ridiculed for half a century. 
 
 He was in his twenty-eighth year, when his inclination to set- 
 France and Italy was encouraged by the great Lord Chancellor 
 Somers, one <>f that kind of patriots, who think it no waste of th< 
 public treasure to purchase politeness to their country. The 
 poem upon one of King William's campaigns, addressed to his 
 Lordship, was recen< <1 with great humanity, and occasioned a 
 VOL. i. — 1*
 
 lO THE PREFACE. 
 
 message from him to the author to desire his acquaintance. He 
 soon after obtained, by his interest, a yearly pension of three 
 hundred pounds from the Crown, to support him in his travels. 
 If the uncommonness of a favour, and the distinction of the per- 
 son who confers it, enhance its value, nothing could be more hon- 
 ourable to a young man of learning, than such a bounty from so 
 trninent a patron. 
 
 How well Mr. Addison answered the expectations of my 
 Lord Somers, cannot appear better, than from the book ot 
 Travels he dedicated to his Lordship at his return. It is not 
 hard to conceive, why that performance was at first but indiffer 
 ently relished by the bulk of readers ; who expected an account, 
 in a common way, of the customs and policies of the several gov 
 ernments in Italy, reflections upon the genius of the people, & 
 map of their provinces, or a measure of their buildings. How 
 were they disappointed, when, instead of such particulars, thev 
 were presented only with a journal of poetical travels, with re- 
 marks on the present picture of the country, compared with the 
 landscapes drawn by classic authors, and others the like uncon- 
 cerning parts of knowledge ! One may easily imagine a reader 
 of plain sense, but without a fine taste, turning over these parts 
 of the volume, which make more than half of it, and wondering, 
 how an author, who seems to have so solid an understanding 
 when he treats of mor*e weighty subjects in the other pages, 
 should dwell upon such trifles, and give up so much room to mat- 
 ters of mere amusement. There are, indeed, but few men so 
 fond of the ancients, as to be transported with every little accident, 
 which introduces to their intimate acquaintance. Persons of that 
 cast rnny here have the satisfaction of seeing annotations upon an 
 old Roman poem, gathered from the hills and vallies where it 
 was written. The Tyber and the Po serve to explain the verses, 
 *hat were made upon their banks ; and the Alps and Appennines
 
 THEPEEFA.E I '. 
 
 are made comuentators on those authors, to whom they were 
 subjects so many centuries ago. Next to personal conversation 
 with the writers themselves, this is the surest way of coining at 
 their sense : a compendious and engagiug kind of criticism, which 
 convinces at first sight, and shews the vanity of conjectures, made 
 by antiquaries at a distance. If the knowledge of polite litera- 
 ture has its use, there is certainly a merit in illustrating the per- 
 fect models of it, and the learned world will think some years of 
 a man's life not misspent in so elegant an employment. I shall 
 conclude what I had to say on this performance, by observing, 
 that the fame of it increased from year to year, and the demand 
 for copies was so urgent, that the price rose to four or five times 
 the original value, before it came out in a second edition. 
 
 The Letter from Italy to my Lord Halifax maybe considered 
 as the text upon which the book of Travels is a large comment, 
 and has been esteemed by those who have a relish for anticpuity, 
 as the most exrpuisite of his poetical performances. A transla- 
 tion of it by Signor Salvini, professor of the Greek tongue at 
 Florence, is inserted in this edition, not only on the account of 
 its merit, but because it is the language of the country which is 
 the subject of this poem. 
 
 The materials for the Dialogues upon Medals, now first printed 
 from a manuscript of the author, were collected in the native 
 country of those coins. The book itself was begun to be cast into 
 form at Vienna, as appears from a letter to 3Ir. Stepney, then 
 minister at that court, dated in November, 1702. 
 
 metinie before the date of this letter, Mr. Addison had de- 
 
 ii« *1 to return to England, when he received advice from hia 
 friends, that he was pitched upon to attend the army under Prince 
 E 'rue. who had just begun the war in Italy, as secretary from 
 hie Majesty. But an account of the death of King William, 
 which he met with at Geneva put an end to that thought ; and
 
 l2 THE PREFACE, 
 
 as his hope* of advancement in his own country were fallen with 
 the credit of his friends, who were. out of power at the beginning 
 of her late Majesty's reign, he had leisure to make the tour of 
 Germany in his way home. 
 
 Hr remained for some time, after his return to England, with- 
 out any public employment, which he did not obtain till the year 
 1704, when the Duke of Marlborough arrived at the highest pitch 
 of glory, by delivering all Europe from slavery, and furnished 
 Mr. Addison with a subject worthy of that genius which appears 
 in his poem called The Campaign. The Lord Treasurer Godol- 
 phin, who was a fine judge of poetry, had a sight of this work, 
 when it was only carried on as far as the applauded simile of the 
 Angel ; and approved the poem, by bestowing on the author, in 
 a few days after, the place of Commissioner of Appeals, va- 
 cant by the removal of the famous Mr. Locke to the council of 
 trade. 
 
 His next advancement was to the place of Under Secretary, 
 which he held under Sir Charles Hedges, and the present Earl 
 of Sunderland. The Opera of Rosamond was written while he 
 possessed that employment. What doubts soever have been 
 raised about the merit of the music, which, as the Italian taste 
 at that time begun wholly to prevail, was thought sufficiently in- 
 excusable, because it was the composition of an Englishman ; the 
 poetry of this piece has giveu as much pleasure in the closet, as 
 others have afforded from the stage, with all the assistance of 
 voices and instruments. 
 
 The Comedy called The Tender Husband appeared much 
 about the same time, to which Mr. Addison wrote the Prologue. 
 Sir Richard Steele surprised him with a very handsome dedica- 
 tion of this play, and has since acquainted the public, that he 
 owed some of the most taking scenes of it to Mr. Addison. 
 
 His next step in his fortune, was to the post of Secretary
 
 THE PR IF ACE. IS 
 
 under the late Marquis of Wharton, who was appointed Lord 
 Lieutenant of Iroiand in the year 1709. As I have proposed to 
 touch but very lightly on those parts of his life which do not re- 
 gard him as an author, I shill not enlarge upon the great reputa- 
 tion he acquired by his turn to business, and his unblemished in- 
 tegrity, in this and other employments. It must not be omitted 
 here, that the salary of the Keeper of the Records in Ireland was 
 considerably raised, and that post bestowed upon him, at this 
 time, as a mark of the Queen's favour. He was in that kingdom, 
 when he first discovered Sir Richard Steele to be the author of 
 The Tatler, by an observation upon Virgil, which had been by 
 him communicated to his friend. The assistance he occasionally 
 gave him afterwards in the course of the paper, did not a little 
 contribute to advance its reputation ; and, upon the change of 
 the ministry, he found leisure to engage more constantly in that 
 work, which, however, was dropt at last, as it had been taken up, 
 without his participation. 
 
 In the last paper, which closed these celebrated performances, 
 and in the preface to the last volume, Sir Richard Steele has 
 given to Mr. Addison the honour of the most applauded pieces in 
 that collection. But as that acknowledgment was delivered only 
 in general terms, without directing the public to the several papers, 
 Mr. Addison, who was content witli the praise arising from his 
 nun works, and too delicate! to take any part of that which be- 
 longed to others, afterwards thought fit to distinguish his writings 
 in the Spectators and Guardians, by such marks as might remove 
 the least possibility of mistake in the most undiscerning readers. 
 It was necessary that his share in the Tatlcrs should be adjusted 
 in a complete collection of his works : for which reason Sii 
 Richard Steele, in compliance with the request of his deceased 
 friend, delivered tC him by the editor, was pleased to mark with 
 his own hand tboSi Tatlcrs which are inserted in this edition.
 
 l4 THE TREFACE. 
 
 and even to point out several, iD the writing of which they both 
 were concerned. 
 
 The plan of the Spectator, as far as it regards the feigned 
 person of the author, and of the several characters that compose 
 his club, was projected in concert with Sir Richard Steele. And, 
 because many passages in the course of the work would otherwise 
 be obscure, I have taken leave to insert one single paper, written 
 by Sir Richard Steele, wherein those characters are drawn, which 
 may serve as a Dramatis Personce, or as so many pictures for an 
 ornament and explication of the whole. As for the distinct 
 papers, they were never or seldom shown to each other by their 
 respective authors, who fully answered the promise they had 
 made, and far outwent the expectation they had raised, of pur- 
 suing their labour in the same spirit and strength with which it 
 was begun. It would have been impossible for Mr. Addison, who 
 made little or no use of letters sent in by the numerous corre- 
 spondents of the Spectator, to have executed his large share of 
 this task in so exquisite a manner, if he had not ingrafted into it 
 many pieces that had lain by him in little hints and minutes, 
 which he from time to time collected, and ranged in order, and 
 moulded into the form in which they now appear. Such are the 
 Essays upon Wit, the Pleasures of the Imagination, the Critique 
 upon Milton, and some others, which I thought to have connected 
 in a continued series in this edition ; though they were at first 
 published with the interruption of writings on different subjects. 
 But as such a scheme would have obliged me to cut off several 
 graceful introductions and circumstances, peculiarly ;*dapted to 
 the time and occasion of printing them, I durst not pursue that 
 attempt. 
 
 The Tragedy of Cato appeared in public in the year 1713, 
 when the greatest part of the last act was added by the author 
 to the foregoing, which he had kept by him for many years. He
 
 THE PREFACE. \'o 
 
 took up a design of writing a play upon this subject, when ho was 
 very young at the University, and even attempted something in 
 it there, though not a line as it now stands. The work was per- 
 formed by him in his travels, and retouched in England, without 
 any formed resolution of bringing it upon the stage, till his friends 
 of the first quality and distinction, prevailed with him to put the 
 last finishing to it, at a time when they thought the doctrine of 
 liberty very seasonable. It is in every body's memory, with what 
 applause it was received by the public ; that the first run of it 
 lasted for a month ; and then stopped, only because one of the 
 performers became incapable of acting a principal part. The 
 author received a message, that the Queen would be pleased to 
 have it dedicated to her ; but as he had designed that compliment 
 elsewhere, he found himself obliged by his duty on the one side, 
 and his honour on the other, to send it into the world without any 
 dedication. The fame of this Tragedy soon spread through 
 Europe, and it has not only beeu translated, but acted in most 
 of the languages of Christend mi. Ti:e trai.slatiou of it into 
 Italian, by Signor Salvini, is very well known ; but I have not 
 been able to learn whether that of Signor Valetta, a young Nea- 
 politan nobleman, has ever been made public. 
 
 If he had found time for the writing of another tragedy, 
 the death of Socrates would have* been the story. And, however 
 unpromising that subject may appear, it would be presumptuous 
 to censure his choice, who was so famous for raising the noblest 
 i.lants from the most barren soil. It serves to shew, that he 
 thought the whole labour of such a performance unworthy to be 
 thrown away upon those intrigues and adventures, to which the 
 romantic taste lias confined modern tragedy; and, after the exam- 
 ple of his predecessors in Greece, would have employed tho 
 drama ' to wear out of our minds everything that is mean, or 
 little; to cherish and cultivate that humanity whiqb is the onia
 
 16 THE PREFACE. 
 
 ment of oui nature ; to soften insolence, to sootli affliction, and 
 to subdue our minds to the dispensations of Providence. ' a 
 
 Upon the death of the late Queen, the Lords Justices, in 
 whom the administration was lodged, appointed him their Secre- 
 tary. Soon after his Majesty's arrival in Great Britain, tin. 
 Earl of Sunderland being constituted Lord Lieutenant of Ire- 
 land, Mr. Addison became a second time Secretary for the affairs- 
 of that kingdom ; and was made one of the Lords Commissioners 
 of Trade, a little after his lordship resigned the post of Lord 
 Lieutenant. 
 
 The paper called the Freeholder, was undertaken at the time 
 when the rebellion broke out in Scotland. 
 
 The only works he left behind him for the public, are the 
 Dialogues upon Medals, and the Treatise upon the Christian 
 Religion. Some account has been already given of the former, 
 to which nothing is now to be added, except that a great part of 
 the Latin quotations were rendered into English, in a very hasty 
 manner, by the Editor, and one of his friends, who had the good- 
 nature to assist him, during his avocations of business. It was 
 thought better to add these translations, such as they are, than 
 to let the work come out unintelligible to those who do not 
 possess the learned languages. 
 
 The scheme for the Treatise'updn the Christian Religion was 
 formed by the author about the end of the late Queen's reign ; 
 at which time he carefully perused the ancient writings, which 
 furnish the materials for it. His continual employment in busi- 
 ness prevented him from executing it, till he resigned his office 
 of Secretary of State ; and his death put a period to it, when he 
 had imperfectly performed only one half of the design ; he hav- 
 ing proposed, as appears from the introduction, to add the 
 Jewish to the heathenish testimonies, for the truth of the Chris- 
 
 ■ Spectator, Xo. 39.
 
 THE PREFACE. I l 
 
 tian history. He was more assiduous than his health would well 
 allow iu the pursuit of this work ; and had long determined to 
 dedicate his poetry also, for the future, wholly to religious sub 
 jects. 
 
 Soon after he was, from being one of the Lords Commission- 
 ers of Trade, advanced to the post of Secretary of State, he 
 found his health impaired by the return of that asthmatic indis 
 position, which continued often to afflict him during his exercise 
 of that employment, and at last obliged him to beg his Majesty's 
 leave to resign. His freedom from the anxiety of business so far 
 re-established his health, that his friends began to hope he might 
 last for many years ; but (whether it were from a life too seden- 
 tary, or from his natural constitution, in which was one circum- 
 stance very remarkable, that, from his cradle, he never had a 
 regular pulse) a long and painful relapse into an asthma and 
 dropsy deprived the world of this great man, on the 17th of 
 June, 1719. He left behind him only one daughter, by the 
 Countess of Warwick, to whom he was married in the year 1710 
 
 Not many days before his death, he gave me directions to 
 collect his writings, and at the same time committed to my care 
 the Letter addrest to Mr. Craggs (his successor as Secretary of 
 State) wherein he bequeaths them to him, as a token of friend 
 ship. Such a testimony, from the first man of our age, in such a 
 point of time, will be, perhaps, as great and lasting an honour to 
 that gentleman, as any even he could acquire to himself; and yet 
 is no more than was due from an affection, that justly increased 
 towards him, through the intimacy of several years. I cannot, 
 without the utmost tenderness, reflect on the kind concern with 
 which Mr. Addison left Me as a sort of incumbrance upon this 
 valuable legacy. Nor must I deny myself the honour to acknow- 
 ledge, that the goodness of that great man to me, Like manj 
 other of his amiable qualities, seemed not so much to be renewed
 
 18 THE PREFACE. 
 
 as continued in his successor ; who made me an example, that 
 nothing could be indifferent to him, which came recommended bv 
 Mr. Addison. 
 
 Could any circumstance be more severe to me, while I was 
 executing these last commands of the author, than to see the 
 person, to whom his works were presented, cut off in the flower 
 of his age, and carried from the high office wherein he had suc- 
 ceeded Mr. Addison, to be laid next him in the same grave ! I 
 might dwell upon such thoughts as naturally rise from these 
 minute resemblances in the fortune of two persons, whose names, 
 probably, will be seldom mentioned asunder, while either our 
 language or story subsist, were I not afraid of making this pre- 
 face too tedious : especially since I shall want all the patience of 
 the reader, for having enlarged it with the following verses.
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 THE EARL OF WARWICK, 
 
 ETC. 
 
 If. dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, 
 And left her debt to Addison unpaid ; 
 Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, 
 And judge, oh, judge, my bosom, by your own. 
 What mourner ever felt poetic fires! 
 Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : 
 Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, 
 Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 
 Can I forget the dismal night, that gave 
 My soul's best part for ever to the grave ! 
 How silent did his old companions tread, 
 By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 
 Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
 Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings ! 
 What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire ! 
 The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; 
 The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd ! 
 And the last words, that dust to dust convey'd . 
 While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend 
 Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend! 
 Oh, gone for ever, take this long adieu; 
 And sleep in peaue next thy lov'd Montagu !
 
 20 TO THE EARL OF WARWICK. 
 
 To strew fresh laurels, let. the task be mine ; 
 A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine ; 
 Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 
 And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 
 If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part, 
 May shame afflict this alienated heart; 
 Of thee forgetful if I form a song, 
 My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue, 
 My griefs be doubled, from thy image free, 
 And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee. 
 
 Oft let me range the gloomy isles alone, 
 (Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown,) 
 Along the walls where speaking marbles show 
 What worthies form the hallow'd mould below : 
 Proud names who once the reins of empire held ; 
 In arms who triumph'd, or in arts excell'd ; 
 Chiefs, grae'd with scars, and prodigal of blood ; 
 Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; 
 Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; 
 And saints, who taught, and led, the way to heaven. 
 Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, 
 Since their foundation, came a nobler guest, 
 Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd 
 A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade. 
 
 In what new region, to the just assign'd, 
 What new employments please th' unbody'd mind? 
 A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky, 
 From world to world unweary'd does he fly ; 
 Or curious trace the long laborious maze 
 Of heaven's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze ? 
 "Does he delight to hear bold Seraphs tell 
 How Michael battl'd, and the Dragon fell?
 
 TO THE EARL OF WARWICK. 21 
 
 Or, mixt with milder Cherubim, to glow 
 In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below ? 
 Or do'st thou warn poor mortals left behind, 
 A task well suited to tfry gentle mind ? 
 Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend, 
 To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend • 
 When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, 
 When pain distresses, or when pleasure charni9 ; 
 In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, 
 And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; 
 Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 
 'Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. 
 
 That awful form (which, so ye heavens decree, . 
 Must still be lov'd, and still deplor'd by me), 
 In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, 
 Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes. 
 If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 
 Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight ; 
 If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, 
 I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there: 
 If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 
 His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove: 
 'Twas there of Just and Good he reason'd strong, 
 Clear'd some great truth, or rais'd some serious song, 
 There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, 
 A candid censor, and a friend severe ; 
 There taught us how to live ; and (oil ! too high 
 The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. 
 
 Thou hill whose brow the antique structures grace, 
 Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, 
 Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bower appears, 
 O'er my dim eye-balls glance tl e sudden tears?
 
 I 
 
 22 TO THE EARL OF WARWICK. 
 
 flow sweet were once thy prospects, fresh and fair 
 Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air ! 
 How sweet the gloom beneath thy aged trees, 
 Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy'evening breeze ! 
 His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; 
 Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; 
 No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd, 
 Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. 
 
 From other ills, however fortune frown'd, 
 Some refuge in the muse's art I found : 
 Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, 
 Bereft of him who taught me how to sing, 
 And, these sad accents murmur'd o'er his urn, 
 Betray that absence, they attempt to mourn. 
 Oh ! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, 
 And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) 
 The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, 
 And weep a second in th' unfinish'd. t>ong ! 
 
 These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid^ 
 To thee, Craggs, th' expiring Sage convey'd, 
 Great, but ill-omen'd monument of fame, 
 Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. 
 Swift after him thy social spirit flies, 
 And close to his, how soon ! thy coffin lies. 
 Blest pair ! whose union future bards shall tell 
 In future tongues : each other's boast ! farewell. 
 Farewell ! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd, 
 No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. 
 
 Thomas Tickeja-
 
 TRANSLATIONS.
 
 INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 
 
 [Of Addison's translations Johnson says : — " His translations, so far m 
 I have compared them, want the exactness of a scholar. That he under- 
 stood his authors cannot he doubted : but his verses will not teach others 
 to understand them, being too licentiously paraphrastical. They are, how- 
 ever, for the most part, smooth and easy ; and what is the first excellence 
 of a translator, such as may be read with pleasure by those who do not 
 know the original." The same critic also remarks : — " In his Georgick he 
 admits broken lines." Dryden's compliment has been accused of insincer- 
 ity. After speaking of two poets who ha 1 pit h ; ra to great labor by 
 their superior merit - *Thrt most ingenious Mr. Addison, of Oxford, has 
 also been as troublesome to me as the other two, and on the same account. 
 After his bees my latter swarm is hardly worth the hiving." 
 
 These translations were made at Oxford, and published in Tonson's 
 Miscellanies. A letter of Addison to Tonson without the date of the year, 
 gives us the origin of the translations from Oi'id. " Your discussion with 
 inc about translating Ovid, made such an impression on me at my first 
 comino- down from London, that I ventured on the second book, which I 
 turned at my leisure hours, and will give you a sight of it if you will give 
 yourself the trouble of reading it." — G ]
 
 A TRANSLATION OF ALL 
 
 VIRGIL'S FOURTH GEORGICK, 
 
 EXCEPT- THE STORY OF ARIST^ECJS. 
 
 Etherial sweets shall nest my muse engage,* 
 And this, Maecenas, claims your patronage. 
 Of little creatures wondrous acts I treat, 
 The ranks and mighty leaders of their state, 
 Their laws, employments, and their wars relate. 
 A trifling theme, provokes my humble lays. 
 Trifling the theme, not so the poet's praise, 
 If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine 
 Join in the piece, to make the work divine. 
 
 First, for your bees a proper station find, 
 That's fenc'd about, and shelter'd from the wind ; 
 For winds divert them in their flight, and drive 
 The swarms, when loaden homeward, from their hive. 
 Nor sheep, nor goats, must pasture near their stores, 
 To trample under foot the springing flowers ; 
 Nor frisking heifers bound about the place, 
 To spurn the dew-drops off, ana 1 bruise the rising grass : 
 
 • Etherial sweets. The following version, though it be exact enough, 
 for the most part, and not inelegant, gives us but a faint idea of the ori- 
 ginal. It lias the grace, but not the energy, of Virgil's manner. The 
 late Translator of the Georgics* has succeeded much better. The vorsili 
 cation (except only the bad rhymes) may be excused; for the frequent 
 triplets and alexandrineB (which Dryden's laziness, by the favour of his 
 exuberant genius, had introduced) were esteemed, when this translation 
 was made, not blemishes, but beauties. 
 
 * Mr. Nevtlo 
 VOL 1.— 2
 
 26 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Nor must the lizard's painted brood appear, 
 Nor wood-pecks, nor the swallow harbour near, 
 They waste the swarms, and as they fly along 
 Convey the tender morsels to their young. 
 
 Let purling streams, and fountains edg'd with moss 
 And shallow rills run trickling through the grass ; 
 Let branching olives o'er the fountain grow, 
 Or palms shoot up, and shade the streams below ; 
 That when the youth, led by their princes, shun 
 The crowded hive, and sport it in the sun, 
 Refreshing springs may tempt 'em from the heat, 
 And shady coverts yield a cool retreat. 
 
 Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs, 
 Lay twigs across, and bridge it o'er with stones ; 
 That if rough storms, or sudden blasts of wind 
 Should dip, or scatter those that lag behind, 
 Here they may settle on the friendly stone, 
 And dry their reeking pinions at the sun.. 
 Plant all the flowery banks with lavender, ' 
 With store of sav'ry scent the fragrant air, 
 Let running betony the field o'erspread, 
 And fountains soak the violet's dewy bed. 
 
 Tho' barks or plaited willows make your hive, 
 A narrow inlet to their cells contrive; 
 For colds congele and freeze the liquors up, 
 And, melted down with heat, the waxen buildings drop 
 The bees, of both extremes alike afraid, 
 Their wax around the whistling crannies spread, 
 And suck out clammy dews from herbs and flow'rs, 
 To smear the chinks, and plaister up the pores; 
 For this they hoard up glue, whose clinging drops, 
 Like pitch, or bird lime, hang in stringy ropes.
 
 virgil's fourth georgick. 27 
 
 They oft, 'tis said, in dark retirements dwell, 
 And work ii^ subterraneous caves their cell; 
 At other times th' industrious insects live 
 Tn hollow rocks, or make a tree their hive. 
 
 Point all their chink}- lodgings round with mud, 
 A.nd leaves most thinly on your work be strow'd ; 
 But let no baleful eugh-tree nourish near, 
 Nor rotten marshes send out streams of mire ; 
 Nor burning crabs grow red, and crackle in the fire. 
 Nor neighb'ring caves return the dying sound, 
 Nor echoing rocks the doubled voice rebound. 
 
 Things thus prepar'd 
 
 When th' under-world is seiz'd with cold and night, 
 
 And summer here descends in streams of light, 
 
 The bees thro' woods and forests take their flight. 
 
 They rifle ev'ry flow'r and lightly skim 
 
 The chrystal brook, and sip the running stream ; 
 
 And thus they feed their young with strange delight, 
 
 And knead the yielding wax, and work the slimy sweet. 
 
 But when on high you see the bees repair, 
 
 Born on the winds thro' distant tracts of air, 
 
 And view the winged cloud all blackning from afar ; 
 
 While shady coverts, and fresh streams they chuse, 
 
 Milfoil and common honey-suckles bruise, 
 
 And sprinkle on their hives the fragrant juice. 
 
 On brazen vessels beat a tinkling sound, 
 
 And shake the cymbals of the goddess round ; 
 
 Then all will hastily retreat, and fill 
 
 The warm resounding hollow of their cell. 
 
 If once two rival kings their righi debate, 
 And factions and cabals embroil the state,
 
 28 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The people's actions will their thoughts declare ; 
 All their hearts tremble, and beat thick w^h war; 
 Hoarse broken sounds, like trumpets' harsh alarms, 
 Run thro' the hive, and call 'em to their arms ; 
 All in a hurry spread their shiv'ring wings, 
 And fit their claws, and point their angry stings : 
 In crowds before the king's pavilion meet, 
 And boldly challenge out the foe to fight : 
 At last, when all the heav'ns are warm and fair, 
 They rush together out, and join ; the air 
 Swarms thick, and echoes with the humming war- 
 All in a firm round cluster mix, and strow 
 With heaps of little corps the earth below ; 
 As thick as hail-stones from the floor rebound, 
 Or shaken acorns rattle on the ground. 
 No sense of danger can their kings controul, 
 Their little bodies lodge a mighty soul : 
 Each obstinate in arms pursues his blow, 
 'Till shameful flight secures the routed foe. 
 This hot dispute and all this mighty fray 
 A little dust flung upward will allay. 
 
 But when both kings are settled in their hive, 
 Mark him who looks the worst, and lest he live 
 Idle at home in ease and luxury, 
 The lazy monarch must be doom'd to die ; 
 So let the royal insect rule alone, 
 And reign without a rival in his throne. 
 
 The kings are different ; one of better note 
 All speckt with gold, and many a shining spot, 
 Looks gay, and glistens in a gilded coat ; 
 But love of ease, and sloth, in one prevails. 
 That scarce his hanging paunch behind him trails :
 
 Virgil's fourth georgick. 29 
 
 The people's looks are different as their king's, 
 Some sparkle bright, and glitter in their wings ; 
 Others look loathsome and diseas'd with sloth, 
 Like a faint traveller, whose dusty mouth 
 Grows dry with heat, and spits a maukish froth. 
 
 The first are best 
 
 From their o'erflowing combs, you'll often press 
 
 Pure luscious sweets, that mingling* in the glass 
 
 Correct the harshness of the racy juice, 
 
 And a rich flavour through the wine diffuse. 
 
 But when they sport abroad, and rove from home, 
 
 And leave the cooling hive, and quit th' unfinish'd com! 
 
 Their airy ramblings are with ease confin'd, 
 
 Clip their king's wiDgs, and if they stay behind 
 
 No bold usurper dares invade their right, 
 
 Nor sound a march, nor give the sign for flight. . 
 
 Let flow'ry banks entice 'em to their cells, 
 
 And gardens all perfum'd with native smells ; 
 
 Where carv'd Priapus has his fix'd abode, 
 
 The robber's terror, and the scare-crow god. 
 
 Wild thyme and pine-trees from their barren hill 
 
 Transplant, and nurse 'em in the neighbouring soil. 
 
 Set fruit-trees round, nor e'er indulge thy sloth, 
 
 But water 'em, and urge their shady growth. 
 
 And here, perhaps, were I not giving o'er, 
 And striking sail, and making to the shore, 
 I'd show what art the gardener's toils require, 
 Why rosy paestum blushes twice a year ; 
 What streams tin; verdant succory supply, 
 And how the thirsty plant drinks rivers dry; 
 With what a cheerful green does parsley "race, 
 And writhes the bellying cucumber along the twists grass ,
 
 30 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Nor wou'd I pass the soft Acanthus o'er, 
 Ivy nor myrtle-trees that love the shore ; 
 Nor daffodils, that late from earth's slow womb 
 
 Ivy nor myrtle-trees that love the shore ; 
 
 A 
 
 Unrumple their swoln buds, and show their yellow bloom. 
 
 For once I saw in the Tarentine vale, 
 Where slow Galesus drencht the washy soil, 
 An old Corician yeoman who had got 
 A few neglected acres to his lot, 
 Where neither corn nor pasture grac'd the field, 
 Nor would the vine her purple harvest yield ; 
 But sav'ry herbs among the thorns were found, 
 Vervain and poppy-flowers his garden crown'd, 
 And drooping lilies whiten'd all the ground. 
 Blest with these riches he could empires slight, 
 And when he rested from his toils at night, 
 The earth unpurchas'd dainties wou'd afford, 
 And his own garden furnish'd out his board : 
 The spring did first his opening roses blow," 
 First ripening autumn bent his fruitful bough. 
 When piercing colds had burst the brittle stone, 
 And freezing rivers stiffen'd as they run, 
 He then would prune the tend'rest of his trees, 
 Chide the late spring, and lingring western breeze : 
 His bees first swarm'd, and made his vessels foam 
 With the rich squeezing of the juicy comb. 
 Here lindons and the sappy pine increas'd ; 
 Bere, when gay flow'rs his smiling orchard drest, 
 
 Roses blow. Not usual or exact to use the word blow actively. Vet- 
 Mil tea speaks of banks that blow flowers, (Mask at Ludlow Castle, page 
 393.) And, indeed, it is not easy to say, how far this licentious construc- 
 tion, if sparingly used, si sumpta pudenter, may be allowed, especially in 
 the higher poetry. The reason is, that it takes the expression out of the 
 tameness of prose, and pleases by its novelty, more than it disgusts by its 
 irregularity: and whatever p'eases in this degree, is poetical.
 
 virgil's fourth geoec-ick. 31 
 
 As many blossoms as the spring could show, 
 
 So many dangling apples niellow'd on the bough. 
 
 In rows his elm and knotty pear-trees bloom, 
 
 And thorns eunobled now to bear a plumb, 
 
 And spreading plane-trees, where supinely laid 
 
 He now enjoys the cool, and quaffs beneath the shade. 
 
 But these, for war* of room I must omit, 
 
 And leave for future poets to recite. 
 
 Now I'll proceed their natures to declare, 
 Which Jove himself did on the bees confer; 
 Because, invited by the timbrel's sound, 
 Lodg'd in a cave, th' almighty babe they found, 
 And the young god nurst kindly under ground. 
 
 Of all the wiug'd inhabitants of air, 
 These only make their young the publick care ; 
 In well-disposed societies they live, 
 And laws and statutes regulate their hive ; 
 Nor stray like others, unconfin'd abroad, 
 But know set stations, and a fix'd abode : 
 Each provident of cold in summer flies 
 Thro' fields, and woods, to seek for new supplies, 
 And in the common stock unlades his thighs. 
 Some watch the food, some in the meadows ply 
 Taste ev'ry bud, and suck each blossom dry ; 
 Whilst others, lab'ring in their cells at home, 
 Temper Narcissus 1 clammy tears with gum, 
 For the first ground-work of the golden comb ; 
 On this they found their waxen works, and raise 
 The yellow fahriek on its glewy base. 
 Some educate the young, or hatch the seed 
 With vital warmth, and future nations breed ;
 
 32 TRANSLATI ONS. 
 
 Whilst others thicken all the slimy dews, 
 
 And into purest honey work the juice ; 
 
 Then fill the hollows of the comb, and swell 
 
 With luscious nectar ey'ry flowing cell. 
 
 By turns they watch, by turns with curious eyes 
 
 Survey the heav'ns, and search the clouded skies 
 
 To find out breeding storms, and tell wh.at tempests rise. 
 
 By turns they ease the loaden swarms, or drive, 
 
 The drone, a lazy insect, from their hive. 
 
 The work is warmly ply'd through all the cells, 
 
 And strong with thyme the new-made honey smells. 
 
 So in their reaves the brawny Cyclops sweat, 
 When with huge strokes the stubborn wedge they beat, 
 And all th' unshapen thunder-bolt compleat ; 
 Alternately their hammers rise and fall ; 
 Whilst griping tongs turn round the glowing ball. 
 With puffing bellows some the flames increase, 
 And some in waters dip the hissing mass ; 
 Their beaten anvils dreadfully resound, 
 And iEtna shakes all o'er, and thunders under ground. 
 
 Thus, if great things we may with small compare, 
 The busie swarms their different labours share. 
 Desire of profit urges all degrees ; 
 The aged insects by experience wise, 
 Attend the comb, and fashion ev'ry part, 
 And shape the waxen fret-work out with art : 
 The young at night, returning from their toils, 
 Bring home their thighs clog'd with the meadows' spoils 
 On lavender, and saffron buds they feed, 
 On bending osiers, and the balmy reed, 
 From purple violets and. the teile they bring 
 Their gather'd sweets, and rifle all the spring.
 
 VIHGIL'S FOURTH GEOK.GICK 3S 
 
 All work together, all together rest, 
 The morning still renews their labours past ; 
 Then all rush out, their different tasks pursue, 
 Sit on the bloom, and suck the rip'ning dew ; 
 Again, when evening warns 'em to their home, 
 "With weary wings and heavy thighs they come, 
 And crowd about the chink, and mix a drowue hum. 
 Into their cells at length they gently creep, 
 There all the night their peaceful station kec>, 
 Wrapt up in silence, and dissolv'd in sleep. 
 None range abroad when "winds or storms arc nigh N 
 Nor trust their bodies to a faithless sky, 
 But make small journeys, with a careful wing 
 And fly to water at a neighbouring spring ; 
 And least their airy bodies should be cast 
 In restless whirls, the sport of ev'ry blast, 
 They carry stones to poise 'em in their flight, 
 As ballast keeps th' unsteady vessel right. 
 
 But, of all customs that the bees can boast, 
 Tis this may challenge admiration most ; 
 That none will Hymen's softer joys approve, 
 Nor waste their spirits in luxurious love, 
 But all a long virginity maintain, 
 And bring forth young without a mother's pain : 
 From herbs and flowers they pick each tender bee 
 And cull from plants a buzzing progeny ; 
 From these they chuse out subjects, and create 
 A little monarch of the rising state ; 
 Then build wax-kingdoms for the infant prince, 
 And for.ni a palace for his residence. 
 
 But often in their journeys, as they fly, 
 Ou flints they tear their silken wings, or lye 
 VOL. I. — 2*
 
 34 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 Grov'ling beneath their flowery load, and die. 
 
 Thus love of honey can an insect fire, 
 
 And in a fly such generous thoughts inspire. 
 
 Yet by repeopling their decaying state, 
 
 Tho' seven short springs conclude their vital date, 
 
 Their ancient stocks eternally remain, 
 
 And in an endless race their children's children reign. 
 
 No prostrate vassal of the East can more 
 With slavish fear his haughty prince adore ; 
 His life unites 'em all ; but when he dies, 
 All in loud tumults and distractions rise ; 
 They waste their honey, and their combs deface, 
 And wild confusion reigns in every place. 
 Him all admire, all the great guardian own, 
 And crowd about his courts, and buzz about his throne. 
 Oft on their backs their weary prince they bear, 
 Oft in his cause embattled in the air, 
 Pursue a glorious death, in wounds and war. 
 
 Some, from such instances as these have taught 
 " The bees' extract is heavenly ; for they thought 
 The universe alive ; and that a soul, 
 Diffus'd throughout the matter of the whole, 
 To all the vast unbounded frame was giv'n, 
 And ran through earth, and air, and sea, and all the deep 
 
 of heaven ; 
 That this first kindled life in man and beast, 
 Life, that again flows into this at last. 
 That no compounded animal could die, 
 But when dissolv'd, the spirit mounted high, 
 Dwelt in a star, and settled in the sky." 
 
 When-e'er their balmy sweets you mean to" seize, 
 And take the liquid labours of the bees,
 
 virgil's fourth georgick. 35 
 
 Spurt d-aughts of water from your mouth, and drive 
 A loathsome cloud of smoak amidst their hive. 
 
 Twice in the year their flow'ry toils begin, 
 And twice they fetch their dewy harvest in ; 
 Once, when the lovely Pleiades arise, 
 And add fresh lustre to the summer skies ; 
 And once, when hast'ning from the watry sign, 
 They quit their station, and forbear to shine. 
 
 The bees are prone to rage, and often found 
 To perish for revenge, and die upon the wound. 
 Their venom'd sting produces aking pains, 
 And swells the flesh, and shoots among the veins. 
 
 When first a cold hard winter's storms arrive, 
 And threaten death or famine to their hive, 
 If now their sinking state and low affairs 
 Can move your pity, and provoke your cares, 
 Fresh burning thyme before their cells convey, 
 And cut their dry and husky wax away ; 
 For often lizards seize the luscious spoils, 
 Or drones, that riot on another's toil3 : 
 Oft broods of moths infest the hungry swarms, 
 And oft the furious wasp their hive alarms 
 With louder hums, and with unequal arms; 
 Or else the spider at their entrance sets 
 Her snares, and spins her bowels into nets. 
 
 When sickness reigns (for they as well as we 
 Feel all th' effects of frail mortality) 
 By certain marks the new disease is seen, 
 Their colour changes, and their looks are thin, 
 Their funeral rites are forin'd, and ev'ry bee 
 With grief attends the sad solemnity;
 
 36 m TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The few diseas'd survivors hang hefore 
 Their sickly cells, and droop about the door, 
 Or slowly in their hives their limbs unfold, 
 Shrunk up with hunger, and benumb'd with cold ; 
 In drawling hums, the feeble insects grieve, 
 And doleful buzzes echo thro' the hive, . 
 Like winds that softly'murmur thro' the trees 
 Like flames pent up, or like retiring seas. 
 Now lay fresh honey near their empty rooms, 
 In troughs of hollow reeds, whilst frying gums 
 Cast round a fragrant mist of spicy fumes. 
 Thus kindly tempt the famish'd swarm to eat, 
 And gently reconcile 'em to their meat. 
 Mix juice of galls, and wine, that grow in time 
 Condens'd by fire, and- thicken to a slime. 
 To these dry'd roses, thyme and centry join, 
 And raisins, ripen'd on the Psythian vine. 
 
 Besides, there grows a flow'r in marshy ground, 
 Its name Amellus, easy to be found ; 
 A mighty spring works in its root, and cleaves 
 The sprouting stalk, and shews itself in leaves : 
 The flow'r itself is of a golden hue, 
 The leaves inclining to a darker blue ; 
 The leaves shoot thick about the flow'r, and grow 
 Intc a bush, and shade the turf below : 
 The plant in holy garlands often twines 
 The altars' posts, and beautifies the shrines ; 
 Its taste is sharp, in vales new-shorn it growa, 
 Where Mella's stream in watry mazes flows. 
 Take plenty of its roots, and boil 'em well 
 In wine, and heap 'em up before the cell.
 
 viegil's fourth georgick 37 
 
 But if the whole stock fail, and none survive ; 
 
 To raise new people, and recruit the hive, 
 
 I'll here the great experiment declare, 
 
 That spread th' Arcadian shepherd's name so far. 
 
 How bees from blood of slaughter'd bulls have fled, 
 
 And swarms amidst the red corruption bred. 
 
 For where th' Egyptians yearly see their bounds 
 
 Eefresh'd with floods, and sail about their grounds, 
 
 "Where Persia borders, and the rolling Nile 
 
 Drives swiftly down the swarthy Indians' soil, 
 
 'Till into seven it multiplies its stream, 
 
 And fattens Egypt with a fruitful slin»«j : 
 
 In this last practice all their hope remain** 
 
 And long experience justifies their pains. 
 
 First then a close contracted space of ground, 
 
 With streighten'd walls and low-built roof the} Wnd; 
 
 A narrow shelving light is next assign'd 
 
 To all the quarters, one to every wind : 
 
 Through these the glancing rays obliquely pierce : 
 Hither they lead a bull that's young and fierce, 
 
 When two-years growth of horn he proudly shows, 
 And shakes the comely terrors of his brows : 
 His nose and mouth, the avenues of breath, 
 They muzzle up, and beat his limbs to death ; 
 "With violence to life and stifling pain 
 He flings and spurns, and tries to snort in vain, 
 Loud heavy mows fall thick on ev'ry side, 
 'Till his bruis'd bowels burst within the hide, 
 When dead, they leave him rotting on the ground, 
 With branches, thyme and cassia, strow'd around. 
 A.11 this is done, when first the western breeze 
 Becalms the year, ana smooths the troubled seas ;
 
 38 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 Befoie the chattering swallow builds her nest, 
 
 Or fields in spring's embroidery are drest. 
 
 Meanwhile the tainted juice ferments within, 
 
 And quickens, as it works : And now are see 
 
 A wond'rous swarm, that o'er the carcass crawls, 
 
 Of shapeless, rude, unfinish'd animals. 
 
 No legs at first the insect's weight sustain, 
 
 At length it moves its new-made limbs with pain ; 
 
 Now -strikes the air with quiv'ring wings, and triea 
 
 To lift its body up, and learns to rise ; 
 
 Now bending thighs and gilded wings it wears 
 
 Full grown, and all the bee at length appears ; 
 
 From every side the fruitful carcass pours 
 
 Its swarming brood, as thick as summer-show'rs, 
 
 Or flights of arrows from the Parthian bows, 
 
 When twanging strings first shoot 'em on the foes. 
 
 Thus have I sung the nature of the bee ; 
 While CEesar, tow'ring to divinity, 
 The frighted Indians with his thunder aw'd, 
 And claim'd their homage, and commenc'd a god 
 I flourish'd all the while in arts of peace, 
 Retir'd and shelter'd in inglorious ease : 
 I who before the songs of shepherds made, 
 When gay and young my rural lays I play'd 
 And set my.Tityrus beaeath his shade.
 
 MILTON'S STILE IMITATED, 11 
 
 IH > TRANSLATION OF A STORY OUT OF THE THIRD iENEID 
 
 Lost in the gloomy horror of the night 
 We struck upon the coast where iEtna lies, 
 Horrid and waste, its entrails fraught with fire, • 
 That^iow casts out dark fumes and pitchy clouds, 
 Vast showers of ashes hov'riug in the smoke ; 
 Now belches molten stones and ruddy flame 
 Incenst, or tears up mountains by the roots, 
 Or slings a broken rock aloft in air. 
 The bottom works with smother'd fire involv'd 
 In pestilential vapours, stench and smoke. 
 
 'Tis said, that thunder-struck Enceladus 
 Groveling beneath th' incumbent mountain's weight, 
 Lyes stretch'd supine, eternal prey of flames ; 
 And when he heaves against the burning load, 
 Reluctant, to invert his broiling limbs, 
 A sudden earthquake shoots through all the isle, 
 And .Etna thunders dreadful under ground, 
 
 [' These imitations of celebrated authors were favourite exercises with 
 Pipe, who was much more successful in them than his great rival. 
 Sard's "very imperfectly," is unquestionably just ; but his " stiffness and 
 rigour" of .Milton's Btyle will probably be classed with his estimate of 
 Bbakspeare ii the first note on Cato. — G.] 
 
 ■ Milton?* stile imita.cd. Very imperfectly. What we find, is the stiff- 
 ness and rigour of Milton't stile, somewhat cased and suppled by the grace 
 of Mr Addison's, but without the numbers or the force of that great poot
 
 40 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Then pours out smoke in wreathing curls convolv'd, 
 And shades the sun's bright orb, and blots out day. 
 
 Here in the shelter of the woods we lodg'd, 
 And frighted heard strange sounds and dismal yells. 
 Nor saw from whence they came ; for all the night 
 A murky storm deep louring o'er our heads 
 Hung imminent, that with impervious gloom 
 Oppos'd itself to Cynthia's silver ray, 
 And shaded all beneath. But now the sun 
 With orient beams had chas'd the dewy night 
 From earth and heav'n ; all nature stood disclos'd : 
 When looking on the neighb'ring woods we saw 
 The ghastly visage of a man unknown, 
 An uncouth feature, meagre, pale, and wild ; 
 Affliction's foul and terrible dismay 
 . Sate in his looks, his face impair'd and worn 
 With marks of famine, speaking sore distress ; 
 His locks were tangled, and his shaggy beard 
 Matted with filth ; in all things else a Greek. 
 
 He first advanc'd in haste ; but, when he saw 
 Trojans and Trojan arms, in mid career 
 Stopt short, he back recoil'd as one surpriz'd : 
 But soon recovering speed, he ran, he flew 
 Precipitant, and thus with piteous cries 
 Our ears assail'd : " By heavVs eternal fires, 
 By ev'ry god that sits enthron'd on high, 
 By this good light, relieve a wretch forlorn, 
 And bear me hence to any distant shore. 
 So I may shun this savage race accurst. 
 Tis true I fought among the Greeks that late 
 With sword and fire o'erturn'd Neptunian Troy 
 And laid the labours of the gods in dust ;
 
 MILTON S STILE IMITATED. 41 
 
 For which, if so the sad offence deserves, 
 Plung'd in the deep, for ever let me lie 
 Whelm' d under seas; if death must be my doom, 
 Let man inflict it, and I die well-pleas'd." 
 
 He ended here, and now profuse of tears 
 In suppliant mood fell prostrate at our feet : 
 We bade him speak from whence, and what he was, 
 And how by stress of fortune sunk thus low ; 
 Anchises too with friendly aspect mild 
 Gave him his hand, sure pledge of amity ; 
 When, thus encouraged, he began his tale. 
 
 I'm one, says he, of poor descent, my name 
 Is Achasmenides, my country Greece, 
 Ulysses' sad compeer, who whilst he fled 
 The raging Cyclops, left me here behind 
 Disconsolate, forlorn ; within the cave 
 He left me, giant Polypheme's dark cave ; 
 A dungeon wild and horrible, the walls 
 On all sides furr'd with mouldy damps, and hung 
 With clots of ropy gore, and human limbs, 
 His dire repast: himself of mighty size, 
 Hoarse in his voice, and in his visage grim, 
 Intractable, that riots on the flesh 
 Of mortal men, and swills the vital blood. 
 Him did I see snatch up with horrid grasp 
 Two sprawling Greeks, in either hand a man; 
 I saw him when with huge tempestuous sway 
 He dasht and broke 'em on the grundsil edge; 
 The pavement swam in blood, the walls around 
 Were sjmtter'd o'er with brains. He lapt the blood, 
 And chew'd the tender flesh still warm with life, 
 That swell'd and heav'd itself amidst his teeth
 
 42 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 As sensible of pain. Not less mean while 
 
 Our chief incens'd. and studious of revenge, 
 
 Plots his destruction, which he thus effects. 
 
 The giant, gorg'd with flesh, and wine, and blood, 
 
 Lay stretcht at length and snoring in his den, 
 
 Belching raw gobbets from his maw, o'er-charg'd 
 
 With purple wine and cruddled gore coiifused. 
 
 We gather'd round, and to his single eye, 
 
 The single eye that in his forehead glar'd 
 
 Like a full moon, or a broad burnish'd shield, 
 
 A forky staff we dext'rously apply'd, 
 
 Which, in the spacious socket turning round, 
 
 Scoopt out the big round gelly from its orb. 
 
 But let me not thus interpose delays ; 
 
 Fly, mortals, fly this curst detested race : 
 
 A hundred of the same stupendous size, 
 
 A hundred Cyclops live among the hills, 
 
 Gigantick brotherhood, that stalk along 
 
 With horrid strides o'er the high mountains' tops, 
 
 Enormous in their gait ; I oft have heard 
 
 Their voice and tread, oft seen 'em as they past, 
 
 Sculking and scowring down, half dead with fear. 
 
 Thrice has the moon wash'd all her orb in light, 
 
 Thrice travell'd o'er, in her obscure sojourn, 
 
 The realms of night inglorious, since I've liv'd 
 
 Amidst these woods, gleaning from thorns and shrubs 
 
 A wretched sustenance. As thus he spoke 
 
 We saw descending from a neighb'ring hill 
 
 Blind Polypheme ; by weary steps and slow 
 
 The groping giant with a trunk of pine 
 
 Explored his way ; around his woolly flocks 
 
 Attended grazing ; to the well-known shore
 
 milton's stile imitated. 43 
 
 He bent his course, and on the margin stood, 
 
 A hideous monster, terrible, deform'd ; 
 
 Full in the midst of his high front there gap'd 
 
 The spacious hollow where his eye-ball roll'd, 
 
 A ghastly orifice : be rins'd the wound, 
 
 And wash'd away the strings and clotted blood 
 
 Tnat cak'd within ; then stalking through the deep 
 
 He fords the ocean, while the topmost wave 
 
 Scarce reaches up his middle side ; we stood 
 
 Amaz'd be sure, a sudden horror chill 
 
 Ran through each nerve, and thrill'd in ev'ry vein, 
 
 'Till using all the force of winds and oars 
 
 We sped away ; he heard us in our course, 
 
 And with his out-stretch'd arms around him grop'd, 
 
 But finding nought within his reach, he rais'd 
 
 Such hideous shouts that all the ocean shook. 
 
 Ev'n Italy, tho' many a league remote, 
 
 In distant echoes answer'd ; iEtna roar'd, 
 
 Through all its inmost winding caverns roar'd. 
 
 Rous'd with the sound, the mighty family 
 Of one-ey'd brothers hasten to the shore, 
 And gather round the bellowing Polypheme, 
 A dire assembly : we with eager haste 
 Work ev'ry one, and from afar behold 
 A host of giants covering all the shore. 
 
 So stands a forest tall of mountain oaks 
 Advanced to mighty growth : the traveller 
 Hears from the humble valley where he rides 
 The hollow murmurs of the winds that blow 
 Amidst the boughs, and at the distance sees 
 The shady tups of trees unnumber'd rise, 
 A stately prospect waving in the clouds.
 
 HORACE. 
 
 ODE III. BOOK III. j 
 
 » 
 
 Augustus had a design to rebuild Troy, and make it the Metropolis 
 of the Roman Empire, homing closeted several Senators on the 
 project: Horace is supposed to hate written the following Ode on 
 this occasion: — 
 
 The man resolv'd and steady to his trust, 
 
 Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just, 
 
 May the rude rabble's insolence despise, 
 
 Their senseless clamours and tumultuous cries ; 
 
 The tyrant's fierceness he beguiles, 
 
 And the stern brow, and the harsh voice defies, 
 
 And with superior greatness smiles. 
 
 Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms 
 Adria's black gulf, and vexes it with storms, 
 The stubborn virtue of his soul can move ; 
 Not the red arm of angry Jove, 
 That flings the thunder from the sky, 
 And gives it rage to roar, and strength to fly. 
 
 Should the whole frame of nature round him break, 
 In ruin and confusion hurl'd, 
 He, unconcern'd, would hear the mighty crack," 
 And stand seeure amidst a falling world. 
 
 a Crack. Plainly used here for the sake of the rhyme ; for the poet 
 knew very well that the word was low and vulgar. To ennoble it a little 
 he adds the epithet " mighty," which yet, has only the effect to make it 
 even ridiculous. 
 
 [This unfortunate line has been not unworthily recorded in the "Art 
 of Sinking in Poetry." — G.]
 
 HORACE. 45 
 
 Such were the godlike arts that led 
 Brio-ht Pollux to the hlest abodes : 
 Such did for great Alcides plead, 
 And gain'd a place among the gods ; 
 Where now Augustus, niix'd with heroes, lies, 
 And to his lips the nectar bowl applies : 
 His ruddy lips the purple tincture show, 
 And with immortal strains divinely glow. 
 
 By arts like these did young Lyaeus rise : 
 His tigers drew him to the skies, 
 "Wild from the desert and unbroke : 
 In vain they foam'd, in vain they star'd, 
 In vain their eyes with fury glar'd, * 
 He tam'd 'em to the lash, and bent 'em to the yoke. 
 
 Such were the paths that Home's great founder trod, 
 When in a whirlwind snatch'd on high, 
 He shook off dull mortality, 
 And lost the monarch in the god. 
 Bright Juno then her awful silence broke, 
 And thus th' assembled deities bespoke. 
 
 Troy, says the goddess, perjur'd Troy has felt 
 The dire effects of her proud tyrant's guilt ; 
 The towering pile, and soft abodes, 
 Waiyd by the hand of servile gods, 
 Now spreads its ruins all around, 
 And lies inglorious on the ground. 
 An umpire, partial and unjust, 
 And a lewd woman's impious lust, 
 I heavy on her head, and sink her to the dust. 
 
 Since false Laomedon's tyrannic sway, 
 That durst defraud th' immortals of their pay,
 
 46 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Her guardian gods renounc'd their patronage, 
 Nor would the fierce invading foe repel ; 
 To my resentment, and Minerva's rage, 
 The guilty kiug and the whole people fell. 
 
 And now the long protracted wars are o'er, 
 The soft adult'rer shines no moi-e; 
 No more does Hector's force the Trojans shield, 
 That drove whole armies back, and singly clear'd the field 
 
 My vengeance sated, I at length resign ' 
 
 To Mars his offspring of the Trojan line : 
 Advanc'd to god-head let him rise, 
 And take his station in the skies ; 
 There entertain his'ravish'd sight 
 With scenes of glory, fields of light ; 
 Quaff with the gods immortal wine, 
 And see adoring nations crowd his shrine : 
 
 The thin remains of Troy's afflicted host, 
 In distant realms may seats unenvy'd find, 
 And flourish on a foreign coast ; 
 But far be Rome from Troy disjoined. 
 Remov'd by seas, from the disastrous shore, 
 May endless billows rise between, and storms unnumber'd 
 roar. 
 
 Still let the curst detested place, w 
 
 Where Priam lies, and Priam's faithless race, 
 Be cover'd o'er with weeds, and hid in grass. 
 There let the wanton flocks unguarded stray ; 
 Or, while the lonely shepherd sings ; 
 Amidst the mighty ruins play, 
 And frisk upon the tombs of kings. 
 
 May tigers there, and all the savage kind, 
 Sad solitary haunts, and silent deserts find ;
 
 H O t A C E . 47 
 
 In gloomy vaults, and nooks of palaces, 
 
 May th' unmolested lioness 
 
 Her brinded whelps securely lay, 
 
 Or, coucht, in dreadful slumbers waste tbe day. 
 
 While Troy in heaps of ruins lies, 
 Rome and the Roman capitol shall rise ; 
 Th' illustrous exiles unconfin'd 
 Shall triumph far and near, and rule mankind. 
 
 In vain the sea's intruding tide 
 Europe from Afric shall divide, 
 And part the sever'd world in two : 
 Through Afric's sands their triumphs they shall sprea.1. 
 And the long train of victories pursue 
 To Nile's "yet undiscover'd head. 
 Riches the hardy soldier shall despise, 
 And look on gold with undesiring eyes, 
 Nor the disbowel'd earth explore 
 In search of the forbidden ore ; 
 Those glitt'ring ills conceal'd within the mine, 
 Shall lie untouch'd, and innocently shine. 
 To the last bounds that nature sets, 
 The piercing colds and sultry heats, 
 The godlike race shall spread their arms ; 
 Now fill the polar circle with alarms, 
 Till storms and tempests their pursuits confine 
 Now sweat for conquest underneath the line. 
 
 This only law the victor shall restrain, 
 On these conditions shall lie reign ; 
 If none his guilty hand employ 
 To build again a second Troy, 
 If none the rash design pursue, 
 Nor tempt the vengeance of the gods anew
 
 48 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 A curse there cleaves to the devoted place 
 That shall the new foundations rase : 
 Greece shall in mutual leagues conspire 
 To storm the rising town with fire, 
 And at their armies' head myself- will show 
 What Juno, urged to all her rage, can do. 
 
 Thrice should Apollo's self the city raise, 
 And line it round with walls of brass, 
 Thrice should my fav'rite Greeks his works confound, 
 And hew the shining fabric to the ground ; 
 Thrice should her captive dames to Greece return, 
 And their dead sons and slaughter'd husbands mourn. 
 
 But hold, my muse, forbear thy towering flight, 
 Nor bring the secrets of the gods to light : 
 In vain would thy presumptuous verse 
 Th' immortal rhetoric rehearse ; a 
 The mighty strains, in lyric numbers bound, 
 Forget their majesty and lose their sound. 
 
 ■ Rehearse. A word Mr. Addison is very fond of, because it afforded a 
 rhyme for verse: but it disgraces an ode, and should, indeed, be banished 
 from all poetry.
 
 OVID'S METAMORPHOSES 
 
 BOOK II. 
 THE STOEY OF PHAETON. 
 
 The sun's bright palace, on high columns rais'd, 
 With burnish'd gold and flaming jewels blaz'd; 
 The folding gates diffus'd a silver light, 
 And with a milder gleam refresh'd the sight; 
 Of polish'd ivory was the cov'ring wrought ; 
 The matter vied not with the sculptor's thought, 
 For in the portal was display'd on high 
 (The work of Vulcan) a fictitious sky ; 
 A waving sea th' inferior earth embrac'd, 
 And gods and goddesses the waters grac'd. 
 JEgeon here a mighty whale bestrode ; 
 Triton, and Proteus (the deceiving god) 
 With Doris here were carv'd, and all her train 
 Some loosely swimming in the figur'd main, 
 While some on rocks their dropping hair divide. 
 And some on fishes through the waters glide : 
 Tho' various features did the Sisters grace, 
 A sister's likeness was in every face. 
 
 • Mr. Addison appears to have been much taken with the native graces 
 of Ovid's poetry. The following translations are highly finished and even 
 laboured (if I may so speak) into an ease, which resembles very much, and 
 almost equal.-, that of his author. 
 
 VOL. I. — 3
 
 50 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 On earth a different landskip courts the eyes, 
 
 Men, towns, and beasts, in distant prospects rise, 
 
 And nymphs, and streams, and woods, and rural deities. 
 
 O'er all, the heav'n's refulgent image shines ; 
 
 On either gate were six engraven signs. 
 
 Here Phaeton, still gaining on th' ascent. 
 To his suspected father's palace went, 
 Till pressing forward through the bright abode, 
 He saw at distance the illustrious god : 
 He saw at distance, or the dazzling light 
 Had flash'd too strongly on his aching sight. 
 
 The god sits high, exalted on a throne 
 Of blazing gems, with purple garments on : 
 The hours, in order rang'd on either hand, 
 And days, and months, and years, and ages, stand. 
 Here Spring appears with flow'ry chaplets bound; 
 Here Summer in her wheaten garland crown'd ; 
 Here Autumn the rich trodden grapes besmear; 
 And hoary Winter shivers in the rear. 
 
 Phoebus beheld the youth from off his throne ; 
 That eye, which looks on all, was fix'd on one. 
 He saw the boy's confusion in his face, 
 Surpris'd at all the wonders of the place ; 
 And cries aloud, " What wants my son ? for know 
 My son thou art, and I must call thee so." 
 
 " Light of the world," the trembling youtli replies 
 " Illustrious parent ! since you don't despise 
 The parent's name, some certain token give, 
 That I may Clymene's proud boast helieve, 
 Nor longer under false reproaches grieve." 
 
 The tender sire was touch'd with what he said 
 And flung the blaze of glories from his head,
 
 ovid's metamorph&ses. 5i 
 
 Aud bid the youth advance : " My son," said he, 
 " Come to thy father's arms ! for Clymene 
 Has told thee true : a parent's name I own, 
 And deem thee worthy to be call'd my son. 
 As a sure proof, make some request, and I, 
 Whate'er it be, with that request comply ; 
 By Styx I swear, whose waves are hid in night. 
 And roll impervious to my piercing sight." 
 
 The youth transported, asks, without delay, 
 To guide the Sun's bright chariot for a day. 
 
 The god repented of the oath he took, 
 For anguish thrice his radiant head he shook ; 
 u My son," says he, " some other proof require, 
 Rash was my promise, rash is thy desire. 
 I'd fain deny this wish which thou hast made, 
 Or, what I can't deny, would fain dissuade. 
 Too vast and hazardous the task appears, 
 Nor suited to thy strength, nor to thy years. 
 Thy lot is mortal, but thy wishes fly 
 Beyond the province of mortality : 
 There is not one *>f all the gods that dares 
 (However skill'd in vther great affairs) 
 To mount the burning axle-tree, but I ; 
 Not Jovj himself, the ruler of the sky, 
 That hurls the three-fork'd thunder from above, 
 Dares try his strength ; yet who so strong as Jove ? 
 The steeds climb up the first ascent with pain : 
 And when the middle firmament they gain, 
 If downward from the heavens my head T how, 
 And see the earth and ocean hang below, 
 Ev'n I am seiz'd with horror and affright, 
 And my own heart misgives me at the sight.
 
 53 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 A mighty downfal steeps the ev'ning stage, 
 And steady reins must curb the horses' rage. 
 Tethys herself has fear'd to see me driv'n 
 Down headlong from the precipice of heaven. 
 Besides, consider what impetuous force 
 Turns stars and planets in a different course : 
 I steer against their motions ; nor am I 
 Borne back by all the current of the sky. 
 But how could you resist the orbs that roll 
 In adverse whirls, and stem the rapid pole ? 
 But you perhaps may hope for pleasing woods, 
 And stately domes, and cities fill'd with gods ; 
 While through a thousand snares your progress lies 
 Where forms of starry monsters stock the skies : 
 For, should you hit the doubtful way aright, 
 The Bull with stooping horns stands opposite ; 
 Next him the bright Haemonian Bow is strung ; 
 A nd next, the Lion's grinning visage hung : 
 The Scorpion's claws here clasp a wide extent, 
 And here the Crab's in lesser clasps are bent. 
 Nor would you find it easy to compose 
 The mettled steeds, when from their nostrils flows 
 The scorching fire, that in their entrails glows. 
 Ev'n I their head-strong fury scarce restrain, 
 When they grow warm and restiff to the reiu. 
 Let not my son a fatal gift require, 
 But, ! in time recal your rash desire ; 
 You ask a gift that may your parent tell, 
 Let these my fears your parentage reveal ; 
 And learn a father from a father's care : 
 Look on my face ; or if my heart lay bare, 
 Could you but I ><:k, you'd read the father ih=r&
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. S3 
 
 Chuse o it a gift from seas, or earth, or skies, 
 For open to your wish all nature lies, 
 Only decline this one unequal task, 
 For 'tis a mischief, not a gift you ask ; 
 You ask a real mischief, Phaeton : 
 Nay, hang not thus about my neck, my son : 
 I grant your wish, and Styx has heard my voice, 
 Chuse what you will, but make a wiser choice." 
 Thus did the god th' unwary youth advise ; 
 But he still longs to travel through the skies. 
 When the fond' father (for in vain he pleads) 
 At length to the Vulcanian chariot leads. 
 A golden axle did the work uphold, 
 Gold was the beam, the wheels were orb'd with gold. 
 The spokes in rows of silver pleas'd the sight, 
 The seat with party-colour'd gems was bright ; 
 Apollo shined amid the glare of light. 
 The youth with secret joy the work surveys ; 
 When now the morn disclos'd her purple rays ; 
 The stars were fled ; for Lucifer had chas'd 
 The stars away, and fled himself at last. 
 Soon as the father saw the rosy morn, 
 And the moon shining with a blunter horn, 
 He bid the nimble Hours without delay 
 Bring forth the steeds ; the nimble Hours obey: 
 From their full racks the gen'rous steeds retire, 
 Dropping ambrosial foams, and snorting fire. 
 Still anxious for his son, the god of day, 
 To make him proof against the burning ray, 
 His temples with celestial ointment wet, 
 Of sov'reign virtue to repel the heat ;
 
 54 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Then fix'd the beamy circle on his head, 
 And fetch'd a deep foreboding sigh, and said, 
 
 " Take this at least, this last advice, my sou : 
 Keep a stiff rein, and move but gently on : 
 The coursers of themselves will run too fast, 
 Your art must be to moderate their haste. 
 Drive 'em not on directly through the skies, 
 But where the Zodiac's winding circle lies, 
 Along the midmost zone ; but sally forth 
 Nor to the distant south, nor stormy nortli 
 The horses' hoofs a beaten track will show, 
 But neither mount too high, nor sink too low, 
 That no new fires or heaven or earth infest ; 
 Keep the mid-way, the middle way is best. 
 Nor, where in radiant folds the Serpent twines, 
 Direct your course, nor where the Altar shines. 
 Shun both extremes ; the rest let Fortune guide, 
 And better for thee than thy self provide ! • 
 See, while I speak, the shades disperse away, 
 Aurora gives the promise of a day ; 
 I'm call'd, nor can I make a longer stay. 
 Snatch up the reins ; or still th' attempt forsake, 
 And not my chariot, but my counsel take, 
 While yet securely on the earth you stand ; 
 Nor touch the horses with too rash a hand. 
 Let me alone to light the world, while you 
 Enjoy those beams which you may safely view." 
 He spoke in vain : the youth with active heat 
 And sprightly vigour vaults into the seat ; 
 And joys to hold the reins, and fondly gives 
 Those thanks his father with remorse receives.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 55"'? 
 
 Mean while the restless horses neigh'd aloud, 
 Breathing out fire, and pawing where they stood. 
 Tethys, not knowing what had past, gave way, 
 And all the waste of heaven before 'em lay. 
 They spring together out, and swiftly bear 
 The flying }'Outh through clouds and yielding air ; 
 With wingy speed outstrip the eastern wind, 
 And leave the breezes of the morn behind. 
 The youth was light, nor could he fill the seat, 
 Or poise the chariot with its wonted weight : 
 But as at sea th' unballass'd vessel rides, 
 Cast to and fro, the sport of winds and tides ; 
 So in the bounding chariot toss'd on high, 
 The youth is hurry'd headlong through the sky. 
 Soon as the steeds perceive it, they forsake 
 Their stated course, and leave the beaten track. 
 The youth was in a maze, nor did he know 
 Which way to turn the reius, or where to go ; 
 Nor wou'd the horses, had he known, obey. 
 Then the Seven Stars first felt Apollo's ray, 
 And wish'd to dip in the forbidden sea. 
 The folded Serpent next the frozen pole 
 Stiff and benum'd before, began to roll, 
 And rag'd with inward heat, and threaten'd war, 
 And shot a redder light from every star; 
 Nay, and 'tis said, Bootes too, that fain 
 Thou would'st have fled, tho' cumbered with thy wain. 
 
 Th' unhapp3 r youth then, bending down his head, 
 Saw earth and ocean far beneath him spread : 
 II is colour ehang'd, he startled at the sight, 
 And his eyes darken'd by to great a light.
 
 56 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Now could he wish the fiery steeds untry'd, 
 His birth obscure, and his request deny'd : 
 Now would he Merops for his father own, 
 And quit his boasted kindred to the Sun. 
 
 So fares the pilot, when his ship is toss'd 
 In troubled seas, and all its steerage lost, 
 He gives her to the winds, and in despair 
 Seeks his last refuge in the gods and prayer. 
 
 What cou'd he do ? his eyes, if backward cast, 
 Find a long path he had already past ; 
 If forward, still a longer path they find : 
 Both he compares, and measures in his mind ; 
 And sometimes casts an eye upon the east, 
 And sometimes looks on the forbidden west. 
 The horses' names he knew not in the fright . 
 Nor wou'd he loose the reins, nor could he hold 'em tight. 
 
 Now all the horrors of the heavens he spies, 
 And monstrous shadows of prodigious size, 
 That deck'd with stars, lie scatter'd o'er the skies. 
 There is a place above, where Scorpio bent 
 In tail and arms surrounds a vast extent ; 
 In a wide circuit of the heavens he shines, 
 And fills the space of two celestial signs. 
 Soon as the youth beheld him, vex'd with heat, 
 Brandish his sting, and in his poison sweat, 
 Half dead with sudden fear he dropt the reins ; 
 The horses felt 'em loose upon their manes, 
 And flying out through all the plains above, 
 Ran uncontrol'd where'er their fury drove ; 
 Rush'd on the stars, and through a pathless way 
 Of unknown -egions hurry'd on the day.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 57 
 
 And now above, and now below they flew, 
 And near the earth the burning chariot drew. 
 
 The clouds disperse in fumes, the wond'ring Moon 
 Beholds her brother's steeds beneath her own ; 
 The highlands smoke, cleft by the piercing rays, 
 Or, clad with woods, in their own fuel blaze. 
 Next o'er the plains, where ripen'd harvests grow, 
 The running conflagration spreads below. 
 But these are trivial ills : whole cities burn, 
 And peopled kingdoms into ashes turn. 
 
 The mountains kindle as the car draws near, 
 Athos and Tmolus red with fires appear; 
 (Eagrian Haemus (then a single name) 
 And virgin Helicon increase the flame ; 
 Taurus and Oete glare amid the sky, 
 And Ida, spite of all her fountains, dry. 
 Eryx, and Othrys, and Cithaeron, glow ; 
 And Rhodope, no longer cloth'd in snow ; 
 High Pindus, Mimas, and Parnassus, sweat, 
 And JEtna rages with redoubled heat. 
 Even Scythia, through her hoary regions warm'd, 
 In vain with all her native frost was arm'd. 
 Cover'd with flames, the tow'ring Appennine, 
 And Caucasus, and proud Olympus, shine ; 
 And, where the long-extended Alps aspire, 
 Now stands a huge continu'd range of fire. 
 
 Th' astonish'd youth, where'er his eyes could turn, 
 Beheld the universe around him burn : 
 The world was in a blaze; nor could he bear 
 The sultry vapours and the scorching air, 
 Which from below, as from a furnace flow'd; 
 And now the axle-tree beneath him glow'd : 
 /oi . r. — 3*
 
 58 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Lo^st in the whirling clouds, that round him broke, 
 And white with ashes, hov'ring in the smoke, 
 He flew where'er the horses drove, nor knew 
 Whither the horses drove, or where he flew. 
 
 'Twas then, they say, the swarthy Moor begun 
 To ohange his hue, and blacken in the sun. 
 Then Lybia first, of all her moisture drain'd, 
 Became a barren waste, a wild of sand. 
 The water-nymphs lament their empty urns, 
 Boeotia, robb'd of silver Dirce, mourns, 
 Corinth Pyrene's wasted spring bewails, 
 And Argos grieves whilst Amymone fails. 
 
 The floods are drain'd from every distant coast 
 Even Tanais, tho' fix'd in ice, was lost, 
 Enrag'd Cai'cus and Lycormas roar, 
 And Xanthus, fated to be burnt once more. 
 The fam'd Maeander, that unweary'd strays 
 Through mazy windings, smokes in every maze. 
 From his lov'd Babylon Euphrates flies ; 
 The big-swoln Ganges and the Danube rise 
 In thick'ning fumes, and darken half the skies. 
 In flames Ismenos and the Phasis roll'd, 
 And Tagus floating in his melted gold. 
 The swans, that on Cayster often try'd 
 Their tuneful songs, now sung their last, and dy'd. 
 The frighted Nile ran off, and under ground 
 Conceal'd his head, nor can it yet be found : 
 His seven divided currents all are dry, 
 And where they roll'd, seven gaping trenches lie. 
 No more the Rhine or Rhone their course maintain, 
 Nor Tiber of his promis'd empire vain
 
 ovid's metamorihoses. 50 
 
 The ground, deep deft, admits the dazzling ray, 
 And startles Pluto with the flash of day. 
 The sea shrinks in, and to the sight disclose 
 Wide naked plains, where once their billows rose ; 
 Their rocks are all discover'd, and increase 
 The number of the scatter'd Cyclades. 
 The fish in shoals about the bottom creep, 
 Nor longer dares the crooked dolphin leap : 
 Gasping for breath, th' unshapen Phocae die, 
 And on the boiling wave extended lie. 
 Nereus, and Doris with her virgin train, 
 Seek out the last recesses of the main ; 
 Beneath unfathomable depths they faint, 
 And secret in their gloomy caverns pant. 
 Stern Neptune thrice above the waves upheld 
 His face, and thrice was by the flames repell'd. 
 
 The Earth at length, on every side embrac'd 
 With scalding seas, that floated round her waist, 
 When now she felt the springs and rivers come, 
 And crowd within the hollow of her womb, 
 Uplifted to the heavens her blasted head, 
 And clapt her hand upon her brows, and said ; 
 (But first, impatient of the sultry heat, 
 Sunk deeper down, and sought a cooler seat;) 
 " If you, great king of gods, my death approve, 
 And I deserve it, let me die by Jove ; 
 If I must perish by the force of fire, 
 Let me transfix'd with thunderbolts expire. 
 See, whilst I speak, my breath the vapours choke, 
 (For now her f;ice lay wrapt in clouds of smoke) 
 See my singed hair, behold my faded eye, 
 And wither'd face, where heaps of cinders lie I
 
 60 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 And does the plough for this my body tear ? 
 
 This the reward for all the fruits I bear, 
 
 Tortur'd with rakes, and harass'd all the year ? 
 
 That herbs for cattle daily I renew,. 
 
 And food for man, and frankincense for you ? 
 
 But grant me guilty ; what has Neptune done ? 
 
 Why are his waters boiling in the sun ? 
 
 The wavy empire, which by lot was given, 
 
 Why does it waste, and further shrink fiom heaven ? 
 
 If I nor he your pity can provoke, 
 
 See your own heavens, the heavens begin to smoke ! 
 
 Should once the sparkles catch those bright abodes, 
 
 Destruction seizes on the heavens and gods ; 
 
 Atlas becomes unecpial to his freight, 
 
 And almost faints beneath the glowing weight. 
 
 The heaven, and earth, and sea, together burn, 
 
 All must again into their chaos turn. 
 
 Apply some speedy cure, prevent our fate, 
 
 And succour nature, e'er it be too late." 
 
 She ceas'd ; for chok'd with vapours round her spread, 
 
 Down to the deepest shades she sunk her head. 
 
 Jove call'd to witness every power above, 
 And even the god, whose son the chariot drove, 
 That what he acts he is compell'd to do, 
 Or universal ruin must ensue. 
 Strait he ascends the high ethereal throne, 
 From whence he us'd to dart his thunder down, 
 From whence his showers and storms he us'd to pour, 
 But now could meet with neither storm nor shower. 
 Then, aiming at the youth, with lifted hand, 
 Full at his head he hurl'd the forky brand
 
 o/id's metamorphoses. 61 
 
 In dreadful thund'rings. Thus the almighty sire 
 Suppress'd the raging of the fires with fire. 
 
 At ouce from life, and from the chariot driven, 
 Th' ambitious boy fell thunder-struck from heaven 
 The horses started with a sudden bound, 
 And flung the reins and chariot to the ground : 
 The studded harness from their necks they broke, 
 Here fell a wheel, and here a silver spoke, 
 Here were the beam and axle torn away ; 
 And, scatter'd o'er the earth, the shining fragments lay. 
 The breathless Phaeton, with flaming hair, 
 Shot from the chariot like a falling star, 
 That in a summer's evening from the top 
 Of heaven drops down, or seems at least to drop ; 
 Till on the Po his blasted corpse was hurl'd, 
 Far from his country, in the western world. 
 
 PHAETON'S SISTERS TRANSFORMED INTO TREES. 
 
 The Latian nymphs came round him, and amaz'd 
 On the dead youth, transfix'd with thunder, gaz'd; 
 And, whilst yet smoking from the bolt he lay, 
 His shatter 'd body to a tomb convey, 
 And o'er the tomb an epitaph devise : 
 " Here he who drove the sun's bright chariot lies ; 
 His father's fiery steeds he could not guide, 
 But in the glorious enterprise he dy'd." 
 
 Apollo hid his face, and pin'd for grief, 
 And, if the story may deserve belief, 
 The space of one whole day is said to run, 
 From morn to wonted even, without a sun : 
 The burning ruins, with a fainter ray, 
 Supply the sun, and counterfeit a day,
 
 62 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 A day, that still did nature's face disclose: 
 This comfort from the mighty mischief rose. 
 
 But Clymene, enrag'd with grief, laments, 
 And, as her grief inspires, her passion vents : 
 Wild for her son, and frantic in her -woes, 
 With hair dishevell'd, round the world she goes, 
 To seek where'er his hody might be cast ; 
 Till, on the borders of the Po, at last 
 The name inscrib'd on the new tomb appears : 
 The dear, dear name she bathes in flowing tears, 
 Hangs o'er the tomb, unable to depart, 
 And hugs the marble to her throbbing heart. 
 
 Her daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn, 
 (A fruitless tribute to their brother's urn,) 
 And beat tbeir naked bosoms, and complain, 
 And call aloud for Phaeton in vain ; 
 All the long night their mournful watch they keep, 
 And all the day stand round the tomb, and weep. 
 
 Four times, revolving, the full moon return'd ; 
 So long the mother and the daughters mourn'd : 
 When now the eldest, Phaethusa, strove 
 To rest her weary limbs, but'could not move; 
 Lampetia would have help'd her, but she found 
 Herself withheld, and rooted to the ground : 
 A third in wild affliction, as she grieves, 
 Would rend her hair, but fills her hand with leaves, 
 One sees her thighs transform'd, another views 
 Her arms shot out, and branching into boughs. 
 And now their legs, and breasts, and bodies stood 
 Crusted with bark, and hard'uing into wood ; 
 But still abd ve were female heads display'd, 
 And mouths, that enl 1 ''! the m:>thor to their aid.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 63 
 
 What could, alas ! the weeping mother do ? 
 From this to that with eager haste she flew, 
 And kiss'd her sprouting daughters as they grew. 
 She tears the bark that to each body cleaves, 
 And from their verdant fingers strips the leaves : 
 The blood came trickling, where she tore away 
 The leaves and bark : the maids were heard to say, 
 " Forbear, mistaken parent, oh ! forbear ; 
 A wounded daughter in each tree you tear ; 
 Farewell for ever." Here the bark increas'd, 
 Clos'd on their faces, and their words suppress'd. 
 
 The new-made trees in tears of amber run, 
 Which, harden'd into value by the sun, 
 Distil for ever on the streams below : 
 The limpid streams their radiant treasures show, 
 Mixt in the sand ; whence the rich drops convey'd 
 Shine in the dress of the bright Latian maid. 
 
 THE TRANSFORMATION OF CYCNUS INTO A SWAN. 
 
 Cycnus beheld the nymphs transform'd, ally'd 
 To their dead brother on the mortal side, 
 Tn friendship and affection nearer bound ; 
 He left the cities and the realms he own'd, 
 Through pathless fields and lonely shores to range, 
 And woods, made thicker by the sisters' change. 
 Whilst here, within the dismal gloom, alone, 
 The melancholy monarch made his moan, 
 His voice was lessen'd, as he try'd to speak, 
 And issu'd through a long extended neck; 
 His hair transforms to down, his fingers meet 
 Tn shinny film*, and shape his oary feet;
 
 04 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 From both his sides the wings and feathers break ; 
 And from his mouth proceeds a blunted beak : 
 All Cycnus now into a swan was turn'd, 
 Who, still rememb'ring how his kinsman burn'd / 
 To solitary pools and lakes retires, 
 And loves the waters as oppos'd to fires. 
 
 Meanwhile Apollo in a gloomy shade 
 (The native lustre of his brows decay 'd) 
 Indulging sorrow, sickens at the sight 
 Of his own sun-shine, and abhors the light : 
 The hidden griefs, that in his bosom rise, 
 Sadden his looks, and overcast his eyes, 
 As when some dusky orb obstructs his ray, 
 And sullies, in a dim eclipse, the day. 
 
 Now secretly with inward griefs he piu'd, 
 Now warm resentments to his grief he join'd, 
 And now renounc'd his office to mankind. 
 " E'er since the birth of time," said he, " I've borne 
 A long ungrateful toil without return , 
 Let now some other manage, if he dare, 
 The fiery steeds, and mount the burning car ; 
 Or, if none else, let Jove his fortune try, 
 And learn to lay his murd'ring thunder by; 
 Then will he own, perhaps, but own too late, 
 My son deserv'd not so severe a fate." 
 
 The gods stand round him, as he mourns, and pray 
 He would resume the conduct of the day, 
 Nor let the world be lost in endless night: 
 Jove too himself, descending from his height, 
 Excuses what had happen'd, and entreats, 
 Majestically mixing prayers and threats
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 65 
 
 Prevail'd upon, at length, again he took 
 The harness'd steeds, that still with horror shook, 
 And plies 'em with the lash, and whips 'em on, 
 And, as he whips, upbraids 'em with his son. 
 
 TIIE STORT OF OALISTO. 
 
 The day was settled in its course ; and Jove 
 Walk'd the wide circuit of the heavens above, 
 To search if any cracks or flaws were made ; 
 But all was safe: the earth he then survey'd, 
 And cast an eye on every different coast, 
 And every laud ; but on Arcadia most. 
 Her fields he cloth' d, and chear'd her blasted face 
 With running fountains, and with springing grass. 
 No tracks of heaven's destructive fire remain, 
 The fields and woods revive, and nature smiles again 
 
 But as the god walk'd to and fro the earth, 
 And rais'd the plants, and gave the spring its birth, 
 By chance a fair Arcadian nymph he view'd, 
 And felt the lovely charmer in his blood. 
 The nymph nor spun, nor dress'd with artful prid< 
 Her vest was gather'd up, her hair was ty'd ; 
 Now in her hand a slender spear she bore, 
 Now a light quiver on her shoulders wore ; 
 To chaste Diana from her youth inclin'd 
 Tlie sprightly warriors of the wood she join'd. 
 Diana too the gentle huntress lov'd, 
 Nor was there one of all the nymphs that rov'd 
 O'er Mscnalus, amid the maiden throng, 
 More favour'd once; but fav iur lasts not long.
 
 80 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The sun now shone in all its strength, and drove 
 The heated virgin panting to a grove ; 
 The grove around a grateful shadow cast : 
 She dropt her arrows, and her bow unbrae'd ; 
 She flung herself on the cool grassy bed ; 
 And on the painted quiver rais'd her head. 
 Jove saw the charming huntress unprepar'd 
 Stretch'd on the verdant turf, without a guard. 
 " Here I am safe," he cries, " from Juno's eye; 
 Or should my jealous queen the theft descry, 
 Yet would I venture on a theft like this, 
 And stand her rage for such, for such a bliss ! " 
 Diana's shape and habit strait he took, 
 Soften'd his brows, and smooth'd his awful look, 
 And mildly in a female accent spoke. 
 " How fares my girl ? How went the morning chase ? * 
 To whom the virgin, starting from the grass, 
 " All hail, bright deity, whom I prefer 
 To Jove himself, tho' Jove himself were here." 
 The god was nearer than she thought, and heard, 
 Well-pleas'd, himself before himself preferr'd. 
 
 He then salutes her with a warm embrace ; 
 And, e'er she half had told the morning chase, 
 With love inflam'd, and eager on his bliss, 
 Smother'd her words, and stopp'd her with a kiss ; 
 His kisses with unwonted ardour glow'd, 
 Nor could Diana's shape conceal the god. 
 The virgin did whate'er a virgin could ; 
 (Sure Juno must have pardon'd, had she view'd) 
 With all her might against his force she strove ; 
 But how can mortal maids contend with Jove !
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 67 
 
 Possest at length of what his heart desir'd, 
 Back to his heavens th' exulting god retir'd. 
 The lovely huntress rising from the grass, 
 With downcast eyes, and with a blushing face, 
 By shame confounded, and by fear dismay'd, 
 Flew from the covert of the guilty shade, 
 And almost, in the tumult of her mind, 
 Left her forgotten bow and shafts behind. 
 
 But now Diana, with a sprightly train 
 Of quiver'd virgins, bounding o er the plain, 
 Call'd to the nymph ; the nymph began to fear 
 A second fraud, a Jove disguis'd in her ; 
 But, when she saw the sister nymphs, suppress'd 
 Her rising fears, and mingled with the rest. 
 
 How in the look does conscious guilt appear f 
 Slowly she mov'd, and loitered in the rear ; 
 Nor lightly tripp'd, nor by the goddess ran, 
 As once she us'd, the foremost of the train. 
 Her looks were flushed, and sullen was her mien, 
 That sure the virgin goddess (had she been 
 Aught but a virgin) must the guilt have seen. 
 'Tis said the nymphs saw all, and guess'd aright ' 
 And now the moon had nine times lost her light, 
 When Dian, fainting in the mid-day beams, 
 Found a cool covert, and refreshing streams 
 That in soft murmurs through the forest flow'd, 
 And a smooth bed of shining gravel show'd. 
 
 A covert so obscure, and streams so clear, 
 The goddess prais'd : " And now no spies are near, 
 Let's strip my gentle maids, and wash," she cries. 
 Pleas'd with the motion, every maid complies ;
 
 68 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Only the blushing huntress stood confus'd, 
 And form'd delays, and her delays excus'd ; 
 In vain excus'd : her fellows round her press'd, 
 And the reluctant nymph by force undress'd. 
 The naked huntress all her shame reveal'd, 
 In vain her hands the pregnant womb conceal'd ; 
 " Begone ! " the goddess cries with stern disdain, 
 " Begone ! nor dare the hallow'd stream to stain : " 
 She fled, for ever banish'd from the train. 
 
 This Juno heard, who long had watch'd her time 
 To punish the detested rival's crime ; 
 The time was come : for, to enrage her more, 
 A lovely boy the teeming rival bore. 
 
 The goddess cast a furious look, and cry'd, 
 " It is enough ! I'm fully satisfy'd ! 
 This boy shall stand a living mark, to prove 
 My husband's baseness, and the strumpet's love : 
 But vengeance shall awake : those guilty charms, 
 That drew the Thunderer from Juno's arms, 
 No longer shall their wonted force retain, 
 Nor please the god, nor make the mortal vain. 
 
 This said, her hand within her hair she wound, 
 Swung her to earth, and dragg'd her on the ground, 
 The prostrate wretch lifts up her arms in prayer; 
 Her arms grow shaggy, and deform'd with hair, 
 Her nails are sharpen'd into pointed claws, 
 Her hands bear half her weight, and turn to paws ; 
 Her lips, that once could tempt a god, begin 
 To grow distorted in an ugly grin. 
 And, lest tl e supplieating brute might reach 
 The ears of Jove, she was depriv'd of speech :
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 69 
 
 Her surly voice thro' a hoarse passage came 
 In savage sounds : her mind was still the same. 
 The furry monster fix'd her eyes above, 
 And heav'd her new unwieldy paws to Jove, 
 And begg'd Lis aid with iuward groans ; and tho' 
 She could not call him false, she thought him so. 
 
 How did she fear to lodge in woods alone, 
 And haunt the fields and meadows once her own ! 
 How often would the deep-inouth'd dogs pursue, 
 Whilst from her hounds the frighted huntress flew • 
 How did she fear her fellow-brutes, and shun 
 The shaggy bear, tho' now herself was one ! 
 How from the sight of rugged wolves retire, 
 Although the grim Lycaon was her sire ! 
 
 But now her son had fifteen summers told, 
 Fierce at the chase, and in the forest bold ; 
 When, as he beat the woods in quest of prey, 
 He chanc'd to rouse his mother where she lay. 
 She knew her son, and kept him in her sight. 
 And fondly gaz'd : the boy was in a fright, 
 And aim'd a pointed arrow at her breast, 
 And would have slain his mother in the beast ; 
 But Jove forbad, and snatch'd 'em through the air- 
 In whirlwinds up to heaven, and fix'd 'em there : 
 Where the new constellations nightly rise, 
 And add a lustre to the northern skies. 
 
 When Juno saw the rival in her height, 
 Spangled with stars, and circled round with light, 
 She sought old Ocean in his deep abodes, 
 And Tethys; both revered among, the gods. 
 Tbey ask what brings her there : " Ne'er ask," says she, 
 • What brings me here, heaven is no place for me.
 
 70 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 You'll see, when night has cover'd all things j'er, 
 Jove's starry bastard and triumphant whore 
 Usurp the heavens ; you'll see 'em proudly roll 
 In their new orbs, and brighten all the pole. 
 And who shall now on Juno's altars wait, 
 When those she hates grow greater by her hate ? 
 I on the nymph a brutal form impress'd, 
 Jove to a goddess has transform'd the beast ; 
 This, this was all my weak revenge could do : 
 But let the god his chaste amours pursue, 
 And, as he acted after Io's rape, 
 Restore th' adult'ress to her former shape , 
 Then may he cast his Juno off, and lead 
 The great Lycaon's offspring to his bed. 
 But you, ye venerable powers, be kind, 
 And, if my wrongs a due resentment find, 
 Receive not in your waves their setting beams, 
 Nor let the glaring strumpet taint your streams." 
 
 The goddess ended, and her wish was given. 
 Back she return'd in triumph up to heaven ; 
 Her gaudy peacocks drew her through the skies, 
 Their tails were spotted with a thousand eyes ; 
 The eyes of Argus on their tails were rang'd, 
 At the same time the raven's colour chang'd. 
 
 THE STOPwY OF COEONI9, AND BIRTH OF ^ESCULAPIUS. 
 
 The raven once in snowy plumes was drest, 
 White as the whitest dove's unsully'd breast, 
 Fair as the guardian of the Capitol, 
 Soft as the swan ; a large and lovely fowl ; 
 His tongue, his prating tongue had chang'd him quit© 
 To sooty blackness from the purest white
 
 OVID'S MEIAMOK.PHO&ES ? i 
 
 The story of his change shall here be told 
 In Thessaly there liv'd a nymph of old, 
 Coronis naui'd ; a peerless maid she shin'd, 
 Coufest the fairest of the fairer kind. 
 Apollo lov'd her, till her guilt he knew, 
 While true she was, or whilst he thought her t'ue. 
 But his own bird the raven chauc'd to find 
 The false one with a secret rival join'd. 
 Coronis begg'd him to suppress the tale, 
 But could not with repeated prayers prevail. 
 His milk-white pinions to the god he ply'd ; 
 The busy daw flew with him, side by side, 
 And by a thousand teasing questions drew 
 Th' important secret from him as they flew. 
 The daw gave honest counsel, tho' despis'd, 
 And, tedious in her tattle, thus advis'd : 
 
 " Stay, silly bird, th' ill-natur'd task refuse, 
 Nor be the bearer of uuwelcome news. 
 Be warn'd by my example : you discern 
 What now I am, and what I was shall learn. 
 My foolish honesty was all my crime ; 
 Then hear my story. Once upon a time, 
 The two shap'd Ericthonius had his birth 
 (Without a mother) from the teeming earth ; 
 Minerva nurs'd him, and the infant laid 
 Within a chest of twining osiers made. 
 The daughters of King Cecrops undertook 
 To guard the chest, commanded not to look 
 On what was hid within. I stood to sec 
 The charge (they'd, perch'd on a neighb'ring treo. 
 The sisters Pandroeoe and Hersu keep 
 The strict command ; AglauiOS needs would peep.
 
 72 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 And saw the monstrous infant in a fright, 
 And call'd her sisters to the hideous sight : 
 A boy's soft shape did to the waist prevail, 
 But the boy ended in a dragon's tail. 
 I told the stern Minerva all that pass'd, 
 But for my pains, discarded and disgrae'd, 
 The frowning goddess drove me from her sight, 
 And for her favorite chose the bird of night. 
 Be then no tell-tale ; for I think my wrong 
 Enough to teach a bird to hold her tongue. 
 
 " But you, perhaps, may think I was remov'd, 
 As never by the heavenly maid belov'd : 
 But I was lov'd ; ask Pallas if I lie ; 
 Tho' Pallas hate me now, she won't deny : 
 For I, whom in a feather'd shape you view, 
 Was once a maid, (by heaven the story's true) 
 A blooming maid, and a king's daughter too. 
 A crowd of lovers own'd my beauty's charms ; 
 My beauty was the cause of all my harms; 
 Neptune, as on his shores I went to rove, 
 Observ'd me in my walks, and fell in love. 
 He made his courtship, he coufess'd his pain, 
 And offer'd force when all his arts were vain ; 
 Swift he pursu'd : I ran along the strand, 
 'Till, spent and weary'd on the sinking sand, 
 I shriek'd aloud, with cries I fill'd the air 
 To gods and men ; nor god nor man was there : 
 A virgin goddess heard a virgin's prayer. 
 For, as my arms I lifted to the skies, 
 I saw black feathers from my fingers rise ; 
 I strove to fling my garment on the ground; 
 My garment turn'd to plumes, and girt me round :
 
 OVID'S METAMOUPHOSES. 73 
 
 My hands to beat my naked bosom try ; 
 Nor naked bosom now nor hands had I. 
 Lightly I tript, nor weary as before 
 Sunk in the sand, but skimm'd along the shore ; 
 Till, rising on my wings, I was preferr'd 
 To be the chaste Minerva's virgin bird : 
 Preferr'd in vain ! I now am in disgrace : 
 Nyctimene, the owl, enjoys my place. 
 
 " On her incestuous life I need not dwell, 
 (In Lesbos still the horrid tale they tell) 
 And of her dire amours you must have heard, 
 For which she now does penance in a bird, 
 That, conscious of her shame, avoids the light, 
 And loves the gloomy cov'ring of the night ; 
 The birds, where'er she flutters, scare away 
 The hooting wretch, and drive her from the day." 
 
 The raven, urg'd by such impertinence, 
 Grew passionate, it seems, and took offence, 
 And curst the harmless daw ; the daw withdrew : 
 The raven to her injur'd patron flew, 
 And found him out, and told the fatal truth 
 Of false Coronis and the favour'd youth. 
 
 The god was wroth ; the colour left his look, 
 The wreath his head, the harp his hand forsook . 
 His silver bow and feather'd shafts he took, 
 And lodg'd an arrow in the tender breast, 
 That had so often to his own been prest. 
 Down fell the wounded nymph, and sadly groan'd, 
 And puird his arrow reeking from the wound ; 
 And welt'ring in her blood, thus faintly cry'd, 
 " Ah cruel god ! tho' I have justly dy'd, 
 
 
 vol.. t.-
 
 74 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 What has, alas ! my unborn infant clone, 
 That he should fall, and two expire in one ? " 
 This said, in agonies she fetch'd her breath. 
 
 The god dissolves in pity at her death ; 
 He hates the bird that made her falsehood known, 
 And hates himself for what himself had done ; 
 The feather'd shaft, that sent her to the fates, 
 And his own hand, that sent the shaft, he hates. 
 Fain would he heal the wound, and ease her pain, 
 And tries the compass of his art in vain. 
 Soon as he saw the lovely nymph expire, 
 The pile made ready, and the kindling fire, 
 With sighs and groans her obsequies he kept, 
 And, if a god could weep, the god had wept. 
 Her corpse he kiss'd, and heavenly incense brought, 
 And solemniz'd the death himself had wrought. 
 
 But, lest his offspring should her fate partake, 
 Spite of th' immortal mixture in his make, 
 He ript her womb, and set the child at large, 
 And gave him to the centaur Chiron's charge : 
 Then in his fury black'd the raven o'er, 
 And bid him prate in his white plumes no more. 
 
 OCYRRHOE TRANSFORMED TO A MARK 
 
 Old Chiron took the babe with secret joy, 
 Proud of the charge of the celestial boy. 
 His daughter too, whom on the sandy shore 
 The nymph Chariclo to the centaur bore, 
 With hair dishevel'd on her shoulders came 
 To see the child, Ocyrrhoe was her name ; 
 She knew her father's arts, and could rehearse 
 The depths of prophecy in sounding verse.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 75 
 
 Once, as the sacred infant she survey'd, 
 The god was kindled in the raving maid, 
 And thus she utter'd her prophetic tale ; 
 " Hail, great physician of the world, all hail ; 
 Hail, mighty infant, who in years to come 
 Shalt heal the nations and defraud the tomb ; 
 Swift be thy growth ! thy triumphs uncoiifin'd ! 
 Make kingdoms thicker, and increase mankind. 
 Thy daring art shall animate the dead, 
 And draw the thunder on thy guilty head : 
 Then shalt thou die ; but from the dark abode 
 Rise up victorious, and be twice a god. 
 And thou, my sire, not destiu'd by thy birth 
 To turn to dust, and mix with common earth, 
 How wilt thou toss, and rave, and long to die, 
 And quit thy claim to immortality ; 
 When thou shalt feci, enrag'd with inward pains, 
 The Hydra's venom rankling in thy veins ? 
 The gods, in pity, shall contract thy date, 
 And give thee over to the power of Fate." 
 
 Thus, entering into destiny, the maid 
 The secrets of offended Jove betray'd : 
 More had she still to say ; but now appears 
 Oppress'd with sobs and sighs, and drown'd in tears. 
 
 " My voice," says she, " is gone, my language fails 
 Through every limb my kindred shape prevails : 
 Why did the god this fatal gift impart, 
 And with prophetic raptures swell my heart ! 
 What new desires are these ? I long \< pace 
 O'er flowery meadows, and to feed on grass; 
 I hasten to a brute, a maid no more; 
 But why, alas ! am I transformed all o'er?
 
 TRANS LATIONS. 
 
 My sire does half a human shape retain, 
 And in his upper parts preserves the man." 
 
 Her' tongue no more distinct complaints affords, 
 But in shrill accents and mis-shapen words 
 Pours forth such hideous wailings, as declare 
 The human form confounded in the mare : 
 'Till by degrees accomplish'd in the beast, 
 She neigh'd outright, and all the steed exprest. 
 Her stooping body on her hands-is borne, 
 Her hands are turn'd to hoofs, and shod in horn ; 
 Her yellow tresses ruffle in a mane, 
 And in a flowing tail she frisks her train. 
 The mare was finish'd in her voice and look, 
 And a new name from the new figure took. 
 
 THE TRANSFORMATION OP BATTUS TO A TOUCH-STONE. 
 
 Sore wept the centaur, and to Phoebus pray'd ; 
 But how could Phoebus give the centaur aid ? 
 Degraded of his power by angry Jove, 
 In Elis then a herd of beeves he drove ; 
 And wielded in his hand a staff of oak, 
 And o'er his shoulders threw the shepherd's cloak ; 
 On seven compacted reeds he us'd to play, 
 And on his rural pipe to waste the day. 
 
 As once, attentive to his pipe, he play'd, 
 The crafty Hermes from the god convey'd 
 A drove, that sep'rate from their fellows stray'd. 
 The theft an old insidious peasant view'd, 
 (They called him Battus in the neighbourhood) 
 Hir'd by a wealthy Pylian prince to feed 
 His favo'urit mares, and watch the generous breed.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 77 
 
 The thievish god suspected him, and took 
 The hind aside, and thus in whispers spoke : 
 " Discover not the theft, whoe'er thou be, 
 And take that milk-white heifer for thy fee " 
 " Go, stranger," cries the clown, " securely on, 
 That stone shall sooner tell ; •" and show'd a stone. 
 The god withdrew, but straight return'd again, 
 In speech and habit like a country swain ; 
 And cries out, " Neighbour, hast thou seen a stray 
 Of bullocks and of heifers pass this way ? 
 In the recovery of my cattle join, 
 A bullock and a heifer shall be thine." 
 The peasant quick replies, " You'll find 'em there 
 In yon dark vale : " and in the vale they were. 
 The double bribe had his false heart beguil'd : 
 The god, successful in the trial, smil'd ; 
 " And dost thou thus betray myself to me ? 
 Me to myself dost thou betray ? " says he : 
 Then to a touch-stone turns the faithless spy, 
 And in bis name records his infamy. 
 
 THE STORY OF AGLAUROS, TRANSFORMED INTO A STATUE. 
 
 This done, the god flew up on high, and pass'd 
 O'er lofty Athens, by Minerva grac'd, 
 And wide Munichia, whilst his eyes survey 
 All the vast region that beneath him lay. 
 
 'Twus now the feast, when each Athenian maid 
 Her yearly homage to Minerva paid; 
 In canister.-, with garlands cover'd o'er, 
 High on their heads their mystic gifts they bore; 
 And now, returning in a solemn train, 
 The tnop of shining virgins fill'd the plain
 
 78 TR.ANSLATIGS. 
 
 The god well-pleas'd beheld the pompous shew, 
 And saw the bright procession pass below ; 
 Then veer'd about, and took a wheeling flight, 
 And hover'd o'er them : as the spreading kite, 
 That smells the slaughter'd victim from on high, 
 Flies at a distance if the priests are nigh, 
 And sails around, and keeps it in her eye ; 
 So kept the god the virgin choir in view, 
 And in slow winding circles round them flew 
 
 As Lucifer excels the meanest star, 
 Or, as the full-orb'd Phoebe, Lucifer ; 
 So much did Herse all the rest outvie, 
 And gave a grace to the solemnity, 
 Hermes was fir'd, as in the clouds he hung . 
 So the cold bullet, that with fury slung 
 From Balearic engines mounts on high, 
 Glows in the whirl, and burns along the sky 
 At length he pitch'd upon the ground, and show'd 
 The form divine, the features of a god. 
 He knew their virtue o'er a female heart, 
 And yet he strives to better them by art. 
 He hangs his mantle loose, and sets to show 
 The golden edging on the seam below ; 
 Adjusts his flowing curls, and in his hand 
 Waves, with an air, the sleep-procuring wand ; 
 The glittering sandals to his feet applies, 
 And to each heel the well-trimmed pinion ties. 
 
 His ornaments with nicest art display'd, 
 Ho seeks th' apartment of the royal maid. 
 The roof was all with polish'd ivory lin'd, 
 That, richly niix'd, in clouds of tortoise shin'd.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 79 
 
 Three rooms, contiguous, in a range were plac'd, 
 The midmost by the beauteous Herse grac'd ; 
 Her virgin sisters lodg'd on either side. 
 Aglauros first th' approaching god descry'd, 
 And as he cross'd her chamber, ask'd his name, 
 And what his business was, and whence he came. 
 " I come," reply 1 d the god, " from heaven, to woo 
 Your sister, and to make an aunt of you ; 
 I am the son and messenger of Jove, 
 My name is Mercury, my business love ; 
 .Do you, kind damsel, take a lover's part, 
 
 And gain admittance to your sister's heart." 
 She star'd him in the face with looks amaz'd, 
 
 As when she on Minerva's secret gaz'd, 
 
 And asks a mighty treasure for her hire, 
 
 And, till he brings it, makes the god retire. 
 
 Minerva griev'd to see the nymph succeed ; 
 
 And now rememb'ring the late impious deed, 
 
 When, disobedient to her strict command, 
 
 She touch'd the chest with an unhallow'd harfd ; 
 
 In big-swoln sighs her inward rage express'd, 
 
 That heav'd the rising iEgis on her breast ; 
 
 Then sought out Envy in her dark abode, 
 
 Defil'd with ropy gore and clots of blood : 
 
 Shut from the winds, and from the wholesome skies, 
 
 In a deep vale the gloomy dungeon lies. 
 
 Dismal and cold, where not a beam of light 
 
 [nvades the winter, or disturbs the night. 
 
 Directly to the cave her course she steer'd • 
 
 Against the sates her martial lance she rcar'd ; 
 
 The gates flew open, and the fiend appcar'd.
 
 8C TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 A pois'nous morsel in -her teeth she chew'd, 
 
 And gorg'd the tiesh of vipers for her food. 
 
 Minerva loathing, turn'd away her eye : 
 
 The hideous monster, rising heavily, 
 
 Came stalking forward with a sullen pace, 
 
 And left her mangled offals on the place. 
 
 Soon as she saw the goddess gay and bright, 
 
 She fetch'd a groan at such a cheerful sight. 
 
 Livid and meagre were her looks, her eye 
 
 In foul distorted glances turn'd awry ; 
 
 A hoard of gall her inward parts possess'd, 
 
 And spread a greenness o'er her canker'd breast ; 
 
 Her teeth were brown with rust ; and from her tongue, 
 
 In dangling drops, the stringy poison hung. 
 
 She never smiles but when the wretched weep, 
 
 Nor lulls her malice with a moment's sleep, 
 
 Restless in spite : while watchful to destroy, 
 
 She pines and sickens at another's joy ; 
 
 Foe to herself, distressing and distrest, 
 
 She bears her own tormentor in her breast. 
 
 The goddess gave (for she abhorr'd her sight) 
 
 A short command : " To Athens speed thy flight ; 
 
 On curst Aglauros try thy utmost art, 
 
 And fix thy rankest venoms in her heart." 
 
 This said, her spear she push'd against the ground, 
 
 And mounting from it with an active bound, 
 
 Flew off to heav'n : the hag with eyes askew 
 
 Look'd up, and mutter'd curses as she flew ; 
 
 For sore she fretted, and began to grieve 
 
 At the success which she herself must give. 
 
 Then takes her staff, hung round with wreaths of thorn, 
 
 And sails along in a black whirlwind borne,
 
 OVID'S 'METAMORPHC iES. 81 
 
 O'er fields and flowery meadows : where she steers 
 Her baneful course, a mighty blast appears, 
 Mildews and blights ; the meadows are defac'd, 
 The fields, the flowers, and the whole year laid waste . 
 On mortals next, and peopled towns she falls, 
 And breathes a burning plague among their walls. 
 
 When Athens she beheld, for arts renown'd, 
 With peace made happy, and with plenty crown'd, 
 Scarce could the hideous fiend from tears forbear 
 To find out nothing that deserv'd a tear. 
 Th' apartment now she entered, where at rest 
 Aglauros lay, with gentle sleep opprest. 
 To execute Minerva's dire command,. 
 She strok'd the virgin with her canker'd hand, 
 Then prickly thorns into her breast convey'd, 
 That stung to madness the devoted maid : 
 Her subtle venom still improves the smart, 
 Frets in the blood, and festers in the heart. 
 
 To make the work more sure, a scene she drew, 
 And plac'd before the dreaming virgin's view 
 Her sister's marriage, and her glorious fate : 
 Th' imaginary bride appears in state ; 
 The bridegroom with unwonted beauty glows, 
 For Envy magnifies whate'er she shows. 
 
 Full of the dream, Aglauros pin'd away 
 In tears all night, in darkness all the day , 
 Consum'd like ice, that just begins to run, 
 When feebly smitten by the distant sun ; 
 Or like unwholesome weeds, that, set on fire, 
 Are slowly wasted, and ill smoke expire. 
 Given up to Envy, (for in cvVy thought 
 The thorns, th j venom, and the vision wrought) 
 roi.. i — 4*
 
 82 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Oft did she call on death, as oft decreed, 
 
 Rather than see her sister's wish succeed, 
 
 To tell her awful father what had pass'd : 
 
 At length before the door herself she cast ; 
 
 And, sitting on the ground with sullen pride, 
 
 A passage to the love-sick god deny'd. 
 
 The god caress'd, and for admission prayd, 
 
 And sooth'd, in softest words, th' envenom'd maid. 
 
 In vain he sooth'd ; " Begone ! " the maid replies, 
 
 " Or here I keep my seat, and never rise." 
 
 " Then keep thy seat for ever ! " cries the god, 
 
 And touch'd the door, wide-opening to his rod 
 
 Fain would she rise, and stop him, but she found 
 
 Her trunk too heavy to forsake the ground ; 
 
 Her joints are all benumb'd, her hands are pale, 
 
 And marble now appears in every nail. 
 
 As when a cancer in the body feeds, 
 
 And gradual death from limb to limb proceeds ; 
 
 So does the chillness to each vital part 
 
 Spread by degrees, and creeps into her heart ; 
 
 'Till hard'ning every where, and speechless grown, 
 
 She sits unmov'd, and freezes to a stone. 
 
 But still her envious hue and sullen mien, 
 
 Are in the sedentary figure seen. 
 
 EUROPA'S RAPE. 
 
 When now the god his fury had allay'd, 
 And taken vengeance of the stubborn maid, 
 From where the bright Athenian turrets rise 
 He mounts aloft, and re-ascends the skies.
 
 OVID 
 
 'S METAMORPHOSES. 83 
 
 Jove saw him enter the sublime abodes, 
 And, as he mix'd among the crowd of gods, 
 Beckon'd him out, and drew him from the rest 
 And in soft whispers thus his will exprest. 
 
 " My trusty Hermes, by whose ready aid 
 Thy sire's commands are thro' the world convey'd 
 Resume thy wings, exert their utmost force, 
 And to the walls of Sidon speed thy course ; 
 There find a herd of heifers wand'ring o'er 
 The neighbouring hill, and drive them to the shore." 
 
 Thus spoke the god, concealing his intent. 
 The trusty Hermes on his message went, 
 And found the herd of heifers wand'ring o'er 
 •A neighbouring hill, and drove 'em to the shore ; 
 Where the king's daughter, with a lovely train 
 Of fellow nymphs, was sporting on the plain. 
 
 The dignity of empire laid aside, 
 (For love but ill agrees with kingly pride) 
 The ruler of the skies, the thundering god, 
 Who shakes the world's foundations with a nod, 
 Among a herd of lowing heifers ran, 
 Frisk'd in a bull, and bellow'd o'er the plain. 
 Large rolls of fat about his shoulders clung, 
 And from his neck the double dewlap hung. 
 His skin was whiter than the snow that lies 
 Unsully'd by the breath of southern skies ; 
 Small shining horns on his curl'd forehead stand, 
 As turn'd and polish'd by the workman's hand ; 
 I lis eye-balls roll'd, not formidably bright, 
 Bat gaz'd and Languished with a gentle light. 
 His every look was peaceful, and exprest 
 The softness of the lover in the beast.
 
 84 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Agenor's royal daughter, as she play'd 
 Among the fields, the milk-white bull surve/d, 
 And view'd his spotless body with delight, 
 And at a distance kept him in her sight. 
 At length she pluck'd the rising flowers, and fed 
 The gentle beast, and fondly strok'd his head. 
 He stood well pleas'd to touch the charming fair, 
 But hardly could confine his pleasure there. 
 And now he wantons o'er the neighbouring strand, 
 Now rolls his body on the yellow sand ; 
 And now, perceiving all her fears decay'd, 
 Comes tossing forward to the royal maid ; 
 Gives her his breast to stroke, and downward turns 
 His grisly brow, and gently stoops his horns. 
 In flowery wreaths the royal virgin drest 
 His bending horns, and kindly clapt his breast. 
 'Till now grown wanton, and devoid of fear, 
 Not knowing that she prest the thunderer, 
 She plac'd herself upon his back, and rode 
 O'er fields and meadows, seated on the god, 
 
 He gently march'd along, and by degrees 
 Left the dry meadow, and approach'd the seas , 
 Where now he dips his hoofs and wets his thighs, 
 Now plunges in, and carries off the prize. 
 The frighted nymph looks backward on the shore, 
 And hears the tumbling billows round her roar ; 
 "But still she holds him fast : one hand is borne 
 Upon his back, the other grasps a horn : 
 Her train of ruffling garments flies behind, 
 Swells in the air, and hovers in the wind. 
 
 Through storms and tempests he the virgin bore, 
 And lands her safe on the Dictean shore :
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. §5 
 
 Where now, in his divinest form array 'd, 
 In his true shape he captivates the maid ; 
 "Who gazes on him, and with wondering ej te 
 Beholds the new majestic figure rise, 
 His glowing features, and celestial light, 
 And all the god discover'd to her sight. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 THE STORY OP CADMUS. 
 
 When now Agenor had his daughter lost, 
 He sent his son to search on every coast ; 
 And sternly bid him to his arms restore 
 The darling maid, or see his face no more, 
 But live an exile in a foreign clime : 
 Thus was the father pious to a crime. 
 
 The restless youth search'd all the world around , 
 But how can Jove in his amours be found ? 
 When tired at length with unsuccessful toil, 
 To shun his angry sire and native soil, 
 He goes a suppliant to the Delphic dome ; 
 There asks the god what new-appointed home 
 Should end his wand'rings and his toils relieve. 
 The Delphic oracles this answer give. 
 
 "Behold among the fields a lonely cow, 
 Unworn with yokes, unbroken to the plow; 
 Mark well the place where first she lays her down, 
 There measure out thy walls and build thy town, 
 Ami from thy guide, Bceotia call the laud, 
 In which the destin'd walls and town shall stand."
 
 86 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 No sooner had he left the dark abode, 
 Big with the promise of the Delphic god, 
 When in the fields the fatal cow he view'd, 
 Nor gall'd with yokes, nor worn with servitude : 
 Her gently at a distance he pursu'd ; 
 And as he walk'd aloof, in silence pray'd 
 To the great power whose counsels he obey'd. 
 Her way through flowery Panope she took, 
 And now, Cephisus, cross'd thy silver brook ; 
 When to the heavens her spacious front she rais'd, 
 And bellow'd thrice, then backward turning, gaz'd 
 On those behind, 'till on the destin'd place 
 She stoop'd, and couch'd amid the rising grass. 
 
 Cadmus salutes the soil, and gladly hails ' 
 The new-found mountains, and the uameless vales, 
 And thanks the gods, and turns about his eye 
 To see his new dominions round him lie ; 
 Then sends his servants to a neighbouring grove 
 For living streams, a sacrifice to Jove. 
 O'er the wide plain there rose a shady wood 
 Of aged trees ; in its dark bosom stood 
 A bushy thicket, pathless and unworn, 
 O'er-run with brambles, and perplex'd with thorn : 
 Amidst the brake a hollow den was found, 
 With rocks and shelving arches vaulted round. 
 
 Deep in the dreary den, conceal'd from day, 
 Sacred to Mars, a mighty dragon lay, 
 Bloated w th poison to a monstrous size ; 
 Fire broke in flashes when he glanc'd his eyes ; 
 His towering crest was glorious to behold, 
 His shoulders and his sides were scal'd with gold)
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 87 
 
 Three tongues he brandish'd when he charg'd his foes ; 
 
 His teeth stood jaggy in three dreadful rows. 
 
 The Tyrians in the den for water sought, 
 
 And with their urns explor'd the hollow vault : 
 
 From side to side their empty urns rebound, 
 
 And rouse the sleepy serpent with the sound. 
 
 Straight he bestirs him, and is seen to rise; 
 
 And now with dreadful hissings fills the skies, 
 
 And darts his forky tongues, and rolls his glaring eyes. 
 
 The Tyrians drop their vessels in the fright, 
 
 All pale and trembling at the hideous sight. 
 
 Spire above spire uprear'd in air he stood, 
 
 And gazing round him, over look'd the wood : 
 
 Then floating on the ground, in circles roll'd ; 
 
 Then leap'd upon them in a mighty fold. 
 
 Of such a bulk, and such a monstrous size, 
 
 The serpent in the polar circle lies, 
 
 That stretches over half the northern skies. 
 
 In vain the Tyrians on their arms rely, 
 
 In vain attempt to fight, in vain to fly : 
 
 All their endeavours and their hopes are vain ; 
 
 Some die entangled in the winding train ; 
 
 Some are devour'd ; or feel a loathsome death, 
 
 Swoln up with blasts of pestilential breath. 
 
 And now the scorching sun was mounted high, 
 In all its lustre, to the noon-day sky ; 
 When, anxious for his friends, and fill'd with cares 
 To search the woods th' impatient chief prepares. 
 A lion's hide around his loins he wore, 
 The well-poia'd jav'lin to the field he bore, 
 Inur'd to blood; the far-destroying <lart, 
 A.111J, the be-t weapon, an undaunted heart.
 
 88 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Soon as the youth approach'd the fatal place, 
 He saw his servants breathless on the grass ; 
 The scaly foe amid their corpse he view'd, 
 Basking at ease, and feasting in their blood. 
 " Such friends," he cries, " deserv'd a longer date , 
 But Cadmus will revenge, or share their fate." 
 Then heav'd a stone, and rising to the throw, 
 He sent it in a whirlwind at the foe : 
 A tower, assaulted by so rude a stroke, 
 With all its lofty battlements had shook ; 
 But nothing here th' unwieldy rock avails, 
 Rebounding harmless from the plaited scales, 
 That, firmly join'd, preserv'd him from a wound, 
 With native armour crusted all around. 
 The pointed jav'lin more successful flew, 
 Which at his back the raging warrior threw ; 
 Amid the plaited scales it took its course, 
 And in the spinal marrow spent its force. 
 The monster hiss'd aloud, and rag'd in vam, 
 And writh'd his body to and fro with pain ; 
 And bit the spear, and wrench'd the wood away ; 
 The point still buried in the marrow lay. 
 And now his rage, increasing with his pain, 
 Reddens his eyes, and beats in every vein ; 
 • Churn'd in his teeth the foamy venom rose, 
 Whilst from his mouth a blast of vapours flows, 
 Such as th' infernal Stygian waters cast : 
 The plants around him wither in the blast. 
 Now in a maze of rings he lies enroll'd, 
 Now all unravell'd, and without a fold ; 
 Now, like a torrent, with a mighty force 
 Bears down the forest in his boisterous course.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 89 
 
 Cadmus gave back, and on the lion's spoil 
 Sustain'd the shock, then forc'd him to recoil : 
 The pointed jav'lin warded off his rage : 
 Mad with his pains, and furious to engage, 
 The serpent champs the steel, and bites the spear, 
 Till blood and venom all the point besmear. 
 But still the hurt he yet reeeiv'd was slight ; 
 For, whilst the champion with redoubled might 
 Strikes home the jav'lin, his retiring foe 
 Shrinks from the wound, and disappoints the blow. 
 
 The dauntless hero still pursues his stroke, 
 And presses forward, 'till a knotty oak 
 Retards his foe, and stops him in the rear ; 
 Full in his throat he plung'd the fatal spear, 
 That in th' extended neck a passage found, 
 And pierc'd the solid timber through the wound, 
 Fix'd to the reeling trunk, with many a stroke 
 Of his huge tail, he lash'd the sturdy oak ; 
 Till spent with toil, and labouring hard for breath, 
 He now lay twisting in the pangs of death. 
 
 Cadmus beheld him wallow in a flood 
 Of swimming poison, intermix'd with blood ; 
 When suddenly a speech was heard from high, 
 (The speech was heard, nor was the speaker nigh) 
 " Why dost thou thus with secret pleasure see, 
 Insulting man ! what thou thyself shalt be ? " 
 Astonish'd at the voice, he stood amaz'd, 
 And all around with inward horror gaz'd : 
 When Pallas swift descending from the skies, 
 Pallas, the guardian of the bold and wise, 
 Bids him plow up the field, and scatter round 
 The dragon's teeth o'er all the furrow'd ground ;
 
 90 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Then tells the youth how to his wondering eye8 
 Embattled armies from the field should rise. 
 
 He sows the teeth at Pallas's command, 
 And flings the future people from his hand. 
 The clods grow warm, and crumble where he sows ; 
 And now the pointed spears advance in rows ; 
 Now nodding plumes appear, aud shining crests, 
 Now the broad shoulders and the rising breasts ; 
 O'er all the field the breathing harvest swarms, 
 A growing host, a crop of men and arms. 
 
 So through the parting stage a figure rears 
 Its body up, and limb by limb appears 
 By just degrees ; till all the man arise, 
 And in his full proportion strikes the eyes. 
 
 Cadmus surpris'd, and startled at the sight 
 Of his new foes, prepar'd himself for fight : 
 When one cry'd out, " Forbear, fond man, forbear 
 To mingle in a blind promiscuous war." 
 This said, he struck his brother to the ground, 
 Himself expiring by another's wound ; 
 Nor did the third his conquest long survive, 
 7)ying ere scarce he had begun to live. 
 
 The dire example ran through all the field, 
 Till heaps of brothers were by brothers kill'd ; 
 The furrows swam in blood : and only five 
 Of all the vast increase were left alive 
 Echion one, at Pallas's command, 
 Let fall the guiltless weapon from his hand ; 
 Aud with the rest a peaceful treaty makes, 
 Whom Cadmus as his friends and partners takes; 
 So founds a city on the promis'd earth, 
 And gives his new Boeotian empire birth.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 91 
 
 Here Cadmus reign'd ; and now one would have gue3s'd 
 The royal founder in bis exile blest ; 
 Long did be live within bis new abodes, 
 Ally'd by marriage to the deathless gods ; 
 And, in a fruitful wife's embraces old, 
 A long increase of children's children told : 
 But no frail man, however great or high, 
 Can be concluded blest before he die. 
 
 Actneon was the first of all his race, 
 Who griev'd his graudsire in his borrow'd face; 
 Condemn'd by stern Diana to bemoan 
 The branching horns, and visage not his own ; 
 To shun bis once-lov'd dogs, to bound away, 
 And from their huntsman to become their prey. 
 And yet consider why the change was wrought, 
 You'll find it his misfortune, not his fault ; 
 Or if a fault, it was the fault of chance : 
 For how can guilt proceed from ignorance ? 
 
 THE TRANSFORMATION OF ACTiEON INTO A STAtt. 
 
 In a fair chase a shady mountain stood, 
 Well stor'd with game, and mark'd with trails of blood. 
 Here did the huntsmen till the heat of day 
 Pursue the stag, and load themselves with prey ; 
 When thus Actaeon calling to the rest: 
 " My friends," says he, " our sport is at the best. 
 The sun is high advanc'd, and downward sheds 
 His burning beams directly on our heads; 
 Then by consent abstain from further spoils, 
 Call off the d )gs, and gather up the toils;
 
 92 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 And ere to-morrow's sun begins his race, 
 Take the cool morning to renew the chase." 
 They all consent, and in a cheerful train 
 The jolly huntsmen, loaden with the slain, 
 Return in triumph from the sultry plain. 
 
 Down in a vale with pine and cypress clad, 
 Refresh'd with gentle winds, and brown with shade, 
 The chaste Diana's private haunt, there stood 
 Full in the centre of the darksome wood 
 A spacious grotto, all around o'er-grown 
 With hoary moss, and arch'd with pumice-stone, 
 From out its rocky clefts the waters flow, 
 And trickling swell into a lake below. 
 Nature had every where so play'd her part, . 
 That every where she seem'd to vie with art. 
 Here the bright goddess, toil'd and chaf'd with heat, 
 Was wont to bathe her in the cool retreat. 
 
 Here did she now with all her train resort, 
 Panting with heat, and breathless from the sport ; 
 Her armour-bearer laid her bow aside, 
 Some loos'd her sandals, some her veil unty'd ; 
 Each busy nymph her proper part undrest ; 
 While Crocale, more handy than the rest, 
 G-ather'd her flowing hair, and in a noose 
 Bound it together, whilst her own hung loose. 
 Five of the more ignoble sort by turns 
 Fetch up the water, and unlade their urns. 
 
 Now all undrest the shining goddess stood, 
 When young Actaeon, wilder'd in the wood, 
 To the cool grot by his hard fate letray'd, 
 The fountains fill'd with naked nymphs survey'd
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 93 
 
 The frighted virgins shriek'd at the surprise, 
 
 (The forest echo'd with their piercing cries) 
 
 Then in a huddle round their goddess prest ; 
 
 She, proudly eminent above the rest, 
 
 "With blushes glow'd ; such blushes as adorn 
 
 The ruddy welkin, or the purple morn ; 
 
 And tho' the crowding nymphs her body hide, 
 
 Half backward shrunk, and view'd him from aside. 
 
 Surpris'd, at first she would have snatch'd her bow, 
 
 But sees the circling waters round her flow j 
 
 These in the hollow of her hand she took, 
 
 And dash'd 'em in his face, while thus she spoke ' 
 
 " Tell if thou canst the wondrous sight disclos'd, 
 
 A goddess naked to thy view expos'd." 
 
 This said, the man began to disappear 
 By slow degrees, and ended in a deer. 
 A rising horn on either brow he wears, 
 And stretches out his neck, and pricks his ears ; 
 Hough is his skin, with sudden hairs o'er-grown, 
 His bosom pants with fears before unknown. 
 Transform'd at length, he flies away in haste, 
 And wonders why he flies away so fast. 
 But as by chance, within a neighbouring brook, 
 He saw his brandling horns and alter'd look, 
 Wretched Actaeon ! in a doleful tone 
 He try'd to speak, but only gave a groan; 
 And as he weptj within the wat'ry glass 
 He saw the big round drops, with silent pace, 
 Bun trickling down a savage hairy face. 
 What should he do? Or seek his old abodes, 
 Or herd among the deer, and sculk in woods V
 
 94 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Here shame dissuades him, there his fear prevails, 
 And each by turns his aching heart assails. 
 
 As he thus ponders, he behind him spies 
 His opening hounds, and now he hears their cries : 
 A generous pack, or to maintain the chase, 
 Or snuff the vapour from the scented grass. 
 
 He bounded off with fear, and swiftly ran 
 O'er craggy mountains, and the flowery plain ; 
 Through brakes and thickets forc'd his way, and flew 
 Through many a ring, where once he did pursue. 
 In vain he oft endeavour'd to proclaim 
 His new misfortune, and to tell his name ; 
 Nor voice nor words the brutal tongue supplies ; 
 From shouting men, and horns, and dogs he flies, 
 Heafen'd and stunn'd with their promiscuous cries. 
 When now the fleetest of the pack, that prest 
 Close at his heels, and sprung before the rest, 
 Had fasten'd on him, straight another pair 
 Hung on his wounded haunch, and held him there, 
 Till all the pack came up, and every hound 
 Tore the sad huntsman, grov'ling on the ground, 
 Who now appear'd but one continu'd wound. 
 With dropping tears his bitter fate he moans, 
 And fills the mountain with his dying groans. 
 His servants with a piteous look he spies, 
 And turns about his supplicating eyes. 
 His servants, ignorant of what had chanc'd, 
 With eager haste and joyful shouts advanc'd, 
 And call'd their lord Actaeon to the game : 
 He shook his head in answer to the name ; 
 He heard, but wish'd he had indeed been gone, 
 Or oulj to have stood a looker on.
 
 ovid's METAMORPHOSES. s*5 
 
 But, to his grief, he finds himself too near, 
 And feels his rav'nous dogs with fury tear 
 Their wretched master, panting in a deer. 
 
 THE BIETH OF BACCHUS. 
 
 Actoeon's sufferings, and Diana's rage, 
 Did all the thoughts of men and gods engage ; 
 Some call'd the evils which Diana wrought, 
 Too great, and disproportion'd to the fault ■ 
 Others again esteem'd Actseon's woes 
 Fit for a virgin goddess to impose. 
 The hearers into different parts divide, 
 And reasons are produc'd on either side. 
 
 Juno alone, of all that heard the news, 
 Nor would condemn the goddess, nor excuse : 
 She heeded not the justice of the deed, 
 But joy'd to see the race of Cadmus bleed ; 
 For still she kept Europa in her mind, 
 And, for her sake, detested all her kind. 
 Besides, to aggravate her hate, she heard 
 How Semele, to Jove's embrace preferr'd, 
 Was now grown big with an immortal load. 
 And carry'd in her womb a future god. 
 Thus terribly incens'd the goddess broke 
 To sudden fury, and abruptly spoke. 
 
 " Are my reproaches of so small a force ? 
 'Tis time I then pursue another course : 
 It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die, 
 If I'm indeed the mistress of the sky ; 
 If rightly styl'd among the powers above 
 The wife and sister of the thundering Jove,
 
 OJ 5 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 (And none can sure a sister's right deny) 
 It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die. 
 She boasts an honour I can hardly claim ; 
 Pregnant, she rises to a mother's name ; 
 While proud and vain she triumphs in her Jove 
 And shows~the glorious tokens of his love : 
 But if I'm still the mistress of the skies, 
 By her own lover the fond beauty dies." 
 This said, descending in a yellow cloud, 
 Before the gates of Semele she stood. 
 
 Old Beroe's decrepit shape she wears, 
 Her wrinkled visage, and her hoary haira ; 
 Whilst in her trembling gait she totters on, 
 And learns to tattle in the nurse's tone. 
 The goddess, thus disguis'd in age, beguil'd 
 With pleasing stories her false foster-child. 
 Much did she talk of love, and when she came 
 To mention to the nymph her lover's name, 
 Fetching a sigh, and holding down her head, 
 " 'Tis well," says she, " if all be true that's said 
 But trust me, child, I'm much inclin'd to fear 
 Some counterfeit in this your Jupiter. 
 Many an honest, well-designing maid, 
 Has been by these pretended gods betray'd. 
 But if he be indeed the thundering Jove, 
 Bid him, when next he courts the rites of love, 
 Descend triumphant from th' ethereal sky, 
 In all the pomp of his divinity ; 
 Encompass'd round by those celestial charms, 
 With which he fills th' immortal Juno's arms." 
 
 Th' unwary nymph, insnar'd with what she said, 
 Desir'd of Jove, when next he sought her bed,
 
 ovid's m eta m orthoses. 97 
 
 To grant a certain gift which she would chuse ; 
 " Fear not," reply'd the god, " that I'll refuse 
 Whate'er you ask : may Styx confirm my voice, 
 Chuse what you will, and you shall have your choice. . 
 " Then," says the nymph, " when next you seek my arms 
 May you descend in those celestial charms, 
 With which your Juno's bosom you inflame 
 And fill with transport heaven's immortal dame." 
 The god surpris'd, would fain have stopp'd her voice * 
 But he had sworn, and she had made her choice. 
 
 To keep his promise he ascends, and shrouds 
 His awful brow in whirlwinds and in clouds ; 
 "Whilst all around, in terrible array, 
 His thunders rattle, and his lightnings play. 
 And yet, the dazzling lustre to abate, 
 He set not out in all his pomp and state, 
 Clad in the mildest lightning of the skies, 
 And arm'd with thunder of the smallest size : 
 Not those huge bolts, by which the giants slain, 
 Lay overthrown on the Phlegrean plain. 
 'Twas of a lesser mould, and lighter weight ; 
 They call it thunder of a second-rate. 
 For the rough Cyclops, who by Jove's command 
 Temper'd the bolt and turn'd it to his hand, 
 Work'd up less flame and fury in its make, 
 And quench'd it sooner in the standing lake. 
 Thus dreadfully adorn'd, with horror bright, 
 Th' illustrious god, descending from his height, 
 Came rushing on her in a storm of light. 
 
 Tin' mortal dame, too feeble to engage 
 The lightning's flashes, and the thunder's rago, 
 
 vol. i. — 5
 
 98 TRANSLATION3 
 
 Consuni'd amidst the glories she desir'd, 
 And in the terrible embrace expir'd. 
 
 But, to preserve his offspring from the tomb, 
 Jove took him smoking from the blasted womb ; 
 And, if on ancient tales we may rely, 
 Inclos'd th' abortive infant in his thigh. 
 Here, when the babe had all his time fulfill'd, 
 Ino first took him for her foster-child ; 
 Then the Niseans, in their dark abode, 
 Nurs'd secretly with milk the thriving god. 
 
 THE TRANSFORMATION OF TIEESIAS. 
 
 'Twas now, while these transactions past on earth, 
 And Bacchus thus procur'd a second birth, 
 When Jove, dispos'd to lay aside the weight 
 Of public empire, and the cares of state ; 
 As to his queen in nectar bowls he quaff 'd, 
 " In troth," says he, and as he spoke he laugh 'd, 
 " The sense of pleasure in the male is far 
 More dull and dead than what you females share- a 
 Juno the truth of what was said deny'd ; 
 Tiresias therefore must the cause decide ; 
 For he the pleasure of each sex had try'd. 
 
 It happen'd once, within a shady wood, 
 Two twisted snakes he in conjunction view'd ; 
 When with his staff their slimy folds he broke, 
 And lost his manhood at the fatal stroke. 
 But, after seven revolving years he view'd 
 The self-same serpents in the self-same wood ; 
 " And if," says he, " such virtue in you lie, 
 That he who dares your slimy folds untie 
 Must change his kind, a second stroke I'll try."
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 95 
 
 Again he struck the snakes, and stood again 
 
 New sex'd, and straight recover'd into man. 
 
 Him therefore both the deities create 
 
 The sovereign umpire in their grand debate ; 
 
 And he declar'd for Jove ; when Juno, fir'd 
 
 More than so trivial an affair requir'd, 
 
 Depriv'd him, in her fury, of his sight, 
 
 And left him groping round in sudden night. 
 
 But Jove (for so it is in heaven decreed, 
 
 That no one god repeal another's deed ;) 
 
 Irradiates all his soul with inward light, 
 
 And with the prophet's art relieves the want of sight. 
 
 THE TKANSFOEMATION OF ECHO. 
 
 Fam'd far and near for knowing things to come, 
 From him th' inquiring nations sought their doom ; 
 The fair Liriope his answers try'd, 
 And first th' unerring prophet justify'd ; 
 This nymph the god Cephisus had abus'd, 
 With all his winding waters circumfus'd, 
 And on the Nereid got a lovely boy, 
 Whom the soft maids even then beheld with joy. 
 
 The tender dame, solicitous to know 
 Whether her child should reach old age or no, 
 Consults the sage Tiresias, who replies, 
 " If e'er he knows himself, he surely dies." 
 Long liv'd the dubious mother in suspense, 
 Till time unriddled all the prophet's sense. 
 
 Narcissus now his sixteenth year began, 
 Just turned of boy, and on the verge of man ; 
 Many a friend the blooming youth caress'd, 
 Many a lovesick maid her flame confess'd.
 
 IOC TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Such was his pride, in vain the friend caress'd, 
 The love-sick maid in vain her flame confess'd. 
 
 Once, in the woods, as he pursu'd the chase 
 The babbling Echo had descry'd his face ; 
 She, who in other's words her silence breaks, 
 Nor speaks herself but when another speaks. 
 Echo was then a maid, of speech bereft, 
 Of wonted speech ; for tho' her voice was left, 
 Juno a curse did on her tongue impose, 
 To sport with every sentence in the close. 
 Full often when the goddess might have caught 
 Jove and her rivals in the very fault, 
 This nymph with subtle stories would delay 
 Her coming, till the lovers slipp'd away. 
 The goddess found out the deceit in time, 
 And then she cry'd, " That tongue, for this thy crims, 
 Which could so many subtle tales produce, 
 Shall be hereafter but of little use." 
 Hence 'tis she prattles in a fainter tone, 
 With mimic sounds, and accents not her own. 
 
 This love-sick virgin, over-joy'd to find 
 The boy alone, still follow'd him behind ; 
 When, glowing warmly at her near approach, 
 As sulphur blazes at the taper's touch, 
 She long'd her hidden passion to reveal, 
 And tell her pains, but had not words to tell : 
 She can't begin, but waits for the rebound, 
 To catch his voice, and to return the sound. 
 
 The nymph, when nothing could Narcissus move,* 
 Still dash'd with blushes for her slighted love, 
 
 M^kcn nothing could Narcissus move. One would think, from the 
 expression, that the means taken b}* Echo to move Narcissus, had been
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 101 
 
 Liv'd in the shady covert of the woods, 
 In solitary caves and dark abodes ; 
 Where pining wander d the rejected fair, 
 Till harass'd out, and woru away with care, 
 The sounding skeleton, of blood bereft, 
 Besides her bones and voice had nothing left. 
 Her bones are petrify'd, her voice is found 
 In vaults, where still it doubles every sound. 
 
 THE STORY OF NARCISSUS. 
 
 Thus did the nymphs in vain caress the boy, 
 He still was lovely, but he still was coy ; 
 When one fair virgin of the slighted train 
 Thus pray'd the gods, provok'd by his disdain, 
 " Oh may he love like me, and love like me in vain \ " 
 Rhamnusia pity'd the neglected fair, 
 And with just vengeance answer'd to her prayer. 
 
 There stands a fountain in a darksome wood, 
 Nor stain'd with falling leaves nor rising mud ; 
 Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests, 
 Unsully'd by the touch of men or beasts ; 
 High bowers of shady trees above it grow, 
 And rising grass and cheerful greens below. 
 Pleas'd with the form and coolness of the place,» 
 Aud over-heated by the morning chase, 
 Narcissus on the grassy verdure lies : 
 But whilst within the crystal fount he tries 
 To quench his heat, he feels new heats arise. 
 
 'i"<] ; and so tli sy arc in the original. The truth is, fourteen lines nra 
 here omitted, not- without good reason; hut the inartificial connection 
 
 hi i if. $ 1 1 mission. 
 
 'Pleased with /<•• /'•//-//< uml ,<„,/„< u <./' ths />/<i<>. Easier, and better 
 than ili" original — "faciemqiie loci, fontemqve teeubutT Yet, without 
 louing the vidian turn <>i expression.
 
 t02 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 For as his own bright image he survey'd, 
 He fell in love with the fantastic shade ; 
 And o'er the fair resemblance hung unmov'd. 
 Nor knew, fond youth ! it was himself he lov'd. 
 The well-turn'd neck and shoulders he descries 
 The spacious forehead, and the sparkling eyes , 
 The hands that Bacchus might not scorn to show, 
 And hair that round Apollo's head might flow, 
 With all the purple youthfulness of facOi 
 That gently blushes in the wat'ry glass. 
 By his own flames consum'd the lover lies, 
 And gives himself the wound by which he dies. 
 To the cold water oft he joins his lips, 
 Oft catching at the beauteous shade he dips 
 His arms, as often from himself he slips. 
 Nor knows he who it is his arms pursue 
 With eager clasps, but loves he knows not who. 
 ^What could, fond youth, this helpless passion move V 
 What kindle in thee this unpity'd love ? 
 Thy own warm blush within the water glows, 
 With thee the colour'd shadow comes and goes, 
 Its empty being on thyself relies ; 
 Step thou aside, and the frail charmer dies. 
 
 Still o'er the fountain's wat'ry gleam he stood, 
 Mindless of sleep, and negligent of food ; 
 Still view'd his face, and languish'd as he view'd. 
 At length he rais'd his head, and thus began 
 To vent his griefs, and tell the woods his pain. 
 ' You trees," says he, " and thou surrounding grove, 
 Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love, 
 Tell me, if e'er within your shades did lie 
 A youth so tortur'd, so perplex'd as I ?
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 103 
 
 I who before me see the charming fair, 
 
 Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not there . 
 
 In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost ; 
 
 And yet no bulwark'd town nor distant coast, 
 
 Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen, 
 
 No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between. 
 
 A shallow water hinders my embrace ; 
 
 And yet the lovely mimic wears a face 
 
 That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join 
 
 My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine. 
 
 Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint, 
 
 Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant. 
 
 My charms an easy conquest have obtain'd 
 
 O'er other hearts, by thee alone disdain'd. 
 
 But why should I despair ? I'm sure he burns 
 
 With equal flames, and languishes by turns. 
 
 Whene'er I stoop he offers at a kiss, 
 
 And when my arms I stretch, he stretches his. 
 
 His eye with pleasure on my face he keeps, 
 
 He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps. 
 
 Whene er I speak, his moving lips appear 
 
 To utter something, which I cannot hear. 
 
 " Ah wretched me ! I now begin too late 
 To find out all the long-perplex' d deceit ; 
 It is myself I love, myself I see ; 
 The gay delusion is a part of me. 
 I kindle up the fires by which I burn, 
 And my own beauties from the well return. 
 Whom should I court ? how utter my complaint ? 
 Enjoyment but produces my restraint, 
 And too much plenty makes me die for want.
 
 104 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 How gladly would I from myself remove ! 
 
 And at a distance set the thing I love. 
 
 My breast is warni'd with such unusual fire, 
 
 I wish him absent whom I most desire. 
 
 And now I faint with grief; my fate draws nigh 
 
 In all the pride of blooming youth I die. 
 
 Death will the sorrows of my heart relieve. 
 
 might the visionary youth survive, 
 
 1 should with joy my latest breath resign ! 
 But oh ! I see his fate involv'd in mine." 
 
 This said, the weeping youth again return'd 
 To the clear fountain, where again he burn'd ; 
 His tears defac'd the surface of the well 
 With circle after circle, as they fell : 
 And now the lovely face but half appears, 
 O'errun with wrinkles, and deform'd with tears. 
 " Ah whither," cries Narcissus, " dost thou fly ? 
 Let me still feed the flame by which I die ; 
 Let me still see, tho' I'm no further blest." 
 Then rends his garment off, and beats his breast 
 His naked bosom redden'd with the blow, 
 In such a blush as purple clusters show, 
 Ere yet the sun's autumnal heats refine 
 Their sprightly juice, and mellow it to wine. 
 The glowing beauties of his breast he spies, 
 And with a new redoubled passion dies. 
 As wax dissolves, as ice begins to run, 
 And trickle into drops before the sun ; 
 So melts the youth, and languishes away, 
 His beauty withers, and his limbs decay ; 
 And none of those attractive charms remain, 
 To which the slighted Echo sued in vain.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 105 
 
 She saw hirn in his present misery, 
 Whom, spite of all her wrongs, she griev'd to see 
 She answer'd sadly to the lover's moan, 
 Sigh'd hack his sighs, and groan'd to every groan : 
 " Ah youth ! helov'd in vain," Narcissus cries ; 
 " Ah youth ! belov'd in vain,'' the nymph replies. 
 ".Farewel," says he ; the parting sound scarce fell • 
 From his faint lips, but she replied, " Farewel." 
 Then on th' unwholesome earth he gasping lies, 
 Till death shuts up those self-admiring eyes. 
 To the cold shades his flitting ghost retires, 
 And in the Stygian waves itself admires. 
 
 For Jiini the Naiads and the Dryads mourn, 
 Whom the sad Echo answers in her turn ; 
 And now the sister-nymphs prepare his urn : 
 When, looking for his corpse, they only found 
 A rising stalk, with yellow blossoms crown'd. 
 
 THE STORY OF PENTHEU8. 
 
 This sad event gave blind Tiresias fame, 
 Through Greece established in a prophet's name. 
 
 Th' unhallow'd Pentheus only durst deride 
 The cheated people, and their eyeless guide. 
 To whom the prophet in his fury said, 
 Shaking the hoary honours of his head ; 
 " 'Twere well, presumptuous man, 'twere well for thee 
 If thou wert eyeless too, and blind, like me : 
 For the time comes, nay, 'tis already here, 
 When the young god's solemnities appear ; 
 Which, if thou dost not with just rites adorn, 
 Thy impious carcass, into pieces torn, 
 Shall strew the woods, and hang on every thorn. 
 V'M.. I.— 5*
 
 106 TRANSLATIONS. . 
 
 Then, then rememher what I now fortel, 
 
 And own the hlind Tiresias saw too well." 
 
 Still Pentheus scorns him, and derides his skill, 
 
 But time did all the promis'd threats fulfil. 
 
 For now thro' prostrate Greece young Bacchus rode, 
 
 Whilst howling matrons celebrate the god. 
 
 All ranks and sexes to his orgies ran, 
 
 To mingle in the pomps, and fill the train. 
 
 When Pentheus thus his wicked rage express'd ; 
 
 " What madness, Thebans, has your souls possess'd? 
 
 Can hollow timbrels, can a drunken shout, 
 
 And the lewd clamours of a beastly rout, 
 
 Thus quell your courage ? can the weak alarm . 
 
 Of women's yells, those stubborn souls disarm, 
 
 Whom nor the sword nor trumpet e'er could fright, 
 
 Nor the loud din and horror of a fight ? 
 
 And you, our sires, who left your old abodes, 
 
 And fix'd in foreign earth your country gods ; 
 
 Will you without a stroke your city yield, 
 
 And poorly quit an undisputed field ? 
 
 But you, whose youth aud vigour should inspire 
 
 Heroic warmth, and kindle martial fire, 
 
 Whom burnish'd arms and crested helmets grace, 
 
 Not flowery garlands and a painted face ; 
 
 Remember him to whom you stand ally'd : 
 
 The serpent for his well of waters dy'd. 
 
 He fought the strong ; do you his courage show, 
 
 And gain a conquest o'er a feeble foe. 
 
 If Thebes must fall, oh might the fates afford 
 
 A nobler doom from famine, fire, or sword ! 
 
 Then might the Thebans perish with renown :. 
 
 But now a leardless victor sacks the town ;
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 107 
 
 Whom nor the prancing steed, nor pond'rous shield, 
 
 Nor the hack'd helmet, nor the dusty field, 
 
 But the soft joys of luxury and ease, 
 
 The purple vests, and flowery garlands please. 
 
 Stand then aside, I'll make the counterfeit 
 
 Renounce his godhead, and confess the cheat. 
 
 Acrisius from the Grecian walls repell'd 
 
 This boasted power ; why then should Pentheus yield ? 
 
 Go quickly, drag th' audacious boy to me ; 
 
 I'll try the force of his divinity." 
 
 Thus did th' audacious wretch those rites profane, 
 
 His friends dissuade th' audacious wretch in vain ; 
 
 In vain his grandsire urg'd him to give o'er 
 
 His impious threats ; the wretch but raves the more. 
 
 So have I seen a river gently glide, 
 In a smooth course and inoffensive tide ; 
 But if with dams its current we restrain, 
 It bears down all, and foams along the plain. 
 
 But now his servants came besmear'd with blood, 
 Sent by their haughty prince to seize the god ; 
 The god they found not in the frantic throng, 
 But dragg'd a zealous votary along. 
 
 THE MARINERS TRANSFORMED TO DOLPHINS. 
 
 Him Pentheus view'd with fury in his look, 
 And scarce withheld his hands while thus he spoke : 
 " Vile slave ! whom speedy vengeance shall pursue, 
 And terrify thy base seditious crew : 
 Thy country and thy parentage reveal, 
 And why thou join'st in these mad orgies tell." 
 
 The captive views hiin with undaunted eyes, 
 And, arm'd with inward innocence, replies.
 
 108 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 <( From high Meonia's rocky shores I came, 
 Of poor descent, Acoetes is my name : 
 My sire was meanly horn ; no oxen plow'd 
 His fruitful fields, nor in his pastures low'd. 
 His whole estate within the waters lay ; 
 With lines and hooks he caught the finny prey. 
 His art was all his livelihood ; which he 
 Thus with his dying lips bequeath'd to me : 
 In streams, my boy, and rivers, take thy chance ; 
 There swims," said he, " thy whole inheritance. 
 
 " Long did I live on this poor legacy ; 
 Til] tir'd with rocks, ami my own native sky, 
 To arts of navigation I inclin'd ; 
 Observ'd the turns and changes of the wind : 
 Learn'd the fit havens, and began to note 
 The stormy Hyades, the rainy Goat, 
 The bright Taygete, and the shining bears, 
 With all the sailor's catalogue of stars. 
 
 " Once, as by chance for Delos I design'd, 
 My vessel, driv'n by a strong gust of wind, 
 Moor'd in a Chian creek ; ashore I went, 
 And all the following night in Chios spent. 
 When morning rose, I sent my mates to bring 
 Supplies of water from a neighb'ring sprint, 
 Whilst I the motion of the winds explor'd ; 
 Then sumrnon'd in my crew, and went aboard. 
 Opheltes heard my summons, and with joy 
 Brought to the shore a soft and lovely boy, 
 With more than female sweetness in his look, 
 Whom straggling in the neighb'ring fields he took 
 With fumes of wine the little captive glows, 
 And nods with sleep, and staggers as he goes
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 109 
 
 " I view'd him nicely, and began to trace 
 Each heavenly feature, each immortal grace, 
 And saw divinity in all his face. 
 1 1 know not who,' said I, ' this god should be ; 
 But that he is a god I plainly see : 
 And thou, whoe'er thou art, excuse the force 
 These men have us'd ; and, oh ! befriend our course » 
 ' Pray not for us,' the nimble Dictys cry'd, 
 Dictys, that could the main-top-mast bestride, 
 And down the rope with active vigour slide. 
 To the same purpose old Epopeus spoke, 
 Who overlook'd the oars, and tim'd the stroke ; 
 The same the pilot, and the same the rest; 
 Such impious avarice their souls possest. 
 1 Nay, heaven forbid that I should bear away 
 Within my vessel so divine a prey,' 
 Said I ; and stood to hinder their intent : 
 When Lycabas, a wretch for murder sent 
 From Tuscany, to suffer banishment, 
 With his clench'd fist had struck me overboard, 
 Had not my hands, in falling, grasp'd a cord. 
 " His base confederates the fact approve ; 
 When Bacchus, (for 'twas he) began to move, 
 Wak'd by the noise and clamours which they rais'd ; 
 And shook his drowsy limbs, and round him gaz'd : 
 ' What means this noise ? ' he cries ; 'ami betray'd ? 
 Ah ! whither, whither must I be convey'd ? ' 
 ' Fear not,' said Proreus, ' child, but tell us where 
 You wish to land, and trust our friendly care.' 
 ' To Naxos then direct your course,' said he; 
 ' Naxos a hospitable port shall be 
 To each of you, a joyful home to me.'
 
 110 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 By every god that rules the sea or sky, 
 
 The perjur'd villains promise to comply, 
 
 And bid me hasten to unmoor the ship. 
 
 With eager joy I launch into the deep ; 
 
 And, heedless of the fraud, for Naxos stand: 
 
 They whisper oft, and beckon with the hand, 
 
 And give me signs, all anxious for their prey, 
 
 To tack about, and steer another way. 
 
 ' Then let some other to my post succeed,' 
 
 Said I, ' I'm guiltless of so foul a deed.' 
 
 ' What,' says Ethalion, 'must the ship's whole crew 
 
 Follow your humour, and depend on you.?' 
 
 A.nd straight himself he seated at the prore, 
 
 A.nd tack'd about and sought another shore. 
 
 " The beauteous youth now found himself betray'd, 
 And from the deck the rising waves survey'd, 
 And seem'd to weep, and as he wept he said ; 
 ' And do you thus my easy faith beguile ? 
 Thus do you bear me to my native isle ? 
 Will such a multitude of men employ 
 Their strength against a weak defenceless boy ? ' 
 
 " In vain did I the godlike youth deplore, 
 The more I begg'd, they thwarted me the more. 
 And now by all the gods in heaven that hear 
 This solemn oath, by Bacchus' self, I swear, 
 The mighty miracle that did ensue, 
 Although it seems beyond belief, is true. 
 The vessel, fix'd and rooted in the flood, 
 Unmov'd by all the beating billows stood. 
 In vain the mariners would plow the main 
 With sails unfurl'd, and strike their >ars in vain *
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. Ill 
 
 Around their oars a twining ivy cleaves, 
 
 And climbs the mast and hides the cords in leaves ; 
 
 The sails are cover'd with a cheerful green, 
 
 And berries in the fruitful canvas seen. 
 
 Amidst the waves a sudden forest rears 
 
 Its verdant head, and a new spring appears. 
 
 " The God we now behold with open'd eyes ; 
 A herd of spotted panthers round him lies 
 In glaring forms ; the grapy clusters spread 
 On his fair brows, and dangle on his head. 
 And whilst he frowns, and brandishes his spear, 
 My mates, surpris'd with madness or with fear, 
 Leap'd overboard ; first perjur'd Madon found 
 Rough scales and fins his stiff'ning sides surround ; 
 1 Ah ! what,' cries one, ' has thus transform'd thy look 
 Straight his own mouth grew wider as he spoke ; 
 And now himself he views with like surprise. 
 Still at his oar th' industrious Libys plies ; 
 But, as he plies, each busy arm shrinks in, 
 And by degrees is fashion'd to a fin. 
 Another, as he catches at a cord, 
 Misses his arms, and, tumbling overboard, 
 With his broad fins and forky tail he laves 
 The rising surge, and flounces in the waves. 
 Thus all my crew transform'd around the ship, 
 Or dive below, or on the surface leap, 
 And spout the waves, and wanton in the deep. 
 Full nineteen sailors did the ship convey, 
 A shoal or nineteen dolphins round her play. 
 I only in my proper shape appear, 
 Specehl<\sH with wonder, and half dead with fear,
 
 112 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Till Bacchus kindly bid me fear no more. 
 With him I landed on the Chian shore, 
 And him shall ever gratefully adore." 
 
 " This forging slave," says Pentheus, " would prevail 
 O'er our just fury by a far-fetched tale : 
 Go, let him feel the whips, the swords, the fire 
 And in the tortures of the rack expire." 
 Th' officious servants hurry him away ; 
 And the poor captive in a dungeon lay. 
 But, whilst the whips and tortures are prepar'd, 
 The gates fly open, of themselves unbarr'd ; 
 At liberty th' unfetter'd captive stands, 
 And flings the loosen'd shackles from his hands. 
 
 THE DEATH OF PENTHEUS. 
 
 But Pentheus, grown more furious than before, 
 Resolv'd to send his messengers no more, 
 But went himself to the distracted throng 
 Where high Cithaeron echo'd with their song. 
 And as the fiery war-horse paws the ground, 
 And snorts and trembles at the trumpet's sound ; 
 Transported thus he heard the frantic rout, 
 And rav'd and madden'd at the distant shout. 
 
 A spacious ch-cuit on the hill there stood, 
 Level and wide, and skirted round with wood ; 
 i Here the rash Pentheus, with unhallow'd eyes, 
 The howling dames and mystic orgies spies. 
 His mother sternly view'd him where he stood 
 And kindled into madness as she view'd : 
 Her leafy jav'lin at her son she.ca.st.- 
 And cries, " The boar that lays our country waste f
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 113 
 
 The boar, my sisters ! aim the fatal dart, 
 And strike the brindled monster to the heart." 
 
 Pentheus astouish'd heard the dismal sound. 
 And sees the yelling matrons gath'ring round ; 
 He sees, and weeps at his approaching fate, 
 And begs for mercy, and repents too late. 
 " Help, help ! my aunt Autonoe," he cry'd ; 
 " Remember how your own Actseon dy'd." 
 Deaf to his cries, the frantic matron crops 
 One stretch'd-out arm, the other Iuo lops. 
 In vain does Pentheus to his mother sue, 
 And the raw bleeding stumps presents to view : 
 His mother howl'd ; and heedless of his prayer, 
 Her trembling hand she twisted in his hair, 
 " And this," she cry'd, " shall be Agave's share." 
 "When from the neck his struggling head she tore, 
 And in her hands the ghastly visage bore, 
 With pleasure all the hideous trunk survey ; 
 Then pull'd and tore the mangled limbs away, 
 As starting in the pangs of death it lay. 
 Soon as the wood its leafy honours casts, 
 Blown off and scatter'd by autumnal blasts, 
 With such a sudden death lay Pentheus slain, 
 And in a thousand pieces strow'd the plain. 
 
 By so distinguishing a judgment aw'd, 
 The Thcbans tremble, and confess the god.
 
 (14 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 THE STORY OF SALMACIS AND HE RM AP HEODIT U S ,« 
 
 How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams 
 Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs, 
 And what the secret cause shall here be shown ; 
 The caube is secret, but th' effect is known. 
 The Naiads nurst an infant heretofore, 
 That Cytherea once to Hermes bore : 
 From both th' illustrious authors of his race 
 The child was nam'd ; nor was it hard to trace 
 Both the bright parents through the infant's face. 
 When fifteen years, in Ida's cool retreat, 
 The boy had told, he left his native seat, 
 And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil : 
 The pleasure lessen'd the attending toil. 
 With eager steps the Lycian fields he crost, 
 And fields that border on the Lycian coast ; 
 A river here he view'd so lovely- bright, 
 It shew'd the bottom in a fairer light, 
 Nor kept a sand conceal'd from human sight. 
 The stream produe'd nor slimy ooze, nor weeds, 
 Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds ; 
 But dealt enriching moisture all around 
 The fruitful banks with cheerful verdure crownd. 
 And kept the spring eternal on the ground. 
 
 * Mr. Addison was very young when he made these translations. 
 Still, one a little wonders how his virgin muse, " nescia quid sit amor 1 ' 
 (as Ovid says of Hermaphroditus) could be drawn in to attempt this sub- 
 ject: — but the charms of the poetry prevailed. He very properly omits, 
 or softens, the most obnoxious passages of his original ; and, after all, 
 seems half-ashamed of what he had done, as we may conclude from his 
 writing no notes on th* 3 stor}-, which, being told in Ovid's best manner, 
 must have suggested tc him many fine ones.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 115 
 
 A nymph presides, nor practia'd in the chase, 
 
 Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race ; 
 
 Of all the blue-eyed daughters of the main, 
 
 The only stranger to Diana's train : 
 
 Her sisters often, as 'tis said, would cry 
 
 " Fy Salmacis, what always idle ! fy, 
 
 Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize, 
 
 And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease." 
 
 Nor auiver she nor arrows e'er wou'd seize, 
 
 Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease. 
 
 But oft would bathe her in the crystal tide, 
 
 Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide ; 
 
 Now in the limpid streams she view'd her face, 
 
 And drest her image in the floating glass : 
 
 On beds of leaves she now repos'd her limbs, 
 
 Now gather'd flowers that grew about her streams ; 
 
 m 
 
 And then by chance was gathering, as she stood 
 To view the boy, and long'd for what she view'd. 
 
 Fain wou'd she meet the youth with hasty feet, 
 She fa.'i wou'd meet him, but refus'd to meet 
 Before her looks were set with nicest care, 
 And well deserv'd to be reputed fair. 
 " Bright youth," she cries, " whom all thy features prove 
 A god, and, if a god, the god of love ; 
 But if a mortal, blest thy nurse's breast, 
 Blest are thy parents, and thy sisters blest : 
 But, oh, how blest ! how more than blest thy bride, 
 Ally'd in bliss, if any yet ally'd. 
 If so, let mine the stol'n enjoyments be ; 
 If no" , behold a willing bride in me." 
 
 The boy knew nought of love, and touclrd with shame, 
 He strove, and blusht, but still the blush became :
 
 116 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose ; 
 The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows, 
 And such the moon, when all her silver white 
 Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light. 
 The nymph still begs, if not a nobler bliss, 
 A cold salute at least, a sister's kiss : 
 And now prepares to take the lovely boy 
 Between her arms. He, innocently coy, 
 "Replies, " Or leave me to myself alone, 
 Yon rude uncivil nymph, or I'll begone." 
 '* Fair stranger then," says she, " it shall be so ; ;> 
 And, for she fear'd his threats, she feign'd to go; 
 But hid within a covert's neighbouring green, 
 She kept him still in sight, herself unseen. 
 The boy now fancies all the danger o'er, 
 And innocently sports about the shore, 
 Playful and wanton to the stream he trips, 
 And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips. 
 The coolness pleas'd him, and with eager haste 
 His airy garments on the banks he cast ; 
 His godlike features, and his heavenly hue, 
 And all his beauties were expos'd to view. 
 His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies, 
 While hotter passions in her bosom rise, 
 Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes. 
 She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms, 
 And looks, and sighs, and kindles at his charms 
 
 Now all undrest upon the banks he stood, 
 And clapt his sides, and leapt into the flood : 
 His lovely limbs the silver waves divide, 
 Hi- limbs appear more lovely through the tide;
 
 ovid's metamorphoses 117 
 
 As lilies shut within a crystal case, 
 
 Receive a glossy lustre from the glass. 
 
 " He's mine, he's all my own," the Naiad cries 
 
 And fliugs off all, and after him she flies. 
 
 And now she fastens on him as he swims, 
 
 And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs. 
 
 The more the boy resisted, and was coy, 
 
 The more she dipt, and kist the struggling boy. 
 
 So when the wriggling snake is snatcht on high 
 
 In eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky, 
 
 Around the foe his twirling tail he flings, 
 
 And twists her legs, and writhes about her wings. 
 
 The restless boy still obstinately strove 
 To free*himself, and still refus'd her love. 
 Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs entwined, 
 " And why, coy youth," she cries, " why thus unkind J 
 Oh may the gods thus keep us ever join'd ! 
 Oh may we never, never part again !" 
 So pray'd the nymph, nor did she pray in vain : 
 For now she finds him, as his limbs she prest, 
 Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast ; 
 Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run 
 Together, and incorporate in one : 
 Last in one face are both their faces join'd, 
 As when the stock and grafted twig combin'd 
 Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind : 
 Both bodies in a single body mix, 
 A single body with a double sex. 
 
 The boy. thus lost in woman, now survey 'd 
 The river's guilty stream, and thus he pray'd. 
 (lie pray'd, but wonder'd at his softer tone, 
 Surpris'd to hear a voice but half his own)
 
 J 1 8 ;; .. v. -T *. A-Jf-S RATIONS. 
 
 "You parent-goas, whose heavenly names I bear, 
 Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my prayer; 
 Oh grant, that whomsoe'er these streams contain, 
 If man he entered, he may rise again 
 Supple, unsinew'd, and but half a man! 
 
 The heavenly parents answer'd, from on high, 
 Their two-shap'd son, the double votary; 
 Then gave a secret virtue to the flood, 
 And ting'd its source to make his wishes good.
 
 to* Angeles, Cal. 
 
 NOTES 
 
 ON SOME OP THE FOREGOING STORIES IN OVID'S METAMORPHOSES 
 
 ON THE STORY OP PHAETON, PAGE 49. 
 
 The story of Phaeton is told with a greater air of majesty 
 
 and grandeur than any other in all Ovid. It is, indeed, the most 
 
 important subject he treats of, except the deluge ; and I cannot 
 
 but believe that this is the conflagration he hints at in the firsi 
 
 book. 
 
 Esse quoque in fatis remiuiscitur affore tempus 
 
 Quo mare, quo tellus, correptaque regia cseli 
 
 Ardeat, et mundi moles operosa laboret ; 
 
 (though the learned apply those verses to the future burning oi 
 the world) for it fully answers that description, if the 
 
 Cceli miserere tui, circumspica utrumque 
 
 Fumat uterque polus. 
 
 Fiimat uterque polus comes up to correptaque regia cceli — 
 
 Besides, it is Ovid's custom to prepare the reader for a following 
 story, by giving such intimations of it in a foregoing one, which 
 was more particularly necessary to be done before ie led us into 
 •so strange a story as this he is now upon. 
 
 P. 49. 1. 7 — For in the portal, &c. We have here the pio 
 ture of the universe drawn in little. 
 
 Balocnarumque prementcm 
 
 /Egeona sui> imniuaia terga luccrtis.
 
 120 NOTES. 
 
 iEgeon makes a diverting figure in it. 
 
 Facies nou omnibus una 
 
 Nee diversa tamep : qualem decet esse sororum. 
 
 The thought is very pretty, of giving Doris and her daughters 
 such a difference in their looks as is natural to different persons, 
 and yet such a likeness as showed their affinity. 
 
 Terra viros, urbesque gerit, sylvasque, ferasque, 
 Fluminaque, et nymphas, et caetera numiua ruris. 
 
 The less important figures are well huddled together in the pro- 
 miscuous description at the end, which very well represents what 
 the painters call a group. 
 
 Circum caput omne micantes 
 
 Deposuifc radios; propiusque accedere jussit. 
 
 P. 50. 1. 32. — And flung the blaze, &c. It gives us a great 
 image of Phoebus, that the youth was forced to look on him at a 
 distance, and not able to approach him till he had lain a aside the 
 circle of rays that cast such a glory about his head, And, in 
 deed, we may every where observe in Ovid, that he never fails of 
 a due loftiness in his ideas, tho' he wants it in his words. And 
 this 1 think infinitely better than to have sublime expressions and 
 mean thoughts, which is generally the true chararacter of Clau- 
 dian and Statius. But this is not considered by them who run 
 
 ■ Had lain aside. He uses lain for laid very improperly, here, and 
 elsewhere, on the idea, I suppose, that the verb lay has two perfect par- 
 ticiples; just as the verb load has loaded and loaden. — But the fad is 
 otherwise; and the reason is not far to seek. The double d in the regular 
 participle " loaded" having an ill sound, the ear gradually introduced load- 
 en, which our nicer writers, and amongst the rest, our author, prefers to 
 loaded, though the last is not entirely disused. There was not the same 
 reason for changing laid to lain ; and the use has never prevailed : if it 
 had, "had lain aside" is, by accident, better than "-had laid aside;" and 
 that meliority of sound induced, no doubt, our delicate writer, who was all 
 ear, to prefer "lain" in this place, to laid, without reflecting that the es- 
 tablished practice was, for good reason, against him. — "Lain" is, properly, 
 the perfect participle of lye — laid, of lay.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 121 
 
 down Ovid in the gross, for a low middle way of writing. What 
 can he more simple and unadorned, than his description of En- 
 celadus in the sixth book ? 
 
 Nititur ille quideru, pugnatque resurgere ssepe, 
 Dextra sed Ausonio maims est subjeeta Peloro, 
 Laeva Pachyne tibi, Lilibaeo crura premuntur, 
 Degravat ^Etna caput, sub qua resupinus arenas 
 Ejectat, flammamque fero vomit ore Typhaeus. 
 
 But the image we have here is truly great and sublime, of a giant 
 vomiting out a tempest of fire, and heaving up all Sicily, with 
 the body of an island upon his breast, and a vast promontory on 
 either arm. 
 
 There are few books that have had worse commentators on 
 them than Ovid's Metamorphoses. Those of the graver sort 
 have been wholly taken up in the mythologies, and think they 
 have appeared very judicious, if they have shown us out of an 
 old author that Ovid is mistaken in a pedigree, or has turned 
 such a person into a wolf that ought to have been made a tiger. 
 Others have employed themselves on what never entered into the 
 poet's thoughts, in adapting a dull moral to every story, and 
 making the persons of his poems to be only nicknames for such 
 virtues or vices ; particularly the pious commentator, Alexander 
 Ross, has dived deeper into our author's design than any of the 
 rest ; for he discovers in him the greatest mysteries of the Chris- 
 tian religion, and findsalmost in every page some typical repre- 
 sentation of the world, the flesh, and the devil. But if these 
 writers have gone too deep, others have been wholly employed in 
 the surface, most of them serving only to help out a schoolboy 
 in the construing part ; or if they go out of their way, it is only 
 to mark out the gnoma of the author, as they call them, which 
 are generally the heaviest pieces of a poet, distinguished from 
 the rest by Italian characters. The best of Ovid's expositors is 
 voi . i. — 6
 
 1 22 NOTES. 
 
 he that wrote for the Dauphin's use, who has very well shewn thn 
 
 meaning of the author, but seldom reflects on his beauties or im- 
 o > . ... 
 
 perfections ; for in most places he rather acts the geographei 
 than the critic, and, instead of pointing out the fineness of a de- 
 scription, only tells you in what part of the world the place is 
 situated. I shall, therefore, only consider Ovid under the charac- 
 ter of a poet, and endeavour to show him impartially, without the 
 usual prejudice of a translator ; which I am the more willing to 
 do, because I believe such a comment would give the reader a 
 truer taste of poetry than a comment on any other poet would 
 do ; for in reflecting on the ancient poets, men think they may 
 venture to praise all they meet with in some, and scarce any thing 
 in others ; but Ovid is confest to have a mixture of both kinds. 
 to have something of the best and worst poets, and by conse- 
 quence, to be the fairest subject for criticism. 
 
 P. 51. 1. 13. 71% son, says he, &c. Phcebus's speech is 
 very nobly ushered in, with the terque quaterque concutiens 
 illustre caput — and well represents the danger and difficulty of 
 the undertaking ; but that which is its peculiar beauty, and 
 makes it truly Ovid's, is the representing them just as a father 
 would to his young son ; 
 
 Per tamen adversi gradieris cornua tauri, 
 Haemoniosque arcus, violentique ora leonig, 
 Saevaque circuitu curvantem brachia longo 
 Scorpion, atque aliter curvantern brachia canerum. 
 
 for one while he scares him with bugbears in the way, 
 
 -Vasti quoque rect<>r Olympi, 
 
 Qui fera terribili jaculetur fulmina dextra, 
 
 Non agat hos curru9; et quid Jove majus habeturf 
 
 Deprecor hoc unum quod vero nomine paena, 
 
 Non honor est. Paenam, Phaeton, pro munere poscis. 
 
 a~d m other places perfectly tattles like a father, whieh»ty the
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 123 
 
 way makes the length of the speech very natural, and concludes 
 with all the fondness and concern of a tender parent. 
 
 -Patrio pater esse metu probor ; aspice vultus 
 
 Ecce irieos : utinamque oeulos in pectore posses 
 Inserere, et patrios iutus deprenderecuras! tfec. 
 
 P. 53. 1. 13. — A golden axle, &c. Ovid has more turns 
 and repetitions in his words than any of the Latin poets, which 
 are always wonderfully easy and natural in him. The repetition 
 of aureus, and the transition to argcnteus, in the description of 
 the chariot, gives these verses a great sweetness and majesty. 
 
 Aureus axis erat, temo aureus, aurea summse 
 Curvatura rotse ; radiorum argenteus ordo. 
 
 P. 54. 1. 7. — Drive 'em not on directly, &c. Several have 
 endeavoured to vindicate Ovid against the old objection, that he 
 mistakes the annual for the diurnal motion of the sun. The 
 Dauphin's notes tell us that Ovid knew very well the sun did not 
 pass through all the signs he names in one day, but that he makes 
 Phoebus mention them only to frighten Phaeton from the under- 
 taking. But though this may answer for what Phoebus says in 
 his first speech, it cannot for what is said in this, where he is ac- 
 tually giving directions for his jouruey, and plainly 
 
 Sectus in obliquuui est lato cui-vamine limes, 
 Zonarumque trium contentus fine polumque 
 Etlugit australem, juucUnique aquilouibus Arcton, 
 
 describes the motion through all the zodiac. 
 
 Ibid. 1. 23. — -And not. my chariot, &e. Ovid's verse is 
 Consiliis non curribus utere nostris This way of joining two 
 such different ideas as chariot and counsel to the same verb is 
 mightily used by Ovid, but is a very low kind of wit, and has 
 always in it a mixture of pun. because the verb must be taken iu
 
 124 NOTES 
 
 a different sense when it is joined with one of the things, from 
 what it has in conjunction with the other. Thus in the end of 
 this story he tells you that Jupiter flung a thunderbolt at Phaeton 
 — Paritcrquc, animdque, rotisque expulit aurigam, where lie 
 makes a forced piece of Latin {cinimd expulit aurigam) that he 
 may couple the soul and the wheels to the same verb. 
 
 P. 55. 1. 17. — The youth was in a maze, &c. It is impos- 
 sible for a man to be drawn in a greater confusion than Phaeton 
 is ; but the antithesis of light and darkness a little flattens the 
 description. Suutque oculis tenebrce per tantum lumen 
 abortce. 
 
 Ibid. 1. 20. — Then the seven stars, &c. I wonder none of Ovid's 
 commentators have taken notice of the oversight he has commit- 
 ted in this verse, where he makes the Triones grow warm before 
 there was ever such a sign in the heavens ; for he tells us in this 
 very book, that Jupiter turned Calisto into this constellation, 
 after he had repaired the ruins that Phaeton had made in the 
 world. 
 
 P. 57. 1. 12. — Athos and Tmolus, &c. Ovid has here, after 
 the way of the old poets, given us a catalogue of the mountains 
 and rivers which were burnt. But, that I might not tire the 
 English reader, I have left out some of them that make no figure 
 in the description, and inverted the order of the rest according 
 as the smoothness of my verse required. 
 
 P. 5S. 1. 5. — ''Twas then, they say, the sioarthy Moor, &c. 
 This is the only Metamorphosis in all this long story, which, con- 
 trary to custom, is inserted in the middle of it. The critics may 
 determine whether what follows it be not too great ar excursion 
 in him who proposes it as his whole design to let us know the 
 changes of things. I dare say that if Ovid had not religiously 
 observed the reports of the ancient mythologists, we should have 
 seen Phanton turned into some creature or other that hates
 
 OVIU'S MET AMO Tl T HOSES. 125 
 
 the light Oi the sun ; or perhaps into an eagle that still takes 
 pleasure to gaze on it. 
 
 Ibid. 1. 26. — Tlie frighted Nile, &c. Ovid has made a 
 great many pleasant images towards the latter end of this story 
 His verses on the Nile — 
 
 Nilus in extremum fugit perterritus orbem 
 Occuluitque caput quod adhuc latet: ostia septem 
 Pulvevulenta vacant, septem sine flumine valles, 
 
 are as noble as Virgil could have written ; but then he. ought njt 
 to have mentioned the channel of the sea afterwards, 
 
 Mare contrahitur, siccxqne est campus Arense, 
 
 because the thought is too near the other. The image of the 
 Cyclades is a very pretty one ; 
 
 Quos altum texerat sequor 
 
 Existunt montes, et sparsas Cycladas augent ; 
 
 but to tell us that the swans grew warm in Cayster, 
 
 Medio volucres caluere Caystro, 
 
 and that the Dolphins durst not leap, 
 
 Nee se super requora curvi 
 
 Toll ere consuetas audent Delphiues in auras, 
 
 is intolerably trivial on so great a subject as the burning ,f the 
 world. 
 
 P. 50. 1. 17. — The earth at length, &c. "We have hore a 
 .speech of the earth, which will doubtless seem very unnatural to 
 an English reader. It is, I believe, the boldest prosopo]iceia of 
 any in the old poets ; or if it were never so natural, I cannot 
 but think she speaks too much in any reason for one in her con 
 ditiun.
 
 126 NOTES. 
 
 ON EUKOPA S RAPE, PAGE 82. 
 
 P. 83. 1. 17. — The dignity of empire, &c. This storv ia 
 prettily told, and very well brought in by those two serious lines, 
 
 Non bene conveniunt, nee in una sede morantur, 
 Majestas et amor. Sceptri gravitate relicta, &c. 
 
 without which the whole fable would have appeared very profane. 
 P. 84. 1. 25. — The frighted nymph looks, &c. Thi3 con- 
 sternation and behaviour of Europa 
 
 . Elusam designat imagine tauri 
 
 Europen : verum taurum, freta vera putares. 
 Ipsa videbntur terras spectare relictas, 
 Et comites clamare suos, tactumque vereri 
 Assilientis aquae, timidasque reducere plantas, 
 
 is better described in Arachne's picture in the sixth book, than 
 it is here; and in the beginning of Tatius his Clitophon and 
 Leucippe, than in either place. It is indeed usual among the 
 Latin poets (who had more art and reflection than the Grecian) 
 to take hold of all opportunities to describe the picture of any 
 place or action, which they generally do better than they could 
 the place or action itself ; because in the description of a picture 
 you have a double subject before you, either to describe the 
 picture itself, or what is represented in it. 
 
 ON THE STORIES IN THE THIRD BOOK, PAGE 85. 
 
 FAB. I. 
 There is so great a variety in the arguments of the Meta- 
 morphoses, that he who would treat 'em rightly, ought to be a 
 master of all styles, and every different way of writing. Ovid, 
 indeed, shows himself most in a familiar story, where the chief 
 grace is to be eavy and natural ; but wants neither strength of 
 thought nor expression, when he endeavours after it, in the moro
 
 ovid's metamoephoses. 127 
 
 sublime and manly subjects of bis poem. In tbe present fable 
 tbe serpent is terribly described, and bis behaviour very well 
 imagined, tbe actions of both parties in tbe encounter are 
 natural, and tbe language tbat represents them more strong and 
 masculine than what we usually meet with in this poet : if there 
 be any faults in the narration, they are these, perhaps, which 
 follow. 
 
 P. 87. 1. 12. — Spire above sjrire, &c. Ovid, to make his 
 serpent more terrible, and to raise the character of his champion, 
 has given too great a loose to his imagination, and exceeded all 
 the bounds of probability. He tells us, that when be raised up 
 but half his body, he over-looked a tall forest of oaks, and that 
 his whole body was as large as that of the serpent in the skies. 
 None but a madman would have attacked such a monster as this 
 is described to be ; nor can we have any notion of a mortal's 
 standing against him. Virgil is not ashamed of making .ZEneas 
 fly and tremble at the sight of a far less formidable foe, where he 
 gives us the description of Pobyphemus, in the third book ; he 
 knew very well that a monster was not a proper enemy for his 
 hero to encounter : but we should certainly have seen Cadmus 
 hewing down the Cyclops, had he fallen in Ovid's way ; or if 
 Statius's little Tydeus had been thrown on Sicily, it is probable 
 he would not have spared one of the whole brotherhood. 
 
 Phrenicas, sive illi tela paral>ant, 
 
 Sive fugam, sive ipse tioior prohibebat utrumque, 
 Oceupat : 
 
 P. 87. 1. 19. — In vain the Tyrians,&<s. The poet could not 
 keep up his narration all along, in the grandeur and magnificence 
 of an heroic style : he has here sunk into the flatness of prose, 
 where he tel's us the behaviour of the Tyrians at the sight of the 
 eerpent :
 
 (28 NOTES 
 
 Tegimen direpta leoni 
 
 Pellis erat; telum splendenti lance.i ferro, 
 Et jaculum; teloque animus prastantior omni. 
 
 And in a few lines after lets drop the majesty of his verso, foi 
 
 the sake of one of his little turns. How does he languish in that 
 
 which seems a laboured line? Tristia sanguined, lambentem 
 
 vulnera lingua. And what pains does he take to express the 
 
 serpent's breaking the force of the stroke, by shrinking back 
 
 from it ? 
 
 Sed leve vulnus erat, quia se retrahebat ab ictu, 
 Lsesaque eolla dabat ret.ro, plagamque sedere 
 Cedendo fecit, nee longius ire sinebat. 
 
 P. 90. 1. 4. — And flings the future, &c. The description 
 of men rising out of the ground is as beautiful a passage as any 
 in Ovid : it strikes the imagination very strongly ; we see their 
 motion in the first part of it, and their multitude in the messis 
 virorum at last. 
 
 Ibid. 1. 9. — The breathing harvest, &c. Messis clypeata 
 virorum. The beauty of these words would have been greater, 
 had only messis virorum been expressed without clypeata; for 
 the reader's mind would have been delighted with two such differ- 
 ent ideas compounded together, but can scarce attend to such a 
 complete image as is made out of all three. 
 
 This way of mixing two different ideas together in one image, 
 as it is a great surprise to the reader, is a great beauty in poetry, 
 if there be sufficient ground for it in the nature of the thing that 
 is described. The Latin poets are very full of it, especially the 
 worst of them, for the more correct use it but sparingly, as, in- 
 deed, the nature of things will seldom afford a just occasion for 
 it When any thing we describe has accidentally in it some 
 quality that seems repugnant to its nature, or is very extraordi- 
 nary and uncommon in things of that species, such a compounded
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 129 
 
 image as we are now speaking of is made, by turning this quality 
 into an epithet of what we describe. Thus Claudian, having got 
 a hollow ball of crystal, with water in the midst of it, for his sub- 
 ject, takes the advantage of considering the crystal as hard, stony, 
 precious water, and the water as soft, fluid, imperfect crystal : and 
 thus sports off above a dozen epigrams, in setting his words and 
 ideas at variance among one another. He has a great many 
 beauties of this nature in him, but he gives himself up so much 
 to this way of writing, that a man may easily know where to meet 
 with them when he sees his subject, and often strains so hard for 
 them that he many times makes his descriptions bombastic and 
 unnatural. What work would he have made with Virgil's golden 
 bough, had he been to describe it ? We should certainly have 
 seen the yellow bark, golden sprouts, radiant leaves, blooming 
 metal, branching gold, and all the quarrels that could have been 
 raised between words of such different natures : when we see Vir- 
 gil contented with his auri frondailis ; and what is the same, 
 though much finer expressed, — Frondescit virga metallo. This 
 composition of different ideas is often met with in a whole sen- 
 tence, where circumstances are happily reconciled that seem 
 wholly foreign to each other ; and is often found among Latin 
 poets, (for the Greeks wanted art for it) in their descriptions of 
 pictures, images, dreams, apparitions, metamorphoses, and the 
 like; where they bring together two such thwarting ideas, by 
 making one part of their descriptions relate to the representation, 
 and the other to the thing that is represented. Of this nature ia 
 that verse, which, perhaps, is the wittiest in Virgil; Attollens 
 kumeris famamque et. fata nepotum, JEn. 8, where he describes 
 .Eneas carrying on his shoulders the reputation and fortunes of 
 his posterity ; which, though very odd and surprising, is plainly 
 mad': out, when we consider how these disagreeing ideas are re- 
 conciled, and bis posterity's fame and fate made portable by being
 
 »30 NOTES. 
 
 engraven on the shield. Thus, when Ovid tells as that Pallas 
 tore in pieces Arachne's work, where she had embroidered all the 
 rapes that the gods had committed, he says — Riqrit coelestia cri~ 
 mina. I shall conclude this tedious reflection with an excellent 
 stroke of this nature, out of Mr. Montagu's Poem to the King ; 
 where he tells us how the king of Prance would have been cele- 
 brated by his subjects, if he had ever gained such an honourable 
 wound as King William's at the fight of the Boyne : 
 
 His bleeding arm had furnish'd all their rooms, 
 And run for ever -purple in the looms. 
 
 FAB. II. 
 
 P. 91. 1. 1. — Here Cadmus reigrfd. This is a pretty 
 solemn^transition to the story of Actason, which is all naturally 
 told. The goddess, and her maids undressing her, are described 
 with diverting circumstances. Actaeon's flight, confusion, and 
 griefs, are passionately represented ; but it is a pity the whole 
 narration should be so carelessly closed up. 
 
 Ut abesse queruntur, 
 
 Nee capere oblatae segnem spectacula prsedae. 
 Vellet abesse quidem, sed adest, velletque videre, 
 Non etiam sentire, canum fera facta suorum. 
 
 P. 94. 1. 5. — A generous pack, &c. I have not here 
 troubled myself to call over Action's pack of dogs in rhyme : 
 Spot and Whitefoot make but a mean figure in heroic verse, and 
 the Greek names Ovid uses would sound a great deal worse. Ho 
 closes up his own catalogue with a kind of a jest on it, quosqm 
 refcrre mora est — which, by the way, is too light and full of hu- 
 mour for the other serious parts of this story. 
 
 This way of inserting catalogues of proper names in their 
 poems, the Latins took from the Greeks but have made them
 
 O / I D ' S METAMORPHOSES. IS I 
 
 more pleasant than those they imitate, by adapting so many de- 
 lightful characters to their persons' names ; in which part Ovid's 
 copiousness of invention, and great insight into nature, has given 
 him the precedence to all the poets that ever came before or after 
 him. The smoothness of our English verse is too much lost by 
 the repetition of proper names, which is otherwise very natural 
 and absolutely necessary in some cases ; as before a battle, to 
 raise in our minds an answerable expectation of the event, and a 
 lively idea of the numbers that are engaged. For had Homer 
 or Virgil only told us in two or three lines before their fights, 
 that there were forty thousaud of each side, our imagination 
 could not possibly have been so affected, as when we see every 
 leader singled out, and every regiment in a manner drawn up be- 
 fore our eyes. 
 
 FAB. III. 
 
 P. 95. 1. 19. — How Semele, &c. This is one of Ovid's fin- 
 ished stories. The transition to it is proper and unforced : Juno, 
 in her two speeches, acts incomparably well the parts of a re- 
 senting goddess and a tattling nurse : Jupiter makes a very ma- 
 jestic figure with his thunder and lightning, but it is still such a 
 one as shows who drew it ; for who does not plainly discover 
 Ovid's hand iu the 
 
 Qua tamen usque potest, vires sibi demere tentat. 
 Nee, quo centimanum dejecerat igne Typhsea, 
 Nunc armatur eo : minium feritatis iu illo. 
 
 Est ajiud levius fultnen, cui dextra Cyclopum 
 Saevitiac fiammasque minus, minus addidit Ira? 
 Tela Secunda vocaut suoeri. 
 
 "*. 90. 1. 20. — ' "77* well, says she, &c. Virgil has made a 
 Be. o of one of his goddesses in the fifth iEneid ; but if we com
 
 1 32 NOTBs. 
 
 paro the speech she there makes with that of her name-sake in 
 this story, we may find the genius of each poet discovering itself 
 in the language of the nurse : Virgil's Iris could not have spoken 
 more majestically in her own shape ; but Juno is so much altered 
 from herself in Ovid, that the goddess is quite lost in the old 
 woman. 
 
 FAB. V. 
 
 P. 100. 1. 27. — She can't begin, &c. If playing on words* 
 be excusable in any poem, it is in this, where Echo is a speaker ; 
 but it is so mean a kind of wit, that if it deserves excuse it can 
 claim no more. 
 
 Mr. Locke, in his Essay of Human Understanding, has given 
 us the best account of wit, in short, that can any where be met 
 with. " Wit," says he, " lies in the assemblage of ideas, and put- 
 ting those together with quickness and variety, wherein can be 
 found any resemblance or congruity, thereby to make up pleasant 
 pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy." Thus does true 
 wit, as this incomparable author observes, generally consist in 
 the likeness of ideas, and is more or less wit, as this likeness in 
 ideas is more surprising and unexpected. But as true wit is 
 nothing else but a similitude in ideas, so is false wit the simili- 
 tude in words, whether it lies in the likeness of letters only, as in 
 anagram and acrostic ; or of syllables, as in doggrel rhymes ; or 
 
 ■ If playing on words. The translator would insinuate, that he omitted 
 the courtship of Echo, in this place, because it was a play on words ; but he 
 had another, ami better reason, which shews, at once, the decency of the 
 poet, and the unaffected virtue of the man; who, not to make a merit of 
 his moral scruples, pretends only a critical. For, that this last was nothing 
 more than a pretence, appears from the following story nf Narcissus; whei-a 
 Echo is, again, introduced by Ovid playing on words, but so iuoffensively 
 that o;ii critical translator condescends to play with her. 
 
 Ah youth ! beloved in rain. Narcissus cries : 
 Ah youth I beloved, in vain, the nymph replies 
 Favewel, says he ; the parting sound scarce fell 
 From his faint lips, but she replied, farewel.
 
 ovid's metamorphoses. 133 
 
 whole words, as puns, echos, and the like. Besides these two 
 kinds of false and true wit, there is another of a middle nature, 
 that has something of both in it. When in two ideas that have 
 some resemblance with each other, and are both expressed by the 
 same word, we make use of the ambiguity of the word to speak 
 that of one idea included under it, which is proper to the other. 
 Thus, for example, most languages have hit on a word, which pro- 
 perly signifies fire, to express love by, (and therefore we may be 
 sure there is some resemblance in the ideas mankind have of 
 them ;) from hence the witty poets of all languages, when they 
 have once called love a fire, consider it no longer as the passion, 
 but speak of it under the notion of a real fire, and, as the turn of 
 wit requires, make the same word in the same sentence stand for 
 either of the ideas that is annexed to it. When Ovid's Apollo 
 falls in love, he burns with a new flame ; when the sea-nymphs 
 languish with this passion, they kindle in the water ; the Greek 
 epigrammatist fell in love with one that flung a snow-ball at him, 
 and therefore takes occasion to admire how fire could be thus con- 
 cealed in snow. In short, whenever the poet feels any thing in 
 this love that resembles something in fire, he carries on this 
 agreement into a kind of allegory ; but if, as in the preceding in- 
 stances, he finds any circumstance in his love contrary to the na- 
 ture of fire, he calls his love a fire, and by joining this circum- 
 stance to it, surprises his reader with a seemiug contradiction. 
 I should not have dwelt so long on this instance, had it not been 
 so frequent in Ovid, who is the greatest admirer of this mixed 
 wit of all the ancients, as our Cowley is among the moderns. 
 Homer, Virgil, Horace, and the greatest poets scorned it, as in- 
 deed it is only fit for epigram and little copies of verses; one 
 would wonder therefore how so sublime a genius as Milton could 
 sometimes fall into it, in such a work as an epic poem. But we 
 must attribute it to his humouring the vicious taste of the age he
 
 1 34 NOTES. 
 
 1 
 
 lived in, and ihe false judgment of our unlearned English readers 
 in general, who have few of them a relish of the more masculine 
 and noble beauties of poetry. 
 
 FAB. VI. 
 
 Ovid seems particularly pleased with the subject of this story, 
 but has notoriously fallen into a fault he is often taxed with, of 
 not knowing when he has said enough, by his endeavouring to 
 excel. How has he turned and twisted that one thought of Nar- 
 cissus's being the person beloved, and the lover too ? 
 
 Cunctaquc miratur quibus est mirabilis ipse. 
 
 Qui probat, ipse probatur. 
 
 Dumque petit petitur, pariterque inceudit et ardet 
 Atque oculos idem qui decipit ineitat error. 
 
 Perque oculos perit ipse suos 
 
 Uror amore mei flammas moveoque feroque, <fec. 
 
 But we cannot meet with a better instance of the extravagance 
 and wantonness of Ovid's fancy, than in that particular circum- 
 stance at the end of the story of Narcissus's gazing on his face 
 after death in the Stygian waters. The design was very bold, of 
 making a boy fall in love with himself here on earth, but to tor- 
 ture him with the same passion after death, and not to let his 
 ghost rest in quiet, was intolerably cruel and uncharitable. 
 
 P. 101. 1. 25. — But whilst witliin, &c. Dumque sitim 
 sedare cupit sitis altera crevit. We have here a touch of that 
 mixed wit I have before spoken of, but I think the measure of 
 pun in it outweighs the true wit ; for if we express the thought 
 in other words, the turn is almost lost. This passage of Nar- 
 cissus probably gave Milton the hint of applying it to Eve, 
 though I think her surprise at the sight of her own face in the 
 water, far more just and natural, than this of Narcissus. She 
 was a raw unexperienced being, just created and therefore might
 
 O V I D ' S METAMORPHOSES. .35 
 
 easily be subject to the delusion ; but Narcissus had been in the 
 world sixteen years, and w£& brother and son to the water-nymphs, 
 and therefore to be supposed conversant with fountains long be- 
 fore this fatal mistake. 
 
 P. 102. 1. 29. — " You trees" says he, &c. Ovid is very 
 justly celebrated for the passionate speeches of his poem. They 
 have generally abundance of nature in them, but I leave it to 
 better judgment to consider whether they are not often too witty 
 and too tedious. The poet never cares for smothering a good 
 thought that comes in his way, and never thinks he can draw 
 tears enough from his reader, by which means our grief is either 
 diverted or spent before we come to his conclusion ; for we cannot 
 at the same time be delighted with the wit of the poet, and con- 
 cerned for the person that speaks it ; and a great critic has ad- 
 mirably well observed, Lamentation.es debent esse breves et con- 
 cisce, nam lachryma subitb excrcscif, et difficile est auditorem 
 vel lectorem in summo animi affectu diu tenere. Would any 
 one in Narcissus's condition have cried out — Inopem me copia 
 fecit ? Or can any thing be more unnatural than to turn off 
 from his sorrows for the sake of a pretty reflection ? 
 
 utinam nostro secedere corpore possem! 
 
 Yotiun in amante novum ; vellem, quod amaraus, abesset. 
 
 None, I suppose, can be much grieved for one that is so witty 
 on his own afflictions. But I think we may every where' observe 
 in Ovid that he employs his invention more than his judgment, 
 and speaks all the ingenious things that can be said on the sub- 
 ject, rather than those which are particularly proper to the 
 person and circumstances of the speaker.
 
 36 NOTES, 
 
 FAB. VII. 
 
 P. 10G. 1. 9. — W/ie'i Pentheus thus. There is a great deal 
 
 of spirit and fire in this speech of Pentheus, but I believe none 
 
 besides Ovid would have thought of the transformation of the 
 
 serpent's teeth for an incitement to the Thebans' courage, when 
 
 he desires them not to degenerate from their great forefather the 
 
 dragon, and draws a parallel between the behaviour of them 
 
 both. 
 
 Este, precor memores, qua sitis stirpe creati, 
 Illiusque aminos, qui inultos perdidit unus, 
 Sumite serpentis: pro fontibus ille, lacuqu* 
 Interiit, at vos pro fama, vincite vestra. 
 Ille dedlt Letho fortes, vos pellite molles, 
 Et patrium revocate Decus. 
 
 MB. YIII. 
 
 The story of Accetes has abundance of nature in all the parts 
 of it, as well in the description of hi3 own parentage and em- 
 ployment, as in that of the sailors' characters and manners. But 
 the short speeches scattered up and down in it, which make the 
 Latin very natural, cannot appear so well in our language, which 
 is much more stubborn and unpliant, and therefore are but as so 
 many rubs in the story, that are still turning the narration out 
 of its proper course. The transformation at the latter end is 
 wonderfully beautiful. 
 
 FAB. IX. 
 
 Ovid has two very good similies on Pentheus, where he com- 
 pares him to a river in a former story, and to a war-horse in the 
 
 present.
 
 POEMS 
 
 ON 
 
 SEVERAL OCCASIONS.
 
 [To Mr. Drydex :— These lines, of which Johnson says, "in his twenty- 
 second year he first shewed his power of English poetry by some verses 
 addressed to Dryden," hardly deserve the careful examination which Hurd 
 has bestowed upon them. They were probably called forth by the publi- 
 cation of Tonson's Third Miscellany, which contained of Dryden's, beside 
 a few songs, the first book of the Metamorphoses, with part of the ninth 
 and sixteenth. Dryden, whom his politics and change of religion had driv- 
 en, in his old age, to earn his bread by translating, was gratified by the ap- 
 plause of a promising scholar from the University ol wnich he had writ- 
 ten — 
 
 "Oxford to him a dearer r.sme %'ia-' i>- 
 Than his own mother University : 
 Thehcs did his green, unknowing youth engage ; 
 He chooses Athens in his riper age ;" 
 
 tnd an intercourse began, which if Macaulay's conjecture be true, had a 
 decisive influence upon Addison's fortunes ; for Dryden presented him to 
 ^ongreve, andCongreve to Montague, afterwards Lord Halifax, one of hia 
 ja^liestand most efficient patrons. — G.]
 
 TO MR. DEYDEN.' 
 
 How long, great poet, shall thy sacred lays 
 
 Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise ? 
 
 Can neither injuries of time, or age, 
 
 Damp thy poetick heat, and quench thy rage ? 
 
 Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote, 
 
 Grief chill'd his breast, and check'd his rising thought f 
 
 Pensive and sad, his drooping muse betrays 
 
 The Roman genius in its last decays. 
 
 Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest, 
 And second youth is kindled in thy breast ; 
 Thou mak'st the beauties of the Romans known, b 
 And England boasts of riches not her own ; 
 
 11 It would not be fair to criticise our author's poetry, especially the 
 poetry of his younger days, very exactly, lie was not a poet born ; or, he 
 had not studied, with sufficient care, the best models of English poetry. 
 Whatever the cause might be, he had not the command of what Dryden so 
 eminently possessed, a truly poetic diction. His poetry is only pure prose, 
 put into verse. And 
 
 " Non satis est puris versum perscribere verbis." 
 
 However, it may not be amiss to point out the principal defects of his ex 
 pression, that his great example may not, he pleaded in excuse of them. 
 
 •» Thou viake.it, vide after, Thou teachest'. This way of using verbs of 
 the present and imperfect tense, in the second person singular, should be 
 utterly banished from our poetry. The sound is intolerable. Milton and 
 oth' is bave rather chosen to violate grammar itself, than offend the ear 
 thus unmercifully. This liberty may, perhaps, he taken sometimes, in the 
 greater poetry; modes especially. But the better way will generally be 
 to turn the expression differently : As "'lis thine to teach, or in some such 
 way
 
 1 40 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty, 
 And Horace wonders at himself in thee. 
 Thou teachest Persius to inform our isle 
 In smoother numbers, and a clearer stile ; 
 And Juvenal, instructed in thy page, 
 Edges his satyr, and improves his rage. 
 Thy copy casts a fairer light on all, 
 And still outshines the bright original. 
 
 Now Ovid boasts a th' advantage of thy song, 
 And tells his story in the British tongue ; 
 Thy charming verse, 1 and fair translations, show 
 How thy own laurel first began to grow ; 
 How wild Lycaon chang'd by angry gods, 
 And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods. 
 
 mayst thou still the noble task prolong," 1 
 Nor age, nor sickness interrupt thy song : 
 Then may we wondering read, how human limbs 
 Have water'd kingdoms, and dissolv'd in streams , 
 Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould 
 Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold : 
 How some in feathers, or a ragged hide, 
 Have liv'd a second life, and different natures try'd. 
 Then will thy Ovid, thus transformYl, reveal 
 A nobler change than he himself can tell. e 
 
 Mag. .Coll. Oxon. June 2, 1693. 
 The Author's age 21. 
 
 * — Hi advantage of thy song. An instance of unpoetical expression. 
 
 b Thy charming verse and fair translations. The epithets too general 
 and prosaic. 
 
 '■Alexandrines, as they are called, should never be admitted into this 
 kind of verse. But Dryden's unconhned genius had given a sanction to 
 them. 
 
 d mayst thou still, &c. See note in the preceding page. It might 
 have stood thus: "Still may thy muse the noble task prolong." 
 
 6 reveal — tell. Bad rhymes. There are other instances in this short 
 poem ; aud in general Mr. Addison was a bad rhymist.
 
 AN ACCL [JNT OF 
 
 THE GREATEST ENGLISH POETS. 
 
 TO MR. II. S.'» April 3, 1694. 
 
 Since, dearest Harry, h you will needs request 
 A short account of all the inuse-possest, 
 That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times, 
 Have spent then - noble rage in British rhymes ; 
 Without more preface, writ in formal length, 
 To speak the undertaker's want of strength, 
 
 1 The Sacheverell to whom these lines were addressed, was, accord- 
 ing to one account, a Manxman, who died young, leaving a history 
 of the Isle of Man. He left his papers to Addison, and among 
 them the plan of a tragedy on the death of Socrates. In this case. 
 Johnson's sarcasm is at fault, though it is somewhat strange that 
 with the voucher for this fact among his own papers, he should not have 
 corrected his mistake. — fVide note to Johnson's Life of Addison.] But as is 
 more generally believed, he was the celebrated Dr. Sacheverell, whose trial 
 excited so much attention ; and Addison is said, on the authority of Dr. 
 Young, to have been in love with a sister of his. 
 
 This piece was first published in a miscellany, and never reprinted by 
 Addison himself, who probably saw reason, in after years, to change some 
 of his opinions. Johnson says he never printed it. The omission of Shak* 
 Bpearc's name has been often noticed. The finest passage is the lines on 
 Milton.— Cx. 
 
 'Henry Sacheverell, whose story is well known. Yei with all his fol- 
 ime respeel may seem due to t h" memory of a man, who had merit in 
 ou tli, as appeare from a paper of verses under his name, in Dryden's 
 Misci and who lived in the early friendship of Mr. Addison. 
 
 b The introducto \ and concluding lines of this poem are a bad imita- 
 tion ol Horace's manner — Sermoni propiora. [n the rest, the poetry is bet- 
 t.r than the criticism, which bright or wrong, as it chances; being echoed 
 from Ihc common voice.
 
 142 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 I'll try to make their several beauties known, 
 And show their verses worth, tho' not my own. 
 Long had our dull forefathers slept supine, 
 Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine ; 
 'Till Chaucer first, a merry bard, arose, 
 And many a story told in rhyme and prose. 
 But age has rusted what the poet writ, 
 Worn out his language, and obscur'd his wit : 
 In vain he jests in his unpolish'd strain, 
 And tries to make his readers laugh in vain. 
 
 Old Spenser, 1 next, warm'd with poetic rage, 
 In ancient tales amus'd a barb'rous age : 
 
 An age that yet uncultivate and rude, 
 
 Where'er the poet's fancy led, pursu'd 
 
 Through pathless fields, and unfrequented floods, 
 
 To dens of dragons, and enchanted woods. 
 
 But now the mystic tale, that pleas'd of yore, 
 
 Can charm an understanding age no more ; 
 
 The long-spun allegories fulsome grow, 
 
 While the dull moral lies too plain below. 
 
 We view well-pleas'd at distance all the*sights 
 
 Of arms and palfries, battles, fields, and fights, 
 
 And damsels in distress, and courteous knights. 
 
 But when we look too near, the shades decay, 
 
 And all the pleasing landscape fades away. 
 
 Great Cowley then' 2 (a mighty genius) wrote, 
 
 O'er-run with wit, and lavish of his thought : 
 
 1 Ohl Spenser. Addison is said to have confessed that when he wrote 
 this judgment, he had never read Spenser. In the Spectator he puts 
 Spenser "in the same class with Milton." — G. 
 
 * Great Cowley then. But if he had not read Spenser, he evidently 
 had read Cowley, whose prose he must have admired, if for nothing else, 
 for its freedom from the faults which are hare so justly con Jeuined in his
 
 THE GREATEST ENGLISH POETS 143 
 
 His turns too closely on the reader press : 
 
 He more had pleas'd us, had he pleas'd us less. 
 
 One glittering thought no sooner strikes our eyes 
 
 "With silent wonder, but new wonders rise, 
 
 As in the milky- way a shining white 
 
 O'er-flows the heav'ns with one eontinu'd light ; 
 
 That not a single star can shew his rays, 
 
 Yfhilst jointly all promote the common blaze. 
 
 Pardon, great poet, that I dare to name 
 
 Th' unnumber'd beauties of thy verse with blame ; 
 
 Thy fault is only wit in its excess, 
 
 But wit like thine in any shape will please. 
 
 What muse but thine can ecpial hints inspire, 
 
 And fit the deep-mouth'd Pindar to thy lyre : a 
 
 Pindar, whom others in a labour'd strain, 
 
 And forc'd expression imitate in vain ? 
 
 Well-pleas'd in thee he soars with new delight, 
 
 And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a nobler Bight 
 
 Blest man ! whose spotless life and charming lays 
 Emptoy'd the tuneful prelate in thy praise : 
 Blest man ! who now shalt be for ever known 
 In Sprat's successful labours and thy own. 
 
 But Milton, next, with high and haughty stalks, 
 Unfetter 'd in majestick numbers walks ; 
 No vulgar hero can his muse ingage ; 
 Nor earth's wide scene confine his hallow'd rage. 
 See ! see, he upward springs, and tow'ring high 
 Spurns the dull province of mortality, 
 
 verse. Parte <>f his criticism are admirable; but the unfortunate line — 
 ■' ll ■ more bad pleased us," lias been severely ridicoled. — G. 
 
 •Cowley had great merit, >>u1 nature bad formed liim to manage Ana 
 creon's lute, and not I'indar's lyre
 
 144 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Shakes heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms, 
 And sets the Almighty thunderer in arms. 
 What-e'er his pen describes I more than see, 
 Whilst ev'ry verse arrayed in majesty, 
 Bold, and sublime, my whole attention draws, 
 And seems above the critick's nicer laws. 3 
 How are you struck with terror and delight, 
 When angel with arch-angel copes in fight ! 
 When great Messiah's out-spread banner shines, 
 How does the chariot rattle in his lines ! 
 What sounds of brazen wheels, what thunder, scare, 
 And stun the reader with the din of war ! 
 With fear my spirits and my blood retire, 
 To see the seraphs sunk in clouds of fire ; 
 But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise, 
 And view the first gay scenes of Paradise ; 
 What tongue, what words of rapture can express 
 A vision so profuse of pleasantness. b 
 Oh had the poet ne'er profan'd his pen, 
 To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men ; 
 His other works might have deserv'd applause ! 
 But now the language can't support the cause ; 
 While the clean current, tho' serene and bright, 
 Betrays a bottom odious to the sight. 
 
 » 1 wonder what these laws could be. Nobody understood the critic's 
 nicest laws, better than Milton, or observed them with more respect. The 
 observation might be true of Shakspcare ; but, by illhap, we do not so 
 much as lind his name in this account of English puets. 
 
 b A vision so profuse of pleasantness. A prettily turned line. The ex- 
 pression (originally Milton's, P. L. iv. 243. viii. 286) pleased our poet so 
 much, that we have it again in the letter from Italy — profuse of bliss, and 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Serene and bright. This is a strange description of Milton's language. 
 if he means the language of his prose works. The panegyric seems mad© 
 at random.
 
 THE GREATEST ENGLISH POETS. 115 
 
 But now my muse a softer strain rehearse, 
 Turn every line with art, and smooth thy verse ; 
 The courtly Waller next commands thy lays : 
 Muse tune thy verse, with art, to Waller's praise. 
 "While tender airs and lovely dames inspire 
 Soft melting thoughts, and propagate desire , 
 So long shall Waller's strains our passions move, 
 And Sacharissa's beauties kindle love. 
 Thy verse, harmonious bard-, and flatt'ring song, 
 Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward strong, 
 Thy verse can show ' ev'n Cromwell's innocence, 
 And compliment the storms that bore him hence. 
 Oh had thy muse not come an age too soon, 
 But seen great Nassau on the British throne ! 
 How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page, 
 And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage ! 
 What scenes of death and horror had we view'd, 
 And how had Boyne's wide current reek'd in blood f 
 Or, if Maria's charms thou would'st rehearse, 
 In smoother numbers and a softer verse ; 
 Thy pen had well describ'd her graceful air, 
 And Gloriana wou'd have seeni'd more fair. 
 
 Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by. 
 That makes ev'n rules a noble poetry : 
 Rules, whose deep sense, and heav'nly numbers show 
 The best of criticks, and of poets too. 
 Nor, Benham, must we e'er forget thy strains, 
 While Cooper's Hill commands the ueighb'ring plains. 
 
 ' Thy vent run show. Of (hi* and the four next lines, Johnson says, — 
 1 \V> it is this but to Bay, that he who would compliment Cromwell hnd 
 been tlie proper poet for King William!" — (J. 
 
 vol.. 1.— 7
 
 I i6 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 But see where artful Dryden next appears 
 Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years. 
 Great Dryden next, whose tuneful muse affords 
 The sweetest numbers, and the fittest words. 
 Whether in comick sounds or tragick airs a 
 She forms her voice, she moves our smiles or tears. 
 If satire or heroic strains she writes, 
 Her hero pleases, and her satire bites. 
 From her no harsh unartful numbers fall, 
 She wears all dresses, and she charms in all. 
 How might we fear our English poetry, 
 That long has flourish'd, shou'd decay with thee ; 
 Did not the muses other hope appear, 
 Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear : 
 Congreve ! whose fancy's unexhausted store 
 Has given already much, and promis'd more. 
 Congreve shall still b preserve thy fame alive, 
 And Dryden's muse shall in his friend survive. 
 
 I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er, 
 But justice still demands one labour more : 
 The noble Montague ' remains unnam'd, 
 For wit, for humour, and for judgment fam'd ; 
 To Dorset he directs his artful muse, 
 In numbers such as Dorset's self might use. 
 
 - The noble Montague. It is of Montague that Pope says,- •' he wm 
 fed with dedications," and Tickell, that he rewarded them all.— Jt. 
 
 * Whether in comic sounds or tragick airs. A writer in f^hion, lik» 
 the stoical wise man, is every thing he has a mind to be. Dry! -n's come- 
 dies are very indifferent, and his tragedies still worse. 
 
 b Congreve shall still. Another poet in fashi m : but it is not safe to 
 prophecy of such. All he had of Dryden' s mut< was only his quaint ami 
 •U applied wit.
 
 THE GREATEST ENGLISH POETS. 147 
 
 Ho* negligently graceful he unreins 
 
 His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains ; 
 
 How Nassau's godlike acts adorn bis lines. 
 
 And all the hero in full glory shines. 
 
 We see his army set in just array, 
 
 And Boyne's dy'd waves run purple to the sea. 
 
 Nor Simois choak'd with men, and arms, and blood ; 
 
 Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood, 
 
 Shall longer be the poet's highest themes, 
 
 Tho' gods and heroes fought promiscuous in their streams. 
 
 But now, to Nassau's secret councils rais'd, 
 
 He aids the hero, whom before he prais'd. 
 
 I've done at length ; and now, dear friend, receive 
 The last poor present that my muse can give. 
 I leave the arts of poetry and verse 1 
 To them that practise 'em with more success. 
 Of greater truths 2 I'll now prepare to tell, 
 And so at once, dear friend and muse, farewell. 
 
 1 J leave the arts, etc. These lines have found a place iu the twelfth 
 chapter of "The art of sinking in poetry." " Let verses run in this man- 
 ner, just to be a vehicle to the words. ([ take them from my last cited 
 author, who, though otherwise by no means of our rank, seemed, once in 
 his life, to have a mind to be simple, <&c.) " — G. 
 
 ' 0/ greater truths. Addison, at this time, thought of taking orders.
 
 LINES TO THE KING. 
 
 PRESENTED TO THE LORD KEEPER. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 EIGHT HON. SIR JOHN SOMERS, LORD KEEPER OF THE GREAT SEAL I 
 
 Ir yet your thoughts are loose from state affairs,* 
 Nor feel the burden of a kingdom's cares, 
 If yet your time and actions are your own, 
 Receive the present of a muse unknown : 
 
 1 To the Right Honorable, &c, Sir John Somers : — Somers, equally emi- 
 nent as a constitutional lawyer, a statesman, and a patron of letters, was born 
 at "Worcester in 1G52. He studied at Oxford, soon distinguished himself 
 at the bar, made his first appearance in political life as an opponent of the 
 policy of Charles II., established his legal reputation by his five minutes' 
 plea in defence of the seven bishops, sat for Worcester in the convention 
 of parliament, was one of the managers for the Commons in the conference 
 with the lords on the word abdicate, was knighted -and made Solicitor- 
 general in 1089, Attorney-general in 1692, Lord Keeper in 1693, and Lord 
 High Chancellor in 1695, and Peer, by the title of Lord Somers, Baron 
 Evesham. After William's death, he retired from public life to letters, 
 which he had always loved, and, in this capacity, was chosen President of 
 the Royal Society. In 1706 he drew up a plan of union for England and 
 Scotland, and was appointed one of the Commissioners for carrying it into 
 effect. 
 
 In 1708 he returned to public life as President of the Council, was dis- 
 missed in 1710, and died in 1716 of an apoplectic fit, at the age of 64. As- 
 a patron of letters, his name is closely associated with that of Addison, 
 like whom he contributed to call attention to the neglected beauties of the 
 Paradise Lost. He translated some of Ovid's epistles, Plutarch's Aleibi- 
 ades, and wrote several tracts, one of which, called "The iudsrment of 
 whole kingdoms and nations concerning the rights, ] owers, and preroga- 
 tives of kings, and the rights, privileges, and properties of the people, 
 
 a This short address to his patron, is polite and proper, but, like the 
 poem, which it introduces, very prosaic.
 
 LINES TO THE KINO. 149 
 
 A muse that in adventTOus numbers sings 
 The rout of armies, and the fall of kings, 
 Britain advanc'd, and Europe's peace restor'd, 
 By Somers' counsels, and by Nassau's sword. 
 
 To you, my lord, these daring thoughts belong, 
 Who help'd to raise the subject of my song ; 
 To you the hero of my verse reveals 
 His great designs, to you in council tells 
 His inmost thoughts, determining the doom 
 Of towus unstorurd, and battles yet to come. 
 And well could you, in your immortal strains, 
 Describe his conduct, and reward his pains : 
 But since the state has all your cares engrost, 
 And poetry in higher thoughts is lost, 
 Attend to what a lesser muse a indites, 
 Pardon her faults and countenance her nights. 
 
 shewing," <tc, &c, was reprinted during the discussions which preceded 
 our own revolution, with the following date: — 
 
 Newport^ Rhode Island: reprinted and sold by Solomon Southwick, in 
 Queen-street, 1774. 
 
 Somers left also a large collection of scarce tracts, from which a selec- 
 tion was published, in 14 vols., and in 1809-1812, a new edition, in 12 
 ?ols. 4to. edited by Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 It is to him that Swift, in a letter to Bolingbroke, attributes "the 
 regularity of an alderman or a gentleman usher;" and Evelyn says of 
 him, in the 3d vol. of his memoirs, "It is certain that this chancellor was a 
 most excellenl lawyer, very learned in all polite literature, a superior pen, 
 master of a handsome style, and of easy conversation : but he is said to 
 make too much haste to be rich, as his predecessor, and most in place in 
 llii- age did, to a more prodigious excess than was ever known." 
 
 Addison, who waa not yet known to Somers, was invited to wait upou 
 him ; ami thus his second verses, like the first, opened the way to an im 
 portanl political as well as literary acquaintance. — G.] 
 
 * Lester muse, little ha- two comparatives, less ami lesser. Us« 
 leaves us at libery to employ either. The Bound will direct us when t» 
 prefer the one t, > the other. As here, <i lesser muse, is clearly better thai
 
 i 50 POEMS ON SEVERAL CCCASIONS. 
 
 On you, my lord, with anxious fear I wait, 
 And from your judgment must expect my fate, 
 Who, free from vulgar passions, are above 
 Degrading envy, or misguided love ; 
 Tf you, well pleas'd, shall smile upon my lays, 
 Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raise, 
 For next to what you write, is what you praise. 
 
 TO TIIE KING.i 
 
 When now the business of the field is o'er, 
 The trumpets sleep, and cannons cease to roar, 
 When ev'ry dismal echo is decay'd, 
 And all the thunder of the battle laid ; 
 Attend, auspicious prince, and let the muse 
 In humble accents milder thoughts infuse. 
 
 Others, in bold prophetick numbers skill'd, 
 Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field, 
 My muse expecting on the British strand 
 Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land : 
 She oft has seen thee pressing on the foe, 
 When Europe was concern'd in ev'ry blow ; 
 But durst not in heroick strains rejoice ; 
 The trumpets, drums, and cannons drown'd her voice . 
 
 1 This poem was addressed to William on his return from the cam 
 paign of 1695 in Flanders, against the French army under Villeroy. The 
 great event of the campaign was the taking of Naniur on the 4th of 
 August. — G. 
 
 a less muse. But, in general, it may be a good rule "to join less with a 
 singular noun, and lesser with a plural: " — as, when we say, a less difficulty, 
 and, lesser difficulties. The reason is, that few singular nouns terminate 
 in 8, and most plural nouns do. 
 
 Worser, the second comparative of bad, has not the same authority to 
 plead, as lesser, and is not, I think, of equal use. — Our grammarians da 
 not enough attend to the influence, which the ear has in modelling a lan- 
 guage.
 
 LINES TO THE KING. 151 
 
 She saw the Boyne ' run thick with human gore, 
 
 And floating corps lye beating on the shore : 
 
 She saw thee climb the banks, but try'd in vain 
 
 To trace her hero through the dusty plain, 
 
 When through the thick embattl'd lines he broke, 
 
 Now plung'd amidst the foes, now lost in clouds of smoke. 
 
 O that some muse, renown'd for lofty verse, 
 In daring numbers wou'd thy toils rehearse ! 
 Draw thee belov'd in peace, and fear'd in wars, 
 Inur'd to noon-day sweats, 3 and mid-night cares ! 
 But still the god-like man, by some hard fate, 
 Receives the glory of his toils too late ; 
 Too late the verse the mighty act succeeds, 
 One age the hero, one the poet breeds. 
 
 A thousand years in full succession ran, 
 Ere Virgil rais'd his voice, and sung the man 
 Who, driv'n by stress of fate, such dangers bore 
 On stormy seas, and a disastrous shore, 
 Before he settled in the promis'd earth, 
 And gave the empire of the world its birth. 
 
 Troy long had found the Grecians bold and fierce, 
 Ere Homer muster'd up their troops in verse ; 
 Long had Achilles qucll'd the Trojans' lust, 
 And laid the labour of the gods in dust, 
 Before the tow'ring muse began her flight, 
 And drew the hero raging in the fight, 
 
 "■Site saw the Boyne. The usual poetic exaggeration. This battle, 
 which on the 11th July, 1690, decided the fate of James II., cost him little 
 more than 1500 men. William waa slightly wounded. — G. 
 
 • He should have said heats, as he does say in the Campaign, The mid- 
 night watches and the noon-day heits.
 
 lEi POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Engag'd in tented fields, and rolling floods, 
 Or slaught'ring mortals, or a match for gods. 
 
 And here, perhaps, by fate's unerring doom, 
 Some mighty bard lies hid in years to come, 
 That shall in William's god-like acts engage, 
 And with his battels, warm a future age. 
 Hibernian fields shall here thy conquests show, 
 And Boyn be sung, when it has ceas'd to flow; 
 Here Grallick labours shall advance thy fame, 
 And here Seneffe' shall wear another name. 
 Our late posterity, with secret dread, 
 Shall view thy battels, and with pleasure read 
 How, in the bloody field, too near advanc'd, 
 The guiltless bullet dn thy shoulder glanc'd. fc 
 
 The race of Nassaus was by heav'n design'd . 
 To curb the proud oppressors of mankind, 
 To bind the tyrants of the earth with laws, 
 And fight in ev'ry injur'd nation's cause, 
 The world's great patriots ; they for justice call, 
 And as they favour, kingdoms rise or fall. 
 Our British youth, unus'd to rough alarms, 
 Careless of fame, and negligent of arms, 
 
 1 And here Seneffe shall wear another name. Battle of Seneff in Flan- 
 d'ers, Aug 11, 1674. The last battle of the great Conde — who fought 
 three divisions of the enemy in succession. The last combat lasted till mid- 
 night, and between both armies 25,000 men were killed without a decisive 
 victory on either side. Conde" was severely criticized for sacrificing so 
 many men, and the lover of rhetorical artifice will admire the skill with 
 which Bossuet in his celebrated funeral oration, escapes the perilous point 
 of his subject, by connecting his mention of Seneff with a personal anecdote 
 «>f the Prince and his son. — G. 
 
 ■ The guiltless bullet, &e. Delicately, and, at the same time, nobly ex- 
 pressed. Our great preacher, Tillotson, was not so happy when he spok« 
 of the king's shoulder as being kindly kissed by this bullet.
 
 LINES TO THE KINO. 153 
 
 Had long forgot to meditate the foe, 
 
 And heard unwarm'd the martial trumpet blow ; 
 
 But now, inspired by thee, with fresh delight, 
 
 Their swords they brandish, and require the fight, 
 
 Renew their ancient conquests on the main, 
 
 And act their fathers' triumphs o'er again ; 
 
 Fir'd when they hear how Agincourt was strow'd 
 
 With Gallic corps, and Cressi swam in blood, 
 
 With eager warmth they fight, ambitious all 
 
 Who first shall storm the breach, or mount the wall. 
 
 In vain the thronging enemy by force 
 
 Would clear the ramparts, and repel their course ; 
 
 They break through all, for William leads the way, 
 
 Where fires rage most, and loudest engines play. 
 
 Namure's late terrors 1 ' and destruction show, 
 
 What William, warm'd with just revenge, can do. 
 
 Where once a thousand turrets rais'd on high 
 
 Their gilded spires, and glitter'd in the sky, 
 
 An undistinguish'd heap of dust is found, 
 
 And all the pile lies smoking on the ground. 
 
 His toils for no ignoble ends design'd, 
 Promote the common welfare of mankind ; 
 No wild ambition moves, but Europe's fears, 
 The cries of orphans, and the widow's tears ; 
 Opprest religion gives the first alarms, 
 And injur'd justice sets him in his arms ; 
 His conquests freedom to the world afford, 
 And nations bless the labors of his sword. 
 
 ' Xinniiri'K late terrors, Ac. The town of Nainur liad been taken l>y 
 I..nii. XIV. in person, June, 1692, in eight days, and tin: citadel in twenty- 
 two. William retook them in 1095— the town after thirty-five days' siega 
 the citadel sixty-eight — G. 
 
 voi. i —7*
 
 154 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Thus when the forming muse would copy forth 
 A perfect pattern of heroick worth, 
 She sets a man triumphant in the field, 
 O'er giants cloven down, and monsters kill'd, 
 Reeking with blood, and smeer'd with dust and sweat, 
 Whilst angry gods conspire to make him great. 
 
 Thy navy rides on seas before unprest, 
 And strikes a terror through the haughty east ; 
 Algiers and Tunis from their sultry shore 
 With horrour hear the British engines roar, 
 Fain from the neighb'ring dangers would they run, 
 And wish themselves still nearer to the sun. 
 The Gallick ships are in th«ir ports confin'd, 
 Deny'd the common use of sea and wind, 
 Nor dare again * the British strength engage ; 
 Still they remember that destructive rage 
 Which lately made their trembling host retire, 
 Stunn'd with the noise, and wrapt in smoke and fire ; 
 The waves with wide unnumber'd wrecks were strow'd, 
 And planks, and arms, and men, promiscuous flow'd. 
 
 Spain's numerous fleet that perisht on our coast, 
 Could scarce a larger line of battel boast, 
 The winds could hardly drive 'em to their fate, 
 And all the ocean labour'd with the weight. 
 
 1 Nor dare again. The battle of la Hogue, 28th May, 1692, one of the 
 most brilliant pages in the history of the French navy. Admiral Tourville, 
 with only 44 ships, attacked the English and Dutch fleet of 85, and 'ought 
 them till night, without losing a ship or breaking his line. After th s spir 
 ited answer to an unjust sarcasm of the Minister of War, he retreated, and 
 his fleet, becoming scattered, was blockaded and destroyed in different 
 ports. A literal verification, though hardly a justification, of our Poet's 
 boastful lines. — G.
 
 LINES TO THE KING. 155 
 
 Where- e'er the waves in restless errors rowle, 
 The sea lies open now to either pole : 
 Now may we safely use the northern gales, 
 And in the Polar Circle spread our sails; 
 Or deep in southern climes, secure from wars, 
 New lands explore, and sail by other stars ; 
 Fetch uncontroll'd each labour of the sun, 
 And make the product of the world our own. 
 
 At length, proud prince, ambitious Lewis, cease 
 Tc plague mankind, and trouble Europe's peace ; 
 Think on the structures which thy pride has rase'd, 
 On towns unpeopled, and on fields laid waste ; 
 Think on the heaps of corps, and streams of blood, 
 On every guilty plain, and purple flood, 
 Thy arms have made, and cease an impious war, 
 Nor waste the lives entrusted to thy care. 
 Or if no milder thought can calm thy mind, 
 Behold the great avenger of mankind, 
 See mighty Nassau through the battel ride, 
 And see thy subjects gasping by his side : 
 Fain would the pious prince refuse th' alarm, 
 Fain would he check the fury of his arm ; 
 But when thy cruelties his thoughts engage, 
 The hero kindles with becoming rage, 
 Then countries stoln, and captives unrestor'd, 
 Give strength to every blow, and edge his swerd 
 Behold with what resistless force he falls 
 On towns besieg'd, and thunders at thy walls 1 
 Ask Villeroy,' for Villeroy beheld 
 The town surrender'd, and the treaty seal'd ; 
 
 Ask Villero;/. Whor a few years after the publication of this piece
 
 156 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 With what amazing strength the forts were won, 
 Whilst the whole pow'r of France stood looking on. 
 
 But stop not here : behold where Berkley ' stands, 
 And executes his injur'd King's commands ; 
 Around thy coast his bursting bombs he pours 
 On flaming cittadels and falling tow'rs ; 
 With hizzing streams of fire the air they streak, 
 And hurl destruction round 'em where they break ; 
 The skies with long ascending flames are bright, 
 And all the sea reflects a quivering light. 
 
 Thus iEtna, when in fierce eruptions broke, 
 Pills heav'n with ashes, and the earth with smoke , 
 Here crags of broken rocks are twirl'd on high, 
 Here molten stones and scatter'd cinders fly : 
 
 Addison met Boileau, he may have recalled, perhaps, a celebrated ode tt 
 the French poet, and particularly the following lines: — 
 
 Accourez, Nassan, Baviere, 
 De ces murs l'unique espoir 1 
 A couvert d'une riviC-re, 
 Venez, vous pouvez tout voir. 
 Considerez ces approches! 
 Voyez grimper sur ces roches 
 Ces athletes belliqueux ; 
 Et dans les eaux, dans la flainme 
 Louis, a tout donnant Tame, 
 Marcher, courir avec eux. 
 
 Racine, who, as royal historiographer, was present at the first siege 
 of Naniur, has given many interesting details of it in his letters to Boileau. 
 — G. 
 
 1 Berkley. Lord Berkley's bombardment of Havre, Dieppe, <fec. , and 
 his repulse before Brest, would hardly seem to be a fit subject of pane- 
 gyric for a gentle nature like Addison's. The English endeavored to throw, 
 the blame of this mode of warfare upon the French and struck a medal, al- 
 luding to the use of bombs as a French invention by the inscription, Suit 
 peril ignibus auctor ; upon which a philosophic historian justly remark^ 
 ' L'exemple du crime ne justifie point celui qui 1'imite." — G.
 
 LINES TO TIE KING. 157 
 
 Its fury reaches the remotest coas^, 
 And strews the Asiatiek shore with dust. 
 
 Now does the sailor from the neighbouring main 
 Look after Gallick towns and forts in vain ; 
 No more his wonted marks he can descry, 
 But sees a long unmcasur'd ruine lie ; 
 Whilst, pointing to the naked coast, he shows 
 His wond'ring mates where towns and steeples rose, 
 Where crowded citizens he lately view'd, 
 And singles out the place where once St. Maloes stood. 
 
 Here Russel's actions should my muse require; 1 
 And would my strength but second my desire, 
 I'd all his boundless bravery rehearse, 
 And draw his cannons thund'ring in my verse: 
 High on the deck shou'd the great leader stand, 
 Wrath in his look, and lightning in his hand ; 
 Like Homer's Hector when he flung his fire 
 Amidst a thousand ships, and made all Greece retire. 
 
 But who can run the British triumphs o'er, 
 And count the flames disperst on ev'ry shore ? 
 Who can describe the scatter'd victory, 
 And draw the reader on from sea to sea ? 
 Else who could Ormond's god-like acts refuse, 
 Ormond the theme of ev'ry Oxford muse ? 
 Fain wou'd I here his mighty worth proclaim, 
 Attend him in the noble chase of fame, 
 Through nil the noise and hurry of the fight, 
 Observe each blow, and keep him still in sight. 
 
 1 Here RunseVs actions, <fcc. Russel commanded at t he buttle of the 
 llogue, though he was at the time, like Marlborough ami several other 
 leading men, engaged in a secret, and therefore, traitorous correspondence 
 with James. — G.
 
 15S POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Oh, did our British peers thus court renown, 
 And grace the coats their great forefathers won ! 
 Our arms would then triumphantly advance, 
 Nor Henry be the last that conquer'd France. 
 What might not England hope, if such abroad 
 Purchas'd their country's honour with their blood : 
 "When such, detain'd at home, support our state 
 In William's stead, and bear a kingdom's weight. 
 The schemes of Gallick policy o'er-throw, 
 And blast the counsels of the common foe ; 
 Direct our armies, and distribute right, 
 And render our Maria's loss more light. 
 
 But stop, my muse, th' ungrateful sound forbeai 
 Maria's ' name still wounds each British ear : 
 Each British heart Maria still does a wound, 
 And tears burst out unbidden at the sound ; 
 Maria still our rising mirth destroys, 
 Darkens our triumphs and forbids our joys. 
 
 But see, at length, the British ships appear ! 
 Our Nassau comes ! and as his fleet draws near, 
 The rising masts advance, the sails grow white, 
 And all his pompous navy floats in sight. 
 Come, mighty prince, desir'd of Britain, come f 
 May heav'n's propitious gales attend thee home ! 
 
 1 Maria's name. Queen Mary died Dec. 28, 1694, and perhaps no bet- 
 ter proof can be given of William's feelings as a husband, than his answer 
 to Lord Somers, who coming to the king upon business of the highest mo- 
 ment, found him sitting at the end of his closet in an agony of grief — "My 
 lord, do what you will: I can think of no business." — G. 
 
 • Does wound. An unlucky blemish in this, otherwise, pretty passage. — 
 Yet it is a mistake to think that these feeble expletives, do, does, did, «&c. as 
 Pope calls them, are never to have a place in our verse: the rule is, "the} 
 should not be coupled with the <*rb." The reason is obvious
 
 LINES TO THE KING. 159 
 
 Come and let longing crowds behold that look, 
 Which snch confusion and amazement strook 
 Through Gallick hosts : but, oh ! let us descry 
 Mirth in thy brow, and pleasure in thy eye ; 
 Let nothiug dreadful in thy face be found 
 But for a-wnde forget the trumpet's sound ; 
 Well-pleas'd thy people's loyalty approve, 
 Accept their duty and enjoy their love. 
 For as when mov'd with fierce delight, 
 You plung'd amidst the tumult of the fight, 
 "Whole heaps of dead encompass'd you around, 
 And steeds o'er-turned lay foaming on the ground: 
 So crown'd with laurels now, where-e'er you go, 
 Around y*u blooming joys, and peaceful blessings flow.
 
 LETTER FROM ITALi 
 
 TO THE 
 
 RIGHT HON. CHARLES LORD HALIFAX, 
 
 IN THE YEAR MDCCI. 
 
 Salve magna parens frngum Saturnia tellus, 
 Magna virum ! tibi res antiqufe landls et artte 
 Aggredlor, sanctos ausus recludere fontes. 
 
 Virg. Geor. It 
 
 INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 
 
 [Of this poem Addison gives the following account in a letter to E. Mon- 
 tague: — "During my passage over the mountains (the Alps, from Italy to 
 Geneva, Dec. 1701), I made a rhyming epistle to my Lord Halifax, which 
 perhaps I will trouble you with a sight of, if I don't find it to be nonsense 
 upon a review." 
 
 Johnson says (Life of Addison, p. 75) : " Whatever were bis other em- 
 ployments in Italy, he there wrote the letter to Lord Halifax, which is 
 justly considered as the most elegant, if not the most sublime, of bis poet- 
 ical productions." And again (p. 106) : " The letter from Italy has been 
 always praised, but has never been praised beyond its merit. It is more 
 correct, with less appearance of labor, and more elegant, with less ambi- 
 tion of ornament, than any other of his poems." 
 
 This poem was translated into Italian by Salvini, and the translation 
 published both by Tickell and Hurd. We have omitted it in this edition. 
 3alvini was an excellent grammarian and worthy representative of the 
 Crusca, but a very feeble poet. 
 
 For a sketch of Lord Halifax see Johnson's Lives of the Poets — Hali- 
 fax.— G.] • 
 
 • The subject, so inviting to our classical traveller, seems to hav< 
 raised his fancy, and brightened his expression. Mr. Pope used to speak 
 very favorably of this poem.
 
 LETTER FROM ITALY. 16' 
 
 While you, my lord, the rural shades admirp, ' 
 And from Britannia's publick posts retire, 
 Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please, 
 For their advantage sacrifice your ease ; 
 Me into foreign realms my fate conveys, s 
 Through nations fruitful of immortal lays, 
 Where the soft season and inviting clime 
 Conspire to trouble your repose with rhime. 
 
 For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes, 
 Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects 3 rise, 
 Poetick fields encompass me around, 
 And still I seem to tread on classic ground ; 4 
 For here the muse so oft her harp has struug, 
 That not a mountain rears its head unsung, 
 Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows, 
 And ev'ry stream in heavenly numbers flows. 
 
 How am I pleas'd 5 to search the hills and woods 
 For rising springs and celebrated floods ! 
 
 1 Tliis introduction is exceeding! y graceful and easy, presenting an equally 
 pleasing picture of the patron and the poet, and the compliment contained 
 in it, is all the more honorahle to both, when we remember that the per- 
 son to whom it was paid, was a minister out of place. — G. 
 
 a Me into foreign realms my fate conveys. Compare the "Traveller" — 
 "My fortune leads to traverse realms alone" but what a difference between 
 Addison, inspired by "the soft season, and inviting clime," and Goldsmith 
 spending his "pensive hour amid Alpine solitudes." — G. 
 
 3 Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects. These epithets are tautologi- 
 cal. The scene is "gilded" by the sunlight, and the prospect shines from 
 the -arm: cause. They have, too, the disadvantage of excessive vagueness, 
 a serious di feet in the opening of a description. Hut this is the only defec- 
 tive lino in this exquisite paragraph. — <<. 
 
 * And still I seem to tread on classic ground. "Quaeunque ingrediniui 
 
 in aliquant historian) vestigium ponimus" — was applied t<> A.thensby Cicero. 
 
 The expression " classic ground," is supposed by Miss Aikin, I know not on 
 
 what Authority, to have been here used in English for the first time. — G. 
 
 How am I pleated. Not a happy line, but amply compensated by the
 
 1 62 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASION*. 
 
 To view the Nar, tumultuous in bis course, 
 And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source, 
 To see the Mincio draw his watry store 
 Through the long windings of a fruitful shore, 
 And hoary Albula's infected tide 
 O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide. 
 
 Fir'd with a thousand raptures I survey 
 Eridanus through flowery meadows stray; 
 The king of floods ! ' that rolling o'er the plains 
 The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, 
 And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows, 
 Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows. 
 
 Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng, 
 I look for streams immortaliz'd in song, 
 That lost in silence and oblivion lye, 
 (Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry) 
 Yet run for ever" by the muse's skill, 
 And in the smooth description niurmur still. 
 
 Sometimes to gentle Tiber ' I retire, 
 And the fam'd river's empty shores admire, 
 
 admirable description which follows — in which the attributes are applied 
 with singular felicity, and tlie verse finely adapted to each. The second 
 line on the Mincio is particularly appropriate by its protraeted movement, 
 and the judicious choice of circumstances. — G. 
 
 1 The king of floods — Fluviorum rex JEridanus. This expression was 
 suggested to Addison by his recollections of Virgil rather than Petrarch. 
 "Re degli altri, superbo, altero finme." — G. 
 
 a Gentle Tiber. Here the description fails. " Gentle " is not a proper 
 expression for the "saffron" stream, which runs rapidly at all seasons, 
 and in winter violently. " Empty shores " is literally correct, though not 
 very poetical; and both "retire and admire" sound very much as if one 
 had called up the other without any particular warrant from the subject. 
 "Retire " suggests something more nook-like and sequestered than the banks 
 of the Tiber, and "shores" are seldom admired for their emptiness. — G. 
 
 ■ Yet run for ever, <fcc. This way of giving 'o the copy the properties of
 
 LETTER FROM ITALY. 163 
 
 That, destitute of strength, derives its course 
 From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source ; 
 Yet sung so often in poetick lays, 
 "With, scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys, 
 So high the deathless muse exalts her theme ! 
 Such was the Boyne, 1 a poor inglorious stream, 
 That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd, 
 And, unobserv d, in wild Meanders play'd ; 
 'Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd, 
 Its rising billows through the world resound, 
 "Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce, 
 Or where the fame of an immortal verse. 
 Oh, cou'd the muse my ravish'd breast inspire 
 With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, 
 Unnumber'd beauties in my verse shou'd shine, 
 And "Virgil's Italy shou'd yield to mine ! 
 
 See how the golden groves 2 around me smile, 
 That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle, 
 
 'Such was the Boyne. The battle of the Boyne was as fariiliar an ex- 
 pression with the English of those days, as Waterloo in our own. The 
 " immortal verse " here alluded to, was an epistle of Halifax on that sub- 
 ject; once very much admired, but which now, perhaps, is indebted to 
 these very lines for its occasional revival. — G. 
 
 8 See how the golden groves. This description is exceedingly happy in 
 
 thought ami expression. " Where western gales eternally reside," is less 
 
 felicitous, indeed, than Goldsmith's 
 
 "Sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
 To winnow fragrance round the smiling land." 
 
 But the contrast between the effect of the English and Italian climate is 
 finely drawn. The American reader will observe that starve is used in 
 the sense of perish with cold — still a common usage in England. 
 
 the original, is not uncommon in the poets: But Mr. Addison had the art 
 to introduce this bold figure, witb ease and grace, into his prose; as when 
 he speaks of refreshment in a descripl ion of fields and meadows — if an his- 
 torian's fighting his battles, and in other instances: — lint see what he says 
 hiiMelf on this subject on Mtssis clypeata virorum, in his notes on Ovid.
 
 164 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Or, when transplanted and preserved with care, 
 Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. 
 Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments 
 To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents : 
 Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtlo bloom, 
 And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. 
 Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, 
 Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats ; 
 Where western gales eternally reside, 
 And all the seasons lavish all their pride : 
 Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, 
 And the whole year in gay confusion lies. 
 
 Immortal glories in my mind revive, 
 And in my soul a thousand passions strive, 
 When Rome's exalted beauties I descry "■ 
 Magnificent in piles of ruine lye. 
 
 The closing lines deserve particular attention. Blossoms, and fruits, 
 and flowers together rise. This thought has been used with great skill by 
 
 Tasso : 
 
 " Co' florl eterni, eterno il frutto dura ; 
 E mentre spunta Tun, l'altro matura." 
 
 Geb. Lib. Cant. 16 — st x. 
 
 Milton, whom our author had already studied with close attention, has — 
 
 " Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue 
 Appeared." Pae. Lost. 
 
 But the beautiful close — And the whole year in gay confusion lies — which 
 gives so perfect a finish to the whole scene, is one of those happy touches 
 which are never learned by imitation. The only passage which can be 
 compared with it, and not lose by the comparison, i^ the closing couplet in 
 the description of evening sounds in the "Deserted Village:" 
 
 " These all In sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 And rilled each pause the nightingale had made." 
 
 * Descry, i. e. 7 discern, discover, distinctly survey. We use a less spe- 
 cific verb in conjunction with lye, as: "J see Home's beauties lye in ruin** 
 not, I descry them lye.
 
 LET T.E R. FROM ITALY. 105 
 
 An amphitheater's amazing height * 
 
 Here fills my eye with terror and delight, 
 
 That on its public shows unpeopled Rome, 
 
 And held, uncrowded, nations in its womb ; 
 
 Here pillars rough with sculpture a pierce the skies : 
 
 And here the proud triumphal arches 3 rise, 
 
 Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd, • 
 
 Their base degenerate progeny upbraid : 
 
 Whole rivers here 4 forsake the fields below, 
 
 And wond'ring at their height through airy channels flow. 
 
 Still to new scenes my wand'ring muse retires, 
 And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires ; 
 Where the smooth chissel all its force has shown, 
 And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone. 5 
 
 1 An amphitheatre s, Ac. The Coliseum — 
 
 ' That on its public shows unpeopled Rome, 
 And held, uncrowded, nations in its womb.' 
 
 In his epistle to Mr. Addison, on his Dialogue on Medals, Pope says: — 
 
 ' Huge theaters that now unpeopled woods, 
 Now drained a distant country of her floods.' 
 
 Even Warton gives the superiority in this case to Addison, whose second 
 
 line is uncommonly vigorous. — G 
 
 a Here pillars rough with sculpture. The columns of Antonine and of 
 
 Trajan.— G. 
 
 3 Proud triumphal arches. Yet he must have seen them to much less 
 advantage than the traveller of our own days, for the Iowa parts of them 
 were still buried. — G. 
 
 4 Whole rivers here. The aqueducts. — G. 
 
 6 And softened into flesh the rugged, stone, — 
 
 'And legislators seem to think in stone.' 
 
 Temple op Fame. 
 
 '. '< ii i pare also, 
 
 ' And emperors in Parian inarble frown,' 
 
 with another line of the same poem — 
 
 'Heroes in animated marble frown.' 
 
 The Temple of Fame was written in 1711. — G. 
 
 ll'A' r< the old. Romans deathless acts display'd, i. e. where the deatli
 
 166 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 In solemn silence, a majestick band, 
 
 Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand, 
 
 Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown, 
 
 And emperors in Parian marble frown ; 
 
 While the bright dames, to whom they humble su'd, 
 
 Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdu'd. 
 
 Fain wou'd I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, 
 And shew th' immortal labours in my verse, 
 Where from the mingled strength of shade and light 
 A new creation rises to my sight, 
 Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, 
 So warm with life his blended colours glow. 
 From theme to theme with secret pleasure tost, 
 Amidst the soft variety I'm lost : 
 Here pleasing airs my ravisht soul confound 
 With circling notes and labyrinths of sound ; 
 Here domes and temples rise in distant views, 
 And opening palaces invite my muse. 
 
 How has kind heav'n adurn'd the happy land, 
 And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand ! 
 But what avail her~unexhausted stores, 
 Her blooming mountains and her sunny shores, 
 With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart, 
 The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, 
 While proud oppression in her vallies reigns, 
 And tyranny usurps her happy plains ? 
 
 !• ss acts of the old Romans being displayed — a line doubly obscnre, and 
 therefore doubly faulty. If the latter fault may be excused, the former 
 cannot: for when a plural noun is used, in what is called the genitive 
 case, "t requires to be preceded by its sign, the preposi^on of: above 
 all, -when the termination (as is generally the case of our plural noun«) 
 is in i.
 
 LETTER FROM ITALY. l67 
 
 The poor inhabitant beholds in vain 1 
 The red'ning orange and the swelling grain: 
 Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, 
 And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines : 
 Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst. 
 And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst. 
 
 Oh Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, 
 Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight ! 
 Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, 
 And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train ; 
 Eas'd of her load subjection grows more light 
 And poverty looks chearful in thy sight ; 
 Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, 
 Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the da} 
 
 Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores ; 
 How has she oft exhausted all her stores, 
 How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, 
 Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought ! 
 On foreign mountains may the sun refine 
 The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, 
 With citron groves adorn a distant soil, 
 And the fat olive swell with floods of oil : 
 We envy not the warmer clime, that lies 
 In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, 
 Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, 
 Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine : 
 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, 
 And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile 
 
 The poor inhabitant, <&c. These three coupl'f-; are among the inos* 
 vigorous line's Addison ever wrote. Si sic omnia — he would have stood as 
 high in verse as he do'-s in prose. It is almost loo minute a criticism, per- 
 haps, to say that ' red'ning' is not the proper epithet for the orange, evuo 
 while it is growing. — G.
 
 \G8 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Others with towering piles may please the sight,' 
 And in their proud aspiring domes delight ; 
 A nicer touch to the stretch'd canvass give, 
 Or teach their animated rocks to live : 
 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, 
 And hold in balance each contending state, 
 To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war, 
 And answer her afflicted neighbours' pray'r. 
 The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by tierce alarms, 
 Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms : 
 Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease, 
 And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace. 
 
 Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread 
 Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head, 
 And fain her godlike sons wou'd disunite 
 By foreign gold, or by domestick spite ; 
 But strives in vain to conquer or divide, 
 Whom Nassau's arms defend and counsels guide. 
 
 Fir'd with the name, which I so oft have found 
 The distant climes and different tongues resound, 
 I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, 2 
 That longs to launch into a bolder strain. 
 
 1 Others with towering piles, &a. Virgil, whose magnificent description 
 of Italy in the second Georgic, seems to have been running in Addison's 
 iiead while he was writing several passages of tb.13 poem, is very success- 
 fully imitated in these lines. Compare the well-known verses of the sixth 
 ^Eneid, v. 847 : Excudent alii spirantia mollius aera, <fec. — G. 
 
 1 / bridle in my struggling muse, <&c. Of this Johnson says, "To 
 bridle a goddess is no very delicate idea; but why must she be bridled? 
 because she longs to launch ! an act which was never hindered by a bridle ; 
 and whither will she launch ? into a nobler strain. She is in the first line 
 a horse, in the second a boat ; and the care of the poet is to keep his horse 
 oi- his boat from singing." Blair takes nearly the same view. "It is sur- 
 piising how the following inaccuracy should have escaped Mr. Addison in 
 his letter from Italy — 'I bridle, <fec.' The muse, figured as a horse, may be
 
 LETTER FROM ITALY. 169 
 
 But I've already troubled you too long, 
 Nor dare attempt a more advent'rous song. 
 My humble verse' demands a softer theme, 
 A painted meadow, or a purling stream ; 
 Unfit for heroes; whom immortal lays, 
 And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, shou'd praise. 
 
 bridled; but when we speak of launching, we make it a ship; and by no 
 force of imagination can it be supposed both a horse and a ship at one mo- 
 ment; bridled to hinder it from launching." — G. 
 
 1 Mv humble verse. Sed ne relictis, musa m'ocax. iocis. <fec. To one 
 who travelled with the Latin poets for his guide books, it is more than 
 probable that the closing stanza of the first ode of Horace's 2d book sug- 
 gested this graceful close. — G. 
 
 VOL. I. — £
 
 THE CAMPAIGN, 
 
 a 35oEm; 
 
 10 HI GRACE THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. 
 
 Rheni pacatnr et Istri 
 
 Omnis in hoc uno variis discnrdia cessit 
 Ordinibus ; tetatur eques, plauditque senator, 
 Votaque patricio certant plebeia favorL 
 
 Claud, de Lattd. Stilio. 
 
 Esse aliquam in terris genteni quse sua impensa, suo labore ac periculo bella g^rat 
 pro libertate aliorura. Nee hoc finitimis, ant propinquae vincinitatis hominibus, aut terrk 
 continent! junetis prajstet, Maria trajieiat: ne quod toto orbe terrarum injustum iinperium 
 sit, et ubique jus, fas, lex, putentissima sint. Lit. Hist. lib. 33. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 
 
 [The best authorities very nearly agree in the following account of the ori- 
 gin of this poem : — "The victory at Blenheim" (17 0-4), says Johnson, "spread 
 triumph and confidence over the nation ; and Lord Godolphin lamenting to 
 Lord Halifax, that it had not been celebrated in a manner equal to the 
 subject, desired him to propose it to some better poet. Halifax told him 
 that there was no encouragement for genius ; that worthless men were 
 unprofitably enriched with public money, without any care to find or 
 employ those whose appearance might do honor to their country. To 
 this Godolphin replied, that such abuses should in time be rectified: and 
 that if a man could be found, capable of the task then proposed, he should 
 not want an ample recompense. Halifax then named Addison, but re- 
 quired that the treasurer should apply to him in his own person. Godol- 
 phin sent the message by Mr. Boyle, afterwards Lord Carleton ; and Ad li- 
 son having undertaken the work, communicated it to the treasurer, while 
 it waw yet advanced no farther than the simile of the angeL and was im- 
 mediately rewarded by succeeding Mr. Locke in the place of Commissio-ier 
 oj Appeals."
 
 THE CAMTAIGN. I ? i 
 
 Of the work itself, Johnson remarks: — " The next composition is the 
 fa"-famed Campaign, -which Dr. Warton has termed a 'Gazette in rhyme,' 
 rt r ith harshness not often used by the good nature of his criticism. Before 
 a censure so severe is admitted, let us consider that war is a frequent sub- 
 ject of poetry, and then inquire who has described it with more greatness 
 and force. Many of our own writers tried their powers upon this year 
 of victory; yet Addison's is confessedly the best performance: his poem 
 is the work of a man not blinded by the dust of learning; his images are 
 not borrowed merely from books. The superiority which he confers up or 
 his hero is not personal prowess and 'mighty bone,' but deliberate 
 intrepidity, a calm command of his passions, and the power of consulting 
 his own mind in the midst of danger. The rejection and contempt of fic- 
 tion is rational and manly." 
 
 Macaulay's remarks are an amplification and illustration of the last 
 sentence of Johnson's. "The 'Campaign' came forth and was as much 
 admired by the public as by (he minister. It pleases us less on the whole 
 than the ' Epistle to Halifax.' Yet it undoubtedly ranks high among the 
 poems during the interval between the death of Dryilen and the dawn of 
 Pope's genius. The chief merit of the 'Campaign,' we think, is that 
 which was noticed by Johnson — the manly and rational rejection of fic- 
 tion." And after a lively passage upon the ridiculous imitation of the 
 ilomeric style of combat in descriptions of battles fought on entirely differ- 
 ent military principles, he adds: — "Addison, with excellent taste and 
 judgment, departed from this ridiculous fashion. He reserved his praise 
 for the qualities which made Marlborough truly great : energy, sagacity, 
 military science. But above all, the poet extolled the firmness of that 
 mind, which, in the midst of confusion, xiproar and slaughter, examined 
 and disposed eveiy thing with the serene wisdom of a higher intelligence." 
 
 The "Campaign" of this poem is the campaign of 1704. When this 
 poem was written all the incidents of the campaign of 1704 were as famil- 
 iar as Quatre Bras and Waterloo. For the modern reader they require an 
 explanation, and I translate the following admirable sketch from a French 
 historian: — 
 
 " The Elector of Bavaria and Marshal Villars had quarrelled openly, 
 and the operations were suffering from it. Villars asked to be recalled, 
 and the king, to preserve au ally so important as the elector, sent Marshal 
 Margin to replace him. Germany was still paralyzed by the victory (if 
 Hochstadt (gained by Villars, Sept. 20, 1703). The elector took advantage 
 of it to seize Augsburgh, and march upon Passau, which he took on the 9th 
 .Ian., 1704. Vienna was struck with terror; tin- Hungarian insurgents 
 pushed their bands up to the suburbs ; the emperor prepared to lice into 
 Moravia. Eugene, Marlborough and fieinsius resolved to save Austria by 
 the boldest of plans. A.- the French line of operations extended from 
 ?trasburgh to Passau, it seemed cas^ to rut it in the middle and etush ihe
 
 1/2 TOEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 elector, waom the coalition had sworn to ruin entirely. The three great 
 generals of the allies united to put this plan in execution. Louis of Baden 
 resumed the offensive in Franconia. Eugene collected the remnants of 
 the defeat of Spire, and undertook the defence of the lines of Stolhofen. 
 Marlborough, who had Villeroy and Boufflers before him, left in a camp 
 near Maestricht twenty-five thousand Dutch troops, to hold them in check, 
 and marched, with twenty thousand men, towards the Danube. First he 
 moved as if he were going to march upon the Moselle, then turning rapidly 
 towards the Rhine, crossed it at Cologne, formed a junction before May- 
 ence with the contingents of the Palatinate and Brandenburgh, and passed 
 the Neckar at Heilbronn. (Here he met Eugene.) At the news of this 
 march, Villeroy set out with thirty thousand men in pursuit of the- English 
 general. Tallard advanced upon the Moselle, then fell back upon the Lau- 
 ten, joined Villeroy, and prepared to attack Stolhofen, in order to relieve 
 the elector. But the elector, instead of turning upon Louis of Baden, and 
 crushing him, directed his march towards the left bank of the Danube, and 
 fortified Donauwerth on theSchellenberg, where he awaited the arrival of 
 Tallard. Marlborough and Louis of Baden were thus left free to form a 
 junction at Ulm (July 2), then marched directly to the Schellenberg, car- 
 ried the position of Donauwerth, and drove back the Bavarians to the right 
 bank of the Danube. This bloody combat, in which the Bavarians lost 
 eight thousand men, and the allies six thousand, freed the passage of the 
 Lech, and laid open Bavaria, which was ravaged as fearfully as the Palati- 
 nate had been a few years before. The vanquished army fortified them- 
 selves at Augsburgh, where they waited the arrival of Tallard, in order 
 to resume the offensive. Tallard, by order of the court, advanced rapidly 
 with thirty-five thousand men, from the lines of Lautenburgh, leaving Vil- 
 leroy to hold Eugene in check at Stolhofen, passed the Rhine at Huniugen, 
 crossed the defiies of the Black Forest, and reached Augsburgh the 3d of 
 August, forming with the troops of the elector an army of fifty -six thou- 
 sand men. Eugene quitted the line of Stolhofen with equal rapidity ; but 
 being threatened by Villeroy, was unable to stop Tallard on his march, and 
 reached Hochstadt the same day that his adversary reached Augsburgh. 
 This was a fine opportunity for the French to march upon the corps of Eu- 
 gene, only twenty thousand men strong, and crush it; but they lost time. 
 Marlborough advanced rapidly to his colleague's support, and the two ar- 
 mies uniting at Hochstadt formed a force of fifty-two thousand men. The 
 strategic field of this portion of the basin of the Danube being the rigid, 
 bank of the river, where the communications are easy and the country 
 abundant, while the left bank is wild, without roads, and shut in by moun- 
 tains whieh surround the basin, the French ought to have kept on the 
 right bank, refused battle, and waited for the enemy to retreat; and as 
 the .illies could not have penetrated, into Bavaria -without leaving too far 
 behind their magazines of Nordlingen and Nuremberg, they would havtj
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 173 
 
 bee; •Red either to fall back upon the Mein, or allow Villeroy to cut 
 
 ofl* their communications. But instead of this the two marshals and the 
 elector passed the Danube at Huningen, to give battle. This was precisely 
 what their adversaries wished, who, to anticipate them, took station near 
 Hochsta'dt, with their left resting on the Danube. Tallard and Marsin in- 
 terpreted this movement as a feint to mask a retrear upon Nuremberg, 
 and drew up their army in such a way as to form two distinct armies, each 
 with its infantry in the centre, and the cavalry on the wings: and more- 
 over, believing their right flank menaced, they stripped the centre to 
 crowd together on this flank, which was naturally covered by the Danube, 
 twenty-seven battalions, and twelve squadrons, forming more than twelve 
 thousand men, who were thus left isolated and useless in the village of 
 Blenheim. Marlborough, after having exhorted his troops to fight for th« 
 "freedom of the nations," advanced against the centre, broke it, and cut the 
 French Bavarian army in two; then turned to the right wing, drove it 
 into the river, and made Tallard prisoner. Marsin and the elector, who 
 ■were contending more successfully on the left with Eugene, instead of 
 taking Marlborough in flank, and thus disengaging their right wing, re- 
 crossed the Danube, and retreated upon Ulm, without giving any orders 
 to the twelve thousand men in Blenheim, who were surrounded and com- 
 pelled to lay down their arms without fighting, (Aug. 13.) The loss of 
 the two armies in killed and wounded was twelve thousand men each; 
 but the French lost also twelve thousand prisoners, and the rest of their 
 army was thrown into such utter confusion, that twelve thousand more 
 got lost or deserted, and twenty thousand were all that the elector could 
 collect in Ulm. The incapacity of the generals made the consequences of 
 this defeat even more disastrous than the defeat itself. Marsin, finding 
 himself pursued, threw himself into the Black Forest, where he formed, 
 near Villingen, a junction with Villeroy; who, if he had followed Eugene, 
 as Eugene had followed Tallard, might have prevented this disaster. 
 By this junction the French army was once more equal to the allies, and 
 Marsin and Villeroy might have defended the passes; but they, terror- 
 struck, hurried over the mountains, and it was not till they had put 
 the Rhine between them and the enemy, that they felt themselves safe. 
 The elector took refuge in France. 
 
 " It was long since France had met with such a disaster. By one stroke 
 a hundred leagues of territory, the states of Bavaria, and an army of 
 fiftv thousand men were losl ; Austria Baved and France menaced with in- 
 vasion. The allies full of joy at this unhoped for fortune, talked of noth- 
 ing less than reducing Louis XIV. to the dominions which had been held 
 by liia lather. They crossed the Rhine at Phippsburgh, but the Prince of 
 Ba l'-n refusing to invade Lorraine, they confined their efforts to Landau, 
 which they laid siege to and took, while different detachments freed the 
 country between the Rhine and the Meuse, seized Treves, Traerbach, and
 
 174 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Saarbruck, and stripped the Elector of Cologne who, like his brother, took 
 refuge in France." — G.] 
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. a 
 
 While crowds of princes your deserts proclaim, 
 Proud in their number to enroll your name ; 
 While emperors to you commit their cause$ ' 
 Aud Anna's praises crown the vast applause'; 
 Accept, great leader, what the muse recites,' 
 That in ambitious verse attempts your fights, 
 Fir'd and transported with a theme so new. • 
 Ten thousand wonders op'ning to my view 
 Shine forth at once ; sieges and storms appear, 
 And wars and conquests fill th' important year, 
 Rivers of blood I see, and hills of slain, 
 An Iliad rising ' out of one campaign. 
 
 The haughty Gaul beheld, with tow'ring pride, 
 His ancient bounds enlarg'd on ev'ry side, 
 Pirene's lofty barriers were subdu'd, 
 And in the midst of his wide empire stood ; 
 Ausonia's states, the victor to restrain, 
 Opposed their Alps and Appeniues in vain, 
 Nor found themselves, with strength of rocks immur'd, 
 Behind their everlasting hills secur'd ; 
 The rising Danube its long race began, 
 And half its course through the new conquests ran; 
 
 1 An Iliad rising. The expression is not happy, for the Iliad which 
 naturally occurs to the reader is not the ten years' siege of Ilium, but 
 I lomei's story of it, which really forms a shorter campaign than this. — G. 
 
 » The execution of this poem is better than the plan. Indeed the 
 subject was fit only for an ode, and might have furnished materials foi a 
 % very fine one, if Mr. Addison had possessed the talents of a lyric poet 
 However, particular passages are wrought up into much life and beauty.
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 175 
 
 Amaz'd and anxious for her sovereign's fates, 
 Germania trembled through a hundred states ; 
 Great Leopold ' himself was seized with fear ; 
 He gaz'd around, but saw no succour near ; 
 He gaz'd, and half abandon'd to despair, 2 
 His hopes on heav'u, and confidence in pray'r. 
 
 To Britain's queen the nations turn their eyes, 
 On her resolves the western world relies, 
 Confiding still, amidst its dire alarms, 
 In Anna's councils, and in Churchill's 3 arms. 
 Thrice happy Britain, from the kingdoms rent, 4 
 To sit the guardian of the continent ! 
 That sees her bravest son advanc'd so high, 
 And flourishing so near her prince's eye ; 
 Thy fav'rites grow not up by fortune's sport, s 
 Or from the crimes, or follies of a court; 
 On the firm basis of desert they rise, 
 From long-try'd faith, and friendship's holy ties : 
 
 1 Great Leopold. Leopold I., Emperor of Germany, -who died tha 
 following yeai'. — G. 
 
 1 Half abandoned to despair, &c. In preparing the compliment for 
 Queen Anne, which begins the next paragraph, Addison ilocs not seem to 
 have remembered that a prince who, like Leopold, had been educated for 
 the church, and was all his life devoted to the clergy, could hardly feel 
 flattered by a description which says so little for 'his hopes on heaven and 
 confidence in prayer.' — G. 
 
 3 Churchill, John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough. — G. 
 
 4 Vrom the kingdoms rent. Et penitus toto divisos orbe Britannos. — 1st 
 Buc. Very happily applied by Tasso to Ireland La divisa dal mondo 
 
 la [rlanda. — Gee. Lib. Cant. V. 1, st. — G. • 
 
 6 Thy favorites grow not up by fortune'* sport. This is rather bold to 
 apply to the Duke of Marlborough, who, with all his talent, was indebted 
 to a not very creditable "sport of fortune " for his first start But here 
 it, is not merely Addison the poet, but Addison the Whig, that speaks — 
 Vide Macaulay'a Hist of England, ch. I, and for variety compare Coze's 
 M> in. of Marlbormgh. — <;.
 
 176 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Their sovereign's well-distinguisli'd smiles tliey share, 
 
 Her ornaments in peace, her strength in war ; 
 
 The nation thanks them with a public voice, 
 
 By show'rs of blessings heav'n approves their choice j 
 
 Envy itself is dumb, in wonder lost, 
 
 And factions strive who shall applaud 'em most. 
 
 Soon as soft vernal breezes ' warm the sky, 
 Britannia's colours in the zephyrs fly; 
 Her chief already has his march begun, 
 Crossing the provinces himself had won, 
 Till the Moselle, appearing from afar, 
 Retards the progress of the moving war. 
 Delightful stream, had nature bid her fall 
 In distant climes, far from the perjur'd Gaul; 
 But now a purchase to the sword she lies, 
 Her harvests for uncertain owners rise, 
 Each vineyard doubtful of its master grows, 
 And to the victor's bowl each vintage flows. 
 
 ' Soon as soft vernal breezes. In studying so careful a 'writer as Addi- 
 son, it may be permitted to ask what office is performed by the "zephyrs" 
 of the next line which could not have been performed equally well by the 
 "vernal breezes" of the first? But the whole of this paragraph is stiff, 
 and shows how hard the writer found it, in spite of his enthusiasm, to get 
 into his subject. The Moselle is introduced in the first line of the third 
 couplet with very goo;l effect, but the effort reappears in the unhappy 
 application of the epithet moving to war, in the equivocal use of " fall," 
 as applied to a river, and the introduction of "discontented shades," in a 
 poem professedly historical and human. There are, however, three vigor- 
 ous linos, in which truth and poetry are combined with singular felicity, in 
 painting, by^i judicious choice of circumstances, some of the guilt of war : — 
 
 Her harvests for uncertain owners rise, 
 Eacli vineyard doubtful of its master grows, 
 And to the victor's bowl each vintage Qows. 
 
 These lines have been imitated by Voltaire, though with a mythological 
 application — 
 
 " Incertains pour quel maitre, en ces plaines feeondes, 
 Voiit croitre leurs moissons et vont coaler lours ondes."
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 177 
 
 The discontented shades of slaughtered hosts, 
 That wander'd on her banks, her heroes ghosts 
 Hop'd, when they saw Britannia's arms appear, 
 The vengeance due to their great deaths was near. 
 
 Our godlike leader," ' ere the stream he pass'd, 
 The might}- scheme of all his labours cast, 
 Forming the wondrous year within his thought ; 
 His bosom glow'd with battles yet unfought. 
 The long laborious march he first surveys, 
 And joins the distant Danube to the Maese, 
 Between whose floods such pathless forests grow, 
 Such mountains rise, so many rivers flow: 
 The toil looks lovely in the hero's eyes, 
 And danger serves but to enhance the prize. 
 
 Big with the fate of Europe, 2 he renews 
 His dreadful course, and the proud foe pursues : 
 Infected by the burning Scorpion's heat, 
 The sultry gales round his chaf 'd temples beat, 
 Till on the borders of the Maine he finds 
 Defensive shadows, and refreshing winds. 
 Our British .youth, with in-born freedom bold, 
 Unnumber'd scenes of servitude behold, 
 
 1 Our godlike leader. Here the verse flows with far mere freedom, 
 and Marlborough is drawn in such .a way as to give him, at once, his true 
 place as the controlling spirit of the whole campaign — G. 
 
 a Big with the fate of Europe. A striking expression in the opening 
 
 scene of Cato — 
 
 " The day big with the fate 
 Of Cato and of Koine— " 
 
 bat sadly out <>f place here. Indeed, the stiffness from which Addison's 
 heroic verse is never free for many couplets together, appears again in this 
 paragraph. Ft closes, however, with a beautiful patriotic thought, beau- 
 tifully expressed. — G. 
 
 » Our godlike leader Our poets, half paganized in their education, 
 deal much too freely in this epithet 
 
 vol. i.— 8*
 
 178 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Nations of slaves, with tyranny debas'd, 
 (Their Maker's image more than half defac'd) 
 Hourly instructed, as they urge their toil, 
 To prize their queen, and love their native soil. 
 
 Still to the rising sun, they take their way 
 Through clouds of dust, and gain upon the day. 
 When now the Neckar on its friendly coast 
 With cooling streams revives the fainting host, 
 That cheerfully its labours past forgets, 
 The midnight watches, and the noon-day heats. 
 
 O'er prostrate towns and palaces they pass, 
 (Now cover'd o'er with weeds, and hid in grass) 
 Breathing revenge; whilst anger and disdain 
 Fire ev'ry breast, and boil in ev'ry vein : 
 Here shatter'd walls, like broken rocks, from far 
 Rise up in hideous views, the guilt of war, 
 Whilst here the vine o'er hills of ruin climbs, 
 Industrious to conceal great Bourbon's crimes. 
 
 At length the fame of England's hero drew 
 Eugenio to the glorious interview. ' 
 Great souls 2 by instinct to each other turn, 
 Demand alliance, and in friendship burn ; 
 
 1 Eugenio to the glorious interview. At Heilbronn, where these two 
 great, men met for the first time, though the general plan of the campaign 
 had been concerted between them by letter. The reader will remember 
 Sir Roger's visit to London to see Prince Eugene, "Having heard him say 
 more than once, in private discourse, that he looked upon Prince Eugenio 
 ' I'or so the knight always calls him) to be a greater man than Scander- 
 Vvg.'-G. 
 
 2 Great souls, &c. The next two couplets are very strained, common- 
 place in thought, confused in imager}^ and tame in expression. The idea 
 of souls shooting out rays toward each other, which meet and blaze up 
 in a coiiimou conflagration, sounds more like "hoarse Sir Richard" than 
 Addison, and i* worthy of one of the high places of the " Art of sinking."
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 179 
 
 A sudden friendship, while with stretch'd-out rays 
 They meet each other, mingling blaze with blaze. 
 Polish'd in courts, and harden'd in the field, 
 Renown'd for conquest, and in council skill'd, 
 Their courage dwells not in a troubled flood 
 Of mounting spirits, and fermenting blood : 
 Lodg'd in the soul, with virtue over-rul'd, 
 Iuflam'd by reason, and by reason cool'd, 
 In hours of peace content to be unknown, 
 And only in the field of battle shown: 
 To souls like these, in mutual friendship join'd, 
 Heaven dares intrust the cause of human kind. 
 
 Britannia's graceful sons appear in arms, ' 
 Her harass'd troops the hero's presence warms, 
 Whilst the high hills and rivers all around 
 With thund'ring peals of British shouts resound : 
 Doubling their speed, they march with fresh delight, 
 Eager for glory, and require the fight. 
 So the stanch hound the trembling deer pursues, 
 And smells his footsteps in the tainted dews, 
 
 The remainder of the paragraph is at least good sense, and in the last 
 
 couplet but one — 
 
 " In hours of peace, content to be unknown, 
 And only in the field of battle shown — " 
 
 Addison is himself again. The Dutch struck a medal with Marlborough 
 and Eugene's heads in profile, ami the inscription — Hcroum concordia 
 victrix. — G. 
 
 1 Britannia's graceful sons. An odd epithet for Boldiers, and still more 
 so by its local contrast with " harassed troops." It requires a moment's 
 reflection to see that they refer to the same persons. But the tameness 
 of iin: first three couplets of this paragraph is compensated by the simile 
 of Hi.- hound, equally just and beautiful, an I expressed in Addison's best 
 manner. Though, perhaps, the picture would have been more exact, and 
 none the le poetical, if bounds had been used instead of shoots, in de> 
 scribing the sudden start of the dog on the fresh scent. — (t.
 
 180 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 The tedious track unrav'ling by degrees : 
 But when the scent conies warm in ev'ry breeze, 
 Fir'd at the near approach, he shoots away 
 On his full stretch, and bears upon his prey. 
 
 The march concludes, 1 the various realms are past, 
 Th' immortal Schellenberg appears at last ; 
 Like hills th' aspiring ramparts rise on high, 
 Like valleys at their feet the trenches lie ; 
 Batt'ries on batt'ries guard each fatal pass. 
 Threat'ning destruction ; rows of hollow brass, 
 Tube behind tube, the dreadful entrance keep, 
 Whilst in their wombs ten thousand thunders sleep : 
 Great Churchill owns, charm'd with the glorious sight, 
 His march o'erpaid by such a promis'd fight. 
 
 The western sun now shot a feeble ray, 
 And faintly scatter'd the remains of day, 
 Ev'ning approach'd ; but, oh ! what hosts of foes 
 Were never to behold that ev'ning close ! 
 Thick'ning their ranks, and wedg'd in firm array, 
 The close-compacted Britons win their way: 
 In vain the cannon their throng'd war defac'd 
 With tracts of death, and laid the battle waste ; 
 Still pressing forward to the fight, they broke 
 Through flames of sulphur, and a night of smoke, 
 Till slaughter'd legions fill'd the trench below, 
 And bore their fierce avengers to the foe. 
 
 High on the works the mingling hosts engage ; 
 The battle kindled into tenfold rage 
 
 1 The inarch concludes. From this point the poem continues through 
 several paragraphs, with a full flow of vigorous and harmonious verse, in 
 which the three couplets beginning "The Western Sun," should be parti- 
 cularly mentioned. For the "Schellenberg," see the introduction. — 1>
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 181 
 
 With show'rs of bullets, and with storms of fire 
 Burns in full fury ; heaps on heaps expire, 
 Nations with nations mix'd confus'dly die, 
 And lost in one promiscuous carnage lie. 
 
 How many gen'rous Britons meet their doom, 
 New to the field, and heroes in the bloom ! 
 TV illustrious youths, that left their native shore 
 To march where Britons never march'd before, 
 (0 fatal love of fame ! glorious heat, 
 Only destructive to the brave and great !) 
 After such toils o'ercome, such dangers past, 
 Stretch'd on Bavarian ramparts, breathe their last. 
 But hold, my muse, may no complaints appear, 
 Nor blot the day with an ungrateful tear ; 
 While Marlbro' lives Britannia's stars dispense 
 A friendly light and shine in innocence. 
 Plunging thro' seas of blood ' his fiery steed, 
 Where'er his friends retire, or foes succeed ; 2 
 Those he supports, these drives to sudden flight, 
 And turns the various fortune of the fight. 
 
 Forbear, great man, 3 renown'd in arms, forbear 
 To brave the thickest terrors of the war, 
 Nor hazard thus, confus'd in crowds of foes, 
 Britannia's safety, and the world's impose ; 
 Let nations anxious for thy life, abate 
 This scorn of danger, and contempt of fate : 
 
 1 Plunging thro 1 seas of ///<"»/. Hero Marlborough has a little too 
 much of the 'mighty bone,' and Addison seems to forfeit for a moment lii-* 
 claims to the praise of Johnson and Macaulay. — (r. 
 
 2 Wlverier his friends retire, or foes succeed. Chronicled, and not un- 
 worthily, in the eleventh chapter of the "Arl of .sinking in poetry." — G. 
 
 3 Forbear, great man. Ne rue per medjos minium temerarius hostes. — 
 PhavB. 2. vii. v. 690. Imitated also by Voltaire — "Ah cher prince, airfitez." 
 r'ontenoi. — Q.
 
 182 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Thou liv'st not for thyself ; thy ^ueen demands 
 Conquest and peace from thy victorious hands ; 
 Kingdoms and empires in thy fortune join, 
 And Europe's destiny depends on thine. 
 
 At length the long-disputed pass they gain, 
 By crouded armies fortify'd in vain ; 
 The war breaks in, the fierce Bavarians yield, 
 And see their camp with British legions fill'd. 
 So Belgian mounds ! bear on their shatter'd sides 
 The sea's whole weight, increas'd with swelling tides ; 
 But if the rushing wave a passage finds, 
 Enrag'd by wat'ry moons, and warring winds, 
 The trembling peasant sees his country round 
 Cover'd with tempests, and in oceans drown'd. 
 
 The few surviving foes disperst in flight, 
 (Refuse of swords, and gleanings of a fight) a 
 In ev'ry rustling wind the victor hear, 2 
 And Marlbro's form in ev'ry shadow fear, 
 
 l So Belgian mounds. In his examination of the simile of the Ano-el, 
 Johnson says: "In the poem now examined (the Campaign) where the 
 English are represented as gaining a fortified pass, by repetition of attack, 
 and perseverance of resolution, their obstinacy of courage and vigor of 
 onset is well illustrated by the sea, that breaks with incessant battery, the 
 dikes of Holland."— G. 
 
 a In every rw^ling wind, &e. If Addison had been a more open ad- 
 mirer of the Italian poets, I should have suspected him of having had in 
 his eye the thirty-third stanza of the first Canto of Orlando Furioso : 
 
 "E'l mover delle frondc e di verzure 
 Che di cerri sentia, d'olmi e di faggi, 
 Fatto le avea con subite paure, 
 Trovar di qua e di la strani viaggi ; 
 Che ad ogni oinbra veduta in monte o in valle 
 Temea Einaldo aver sempre alle spallc." — G. 
 
 ■ (Refuse of swords, and gleanings of a fight). This verse and those 
 below: — The growth of meadows, and the pride of fields, and, The food of 
 armies, and suppor* of wars, have been censured by the critics, not alto
 
 THE CAMPAIGN 183 
 
 'Till the dark cope of night with kind embrace 
 Befriends the rout, and covers their disgrace. 
 
 To Donawert, ' witli unresisted force, 
 The gay victorious army bends its course. 
 The growth of meadows, and the pride of fields, 
 Whatever spoils Bavaria's summer yields, 
 (The Danube's great increase) Britannia shares, 
 The food of armies, and support of wars : 
 With magazines of death, destructive balls, 
 And cannons doom'd to batter Landau's walls, 
 The victor finds each hidden cavern stor'd, 
 And turns their fury on their guilty lord. 2 
 
 Deluded prince ! 3 how is thy greatness crost, 
 And all the gaudy dream of empire lost, 
 
 1 Donawert. Donauwerth — on the left bank of the Danube — a fete de 
 pont connecting the defense of the Lech with that of the Rednitz, and a 
 very important position between Uhn and Ratisbon, at the crossing of the 
 roads from the Neckar and Mein to Augsburgh. Here the verse flags again, 
 and this short paragraph has furnished two lines to the " Art of sinking," 
 viz. : "The growth of meadows," and "The food of armies." "The macro- 
 logy and pleonasm," says Martinus Scriblerus, '' are as generally coupled 
 as a lean rabbit with a fat one ; nor is it a wonder, the superfluity of 
 words and vacuity of sense, being just the same thing. I am pleased to 
 see one of our greatest adversaries employ this figure." — G. 
 
 a Venez,laneez ees tow. Ires que leurs mains out forgds. — Fontcnoi. 
 
 ' I)' luded prince. The Elector of Bavaria, ally of Louis XIV. Tn this 
 paragraph and the next, the verse moves smoothly, with occasional passages 
 of vigor. But ii i- sad to think that a man like Addison could be so misled 
 by national and | arty prejudice, as to speak in such terms of the horrible de- 
 vastation of Bavaria. Of this atrocious deed, Archdeacon Coxe coolly says : 
 "The confederates had now no other alternative than to visit the offence* 
 of ih' prince on his unfortunate subjects. Numerous villages were burnt. 
 
 g ( ther without reason, yet with rather too much severity ; for the expres- 
 sion ri-.-.-, something, bul not, so much as it ought The greatest fault is, 
 tnat three such verses (each of which is only passable) stand so near- to- 
 c. >,,■!•: but for the cause of this defect in our author's rhymed verse, set 
 '.he introd actory note to his Latin poem .
 
 181 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 That proudly set thee on a fancy'd throne, 
 And made imaginary realms thy own ! 
 Thy troops that now behind the Danube join, 
 Shall shortly seek for shelter from the Rhine, 
 Nor find it there : Surrounded with alarms, 
 Thou hope'st th 1 assistance u of the Gallic arms ; 
 The Gallic arms in safety shall advance, 
 And crowd thy standards with the power of France, 
 While to exalt thy doom, th' aspiring Gaul 
 Shares thy destruction, and adorns thy fall. 
 Unbounded courage and compassion join'd, 
 ^Temp'ring each other in the victor's mind, 
 Alternately proclaim him good and great, 
 And make the hero and the man compleat. 
 Long did he strive th' obdurate foe to gain 
 By proffer'd grace, but long he strove in vain ; 
 'Till fir'd at length, he thinks it vain to spare 
 His rising wrath, and gives a loose to war. 
 In vengeance rous'd, the soldier fills his hand 
 AVith sword and fire, and ravages the land, 
 A thousand villages to ashes turns, 
 In crackling flames a thousand harvests burns. 
 
 or destroyed, and the whole country was given up to military execution, as 
 far as the vicinity of Munich." It is but fair to add a passage from one 
 of Marlborough's letters to his wife: "We sent this morning 3000 horse 
 to- his (the elector's) chief city of Munich, with orders to burn and destroy 
 all the country about it. This is so contrary to my nature, that nothing 
 but absolute necessity could have obliged me to consent to it, for tlio^e 
 poor people suffer for their master's ambition. There having been no war 
 in this country for above sixty years, their towns and villages are so clean 
 that you would be pleased with them." Coxe's Memoirs of Marlborough, 
 vol. 1, page 183— G. 
 
 ■ T/tou hope 1 st th' assistance. Scarce tolerable in the expression, bu' 
 insuppoi table in the sound.
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 85 
 
 To the thick woods the woolly flocks a retreat, 
 And niixt with bellowing herds confus'dly bleat ; 
 Their trembling lords the common shade partake, 
 And cries of infants sound in ev'ry brake : 
 The list'ning soldier ' fixt in sorrow stands, 
 Loth to obey his leader's just commands ; 
 The leader grieves, by gen'rous pity sway'd, 
 To see his just commands so well obey'd 
 But now the trumpet, 3 terrible from far, 
 I In shriller clangors animates the war, 
 Confed'rate drums in fuller consort beat, 
 And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat : 
 Gallia's proud standards, to Bavaria's join'd, 
 Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind ; 
 
 1 The listening soldier. A fine picture, but if Bavarian and Fret.ch 
 testimony were taken, it would probably be more in harmony with cer- 
 tain passages in the histories of the English wars with Scotland, the con- 
 current testimony of American writers concerning their conduct during 
 the American Revolution, and some strong statements in Napier's Peninsu- 
 lar war, confirmed by the correspondence of the Duke of Wellington. — G. 
 
 1 But now the trumpet. Here the poet rises with his subject, and ap- 
 proaches the decisive battle with much spirit. The picture of the various 
 hopes and feelings connected with the " fatal day," is finely conceived, 
 and vigorously drawn. States bemoaning their new captivity, and armies 
 of martyrs groaning in exile, are objects sufficiently distinct and definite 
 to address themselves directly to the feelings. And the feelings once en- 
 listed, must he strongly moved by the "sighs and prayers," the natural 
 expression of human suffering, and thereby definite in themselves, but 
 acquiring, as they rise from the "depths of gloomy dungeons," and burst 
 from the soul in its bitterness, somewhat of that mystery which is so 
 pleasing to an excited imagination. But I wish he had stopped here. 
 "Europe" is too definite an idea to follow those mysterious sighs and 
 prayers ; the next line was not written for posterity, and, to say the least,, 
 it is Dot very pious to assert that Heaven had been waiting for the ba'.tU 
 of Blenheim, to show "his care and conduct" of human events. — G. 
 
 » Tfie woolly flock. The " Lanigene peciules" of Lucretius.
 
 186 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 The daring prince Lis blasted hopes renews, 
 And while the thick embattled host he views 
 Stretcht out in deep array, and dreadful length, 
 His heart dilates, and glories in his strength. 
 
 The fatal day its mighty course began, 
 That the griev'd world had long desir'd in vain : 
 States that their new captivity bemoan'd, 
 Armies of martyrs that in exile groan'd, 
 Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard, 
 And prayers in bitterness of soul preferr'd 
 Europe's loud cries, that Providence assail'd, 
 And Anna's ardent vows, at length prevail'd ; 
 The day was come when heaven design'd to show 
 His care and conduct of the world below. 
 
 Behold in awful march 1 and dread array 
 The long-extended squadrons shape their way ! 
 Death, in approaching terrible, imparts 
 An anxious horror to the bravest hearts ; 
 Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, 
 And thirst of glory quells the love of life. 
 No vulgar fears can British minds controul : 
 Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul 
 O'erlook the foe, advantag'd by his post, 
 Lessen his numbers and contract his host: 2 
 Tho' fens and floods possest the middle space, 
 That unprovok'd they would have fear'd to pass ; 
 Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands, 
 When her proud foe rang'd on their borders stand*. 
 
 1 Behold in awful march. The details of this battle were so fai liliar 
 when these lines were written, that few readers, probably, would have 
 complained of this paragraph as too general for effective description. — G. 
 
 1 Lessen his numbers and contract his host. On record in "the Art of 
 "unking." — G.
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 
 
 \b: 
 
 But 0, my muse, 1 what numbers wilt thou find 
 To sing the furious troops in battle join'd ! 
 Me thinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound 
 The victor's shouts and dying groans confound, 
 The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, 
 And all the thunder of the battle rise. 
 'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was prov'd, 2 
 That, in the shock of charging hosts uumov'd, 
 Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, 
 Examin'd all the dreadful scenes of war ; 
 In peaceful thought the field of death survey'd, 
 To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, 
 Tnspir'd repuls'd battalions to engage, 
 And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 
 So when an angel 3 by divine command 
 With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 
 
 1 But 0, my muse. "Introductions of this kind are a forced attempt 
 In a -writer to spur up himself and his reader, when he finds his imagi- 
 nation begin to flag." — Blair. 
 
 5 'Twas then great Marlborough. Here we have a fine confirmation of 
 Johnson's remarks concerning the nature of the real excellence of this 
 poem. How much nobler Marlborough appears in these lines, than when 
 represented as " plunging through seas of blood." Vide sup. note, and 
 compare in the poem of " Fontenoi," the picture <<< Lo lis and Cumberland, 
 " Le fier Cumberland fier d'attaoiier Louis 
 A dej i dispose sea bataillons hardis : 
 Tels ne parurent point, &C." 
 and in another passage — » 
 
 " Son courage n'est point cet instinct farieux. — G. 
 3 So when an angel. It was at this point that Addison carried his 
 manuscript to the Lord Treasurer, and received his first public office — 
 Commissioner «/' Appeals. Nothing, perhaps, gives a more striking idea of 
 the fluctuations of public taste than the attention that has been bestowed 
 upon this passage, [n the Tatler it is Baid to !»• "one of the noblest 
 thoughts that ever entered into the heart of man." Johnson enters into 
 a long disquisition to prove that, though these lines are just and noble, 
 they do not contain a proper Bimile, the action ascribed to Marlborough
 
 (88 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS 
 
 Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, * 
 Calm and serene he drives the furious hlast ; 
 And. plea.s'd th' Almighty's orders to perform, 
 Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. 
 
 But see the haughty household-troops advance ! * 
 The dread of Europe, and the pride of France. 
 
 being precisely the same with that ascribed to the angel, while " a poetica 
 6imile consists in the discovery of likeness between two actions, in their gen 
 eral nature and disposition dissimilar, or of causes, terminating by different 
 operations in some resemblance of effect." Even the learned Michaelia 
 found time to write : — "This is a fiction neither agreeable to the senti- 
 ments of a Christian, an Oriental, a Greek, nor a Roman ; nor so adapted 
 to the judgment of the senses (which look for something more magnificent 
 in so terrible a juncture), as to deserve to be introduced against the opin- 
 ion of almost all nations who make thunder to be the prerogative of the 
 Supreme Being only." This severe sentence called forth a minute confu- 
 tation. Macaulay says : — "We will not dispute the general justice of 
 Johnson's remarks on this passage. But we must point out one circum- 
 stance which seems to have escaped all the critics. The extraordinary ef- 
 fect which this simile produced when it first appeared, and which to the 
 following generation seemed inexplicable, is doubtless to be chiefly attrib- 
 uted to a line which most readers now regard as a feeble parenthesis: 
 
 "Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd." 
 Addison spoke not of a storm, hut of the storm. T\ia great tempest ot 
 November, 1703, the only tempest which in our latitude has equalled the 
 rage of a tropical hurricane, had left a dreadful recollection in the minds 
 of all men. The popularity which the simile of the angel enjoyed among 
 Addison's contemporaries, has always seemed to us to be a remarkable in- 
 stance of the advantage which, in rhetoric and poetry, the particular has 
 over the general." In one thing Mr. M. is mistaken — the reference to the 
 November gale had already been pointed out. There is a burlesque accu- 
 sation of plagiarism extracted in the Addisoniana, which the editor of those 
 agreeable volumes has mistaken for serious criticism. — G. 
 
 1 Bui see the haughty household-troops advance. — Vain insolence — con- 
 
 ' Stt-ch as of late o'er pale Britannia past. This line has been censured 
 by a very good judge, as unpoetical : (see Dr. Beattie's Notes, prefixed to 
 his editi >n of Mr. Addison's papers, in 4 vols., vol. 1, p. 21, — ed. 1790.) It 
 may be so: but the allusion is tine ami proper. For when the avenging 
 angel rides in such a storm, the danger is brought home to ourselves, and 
 the poet's imagery is not only great, but interesting; that is, we have 
 the sublime in perfection.
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 1 89 
 
 The war's whole art each private soldier knows 
 And with a gen'ral's love of conquest glows ; 
 Proudly he marches on, and void of fear 
 Laughs at the shaking of the British spear : a 
 Vain insolence ! with native freedom brave 
 The meanest Briton scorns the highest slave ; 
 Contempt and fury fire their souls by turns, 
 Each nation's glory in each warrior burns, 
 Each fights, as in his arm th' important day 
 And all the fate of his great monarch lay : 
 A thousand glorious actions, that might claim 
 Triumphant laurels, and immortal fame, 
 Confus'd in crowds of glorious actions lie, 
 And troops of heroes undistinguish'd die. 
 Dormer, 1 how can I behold thy fate, 
 And not the wonders of thy youth relate ! 
 
 tempt. &c, &c. Voltaire has here tlie advantage as a philosopher, and per 
 
 haps, too, as a poet — and the just appreciation with which lie speaks of 
 
 the English is a striking commentary upon the tone of self-glorification, 
 
 attributed by English and American writers to the French — 
 
 '•Les voila ces rivaux du grand nom dc mon maitre, 
 Phis faronches que nous, aussi vaillans peut-fitre — 
 Maison du roi ! marchez, assurez la victoire, 
 Phalanges de Louis, ecrazez sous vos roups, 
 Ces combattans si Hers el sidignesde vow." — G. 
 
 '0 Dormer. A beautiful passage. Ami the thought with which it closes 
 
 is more jnst perhaps than thai which Voltaire attributes to Grammont — 
 
 "Grammont dans I'Elysee umporte la douleur, 
 D'ignorer en tnourant si son maitre est vainqnour." 
 
 "Voila un s'-ntiim-nt," says the witty poet in a letter which he attributes 
 
 to a 'fine lady' — "que je n'ai vu dans aucun des petits romans que je lis. 
 
 Je voudrais bien savoir si on a de ces ideesda. quand on a la cuissc emporte'e 
 
 d'un boulel de canon: on me r6pond acela que le due de Grammont aimait 
 
 veritablement le roi, el qu'il pouvail tr6s bien avoir eu de pareils senti- 
 
 mens a sa mort. Faible response, miserable Evasion dont voua sentez la 
 
 p6titessel Voltaire, (Euvres, vo 13, p 190, ed. de 1838. - G. 
 
 ■ LatigJt* at the shaking of the British spear. The Book of Job fur 
 J bed hi. n w ith this idea — helaugheth at the shaking of a spear, xli. 2'J.
 
 190 POEMS ON SEVEKAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 How can I see the gay, the brave, the young, 
 Fall in the cloud of war and lie unsung ! 
 In joys of conquest he resigns his breath, 
 And, fill'd with England's glory, smiles in death. 
 
 The rout begins, the Gallic squadrons run, 
 Compell'd in crowds to meet the fate they shun ; 
 Thousands of fiery steeds with wounds transfix'd 
 Floating in gore, with their dead masters mixt, 
 Midst heaps of spears and standards driv'n around, 
 Lie in the Danube's bloody whirl-pools drown'd, 
 Troops of bold youths, born on the distant Soane, 
 Or souiidiug borders of the rapid Rhone, 
 Or where the Seine her flow'ry fields divides, 
 Or where the Loire through winding vineyards glides ; 
 In heaps the rolling billows sweep away, 
 And into Scythian seas their bloated corps convey. 
 From Blenheim's tow'rs ' the Gaul, with wild affright, 
 Beholds the various havock of the fight ; 
 His waving banners, that so oft had stood 
 Planted in fields of death, and streams of blood, 
 So wont the guarded enemy to reach, 
 And rise triumphant in the fatal breach, 
 Or pierce the broken foe's remotest lines, 
 The hardy veteran with tears resigns. 
 
 1 From Blenheim's towers. A body of eleven thousand men of the best 
 troops of France, were left shut up in Blenheim without orders. When, 
 after an unsuccessful attempt to disengage themselves from the narrow 
 streets of the town, they found themselves compelled by their position to 
 lay down their arms, they broke out in indignation against the want of 
 judgment which had exposed them to this disgrace. The regiment of Na- 
 varre tore tp their colors and buried them, to pi-event them from falling 
 into the bar ds of the enemj', or, according to other authorities, burnt up 
 their colors .ud buried their arms. — G.
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. I9J 
 
 Unfortunate Tallard !' Oh who can name 
 The pangs of rage, of sorrow, and of shame, 
 That with mixt tumult in thy bosom swell'd ! 
 When first thou saw'st thy bravest troops repell'd, 
 Thine only son pierc'd with a deadly wound, 
 Chok'd in his blood, and gasping on the ground, 
 Thyself in bondage by the victor kept ! 
 The chief, the father, and the captive wept. 
 An English muse is touch'd with gen'rous woe, 
 And in th' unhappy man forgets the foe. 
 Greatly distrest ! thy loud complaints forbear, 
 Blame not the turns of fate, and chance of war ; 
 Give thy brave foes their due, nor blush to own 
 The fatal field by such great leaders won, 8 
 The field whence fam'd Eugenio bore away 3 
 Only the second honours of the day. 
 
 "With floods of gore that from the vancmish'd fell, 
 The marshes stagnate and the rivers swell. 
 Mountains of slain lie heap'd upon the ground, 
 Or, 'midst the roarings of the Danube drown'd ; 
 Whole captive hosts the conqueror detains 
 In painful bondage, and inglorious chains ; 
 Ev'n those who 'scape the fetters and the sword, 
 Nor seek the fortunes of a happier lord, 
 
 1 Unfortunate Tallard. Tallard was so short-sighted, that in going to 
 rally some of his own squadrons, he mistook a body of the enemy's troops 
 for his own, and was made prisoner. — G. 
 
 3 'Hie fatal field by such great leaders won. "Si ton maitre avail bean- 
 coup de 3oldiits comme toi, il serait invincible," said Marlborough to a pris- 
 crhose bravery in the battle bad attracted liis attention. " Ce ne sont 
 
 pas lea joldats con i moi qui lui manquent," was the reply. "Cesont 
 
 desgeneraux comme vous." — G. 
 
 1 ']'}>• p<l \ whence famed Eugenio. Marlborough hnd already broken tlie 
 French rigli an hour before Eugene couUI get into action on the left — G
 
 192 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 Their raging king dishonours, to compleat 
 Marlbro's great work, and finish the defeat. 
 
 From Memmingheu's high domes, and Augsburg's walls 
 The distant battle drives th' insulting Gauls, 
 Free'd by the terror of the victor's name 
 The rescu'd states his great protection claim ; 
 Whilst Ulin th' approach of her deliverer waits, 
 And longs to open her obsequious gates. 1 
 
 The hero's breast 2 still swells with great designs, 
 In ev'ry thought the tow'ring genius shines : 
 If to the foe his dreadful course he bends, 
 O'er the wide continent his march extends ; 
 If sieges in his lab'ring thoughts are forrn'd, 
 Camps are assaulted, and an army storm'd ; 
 If to the fight his active soul is bent, 
 The fate of Europe turns on its event. 
 What distant laud, what region can afford 
 An action worthy his victorious sword : 
 Where will he next 'the flying Gaul defeat, 
 To make the series of his toils compleat ? 
 
 Where the swoln Rhine, 3 rushing with all its force, 
 Divides the hostile nations in its course, 
 While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows, 
 Eniarg'd or straiten'd as the river flows, 
 On Gallia's side a mighty bulwark * stands, 
 That all the wide extended plain commands ; 
 
 1 And longs to open her obsequious gates. The expression seems almost 
 picphetic, and would apply with equal propriety to the surrender of 
 Mack. — G. 
 
 3 The hero's breast. In this paragraph the poet seems to have been 
 as much at a loss what to say, as his hero was what to do. — G, 
 
 3 Where the swoln Rhine. A vigorous line, intentionally roughened by 
 the alliteration, Rhine rushing. — G. 
 
 * On Gallia's side a mighty bulwark. The fortress of Landau — now one
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 193 
 
 Twice, since the war was kindled, has it try'd 
 The victor's rage, and twice has chang'd its side ; 
 As oft whole armies, with the prize o'erjoy'd 
 Have the long summer on its walls employ'd. 
 Hither our mighty chief his arms directs, 
 Hence future triumphs from the war expects ; 
 And tho' the dog-star had its course begun 
 Carries his arms still nearer to the sun : 
 Fixt on the glorious action, he forgets 
 The change of seasons, and increase of heats : 
 No toils are painful that can danger show, 
 No climes unlovely, that contain a foe. 
 
 The roving Gaul, to his own bounds restrain'd, 
 Learns to encamp within his native land, 
 But soon as the victorious host he spies, 
 From hill to hill, from stream to stream he flies : 
 Such dire impressions in his heart remain 
 Of Marlbro's sword, and Hocstet's fatal plain : 
 In vain Britannia's mighty chief besets 
 Their shady coverts, and obscure retreats ; 
 They fly the conqueror's approaching fame, 
 That bears the force of armies in his name. 
 
 Austria's young monarch, 1 whose imperial sway 
 Sceptres and thrones are destin'd to obey, 
 Whose boasted ancestry so high extends 
 That in the pagan gods his lineage ends, 
 Comes from afar, in gratitude to own 
 The great supporter of his father's throne : 
 
 if the fortresses of the Germanic confederation. The works were con 
 etructed by Vauban. — G. 
 
 1 Austria's young monarch. Joseph, King of the Romans, sou of tba 
 Emperor Leopold. He joined .he army before Landau. — G. 
 
 vol. I. — 9
 
 i 94 pcems ax several occasions. 
 
 "What tides of glory J to his bosom ran, 
 Clasp'd in th' embraces of the god-like man ! 
 How were his eyes with pleasing wonder fixt 
 To see such fire with so much sweetness mist, 
 Such easy greatness, such a graceful port, 
 So tnrn'd and finished for the camp or court ! 
 Achilles thus 2 was forni'd with ev'ry grace, 
 And Xireus shone but in the second place ; 
 Thus the great father of almighty Rome 
 (Divinely flusht with an immortal bloom 
 That Cytherea's fragrant breath bestow'd) 
 In all the charms of his bright mother glow'd. 
 
 The royal youth by Marlbro's presence charm'd, 
 Taught by his counsels, by his actions warm'd, 
 On Landau with redoubled fury falls, 
 Discharges all his thunder on its walls, 
 O'er mines and caves of death provokes the fight, 
 And learns to conquer in the hero's sight. 
 
 The British chief, for mighty toils renown'd, 
 Increas'd in titles, and with conquests crown'd, 
 To Belgian coasts 3 his tedious march renews 
 And the long windings of the Rhine pursues, 
 Clearing its borders from usurping foes, 
 And blest by rescu'd nations as he goes. 
 
 1 What tides of glory. Another striking illustration of the facility -with 
 which great 'writers can "write nonsense, when they feel obliged to say 
 something "without knowing exactly what. — G. 
 
 2 Achilles thus. "When Addison, having celebrated the beauty of 
 Marlborough's person, tells us that 'Achilles thus was formed with evtrv 
 grace,' here is no simile, but a mere exemplification." — JohDson. This is a 
 compliment "which history will not dispute. Whiie serving under Turenne, 
 he had been known as the 'bel Anglais,' an expression fully justified by 
 Ivncller's portrait. — G. 
 
 * To Belgian cor.sts. This march enabled Marlborough to establish hia 
 winter-quarters on the Moselle, "which,"' he says in a letter to the Lord
 
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 195 
 
 Treves fears no more, 1 freed from its dire alarms ; 
 And Traerbach feels the terror of his arms, 1 
 Seated on rocks her proud foundations shake, 
 "While Marlbru' presses to the bold attack, 
 Plants all his batt'ries, bids his cannon roar, 
 And shows how Landau might have fall'n before. 
 Scar'd at his near approach, great Louis fears 
 Vengeance reserv'd for his declining years, 
 Forgets his thirst of universal sway, 
 And scarce can teach his subjects to obey ; 
 His arms he finds on vain attempts employ'd, 
 Th' ambitious projects for his race destroy'd, 
 The work of ages sunk in one campaign, 3 
 And lives of millions sacrific'd in vain. 
 
 Such are th' effects of Anna's royal cares : 
 By her, Britannia, great in foreign wars, 
 Ranges through nations, wheresoe'er disjoin'd, 4 
 Without the wonted aid of sea and wind. 
 By her th' unfetter'd Ister's states are free, 
 And taste the sweets of English liberty ; 
 
 Treasurer Godolphin, " will give France as much uneasiness a*s any thing 
 that has been done this summer." — G. 
 
 1 Treves fears no more. — The French garrison of 300 men. on hearing 
 of Marlborough's approach, abandoned the fort which commanded the 
 town. — G. 
 
 s Traerbach feels the terror of his arms. There is some exaggeration 
 in this account of the siege of Traerbach. The French garrison consisted 
 of only 600 men, and the siege was conducted by the Prince of Hesse. — G. 
 
 ' The work of ages sunk in one campaign. A gross exaggeration; for, 
 though Louis XIV. was defeated, humbled, and reduced to the greatest 
 straits, the great conquests of his reign, Franehe-Comte - , Flanders, and 
 Alsace still remain untouched. — G. • 
 
 4 Ranges through nations, &c If this had I - 1 after Fulton, it 
 
 woull probabH u « Buppoeed to mean that Britannia ranged through na- 
 tions by means of steaml. tanda,it must be taken for a somewhat 
 circuitous way of saying that her armies marched wherever they chos<\ — G
 
 196 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 
 
 But who can tell the joys of those that lie 
 Beneath the constant influence of her eye ! 
 Whilst in diffusive show'rs her bounties fall 
 Like heaven's indulgence, and descend on all, 
 Secure the happy, succour the distrest, 
 Make ev'ry subject glad, and a whole people blest. 
 
 Thus wou'd I fain Britannia's wars rehearse, 
 In the smooth records of a faithful verse ; 
 That, if such numbers can o'er time prevail, 
 May tell posterity the wond'rous tale. 
 When actions," unadorn'd, ' are faint and weak, 
 Cities and countries must be taught to speak; 
 Gods may descend in factions from the skies, 
 And rivers from their oozy beds arise ; 
 Fiction may deck the truth with spurious rays, 
 And round the hero cast a borrow'd blaze. 
 Marlbru's exploits appear divinely bright, 
 And proudly shine in their own native light ; 
 Rais'd of themselves, their genuine charms they boast, 
 And those who paint 'em truest praise 'em most 8 
 
 1 When actions unadorned, &c. Voltaire in the " Discours pre'liminaire 
 to his poem ou the battle of Fontenoi, justifies his limited use' of fictitious 
 personages, by the example of Addison. "C'e'tait ce que sentait M. Addi- 
 son, bon poete et critique judicieux. II employa dans son poeme, qui a 
 immortalise la campagne de Hochstadt, beaucoup moins de fictions qu'on 
 ne s'en est permis dans le Poetne de Fontenoi, II savait que le due de 
 Marlborough et le prince Eugene se seraient tres peu soucies de voir des 
 dieux ou il etait question des grandes actions des hommes; il savait qu'on 
 releve par l'invention, les exploits de l'antiquite, et qu'on court risque d'af- 
 faiblir ceux des modernes par de froides allegories ; il a fait mieux, il a 
 interesse l'Europe entiere a son action." — Voltaire, (Euvres v. — 11, p. 164. 
 * 2 "He best can paint them who shall feel them most." — EloisatoAbelard. 
 
 » When actions, &c. An apology, gracefully enough made for the 
 prosaic plan of this poem: for though the author's invention had not 
 supplied him with a better, his true taste could not but tell him, this was 
 defective.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS,
 
 TRANSLATION OF PSALM XXIII. 
 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
 And feed me with the shepherds's care 
 His presence shall my wants supply, 
 And guard me with a watchful eye ; 
 My noon day walks He shall attend, 
 And all my midnight hours defend. 
 
 When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
 Or on the thirsty mountain pant, 
 To fertile vales and dewy meads, 
 My weary wand'ring steps he leads ; 
 Where peaceful rivers soft and slow, 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
 
 in. 
 
 Though in the paths of death I tread, 
 With gloomy horrors overspread, 
 My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, 
 For thou, Lord, art with me still ; 
 Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
 And guide me through the dreadful shade 
 
 1 This piece was first jiublished in the Spectator. — G.
 
 200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Though in a bare and rugged way, 
 Through devious lonely wilds I stray, 
 Thy bounty shall my pains beguile : 
 The barren wilderness shall smile, 
 With sudden greens and herbage crown'd 
 And streams shall murmur all around. 
 
 HYMN 
 
 i. 
 
 When all thy mercies, my God, 
 
 My rising soul surveys ; 
 Transported with the view, I'm lost 
 
 In wonder, love, and praise. 
 
 ii. 
 
 how shall, words with equal warmth 
 
 The gratitude declare, 
 That glows within my ravish'd heart ? 
 
 But thou canst read it there. 
 
 in. 
 Thy providence my life sustain'd, 
 
 And all my wants redrest, 
 When in the silent womb I lay, 
 
 And hung upon the breast. 
 
 IV. 
 
 To all my weak complaints and cries, 
 
 Thy mercy lent an ear, 
 Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 
 
 To form themselves in pray'r. 
 
 'Originally published in the Spectator. — O.
 
 HYMN. 201 
 
 V. 
 
 Unnumber'd comforts to my soul 
 
 Thy tender care bestow'd, 
 Before my infant heart conceiv'd 
 
 From whom these comforts flow'd. 
 
 VJ. 
 
 When in the slipp'ry paths of youth 
 
 With heedless steps I ran, 
 Thine arm unseen convey'd me safe 
 
 And led me up to man. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths, 
 
 It gently clear'd my way, 
 And through the pleasing snares of vice, 
 
 More to be fear'd than they. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When worn with sickness, oft hast thou 
 
 With health renew'd my face ; 
 And when in sins and sorrows sunk, 
 
 Reviv'd my soul with grace. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss 
 
 Has made my cup run o'er, 
 And in a kind and faithful friend 
 
 Has doubled all my store. 
 
 x. 
 
 Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 
 « My daily thanks employ ; 
 
 Nor is the least a cheerful heart, 
 That tastes those gifts with joy. 
 vol. i. — 0*
 
 202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Through every period of my life 
 Thy goodness I'll pursue ; 
 
 And after death, in distant worlds, 
 The glorious theme renew. 
 
 XII. 
 
 When nature fails, and day and night 
 Divide thy works no more, 
 
 My ever grateful heart, Lord, 
 Thy mercy shall adore. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Through all eternity to Thee 
 A joyful song I'll raise; 
 
 For oh ! eternity's too short 
 To utter all thy praise. 
 
 DIVINE ODE. 
 
 L 
 
 The spacious firmament on high, 1 
 With all the blue sethereal sky, 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 Their great Original proclaim : 
 Th' unwearied sun from day to day, 
 Does his Creator's pow'r display, 
 And publishes to every land 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
 1 Originally published in the Spectator. — (J.
 
 DIVINE ODE. 203 
 
 II. 
 
 Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail, 
 The moon takes up the wond'rous tale, 
 And nightly to the list'ning earth, 
 Repeats the stcry of her birth : 
 Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
 And all the planets in their turn, 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 in. 
 
 What though in solemn silence, all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
 What though, nor real voice nor sound 
 Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 
 In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 For ever singing as they shine, 
 The hand that made us is divine. 
 
 DIVINE ODE.' 
 
 i. 
 How are thy servants blest, Lord ! 
 
 How sure is their defence ! 
 Eternal Wisdom is their guide, 
 
 Their help Omnipotence. 
 
 1 Published in the Spectator as a Divine Ode,' made hy a gentleman 
 «n the conclusion of his travels. — G.
 
 204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 In foreign realms and lands remote, 
 
 Supported by thy care, 
 Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, 
 
 And breath'd in tainted air. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil, 
 Made every region please: 
 
 The hoary Alpine hills it warcn'd, 
 And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Think, my soul, devoutly think, 
 How with affrighted eyes, 
 
 Thou saw'st the wide extended deep 1 
 In all its horrors rise ! 
 
 v. 
 
 Confusion dwelt in ev'ry face, 
 
 And fear in ev'ry heart, 
 When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, 
 
 O'ercame the pilot's art. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet then from all my griefs, Lord, 
 
 Thy mercy set me free, 
 Whilst in the confidence of pray'r 
 
 My soul took hold on thee. 
 
 1 The allusion in these lines is to a violent gale he encountered in his 
 Italian tour. — Vide Life.— G.
 
 DIVINE ODE. 
 VII. 
 
 For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
 
 High on the broken wave, 
 I knew thou wert not slow to hear, 
 
 Nor impotent to save. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The storm was laid, the winds retir'd, 
 
 Obedient to thy will ; 
 The sea that roar'd at thy command, 
 
 At thy command was still. 
 
 IX. 
 
 In midst of dangers, fears, and death, 
 
 Thy goodness I'll adore, 
 And praise thee for thy mercies past, 
 
 And humbly hope for more. 
 
 x. 
 
 My life, if thou preserv'st my life, 
 
 Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
 And death, if death must be my doom, 
 
 Shall join my soul to thee ! 
 
 205 
 
 HYMN. 1 
 
 i. 
 
 When rising from the bed of death, 
 O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear, 
 I see my Maker face to face, 
 
 how shall I appear ! 
 
 1 Originally published in the Spectator.
 
 206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Tf yet, while pardon may be found, 
 And mercy may be sought, 
 
 My heart with inward horror shrinks, 
 And trembles at the thought. 
 
 m. 
 When thou, Lord, shall stand disclos ; d, 
 
 In majesty severe, 
 And sit in judgment on my soul, 
 
 how shall I appear ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But thou hast told the troubled mind, 
 Who does her sins lament, 
 
 The timely tribute of her tears 
 Shall endless wo prevent. 
 
 v. 
 
 Then see the sorrow of my heart, 
 
 Ere yet it be too late ; 
 And hear my Saviour's dying groans, 
 
 To give those sorrows weight. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For never shall my soul despair, 
 
 Her pardon to procure, 
 Who knows thy only Son has died 
 
 To make her pardon sure.
 
 A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 
 
 AT OXFOED. a 
 I. 
 
 Cecilia, whose exalted hymns, 
 
 With joy and wonder fill the blest, 
 In choirs of warbling seraphims, 
 
 Known and distinguish'd from the rest, 
 Attend, harmonious saint, and see 
 Thy vocal sons of harmony ; 
 Attend, harmonious saint, and hear our pray'rs ; 
 
 Enliven all our earthly airs, 
 And, as thou sing'st thy God, teach us to sing of thee : 
 Tune ev'ry string and ev'ry tongue, 
 Be thou the muse and subject of our song. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Let all Cecilia's praise proclaim, 
 Employ the echo in her name. 
 Hark how the flutes and trumpets raise, 
 At bright Cecilia's name, their lays ; 
 
 * The success of Alexander's Feast, made it fashionable for succeeding 
 poets, to try their hand at a musical ode: but they mistook the matter, 
 when they thought it enough to contend with Mr. Dryden. It was re- 
 served for one or two of our days to give us a true idea of lyric poetry in 
 English. 
 
 [Hurd probably alludes to Collins and Gray, who, however, with all 
 their merit, still leave " Alexander's feast," the first lyric in the language. 
 Johnson speaks of this in higher terms than any other critic I have seen, 
 and says that it wa* partly imitated by Pope, and has something of Dry- 
 den's force. — Q.]
 
 208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The organ labours in her praise. 
 Cecilia's name does all our numbers grace, 
 From ev'ry voice the tuneful accents fly, 
 In soaring trebles now it rises high, 
 And now it sinks, and dwells upon the base. 
 Cecilia's name through all the notes we sing, 
 The work of ev'ry skilful tongue, 
 The sound of ev'ry trembling string, 
 The sound and triumph of our song. 
 
 m. 
 
 For ever consecrate the day, 
 To music and Cecilia ; 
 Music, the greatest good that mortals know, 
 And all of heav'n we have below. 
 Music can noble hints impart, 
 Engender fury, kindle love ; 
 With unsuspected eloquence can move, 
 
 And manage all the man with secret art. 
 When Orpheus strikes the trembling lyre, 
 The streams stand still, the stones admire; 
 The list'ning savages advance, 
 
 The wolf and lamb around him trip. 
 The bears in aukward measures leap, 
 And tigers mingle in the dance. 
 The moving woods attended, as he play'd, 
 And Rhodope was left without a shade. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Music religious heats inspires, 
 
 It wakes the soul, and lifts it high. 
 
 And wings it with sublime desires, 
 And fits it to bespeak the Deity
 
 A SONG FOR ST. C E C 1 1 I A ' S DAY. 209 
 
 Th' Almighty listens to a tuneful tongue, 
 
 And seems well pleas'd and courted with a song. 
 Soft moving sounds and heav'nly airs 
 Give force to ev'ry word, and recommend our pray'rs. 
 
 When time itself shall be no more, 
 And all things in confusion hurl'd, 
 
 Music shall then exert its pow'r, 
 And sound survive the ruins of the world : 
 
 Then saints and angels shall agree 
 
 In one eternal jubilee : 
 All heav'n shall echo with their hymns divine, 
 
 And God himself with pleasure see 
 The whole creation in a chorus join. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Consecrate the place and day, 
 To music and Cecilia. 
 Let no rough winds approach, nor dare 
 
 Invade the hallow'd bounds, 
 Nor rudely shake the tuneful air, 
 Nor spoil the fleeting sounds. 
 Nor mournful sigh nor groan be heard, 
 
 But gladness dwell on every tongue ; 
 Whilst all, with voice and strings prepar'd, 
 Keep up the loud harmonious song, 
 And imitate the blest above, 
 In joy, and harmony, and love.
 
 TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER, 
 
 ON HIS PICTURE OF THE KING. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 
 
 [Kneller, like Reynolds, lived much with the wits of his day, but unlike 
 
 him, was constantly their butt. In his "Welcome from Greece to Pops,' 
 
 Gay says — 
 
 " Kneller amid the triumph bears his part, 
 "Who could (were mankind lost) a new create : 
 What can the extent of his vast soul confine ? 
 A painter, critic, engineer divine ! " 
 
 The allusion is to a trick of Pope's. 
 
 One day Pope said to him, "Sir Godfrey, I believe if God Almighty had 
 had your assistance, the world would have been formed more perfect" 
 "Fore God," said Kneller, never doubting the poet's object, "I believe so." 
 
 Of these lines Johnson says — "The parallel of the Princes and gods, in 
 nis verses to Kneller, is often happy, but is too well known to be quoted." 
 
 "No single ode of Cowley," says Macaulay, " contains so many happy 
 analogies as are crowded into the lines to Sir Godfrey Kneller." 
 
 Dugald Stewart also, who has interspersed his philosphical writings 
 with exquisite specimens of literary criticism, has borne testimony to the 
 merit of this piece in the following characteristic passage — "As an addi- 
 tional confirmation of these observations we m^ remark, that the more 
 an author is limited by his subject, the more we are pleased with his wit. 
 And, therefore, the effect of wit does not arise solely from the unexpected 
 relations which it presents to the mind, but arises, in part, from the sur- 
 prise it excites at those intellectual habits which give it birth. It is evi- 
 dent that the more the author is circumscribed in the choice of his materi- 
 als, the greater must be the command which he has acquired over those 
 associating principles on which wit depends, and of consequence, according 
 to the foregoing doctrine, the greater must be the surprise and the pleasure 
 which his wit produces. In Addison's celebrated verses to Sir Godfrey 
 Kneller, on his picture of George the First, in which he compares the paint 
 er to Phidias, and the subjects of his pencil to the Grecian deities, the 
 range of the Poet's wit was necessarily confined within very narrow 
 bounds, and what principally delights us in that performance is the sur- 
 prising ease and felicity with which he runs the parallel between the Eng- 
 lish history and the Greek mythology. Of all the allusions which the 
 following passage contains, there is not one, taken singly, of very cxtraor
 
 TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER. 211 
 
 dinarv merit; and yet the effect of the whole is uncommonly great, from 
 the singular power of combination, which so long and so difficult an exertion 
 discovers." The passage cited is from "Wise Phidias," to "King defied." 
 -Stewart's "Works, vol. 1, pp. 222-3.— G.] 
 
 TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER. 
 
 Kneller, with silence and surprise 
 We see Britannia's monarch rise, 
 A godlike form, by thee display'd 
 In all the force of light and shade ; 
 And, aw'd by thy delusive hand, 
 As in the presence-chamber stand. 
 
 The magic of thy art calls forth 
 His secret soul and hidden worth, 
 His probity and mildness shows, 
 His care of friends and scorn of foes : 
 In every stroke, in every line, 
 Does some exalted virtue shine, 
 And Albion's happiness we trace 
 Through all the features of his face. 
 
 may I live to hail the day, 
 When the glad nation shall survey 
 Their sovereign, through his wide command, 
 Passing in progress o'er the land ! 
 Each heart shall bend, and every voice 
 In loud applauding shouts rejoice, 
 Whilst all his gracious aspect praise, 
 And crowds grow loyal as they gaze. 
 
 This image on the medal placed, 
 With its bright round of titles graced, 
 And stampt on British coins shall live, 
 To richest ores the value give,
 
 212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Or, wrought within the curious mould, 
 Shape aud adorn the running gold. 
 To bear this form, the genial sun 
 Has daily, since his course begun, 
 Rejoiced the metal to refine, 
 And ripen'd the Peruvian mine. 
 
 Thou, Kneller, a long with noble pride, 
 The foremost of thy art, hast vied 
 With nature, in a generous strife, 
 And touch'd the canvas into life. 
 Thy pencil has, by monarchs sought, 
 From reign to reign in ermine wrought, 
 And, in their robes of state array'd, 
 The kings of half an age display'd. 
 
 Here swarthy Charles appears, and there 
 His brother with dejected air : 
 Triumphant Nassau here we find, 
 And with him bright Maria join'd ; 
 There Anna, great as when she sent 
 Her armies through the continent. 
 Ere yet her hero was disgrac'd : 
 may fam'd Brunswick be the last, 
 (Though heaven should with my wish agree, 
 And long preserve thy art in thee) 
 The last, the happiest British king, 
 Whom thou shalt paint, or I shall sing ! 
 
 Wise Phidias, b thus his skill to prove, 
 Through many a god advanc'd to Jove, 
 
 a Thou, Kneller. If this little poem had begun here, and ended with 
 " their king defi/'d," it had been equal, or superior, to any thing in any 
 other poet, on the like occasion. 
 
 b There never was any thing happier, than this whole illustration, nor 
 mor » exquisitely expressed.
 
 TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER. 213 
 
 And taught the polish'd rocks to shine 
 With airs and lineaments divine ; 
 Till Greece, arnaz'd, and half afraid, 
 TV assembled deities survey'd. 
 
 Great Pan, who wont to chase the fair, 
 And lov'd the spreading oak, was there; 
 Old Saturn too, with up-cast eyes ; 
 Beheld his abdicated skies ; 
 And mighty Mars, for war renown'd, 
 In adamantine armour frown'd ; 
 By him the childless goddess rose, 
 Minerva, studious to compose 
 Her twisted threads ; the web she strung, 
 And o'er a loom of marble hung : 
 Thetis, the troubled ocean's queen, 
 Match'd with a mortal, next was seen, 
 Reclining on a funeral urn, 
 Her short-liv'd darling son to mourn. 
 The last was he, whose thunder slew 
 The Titan race, a rebel crew, 
 That from a hundred hills ally'd 
 In impious leagues their king defy'd. 
 
 This wonder of the sculptor's hand 
 Produced, his art was at a stand : 
 For who would hope new fame to raise, 
 Or risk his well-establish'd praise, 
 That, his high genius to approve, 
 Had drawn a George, or carv'd a Jove '
 
 THE COUNTESS OF MANCHESTER, 
 
 AT PAIUS. 1 
 
 While haughty Gallia's dames that spread 
 O'er their pale cheeks an artful red, 
 Beheld this beauteous stranger there, 
 In native charms divinely fair ; 
 Confusion in their looks they show'd, 
 And with unborrowed blushes glow'd. 
 
 SONG. 2 
 
 My love was fickle once and changing, 
 
 Nor e'er would settle in my heart ; 
 From beauty still to beauty ranging, 
 
 In ev'ry face I found a dart. 
 
 'Twas first a charming shape enslav'd mc, 
 
 An eye then gave the fatal stroke ; 
 'Till by her wit Corinna sav'd me, 
 
 And all my former fetters broke. 
 
 1 These lines were written by Addison, on his admission to the Kit Cat 
 Club — where it was required that every new member should name his 
 '• toast," and write something in her honor, to be engraved on a drinking 
 glass. A. had met this lady in Paris. — G. 
 
 2 Originally published in the Spectator, with an amusing commentary. — G.
 
 IMITATION OF OUR ENGLISH LYRICS. 215 
 
 But now a long and lasting anguish, 
 
 For Belvidera I endure : 
 Hourly I sigh, and hourly languish, 
 
 Nor hope to find the wonted cure. 
 
 For here the false unconstant lover, 
 
 After a thousand beauties shown, 
 Does new surprising charms discover, 
 
 And finds variety in one. 
 
 IMITATION OF OUR ENGLISH LYRICS. 
 
 i. 
 
 Oh the charming month of May 1 
 Oh the charming month of May ! 
 When the breezes fan the treeses, 
 Full of blossoms fresh and gay — 
 Full, &c 
 
 n. 
 Oh what joys our prospects yield 1 
 Charming joys our prospects yield ! 
 In a new livery when we see every 
 Bush and meadow, tree and field — 
 Bush, &c. 
 
 in. 
 Oh how fresh the morning air ! 
 Charming fresh the morning air ! 
 When the zephyrs and the heifers 
 Their odoriferous breath compare — 
 Their, &c. 
 
 Published in the Guardian, 124.
 
 216 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oil how fine our evening walk ! 
 Charming fine our evening walk 1 
 When the nighting-gale delighting 
 "With her song, suspends our talk — 
 With her, &c. 
 
 v. 
 Oh how sweet at night to dream ! 
 Charming sweet at night to dream ! 
 On mossy pillows, by the trilloes 
 Of a gentle purling stream — 
 Of a, &o. 
 
 VL 
 
 Oh how kind the country lass ! 
 Charming kind the country lass ! 
 Who, her cow bilking, leaves her milking 
 For a green gown upon the grass — 
 For a, &c. 
 
 VIL 
 
 Oh how sweet it is to spy ! 
 Charming sweet it is to spy ! 
 At the conclusion her confusion, 
 Blushing cheeks and down-cast eye — ■ 
 Blushing, &c. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh the cooling curds and cream ! 
 
 Charming cooling curds and cream! 
 
 When all is over, she gives her lover, 
 
 Who on her skimming dish carves her name — 
 
 Who on, &c.
 
 PROLOGUE TO THE TENDER HUSBAND. 
 
 SPOKEX BY MR. WILKS. 
 
 In the first rise and infancy of Farce, 
 
 When fools were many, and when plays were scarce, 
 
 The raw unpractis'd authors could, with ease, 
 
 A young and unexperienc'd audience please : 
 
 No siDgle character had e'er been shown, 
 
 But the whole herd of fops was all their own ; 
 
 Rich in originals, they set to view, 
 
 In every piece a coxcomb that was new. 
 
 But now our British theatre can boast 
 Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host ! 
 Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows 
 Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaix ; 
 Rough country knights are found of every shire 
 Of every fashion gentle fops appear; 
 And punks of different characters we meet, 
 As frequent on the stage as in the pit. 
 Oar modern wits are forc'd to pick and cull, 
 And here and there by chance glean up a fool : 
 Long ere they find the necessary spark, 
 They search the town and beat about the Park : 
 To all his most frequented haunts resort, 
 Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court; 
 As love of pleasure, or of place invites . 
 And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's. 
 
 Howe'er, to do you right, the present age 
 Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage ; 
 
 ■ A comedy written by Sir Richard Steele, 
 voi i. — 10
 
 218 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod, 
 And wo'n't be blockheads in the common road. 
 
 Do but survey this crowded house to-night : 
 
 Here's still encouragement for those that write. 
 
 Our author, to divert his friends to-day, 
 Stocks with variety of fools his play ; 
 And that there may be something gay and new, 
 Two ladies-errant has expos'd to view : 
 The first a damsel, travell'd in romance ; 
 The ' t'other more refin'd ; she comes from France . 
 Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger , 
 And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger. 
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE BRITISH ENCHANTERS. 8 
 
 When Orpheus tun'd his lyre with pleasing woe, 
 Rivers forgot to run, and winds to blow, 
 While list'ning forests cover'd, as he play'd, 
 The soft musician in a moving shade. 
 That this night's strains the same success may find, 
 The force of magic is to music join'd : 
 Where sounding strings and artful voices fail, 
 The charming rod and mutter'd spells prevail. 
 Let sage Urganda wave the circling wand 
 On barren mountains, or a waste of sand, 
 The desert smiles ; the woods begin to grow, 
 The birds to warble, and the springs to flow. 
 
 1 It is strange that this use of t\ so like the French euphonic V before 
 •fi, should have escaped the grammatical eye of Hurd. — G. 
 
 A dramatic poem written by the Lord Lansdown.
 
 EPILOGUE. 219 
 
 The same dull sights in the same landscape mixt, 
 Scenes of still life, and points for ever fix'd, 
 A tedious pleasure on the mind bestow, 
 And pall the sense with one continu'd show : 
 But as our two magicians try their skill, 
 The vision varies, tho' the place stands still, 
 While the same spot its gaudy form renews, 
 Shifting the prospect to a thousand views. 
 Thus (without unity of place transgrest) 
 Th 1 enchanter turns the critic to a jest. 
 
 But howsoe'er," to please your wand'ring :yes, 
 Bright objects disappear and brighter rise : 
 There's none can make amends for lost delight, 
 While from that circle we divert your sight. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 TO THE 'DISTRESSED MOTHER.' 
 
 A TRAGEDY.— TRANSLATED BY AMBROSE PHILIPS, FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 OF RACINE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY ANDROMACH. 
 
 [Tins piece finds a place here upon the authority of Mr. Garrick, who 
 learnt from Tonsou's family that the morning on which it was originally 
 printed, Addison came down in great haste, and had Budgell's name sub- 
 stituted for his own. This is supposed to have been done in order to give 
 BudgelL whom Addison styled "the man who calls me cousin," better 
 chances for a place which his friends were soliciting for him. — G.] 
 
 I hope you'll own, that witli becoming art, 
 
 I've played my game, and topp'd the widow's part. 
 
 » But howsob'eb. A word, which nobody w uld now use in verse, aud 
 not many in good prose
 
 220 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 My spouse, poor man, could not live out the play, 
 But died comraodiously on his wedding day; 
 While I, his relict, made at one bold fling, 
 Myself a princess, and young Sty a king. 
 
 You, ladies, who protract a lover's pain, 
 And hear your servants sigh whole years in vain ; 
 Which of you all would not on marriage venture, 
 Might she so soon upon her jointure enter ? 
 
 'Twas a strange 'scape ! Had Pyrrhus lived till now, 
 I had been finely hampered in my vow. 
 To die by one's own hand, and fly the charms 
 Of love and life in a young monarch's arms ! 
 'Twere a hard fate — ere I had undergone it, 
 I might have took one night — to think upon it. 
 
 But why, you'll say, was all this grief expressed 
 For a first husband, laid long since at rest? 
 Why so much coldness to my kind protector ? 
 — Ah, ladies ! had you known the good man Hector ! 
 Homer will tell you, (or I'm misinformed,) 
 That, when enrag'd, the Grecian camp he stormed ; 
 To break the tenfold barriers of the gate, 
 He threw a stone of such prodigious weight, 
 As no two men could lift, not even of those 
 Who in that age of thundering mortals rose : 
 — It would have sprain'd a dozen modern beaus. 
 
 At length, howe'er, I laid my weeds aside, 
 And sunk the widow in the well-dress'd bride. 
 In you it still remains to grace the play, 
 And bless with joy my coronation day; 
 Take, then, ye circles of the brave and fair, 
 The fatherless and widow to your care.
 
 DRAMAS.
 
 ROSAMOND. 
 
 3u (Durra. 
 
 DWRIBED TC HER GRACE THE DJCilESS OF MARLBOROUGH 
 
 Hie quos durus amor cruder! talie peredit 
 
 Secret! celant cnJJes, et Myrtea ctrci'im 
 
 Sylva tegit. Viae. jEv. C
 
 INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 
 
 [Addison a attention had been called to the Opera during his travels in 
 Italy, and on returning to England, where it had recently been introduced 
 in Italian, he was struck with the seeming absurdity of an audience listen- 
 ing, during a whole evening, to a piece written in a language which not 
 fifty of them understood. To oppose it, he wrote an opera himself, taking 
 his subject from the well-known story of " Rosamond's Bower," to which 
 the recent donation of " Woodstock " to the Duke of Marlborough, as an 
 acknowledgment of his services, " not to his own country and sovereign 
 only, but to all Europe," gave a new interest. It was this circumstance 
 also, which suggested the dedication to the Duchess of Marlborough, at 
 which Johnson snarled with more than his usual harshness. The music, 
 according to a report cited by Sir John Hawkins, in his "History of 
 Music," was a "jargon of sounds." After two or three cold or unsuccess- 
 ful representations, it was dropped. Addison then published it, one would 
 almost suppose in self-justification. Among the marks of attention which 
 it drew forth, was a copy of verses from a young Oxonian, Thomas 
 Tickell, then unknown to fame, but whose name is now inseparably con- 
 nected with Addison's. The reader will readily recall the humorous his 
 tory of the Italian Opera in England, which appeared a few years after- 
 wards in the 5th and 18th numbers of the Spectator. 
 
 Of this piece Johnson says : — "The Opera of Rosamond, though it is 
 seldom mentioned, is one of the first of Addison's compositions. The sub- 
 ject is well chosen, the fiction is pleasing, and the praise of Marlborough, 
 for which the scene gives an opportunity, is, what perhaps every human 
 excellence must be, the product of good luck, improved by genius. The 
 thoughts are sometimes great, and sometimes tender; the versification is 
 e isy and gay. There is, doubtless, some advantage in the shortness of the 
 lines, which there is little temptation to load with expletive epithets. 
 The dialogue seems commonly better than the songs. The two comic 
 characters of Sir Trusty and Grideline, though of no great value, are such 
 as the po t intended. Sir Trusty's account of the death of Rosamond is, 
 I think, too grossly absurd. The whole drama is airy and elegant; engag- 
 ing in its progress, and pleasing in its conclusion. If Addison had culti 
 vated the lighter parts of poetry, he w lid probably have excelled." 
 
 VOL. I— 10*
 
 226 DRAMAS. 
 
 Macaulay, who in most of his criticisms agrees with Johnson, says:— 
 " His Travels were followed by the lively Opera of " Rosamond." Thia 
 piece was ill set to music, and therefore failed ou the stage ; but it com- 
 pletely succeeded in print, and is, indeed, excellent of its kind. The 
 smoothness with which the verses glide, and the elasticity with which 
 they bound, is, to our ears at least, very pleasing. We are inclined to 
 think, that if Addison had left heroic couplets to Pope, and blank verse to 
 Rowe, and had employed himself in writing airy and spirited songs, his 
 reputation as a poet would have stood far higher than it now does. Some 
 years after his death, 'Rosamond ' was set to new music by Doctor Arne, 
 and was performed with complete success. Several passages long retained 
 their popularity, and were daily sung, during the latter part of George 
 the Second's reign, at all the harpsichords in England." 
 
 Warton condemns the introduction of the comic characters. This story 
 furnished Niccolini the subject of his beautiful tragedy of " Rosmunda." 
 
 Addison's choice of his subject may be considered as another proof of 
 his fondness for the old English ballad, to which he has paid so beautiful a 
 tribute in the Spectator. On this occasion he has altered the story to avoid 
 the tragic catastrophe: and, perhaps, with the feeling, that while a Queen 
 was or the throne, it would hardly do to paint a British Queen as she appears 
 in this ballad, and in the 'till stronger story of Queen Eleanor's confession. 
 Foi Wih these ballads see Percy 'a Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. — G.]
 
 A COPY OF VERSES 
 
 IN THE SIXTH MISCELLANY, 
 
 TO THE 
 
 AUTHOR OF ROSAMOND 
 
 -Ne forte pudorl 
 
 Sit tibi Musa Lyrae solors, ot Cantor Apollo. 
 BY MR. TICKELL. 
 
 The opera first Italian masters taught, 
 Enrich'd with songs, but innocent of thought. 
 Britannia's learned theatre disdains 
 Melodious trifles, and enervate strains ; 
 And blushes, on her injur'd stage to see 
 Nonsense well-tun'd, and sweet stupidity. 
 
 No charms are wanting to thy artful song, 
 Soft as Corelli, but as Virgil strong, 
 From words so sweet new grace the notes receive, 
 And music borrows helps, she us'd to give 
 Thy style hath match'd what ancient Romans knew, 
 Thy flowing numbers far excel the new ; 
 Their cadence in such easy sound convey'd, 
 That height of thought may seem superfluous aid ; 
 Yet in such charms the noble thoughts abound, 
 That needless seem the sweets of easy sound. 
 
 Landscapes how gay the bow'ry grotto yields, 
 Which thought creates and lavish fancy builds !
 
 228 DRAMAS. 
 
 What art can trace the visionary scenes, 
 
 The flow'ry groves, and Everlasting greens, 
 
 The babbling sounds that mrhiic echo plays, 
 
 The fairy shade, and its eternal maze, 
 
 Nature and art in all their charms combin'd ! 
 
 And all Elysium to one view confin'd ! 
 
 No further could imagination roam, 
 
 'Till Vanbrook fram'd, and Marlbro' rais'd the dome. 
 
 Ten thousand pangs my anxious bosom tear, 
 When drown'd in tears I see the' imploring fair : 
 When bards less soft the moving words supply, 
 A seeming justice dooms the nymph to die ; 
 But here she begs, nor can she beg in vain, 
 (In dirges thus expiring swans complain) 
 Each verse so swells, expressive of her woes, 
 And ev'ry tear in lines so mournful flows ; 
 We, spite of fame, her fate revers'd believe, 
 O'erlook her crimes, and think she ought to live. 
 
 Let joy transport fair Rosamonda's shade, 
 And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid. 
 While now perhaps with Dido's ghost she roves, 
 And hears and tells the story of their loves, 
 Alike they mourn, alike they bless their fate, 
 Since love, which made 'em wretched, makes 'em great 
 Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan, 
 Which gain'd a Virgil and an Addison. 
 
 Accept, great monarch of the British lays 
 The tribute song an humble subject pays. 
 So tries the artless lark her early flight, 
 And soars, to hail the God of verse, and light. 
 Unrival'd as thy merit be thy fame, 
 And thy own laurels shade thy envy'd name
 
 ROSAMOND 
 
 229 
 
 Thy name, the boast of all the tuneful choir, 
 
 Shall tremble on the strings of ev'ry lyre ; 
 
 While the charm'd reader with thy thought complies, 
 
 Feels corresponding joys or sorrows rise, 
 
 And views thy Rosamond with Henry's eyes.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 King Henry. 
 
 Sir Trusty, Keeper of the Bower. 
 Page. 
 Messenger. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 Queen Elinor. 
 Rosamond. 
 
 Grideline, Wife to Sir Trusty. 
 Guardian Angels, <kc. 
 
 Scene, Woodstock Park.
 
 ROSAMOND 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I . • 
 
 A Prospect of Woodstock Park, terminating in the Bower. 
 
 Enter Queen and Page. 
 
 Queen. What place is hero! 
 What scenes appear ! 
 Where'er I turn my eyes, 
 All around 
 Enchanted ground 
 And soft Elysiunis rise : 
 Flow'ry mountains, 
 Mossy fountains, 
 Shady woods, 
 Chrystal floods, 
 With wild variety surprise. 
 As o'er the hollow vaults we walk, b 
 A hundred echoes round us talk : 
 From hill to hill the voice is tost, 
 "Rocks rebounding, 
 Caves resounding, 
 Not a single word is lost. 
 Page. There gentle Rosamond immured 
 Lives from the world and you secured. 
 
 • The comic scenes of this opera are pleasant and entertaining. 
 k Alluding to the famous echo in Woodstock-Park.
 
 232 DRAMAS. 
 
 Queen. Curse on the name ! I faint, I di&, 
 With secret pangs of jealousy. [Aside. 
 
 Page. There does the pensive beauty mourn, 
 And languish for her lord's return. 
 
 Queen. Death and confusion ! I'm too slow — 
 Show me the happy mansion, show-— [ Aside. 
 
 Page. Great Henry there — 
 
 Queen. Trifler, no more ! — 
 
 Page. — Great Henry there 
 Will soon forget the toils of war. 
 
 Queen. No more ! the happy mansion show 
 That holds this lovely guilty foe. 
 My wrath, like that of heav'n, shall rise, 
 And blast her in her paradise. 
 
 Page. Behold on yonder rising ground 
 
 The bower, 1 that wanders 
 
 In meanders, 
 
 1 The king, therefore, for her defence, 
 Against the furious queene, 
 At Woodstocke builded such a bower 
 The like was never seene. 
 
 Most curiously that bower was built 
 
 Of stone and timber strong ; 
 An hundered and fifty doors 
 
 Did to this bower belonge. 
 
 And they so cunninglye contrived, 
 
 With turnings round about, 
 That none but with a clue of thread 
 Could enter in or out. 
 
 Faie Eosamond. —Percy's Reliques of Ancient English 
 Poetry, v. 2, pp. 156-7. 
 
 Hearne, who wrote in 1718. a discourse upor Rosamond, says, "That 
 by the pool at Woodstock were still to be seen the foundations of a very 
 large building, which were believed to be the remains of Rosamond's 
 labyrinth."— G.
 
 ROSAMOND. 
 
 Ever bending, 
 Never ending, 
 Glades on glades, 
 Shades in shades, 
 Running an eternal round. 
 Queen. In such an endless maze I rove, 
 Lost in labyrinths of love. 
 My breast with hoarded vengeance burns, 
 While fear and rage 
 With hope engage, 
 And rule my wav'ring soul by turns. 
 
 Page. The path yon verdant field divides, 
 Which to the soft confinement guides. 
 Queen. Eleonora, think betimes, 
 What are thy hated rival's crimes ! 
 Whither, ah whither dost thou go ! 
 What has she done to move thee so ! 
 — Does she not warm with guilty fires 
 The faithless lord of my desires ? 
 Have not her fatal arts remov'd 
 
 My Henry from my arms ? 
 'Tis her crime to be lov'd, 
 
 'Tis her crime to have charms. 
 Let us fly, let us fly, 
 She shall die, she shall die. 
 I feel, I feel my heart relent, 
 How could the fair be innocent ! 
 To a monarch like mine, 
 Who would not resign ! 
 One so great and so brave 
 All hearts must enslave. 
 
 233
 
 23 i DRAMAS. 
 
 Page. Hark, hark ! what sound invades my ear ? 
 The conqueror's approach I hear. 
 He comes, victorious Henry comes ! 
 Hautboys, trumpets, fifes and drums, 
 In dreadful concert join'd, 
 Send from afar 
 
 A sound of war, 
 And fill with horror ev'ry wind. 
 Queen. Henry returns, from danger free 1 
 Henry returns ! — but not to me. 
 He comes his Rosamond to greet, 
 And lay his laurels at her feet, 
 His vows impatient to renew ; 
 His vows to Eleonora due. 
 Here shall the happy nymph detain, 
 (While of his absence I complain) 
 Hid in her mazy, wanton bower, 
 My lord, my life, my conqueror. 
 
 No, no, 'tis decreed 
 
 The traitress shall bleed ; 
 
 No fear shall alarm, 
 
 No pity disarm ; 
 
 In my rage shall be seen 
 
 The revenge of a queen. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Entry of the Bower. 
 
 Sir Trusty, Knight of the Bower, solus. 
 
 How unhappy is he, 
 That is ty'd to a she, 
 And fam'd for his wit and his beauty !
 
 ROSAMOND. 235 
 
 For of us pretty fellows 
 Our wives are so jealous, 
 They ne'er have enough of our duty. 
 But hah ! my limbs begin to quiver, 
 I glow, I burn, I freeze, I shiver ; 
 Whence rises this convulsive strife ? 
 I smell a shrew ! 
 My fears are true, 
 I see my wife. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Grideline and Sir Trusty. 
 
 Grideline. Faithless varlet, art thou there ? 
 
 Sir Trusty. My love, my dove, my charming fair ! 
 
 Grideline. Monster, thy wheedling tricks I know 
 
 Sir Trusty. Why wilt thou call thy turtle so ? 
 
 Grideline. Cheat not me with false caresses. 
 
 Sir Trusty. Let me stop thy mouth with kisses 
 
 Grideline. Those to fair Rosamond are due. 
 
 Sir Trusty. She is not half so fair as you. 
 
 Grideline. She views thee with a lover's eye. 
 
 Sir Trusty. I'll still be thine, and let her die. 
 
 Grideline. No, no, 'tis plain. Thy frauds I see, 
 Traitor to thy king and me ! 
 
 Sir Trusty. Grideline ! consult thy glass, 
 Behold that sweet bewitching face, 
 Those blooming cheeks, that lovely hue 1 
 Ev'ry feature 
 (Charming creature) 
 Will convince you I am true.
 
 236 DRAMAS. 
 
 Guideline. how blest were Grideline, 
 Could I call Sir Trusty mine ! 
 Did he not cover amorous wiles : 
 With soft, but ah ! deceiving smiles : 
 How should I revel in delight, 
 The spouse of such a peerless knight! 
 
 Sir Trusty. At length the storin begins to cease, 
 I've sooth'd and flatter'd her to peace. 
 'Tis now my turn to tyrannize : | Atide 
 
 I feel, I feel my fury rise ! 
 Tigress, be gone. 
 
 Grideline. I love thee so 
 I cannot go. 
 
 Sir Trusty. Fly from my passion, beldame, fly 1 
 
 Grideline. Why so unkind, Sir Trusty, why ? 
 
 Sir Trusty. Thou'rt the plague of my life. 
 
 Grideline.. I'm a foolish fond wife. 
 
 Sir Trusty. Let us part, 
 Let us part. 
 
 Grideline. Will you break my poor heart? 
 Will you break my poor heart ? 
 
 Sir Trusty. I will if I can. 
 
 Grideline. barbarous man ! 
 From whence doth all this passion flow? 
 
 Sir Trusty. Thou art ugly and old, 
 And a villanous scold. 
 
 Grideline. Thou art a rustic to call me so 
 I'm not ugly nor old, 
 Nor a villanous scold, 
 But thou art a rustic to call me so. 
 Thou, traitor, adieu ! 
 
 Sir Trusty. Farewel, thou shrew!
 
 ROSAMOND. 237 
 
 Guideline. Thou traitor. 
 Sir Trusty. Thou shrew. 
 
 Both. Adieu ! adieu ! [Exit Grid. 
 
 Sir Trusty, solus. How hard is our fate, 
 "Who serve iu the state, 
 And should lay out our cares 
 On public affairs ; 
 When conjugal toils, 
 And family-broils, 
 Make all our great labours miscarry ! 
 Yet this is the lot 
 Of him that has got 
 Fair Rosamond's bower, 
 With the clew in his power, 
 And is courted by all, 
 Both the great and the small, 
 As principal pimp to the mighty King Harry. 
 But see the pensive fair draws near ; 
 I'll at a distance stand and hear. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Rosamond and Sir Trusty. 
 
 Rosamond. From walk to walk, from shade to shade 
 From stream to purling stream convey'd, 
 Through all the mazes of the grove, 
 Through all the mingling tracks I rove, 
 
 Turning, 
 
 Burning, 
 
 Changing, 
 
 Ranging, 
 Full of grief and full of love.
 
 23? 
 
 DRAMAS. 
 
 Impatient for my lord's return 
 I sigh, I pine, I rave, I mourn. 
 Was ever passion cross'd like mine ? 
 
 To rend my breast, 
 
 And break my rest, 
 A thousand thousand ills combine. 
 
 Absence wounds me, 
 
 Fear surrounds me, 
 
 Guilt confounds me, 
 Was ever passion cross'd like mine ? 
 
 Sir Trusty. What heart of stone 
 
 Can hear her moan, 
 And not in dumps so doleful join ! [Apart. 
 
 Rosamond. How does my constant grief deface 
 The pleasures of this happy place ! 
 In vain the spring my senses greets 
 In all her colours, all her sweets ; 
 
 To me the rose 
 
 No longer glows, 
 
 Every plant 
 
 Has lost its scent : 
 The vernal blooms of various hue, 
 The blossoms fresh with morning dew, 
 The breeze, that sweeps these fragrant bowers, 
 Fill'd with the breath of op'ning flow'rs, 
 
 Purple scenes, 
 
 Winding greens, 
 
 Glooms inviting 
 
 Birds delighting, 
 (Nature's softest, sweetest store) 
 Charm my tortur'd soul no more.
 
 ROSAMOND. 22M 
 
 Te powers, I rave, I faint, I die ; 
 Why so slow ! great Henry, why : 
 From death and alarms 
 Fly, fly to my arms. 
 Fly to ray arms, my monarch, fly ! 
 
 Sir Trusty. How much more bless'd would lovers be 
 Did all the whining fools agree 
 To live like Grideline and me ! [Apart, 
 
 Rosamond. O^Rosamond, behold too late, 
 And tremble at i»jy future fate ! 
 Curse this unhappy, guilty face, 
 Every charm, and every grace, 
 That to thy ruin made their way, 
 And led thine innocence astray : 
 At home thou seest thy queen enraged, 
 Abroad thy absent lord engaged 
 In wars, that may our loves disjoin, 
 And end at once his life and mine. 
 
 Sir Trusty. Such cold complaints befit a nun ; 
 If she turns honest, I'm undone ! [Apart. 
 
 Rosamond. Beneath some hoary mountain 
 
 I'll lay me down and weep, 
 Or near some warbling fountain 
 
 Bewail myself asleep ; 
 Where feathered choirs combining 
 
 With gentle murm'ring streams, 
 And winds in consort joining, 
 
 Raise sadly pleasing dreams. [Ex. Ros 
 
 Sir Trusty, solus. What savage tiger would not pity 
 A damsel so distress'd and pretty ; 
 But hah ! a sound my bower invades, [Trump jlor. 
 And eeboes through the winding shades ;
 
 24U DRAMAS. 
 
 'Tis Henry's march ! the tune I know ; 
 A messenger ! It must be so. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Messenger and Sir Trusty. 
 
 Messenger. Great Henry comes! with love opprest; 
 Prepare to lodge the royal guest. 
 From purple fields with slaughter spread, 
 From rivers chok'd with heaps of dead, 
 From glorious and immortal toils, 
 Loaden with honour, rich with spoils, 
 Great Henry comes ! Prepare thy bower 
 To lodge the mighty conqueror. 
 
 Sir Trusty. The bower and lady both are drest, 
 And ready to receive their guest. 
 
 Messenger. Hither the victor flies, (his queen 
 And royal progeny unseen ;) 
 Soon as the British shores he reached, 
 Hither his foaming courser stretched : 
 And see ! his eager steps prevent 
 The message that himself hath sent ! 
 Sir Trusty. Here will I stand 
 
 With hat in hand, 
 
 Obsequiously to meet him, 
 
 And must endeavour 
 
 At behaviour, 
 
 That's suitable to greet hiin.
 
 ROSAMOND. 24 1 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Enter King Henry after a flourish of trumpets. 
 
 King. Where is my love ! my Rosamond ? 
 Sir Trusty. First, as in strictest duty bound, 
 
 I kiss your royal hand. 
 King. Where is my life ! my Rosamond ? 
 Sir Trusty. Next with submission most profound, 
 
 I welcome you to land. 
 King. Where is the tender, charming fair? 
 Sir Trusty. Let me appear, great sir, I pray, 
 Methodical in what I say. 
 
 King. Where is my love, tell me where ? 
 Sir Trusty. For when we have a prince's ear, 
 We should have wit, 
 To know what's fit 
 For us to speak, and him to hear. 
 
 King. These dull delays I cannot bear. 
 Where Is my love, tell me where ? 
 
 Sir Trusty. I speak, great sir, with weeping eyes, 
 She raves, alas ! she faints, she dies. 
 
 King. What dost thou say ? I shake with fear. 
 Sir Trusty. Nay, good my liege, with patience hear 
 She raves, and faints, and dies, 'tis true ; 
 But raves, and faints, and dies for you. 
 
 King. Was ever nymph like Rosamond, 
 So fair, so faithful, and so fond, 
 Adorn'd with ev'ry charm and grace? 
 I'm all desire ! 
 My heart's on fire, 
 And leaps and springs to her embrace. 
 
 VOL. i. — 1 1
 
 £4*2 DRAMAS. 
 
 Sir Trusty. At the sight of her lover 
 She'll quickly recover. 
 
 What place will you chuse 
 
 For first interviews ? 
 King. Full in the centre of the grove, 
 In yon pa"\ ilion made for love, 
 Where woodbines, roses, jessamines, 
 Amaranths, and eglantines, 
 With intermingling sweets have wove 
 The parti-colour' d gay alcove. 
 
 Sir Trusty. Your highness, Sir, as I presume, 
 Has chose the most convenient gloom ; 
 There's not a spot in all the park 
 Has trees so thick, and shades so dark. 
 
 King. Meanwhile with due attention wait 
 To guard the bower, and watch the gate ; 
 Let neither envy, grief, nor fear, 
 Nor love-sick jealousy appear; 
 Nor senseless pomp, nor noise intrude 
 On this delicious solitude ; 
 But pleasure reign through all the grove, 
 And all be peace, and all be love. 
 the pleasing, pleasing anguish, 
 When we love, and when we languish ! 
 
 Wishes rising ! 
 
 Thoughts surprising ! 
 
 Pleasure courting ! 
 
 Charms transporting ! 
 
 Fancy viewing 
 
 Joys ensuing ! 
 the pleasing, pleasing anguish ! '. Mxeunt.
 
 EOSAMOND. 243 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Pamlion i/i the middle of the Bower. 
 
 King and Rosamond. 
 
 King. Thus let my weary soul forget 
 
 Restless glory, martial strife, 
 Anxious pleasures of the great, 
 
 And gilded cares of life. 
 Rosamond. Thus let me lose, in rising joys, 
 
 Fierce impatience, fond desires, 
 Absence that flatt'ring hope destroys, 
 And life-consuming fires. 
 King. Not the loud British shout that warms 
 The warrior's heart, nor clashing arms, 
 Nor fields with hostile banners strow'd, 
 Nor life on prostrate Gauls bestow'd, 
 Give half the joys that fill my breast, 
 While with my Rosamond I'm blest. 
 
 Rosamond. My Henry is my soul's delight, 
 My wish by day, my dream by night. 
 'Tis not in language to impart 
 The secret meltings of my heart, 
 While I my conqueror survey, 
 And look my very soul away. 
 
 King. may the present bliss endure, 
 From fortune, time, and death secure ! 
 
 Both. may the present bliss endure 1 
 King. My eye could ever gaze, my ear 
 Those gentle sounds could ever hear :
 
 244 DRAMAS. 
 
 But oh ! with noon-day heats opprest, 
 
 My aking temples call for rest ! 
 
 In yon cool grotto's artful night 
 
 Refreshing slumbers I'll invite, 
 
 Then seek again my absent fair, 
 
 With all the love a heart can bear. [Exit King. 
 
 Rosamond, sola. From whence this sad presaging fc ar. 
 This sudden sigh, this falling tear ? 
 Oft in my silent dreams by night 
 
 With such a look I've seen him fly, 
 
 Wafted by angels to the sky, 
 And lost in endless tracks of light ; 
 While I abandon'd and forlorn, 
 To dark and dismal deserts borne, 
 Through lonely wilds have seem'd to stray, 
 A long uncomfortable way. 
 
 They're phantoms all ; I'll think no more : 
 
 My life has endless joys in store. 
 
 Farewel sorrow, farcwel fear, 
 
 They're phantoms all ! my Henry's here. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Postern Gate of the Bower. 
 
 Grideline and Page. 
 
 urideline. My stomach swells with secret spite, 
 To see my fickle, faithless knight, 
 With upright gesture, goodly mien, 
 Face of olive, coat of green, 
 That charmed the ladies long ago, 
 So little his own worth to know,
 
 ROSAMOND. 245 
 
 On a meer girl nis thoughts to place, 
 With dimpled cheeks, and baby face ; 
 A child ! a chit ! that was not born, 
 When I did town and court adorn. 
 
 Page. Can any man prefer fifteen 
 To venerable Grideline ? 
 
 G-R1DELINE. He does, my child : or tell me why 
 With weeping eyes so oft I spy 
 His whiskers curl'd, and shoe strings ty'd, 
 A. new Toledo by his side, 
 [n shoulder-belt so trimly plac'd 
 With band so nicely smooth'd and lac'd. 
 
 Page. If Rosamond his garb has view'd, 
 The knight is false, the nymph subdu'd. 
 
 Grideline. My anxious boding heart divines 
 His falsehood by a thousand signs : 
 Oft o'er the lonely rocks he walks, 
 And to the foolish echo talks ; 
 Oft in the glass he rolls his eye, 
 But turns and frowns if I am by ; 
 Then my fond easy heart beguiles, 
 And thinks of Rosamond, and smiles. 
 
 Page. Well may you feel these soft alarms, 
 She has a heart 
 
 Guideline. And he has charms. 
 
 Page. Your fears are too just. 
 
 Guideline. Too plainly I've prov'd 
 
 Both. He loves and is lov'd. 
 
 Guideline. merciless fate ! 
 
 Page. Deplorable state! 
 
 Grideline. To die 
 
 Page. To be slain
 
 £46 DRAMAS. 
 
 Grideline. By a barbarous swain, 
 
 Both. That laughs at your paiu. 
 
 Grideline. How shou'd I act ? canst thou advise ? 
 
 Page. Open the gate if you are wise ; 
 I, in an unsuspected hour, 
 May catch them dallying in the bower, 
 Perhaps their loose amours prevent, 
 And keep Sir Trusty innocent. 
 
 Grideline. Thou art in truth 
 A forward youth, 
 Of wit and parts above thy age ; 
 Thou know'st our sex. Thou art a page. 
 Page. I'll do what I can 
 To surprise the false man. 
 
 Grideline. Of such a faithful spy I've need :■ 
 Go in, and if thy plot succeed, 
 Fair youth, thou may'st depend on this, 
 I'll pay thy service with a kiss. [Exit Page. 
 
 Grideline, sola. Prithee Cupid no more 
 Hurl thy darts at threescore, 
 To thy girls and thy boys 
 Give thy pains and thy joys, 
 Let Sir Trusty and me 
 From thy frolics be free. [ Exit Grid. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Page, solus. the soft delicious view, 
 Ever charming, ever new ! 
 Greens of various shades arise, 
 Deck'd with flow'rs of various dies : 
 
 " An opening scene discovers another view of the bower.
 
 ROSAMOND. 24? 
 
 Paths by meeting paths are crost. 
 Alleys in winding alleys lost; 
 Fountains playing through the trees, 
 Give coolness to the passing breeze. 
 A thousand fairy scenes appear, 
 Here a grove, a grotto here, 
 Here a rock, and here a stream, 
 Sweet delusion, 
 Gay confusion, 
 All a vision, all a dream 1 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Queen and Page. 
 
 Queen. At length the bow'ry vaults appear 1 
 My bosom heaves, and pants with fear : 
 A thousand cheeks my heart controul, 
 A thousand terrors shake my soul. 
 
 Page. Behold the brazen gate unbarr'd ! 
 — She's fixt in thought, I am not heard — [Apart. 
 
 Queen. I see, I see my hands embru'd 
 In purple streams of reeking blood ; 
 I see the victim gasp for breath, 
 And start La agonies of death : 
 I see my raging dying lord, 
 And 0, I see myself abhorr'd ! 
 
 Page. My eyes o'erflow, my heart is rent 
 To hear Britannia's queen lament. [Aside 
 
 Queen. What shall my trembling soul pursue ? 
 
 Page. Behold, great queen, the place in viewl 
 
 Queen Ye pow'rs instruct me what to do ! 
 Page. That bow'r will show 
 The guilty foe.
 
 248 DRAMAS. 
 
 Queen. It is decreed — it shall be so ; [After a paust 
 I cannot see my lord repine 
 (0 that I could call him mine !) 
 Why have not they most charms to move, 
 Whose bosoms burn with purest love ? 
 
 Page. Her heart with rage and fondness glows. 
 jealousy, thou hell of woes ! [Aside 
 
 That conscious scene of love contains 
 The fatal cause of all your pains ; 
 In yonder flow'ry vale she lies, 
 Where those fair-blossom'd arbors rise. 
 Queen. Let us haste to destroy 
 Her guilt and her joy. 
 Wild and frantic is my grief! 
 
 Fury driving, 
 
 Mercy striving, 
 Heaven in pity send relief! 
 
 The pangs of love 
 
 Ye pow'rs remove, 
 Or dart your thunder at my head : 
 
 Love and despair 
 
 What heart can bear ? 
 Ease my soul, or strike ro ^ead ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 The Scene changes to the Pavilion as oefore. 
 
 Rosamond sola. Transporting pleasure ! who can tell it ! 
 
 When our longing eyes discover 
 
 The kind, the dear, approaching lover, 
 Who can utter, or conceal it, !
 
 ROSAMOND. 249 
 
 A sudden motion shakes the grove : 
 I hear the steps of him I love ; 
 Prepare, my soul, to meet thy bliss 
 — Death to my eyes ; what sight is this ? 
 The queen, th' offended queen I see ; 
 Open, earth ! and swallow me ! 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Btnter to her tlie Queen, with a Bowl in one Hand, and a Dagger in 
 
 the other. 
 
 Queen. Thus arin'd with double death I come. : 
 Behold, vain wretch, behold thy doom ! 
 Thy crimes to their full period tend, 
 And soon by this, or this, shall end. 
 
 Rosamond. What sliall I say, or how reply 
 To threats of injur'd majesty ? 
 
 Ql'een. 'Tis guilt that does thy tongue controul. 
 Or quickly drain the fatal bowl, ' 
 Or this right hand performs its part, 
 And plants a dagger in thy heart. 
 
 Rosamond. Can Britain's queen give such commands, 
 Or dip in blood those sacred hands ? 
 In her shall such revenge be seen ? 
 Far be that from Britain's queen ! 
 
 Queen. How black does my design appear 1 
 Was ever mercy so severe ? r Aside 
 
 1 Cast off from thee those robes, she said, 
 That riche and costlye bee; 
 And drinke thou u|» this deadlye draught 
 Which [.have brought to thee. Ut. sup. 
 
 vol. r — 11*
 
 250 DRAMAS. 
 
 Rosamond. When tides of youthful blood run high,' 
 And scenes of promis'd joys are nigh, 
 Health presuming, 
 Beauty blooming, 
 how dreadful 'tis to die ! 
 
 Queen. To those whom foul dishonours stain, 
 Life itself should be a pain. 
 
 Rosamond. Who could resist great Henry's charms, 
 And drive the hero from her arms ? 
 
 Think on the soft, the tender fires, 
 Melting thoughts, and gay desires, 
 That in your own warm bosom rise, 
 When languishing with love-sick eyes 
 That great, that charming man you see* 
 Think on yourself, and pity me ! 
 
 Queen. And dost thou thus thy guilt deplore ? 
 
 [ Offering the dagger to her breast. 
 Presumptuous woman plead no more ! 
 
 Rosamond. queen, your lifted arm restrain ! 
 Behold these tears ! 
 
 Queen. They flow in vain 
 
 Rosamond. Look with compassion on "ny fate. 
 hear my sighs ! 
 
 Queen. They rise too late. 
 Hope not a day's, an hour's reprieve. 
 
 1 Take pitty on my youthfull yeares, 
 Fair Rosamond did cry, 
 And lett raee not with poison stronge 
 Enforced bee to dy? Ut sup.
 
 ROSAMOND. 25 1 
 
 Rosamond. Tho' I live wretched, let uie live,' 
 In some deep dungeon let me lie, 
 Cover'd from ev'ry human eye, 
 Banish'd the day, debarr'd the light, 
 Where shades of everlasting night 
 May this unhappy face disarm, 
 And cast a veil o'er ev'ry charm : 
 Offended heaven I'll there adore, 
 Nor see the sun, nor Henry more. 
 
 Queen. Moving language, shining tears, y 
 Glowing guilt, and graceful fears, 
 Kindling pity, kindling rage, 
 At once provoke me, and assuage. / [Aside. 
 
 Rosamond. What shall I do to pacify 
 Your kindled vengeance ? 
 
 Queen. Thou shalt die. [Offering the dagger. 
 
 Rosamond. Give me but one short moment's stay. 
 — Henry, why so far away ? [Aside.. 
 
 Queen. Prepare to welter in a flood 
 Of streaming gore. [Offering tJie dagger. 
 
 Rosamond. spare my blood, [her hand. 
 
 And let me grasp the deadly bowl. 2 [ Takes the bowl in 
 
 Queen. Ye pow'rs, how pity rends my soul ! [Aside. 
 
 Rosamond. Thus prostrate at your feet I fall. 
 let me still for mercy call ! [Fulli?ig on her knees. 
 
 1 And for the fault which I have done, 
 
 Though I was fore'd thcretoe, 
 Preserve my life, and punish nice 
 As you thinke meet to doe. 
 
 * The cup of dcadlye poyson stronge, 
 As she knelt on her knee, 
 She gave this comelye dame to drinke: 
 
 Wh" tooke it in her hand Ut. sup.
 
 252 DRAMAS. 
 
 Accept, great queen, like injur'd heaven, 
 The soul that begs to be forgiven : 
 If in the latest gasp of breath, 
 If in the dreadful pains of death, 
 When the cold damp bedews your brow, 
 You hope for mercy, show it now. 
 
 Queen. Mercy to lighter crimes is due, 
 Horrors and death shall thine pursue. 
 
 [Offering the dc.gger. 
 Rosamond. Thus I prevent the fatal blow. [J)rink& 
 — Whither, ah ! whither shall I go ? 
 
 Queen. Where thy past life thou shalt lament, 
 And wish thou hadst been innocent. 
 
 Rosamond. Tyrant ! to aggravate the stroke, 
 And wound a heart, already broke ! 
 My dying soul with fury burns, 
 And slighted grief to madness turns. 
 Think not, thou author of my woe, 
 That Rosamond will leave thee so ; 
 At dead of night, 
 A glaring sprite, 
 
 With hideous screams, *■ 
 
 I'll haunt thy dreams, ' * 
 
 And when the painful night withdraws, 
 ; My Henry shall revenge my cause. 
 O whither does my frenzy drive ! 
 Forgive my rage, your wrongs forgive. 
 rMy veins are froze ; my blood grows chill j 
 •The weary springs of life stand still ; 
 The sleep of death benumbs all o'er 
 "My fainting limbs, and I'm no more. [Falls on the coucn,
 
 ROSAMOND. 253 
 
 Queen. Hear and observe your queen s commands. 
 
 [ To her attendants 
 Beneath those hills a convent stands, 
 Where the fam'd streams of Isis stray ; 
 Thither the breathless corse convey, 
 And bid the cloister'd maids with care 
 The due solemnities prepare. 
 
 [Exeunt with the body. 
 When vanquish'd foes beneath us lie 
 How great it is to bid them die ! 
 But how much greater to forgive, 
 And bid a vanquish'd foe to live ! [ExU 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Sir Trusty, in a fright. 
 
 A breathless corps 1 what have I seen ? 
 And follow'd by the jealous queen ! 
 It must be she ! my fears are true ; 
 The bowl of pois'nous juice I view. 
 How can the fam'd Sir Trusty live 
 To hear his master chide and grieve ? 
 No ! tho' I hate such bitter beer, 
 
 Fair Rosamond, I'll pledge thee here. [Drinks. 
 
 The king this doleful news shall read 
 In lines of my inditing : 
 Great Sir, 
 
 ' Your Rosamond is dead [ Writes 
 
 1 As I am at this present writing.' 
 The bower turns round, my brain's abus'd, 
 The labyrinth grows more confus'd,
 
 254 DRAMAS. 
 
 The thickets daace — I stretch, I juwn. 
 Death has tripp'd up my heels — I'm gone. 
 
 [Staggers and falls. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Queen sola. The conflict of my mind is o'er, 
 And Rosamond shall charm no more. 
 Hence ye secret damps of care, 
 Fierce disdain, and cold despair, 
 Hence ye fears and doubts remove ; 
 
 Hence grief and hate ! 
 
 Ye pains that wait 
 On jealousy, the rage of love. 
 
 My Henry shall be mine alone, 
 The hero shall be all my own; 
 Nobler joys possess my heart 
 Than crowns and sceptres can impart. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Scene a Grotto, Henry asleep, a Cloud descends, in it two Angels, sup- 
 posed to he the guardian Spirits of the British Kings in War and. 
 in Peace. 
 
 First Angel. Behold th' unhappy monarch there, 
 That claims our tutelary care ! 
 
 Second Angel. In fields of death around his head 
 A shield of adamant I spread. 
 
 First Angel. In hours of peace, unseen, unknown, 
 I hover o'er the British throne. 

 
 ROSAMOND. 255 
 
 Second Angel. When hosts of foes w.th foes engage, 
 And round th' anointed hero rage, 
 The cleaving fauchion I misguide, 
 And turn the feather'd shaft aside. 
 
 First Angel. When dark fermenting factions swell, 
 And prompt the ambitious to rebel, 
 A thousand terrors I impart, 
 And damp the furious traitor's heart. 
 
 Both. But, oh ! what influence can remove 
 The pangs of grief and rage of love ! 
 Second Angel. I'll fire his soul with mighty themes 
 
 Till love before ambition fly. 
 First Angel. I'll sooth his cares in pleasing dreams 
 Till grief in joyful raptures die. 
 Second Angel. Whatever glorious and renown'd 
 In British annals can be found ; 
 Whatever actions shall adorn 
 Britannia's heroes, yet unborn, 
 In dreadful visions shall succeed ; 
 On fancy'd fields the Gauls shall bleed, 
 Cressy shall stand before his eyes, 
 And Agincourt and Blenheim rise. 
 
 First Angel. See, see, he smiles am dst his trance, 
 And shakes a visionary lance, 
 His brain is fill'd with loud alarms; 
 Shouting armies, clashing arms, 
 The softer prints of love deface ; 
 And trumpets sound in ev'ry trace. 
 Both. Glory strives ! 
 
 The field is won ! 
 Fame revives 
 
 And love is gone.
 
 256 DRAMAS. 
 
 First Angel. To calm thy grief, and lull thy cares, 
 Look up and see 
 What, after long revolving years, 1 
 
 Thy bower shall be ! 
 When time its beauties shall deface, 
 And only with its ruins grace 
 The future prospect of the place. 
 Behold the glorious pile ascending ! a 
 Columns swelling, arches bending, 
 Domes in awful pomp arising, 
 Art in curious strokes surprising, 
 Foes in figur'd fights contending, 
 Behold the glorious pile ascending ! 
 
 Second Angel. He sees, he sees the great reward 
 For Anna's mighty chief prepar'd : 
 His growing joys no measure keep, 
 Too vehement and fierce for sleep. 
 First Angel. Let grief and love at once engage, 
 His heart is proof to all their pain ; 
 Love may plead 
 
 Second Angel. And grief may rage — 
 
 Both. But both shall plead and rage in vain. 
 
 [ The Angels ascend, and the vision disaj)pears 
 
 Henry, {starting from the couch,) 
 Where have my ravish'd senses been ! 
 What joys, what wonders, have I seen ! 
 The scene yet stands before my eye, 
 A thousand glorious deeds that lie 
 
 1 What after rolling years. When these lines were written Blenheim 
 castle was building under the direction of Sir John Vanbrugh. — G. 
 
 * Scene changes to the Plan of Blenheim Castle.
 
 ROSAMOND. 25? 
 
 In deep futurity obscure, 
 Fights aud triumphs immature, 
 Heroes immers'd in time's dark womb, 
 Ripening for mighty years to come, 
 Break forth, and, to the day display'd, 
 My soft inglorious hours upbraid. 
 Transported with so bright a scheme, 
 My waking life appears a dream. 
 
 Adieu, ye wanton shades and bowers, 
 Wreaths of myrtle, beds of flowers, 
 
 Rosy brakes, 
 
 Silver lakes, 
 
 To love and you 
 
 A long adieu ! 
 
 Rosamond ! rising woe ! 
 
 Why do my weeping eyes o'erflow ? 
 
 Rosamond ! fair distress'd ! 
 
 How shall my heart, with grief opprcss'd, 
 
 Its unrelenting purpose tell ; 
 
 And take the long, the last farewel ? 
 
 Rise, glory, rise in all thy charms, 
 
 Thy waving crest, and burnish'd arms, 
 
 Spread thy gilded banners round, 
 
 Make thy thundering courser bound, 
 
 Bid the drum and trumpet join, 
 
 Warm my soul with rage divine ; 
 
 All thy pomps around thee call : 
 
 To conquer love will ask thorn all. f Exit.
 
 253 DRAMAS, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Scene changes to that Part of the Bower where Sir Trusty Iua 
 upon the Ground, with the Brnol and Dagger on the Table 
 
 Enter Queen. 
 
 Every star, and every pow'r, 
 Look down on this important hour 
 Lend your protection and defence 
 Every guard of innocence ! 
 Help me my Henry to assuage, 
 To gain his love or bear his rage. 
 
 Mysterious love, uncertain treasure, 
 Hast thou more of pain or pleasure ! 
 
 Chill'd with tears, 
 
 Kill'd with fears, 
 Endless torments dwell about thee : 
 Yet who would live, and live without thee ! 
 
 But oh the sight my soul alarms . 
 
 My lord appears, I'm all on fire ! 
 Why am I banish'd from his arms ? 
 
 My heart's too full, I must retire. 
 
 [Retires to the end of the stage 
 
 SCENE III. 
 King and Queen. 
 
 King. Some dreadful birth of fate is near. 
 Or why, my soul, unus'd to fear, 
 With secret horror dost thou shake ? 
 Can dreams such dire impressions make !
 
 ROSAMOND. 259 
 
 What means this solemn, silent show? 
 This pomp of death, this scene of woe ! 
 Support me, heaven ! what's this I read? 
 Oh horror ! Rosa?no7id is dead. 
 What shall I say, or whither turn? 
 With grief, and rage, and love, I burn ; 
 From thought to thought my soul is tost, 
 And in the whirl of passion lost. 
 Why did I not in battle fall, 
 Crush'd by the thunder of the Gaul ? 
 Why did the spear my bosom miss r" 
 Ye pow'rs, was I reserv'd for this ! 
 
 Distracted with woe 
 I'll rush on the foe 
 
 To seek my relief: 
 The sword or the dart 
 Shall pierce my sad heart, 
 
 And finish my grief ! 
 
 Queen. Fain wou'd my tongue his griefs aopease, 
 And give his tortur'd bosom ease. [Aside. 
 
 King. But see! the cause of all my fears, 
 The source of all my grief appears ! 
 No unexpected guest is here ; 
 The fatal bowl 
 Inform'd my soul 
 Eleonora was too near. 
 
 Queen. Why do I here my lord receive? 
 
 King. Is this the welcome that you give ? - 
 
 Queen. Thus shou'd divided lovers meet? 
 
 Both. And is it thus, ah ! thus we greet !
 
 260 DRAMAS. 
 
 Queen. "What, in these .guilty shades, cou'd you, 
 Inglorious conqueror, pursue? 
 
 King. Cruel woman, what eou'd you ? 
 Queen. Degenerate thoughts have fir'd your breast. 
 King. The thirst of blood has yours possess'd. 
 Queen. A heart so unrepenting, 
 King. A rage so unrelenting, 
 Both. Will for ever 
 
 Love dissever, 
 Will for ever break our rest. 
 King. Floods of sorrow will I shed 
 
 To mourn the lovely shade ! 
 My Rosamond, alas ! is dead, 
 And where, where convey'd ! 
 
 So bright a bloom, so soft an air, 
 
 Did ever nymph disclose ! 
 The lily was not half so fair, 
 
 Nor half so sweet the rose. 
 
 Queen. How is his heart with anguish torn ! [Aside. 
 My lord, T cannot see you mourn ; 
 The living you lament : while I, 
 To be lamented so, cou'd die. 
 
 King. The living ! speak, oh speak again ! 
 Why will you dally with my pain ? 
 
 Queen. Were your lov'd Rosamond ilive, 
 Would not my former wrongs revive ? 
 
 King. Oh no ; by visions from above 
 Prepar'd for grief, and freed from love, 
 I came to take my last adieu. 
 
 Queen. How am I bless'd if this be true ! — Aside. 

 
 ROSAMOND. 261 
 
 King. And leave tli' unhappy nymph for you. 
 ButO! 
 
 Queen. Forbear, my lord, to grieve, 
 And know your Rosamond does live. 
 
 If 'tis joy to wound a lover, 
 
 How much more to s;ive him ease ? 
 When his passion we discover, 
 
 Oh how pleasing 'tis to please ! 
 The bliss returns, and we receive 
 Transports greater than we give. 
 
 King. quickly relate 
 This riddle of fate ! 
 My impatience forgive, 
 Docs Rosamond live ? 
 Queen. The bowl, with drowsy juices fill'd, 
 From cold Egyptian drugs distill'd. 
 In borrow'd death has clos'd her eyes : 
 But soon the waking nymph shall rise, 
 And, in a convent plac'd, admire 
 The cloister'd walls and virgin choir ; 
 With them in songs and hymns divine 
 The beauteous penitent shall join, 
 And bid the guilty world adieu. 
 
 King. How am I blest if this be true ! [Aside 
 
 Queen Atoning for herself and you. 
 King. I ask no more ! secure the fair 
 In life and bliss : I ask not where: 
 For ever from my fancy fled 
 May the whole world believe her dead,
 
 262 DRAMAS. 
 
 That no foul minister of vice 
 Again my sinking soul entice 
 Its broken passion to renew, 
 But let me live and die with you. 
 
 . Queen. How does my heart for such a prize 
 The vain censorious world despise! 
 Tho' distant ages, yet unborn, 
 For Rosamond shall falsely mourn, 
 And with the present times agree, 
 To brand my name with cruelty ; 
 How does my heart for such a prize 
 The vain censorious world despise ! 
 
 But see your slave, while yet I speak, 
 From his dull trance unfetter'd break ! 
 As he the potion shall survive 
 Believe your Rosamond alive. 
 
 King. happy day ! pleasing view ! 
 My queen forgives — 
 
 Queen. My lord is true. 
 
 King. No more I'll change, 
 
 Queen. No more I'll grieve : 
 
 Both. But ever thus united live. 
 
 Sir Trusty, awaking. In which world am 1 1 all I see 
 Ev'ry thicket, bush and tree, 
 So like the place from whence I came, 
 That one wou'd swear it were the same. 
 My former legs too, by their pace ! 
 And by the whiskers, 'tis my face ! 
 The self-same habit, garb and mien ! 
 They ne'er would \ ury me in green.
 
 ROSAMOND. 263 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Guideline and Sir Trusty. 
 
 Gr delink. Have I then liv'd to see this hour, 
 And took thee in the very bow'r ? 
 
 Sir Trusty. Widow Trusty, why so fine ? 
 Why dost thou thus in colours shine ? 
 Thou shou'dst thy husband's death bewail 
 In sable vesture, peak, and veil. 
 
 Grideline. Forbear these foolish freaks, and see 
 How our good king and queen agree. 
 Why shou'd not we their steps pursue, 
 And do as our superiors do ? 
 
 Sir Trusty. Am I bewitch'd, or do I dream ? 
 I know not who, or where I am, 
 Or what I hear, or what I see, 
 But this I'm sure, howe'er it be, 
 It suits a person in my station 
 T' observe the mode and be in fashion. 
 Then let not Grideline the chaste 
 Offended be for what is past, 
 And hence anew my vows I plight 
 To be a faithful courteous knight. 
 
 Grideline. I'll too my plighted vows renew, 
 Since 'tis so courtly to be true. 
 Since conjugal passion 
 Is come into fashion, 
 And marriage so blest on the throne is, 
 Like a Venus I'll shine, 
 Be fond and be fine, 
 And Sir Trusty shall be my Adonis. 
 
 Slit Trusty. And Sir Trusty shall be thy Adonis.
 
 264 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 The King and Queen advancing. 
 
 .tng. Who to forbidden joys wou'd rove,* 
 'hat knows the sweets of virtuous love ? 
 [ymen, thou source of chaste delights, 
 
 Chearful days, and blissful nights, 
 
 Thou dost untainted joys dispense, 
 
 And pleasure join with innocence ! 
 
 Thy raptures last, and are sincere 
 
 From future grief and present fear. 
 
 Both. Who to forbidden joys wou'd rove, 
 
 That knows the sweets of virtuous love ? 
 
 * WIio to forbidden joys. So careful was this excellent man, to set our 
 passions on t)u side of truth," even in his gayest and slightest comp. vi- 
 rion 1 ?.
 
 THE DRUMMER, 
 OR THE HAUNTED HOUSE, 
 
 fife IT IS ACTED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, IN DRURY LANE, BY BJS 
 
 MAJESTY'S SERVANTS. 
 
 -Faisis terroribus implet 
 
 Ut mamis- 
 
 Witu a PREFACE by Sir Richard Steele, in an Epistle Dedicatory to Mr, 
 Concrete, occasioned by Mr. Tickell's PREFACE to the four Volumes 
 of Mr Addison's Works. 
 
 tOL. I. — 12
 
 INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 
 
 [This piece was omitted in the original edition of Addison's works by 
 Tick ell, in which, according to Miss Aikin, he displayed "sounder discre- 
 tion " than Steele did in republishing it. 
 
 Of this piece Beattie says in a letter to Mr. Cameron: — "The Drum 
 mer is in my opinion one of the best dramatic pieces in our language." — 
 Forbes' Beattie, let. 611. 
 
 Macaulay's remarks contain probably the opinion in which most men 
 of taste will agree: 
 
 "In the same year (1*715) his comedy of the Drummer was brought on 
 the stage. The name of the author was not announced: the piece was 
 coldly received : and some critics have expressed a doubt whether it were 
 really Addison's. To us the evidence, both external and internal, eeems 
 decisive. It is not in Addison's best manner; but it contains numerous 
 passages which no other writer known to us could have produced. It 
 was again performed after Addison's death, and being known to be his, 
 was loudly applauded." 
 
 All the positive knowledge that we shall probably ever have at out the 
 authorship of the Drummer is contained in Steele's "Epistle Dedicatory " 
 to Congreve. — G.j
 
 TO ME. CONGREVE, 
 
 OCCASIONED BY MR. TICKELL'S PREFACE TO THE FOUR 
 VOLUMES OF MR. ADDISON'S WORKS. 
 
 Sir, — This is the second time that I have, without your leave, 
 taken the liberty to make a public address to you. However 
 uneasy you may be, for your own sake, in receiving compliments 
 of this nature, I depend upon your known humanity for pardon, 
 when I acknowledge, that you have this present trouble for mine. 
 When I take myself to be ill-treated with regard to my behaviour 
 to the merit of other men, my conduct towards you is an argu- 
 ment of my candour that way, as well as that your name and 
 authority will be my protection in it. You will give me leave, 
 therefore, in a matter that concerns us in the poetical world, to 
 make you my judge, whether I am not injured in the highest 
 manner ; for with men of your taste and delicacy, it is a high 
 crime and misdemeanour to be guilty of any thing that is disin- 
 genuous : but I will go into the matter. 
 
 Upon my return out of Scotland, I visited Mr. Tonson's shop, 
 and thanked him for his care in sending to my house the volumes 
 of my 'bar and honoured friend, Mr. Addison, which are at last 
 published by his secretary, Mr. Tickell ; but took occasion to 
 observe, that I had not seen the work before it came out, which 
 lie did not think fit to excuse any otherwise than by a recrimina-
 
 268 DRAMAS. 
 
 tion, that I had put into his hands at an high price, ' A Comedy 
 called The Drummer ;' which, by my zeal for it, he took to be 
 written by Mr. Addison, and of which, after his death, he said I 
 directly acknowledged he was the author. To urge this hardship 
 still more home, he produced a receipt under my hand in these 
 words : 
 
 March 12, 1715. 
 " Received then the sum of fifty guineas for the copy of the 
 comedy called, The Drummer, or the Haunted House. I say 
 received by order of the author of the said comedy. 
 
 " Richard Steele." 
 
 And added, at the same time, that since Mr. Tickell had not 
 thought fit to make that play a part of Mr. Addison's Works, he 
 would sell the copy to any bookseller that would give most foi it. 
 
 This is represented thus circumstantially, to shew how incum- 
 bent it is upon me, as well in justice to the bookseller, as for 
 many other considerations, to produce this comedy a second time, 
 and take this occasion to vindicate myself against certain insinua- 
 tions thrown out by the publisher of Mr. Addison's writings, 
 concerning my behaviour in the nicest circumstance, that of doing 
 justice to the merit of my friend. 
 
 I shall take the liberty, before I have ended this letter, to 
 say, why I believe the Drummer a performance of Mr. Addison : 
 and after I have declared this, any surviving writer may be at 
 ease, if there be any one who has hitherto been vain enough to 
 hope, or silly enough to fear it may be given to himself. 
 
 Before I go any further, I must make my public appeal to 
 you and all the learned world, and humbly demand, whether it 
 was a decent or reasonable thing, that works written (as a great 
 part of Mr. Addison's were) in correspondence with me, ought to 
 have been published without my review of the catalogue of them ;
 
 THE DRUMMER. 2b c „ 
 
 or if there were any exception to be made against any circum- 
 stance in my conduct, whether an opportunity to explain myself 
 should not have been allowed me before any reflections were made 
 upon me in print. 
 
 When I had perused Mr. Tickell's preface, I had soon many 
 objections, besides his omission to say any thing of the Drummer, 
 against his long expected performance. The chief intention of 
 which, and which it concerns me first to examine, seems to aim 
 at doing the deceased author justice against me, whom he insinu- 
 ates to have assumed to myself part of the merit of my friend. 
 
 He is pleased, sir, to express himself concerning the present 
 writer in the following manner : 
 
 a ' The comedy called, The Tender Husband appeared much 
 about the same time, to which Mr. Addison wrote the Prologue. 
 Sir Richard Steele surprised him with a very handsome dedica- 
 tion of this play, and has since acquainted the public, that he 
 owed some of the most taking scenes of it to Mr. Addison.' 
 
 b ' He was in that kingdom, [Ireland] when he first discovered 
 Sir Richard Steele to be the author of the Tatler, by an observa- 
 tion upon Virgil, which had been by him communicated to his 
 friend. The assistance he occasionally gave him afterwards in 
 the course of the paper, did not a little contribute to advance its 
 reputation ; and, upon the change of the ministry, he found leisure 
 to engage more constantly in that work, which, however, was 
 dropt at last, as it had been taken up, without his participation. 
 
 ' In the last paper, which closed those celebrated perform- 
 ances, and iu the preface to the last volume, Sir Richard Steele 
 has given to Mr. Addison the honour of the most applauded 
 
 is in that collection. But as that acknowledgment was de- 
 livered only in general terms, without directing the public to the 
 
 * Mr. Tick. Us Prtface, pug.; 12. b Page 13.
 
 270 DR * MAS. 
 
 several papers ; Mr. Addison, who was content with the praiso 
 arising from his own works, and too delicate to tike any part of 
 that which belonged to others, afterwards thought fit to distin- 
 guish his writings in the Spectators and Guardians by such marks 
 as might remove the least possibility of mistake in the most un- 
 discerning readers. It was necessary that his share in the Tat- 
 lers should be adjusted in a complete ^collection of his works ; for 
 which reason Sir Richard Steele, in compliance with the request 
 of his deceased friend, delivered to him by the editor, was pleased 
 to mark with his own hand those Tatlers which are inserted in 
 this edition, and even to point out several, in the writing of 
 which they both were concerned.' 
 
 " ' The plan of the Spectator, as far as it regards the feigned 
 person of the author, and of the several characters that compose 
 his club, was projected in concert with Sir Richard Steele; and 
 because many passages in the course of the work, would otherwise 
 be obscure, I have taken leave to insert one single paper, written 
 by Sir Richard Steele, wherein those characters are drawn which 
 may serve as a Dramatis Personce, or as so many pictures for an 
 ornament and explication of the whole. As for the distinct pa- 
 pers, they were never or seldom shown to each other by their 
 respective authors, who fully answered the promise they had 
 made, and far out-went the expectation they had raised of pursu- 
 ing their labour in the same spirit and strength, with which it was 
 begun.' 
 
 It need not be explained, that it is here intimated, that I had 
 not sufficiently acknowledged what was due to Mr. Addison in 
 these writings. I shall make a full answer to what seems in- 
 tended by the words, ' He was too delicate to take any part of 
 that which belonged to others,' if I can recite out of my own pa- 
 pers any thing that may make it appear groundless. 
 
 » Page 14.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 27 1 
 
 The subsequent encomiums bestowed by me on Mr. Addison, 
 will, I hope, be of service to me in this particular. 
 
 * But I have only one gentleman, ' who will be nameless,' to 
 thank for any frequent assistance to me; which, indeed, it would 
 have been barbarous in him to have denied to one with whom he 
 has lived in an intimacy from childhood, considering the great 
 ease with which he is able to dispatch the most entertaining 
 pieces of this nature. This good office he performed with such 
 force of genius, humour, wit and learning, that I fared like a 
 distressed prince who calls in a powerful neighbour to his aid ; I 
 was undone by my auxiliary : when I had once called him in, I 
 could not subsist without dependance ou him. 
 
 ' The same hand writ the distinguishing characters of men and 
 women, under the names of Musical Instruments, the Distress of 
 the News-Writers, the Inventory of the Play-house, and the De- 
 scription of the Thermometer, which I cannot but look upon as 
 the greatest embellishments of this work.' 
 
 b ' As to the work itself, the acceptance it has met with is the 
 best proof of its value ; but I should err against that candor 
 which an honest man should always carry about him, if I did not 
 own, that the most approved pieces in it were written by others, 
 and those, which have been most excepted against, by myself. 
 The hand that has assisted me in those noble discourses upon the 
 immortality of the soul, the glorious prospects of another life, and 
 the most sublime ideas of religion and virtue, is a person who is 
 too fondly my friend ever to own them : but I should little de- 
 serve to be his, if I usurped the glory of them. I must acknow- 
 ledge, at the same time, that I think the finest strokes of wit and 
 humour, in all Mr. Bickerstaff's lucubrations, are those for which 
 he is also beholden to him.' 
 
 • ' I hope the apology I have made as to the license allowable 
 
 Preface to the 4th voL <>f the Tatlers. l Tutler, No. 271.
 
 272 DRAMAS. 
 
 to a feigned character, may excuse any thing which has been said 
 in these discourses of the Spectator and his works. But the 
 imputation of the grossest vanity would still dwell upon me, if I 
 did not give some account by what means I was enabled to keep 
 up the spirit of so long and approved a performance. All the 
 papers marked with a C, L, I, or ; that is to say, all the papers 
 which I have distinguished by any letter in the name of the muse 
 CLIO, were given me by the gentleman, of whose assistance I 
 formerly boasted in the preface and concluding leaf of the Tatler. 
 I am, indeed, much more proud of his long-continued friendship, 
 than I should be of the fame of being thought the author of an\ 
 writings which he himself is capable of producing. I remember 
 when T finished the Tender Husband, I told him, there was no 
 thing I so ardently wish'd as that we might some time or other 
 publish a work written by us both, which should bear the name 
 of the Monument, in memory of our friendship. I heartily wish 
 what I have done here, were as honorary to that sacred name, 
 as learning, wit, and humanity, render those pieces which I have 
 taught the reader how to distinguish for his. When the play 
 above-mentioned was last acted, there were so many applauded 
 strokes in it, which I had from the same hand, that I thought 
 very meanly of myself that I had never publicly acknowledged 
 them. After I have put other friends upon importuning him 
 to publish dramatic, as well as other writings he has by him, 
 I shall end what I think I am obliged to say on this head; 
 by giving my reader this hint for the better judging of my 
 productions, that the best comment upon them, would be an 
 account when the patron to the Tender Husband was in England 
 nr abroad. 
 
 b ' My purpose, in this application, is only to shew the esteem 
 
 a Spectator, No. 555. 
 
 b Dedication before the Tender Husband. »
 
 THE DRUMMER. 273 
 
 [ have for you, and that I look upon my intimacy with you as one 
 of the most valuable enjoyments of my life.' 
 
 I am sure, } t ou have read my quotations with indignation 
 against the little zeal which prompted the editor, who, by the 
 way, has in himself done nothing in applause of the works which 
 he prefaces, to the mean endeavours of adding to Mr. Addison. 
 by disparaging a man who had, for the greatest part of his life, 
 been his known bosom friend, and shielded him from all the re- 
 sentments which many of his own works would have brought upon 
 him at the time in which they were written. It is really a good 
 office to society, to expose the indiscretion of intermeddlers in the 
 friendship and correspondence of men, whose sentiments, passions, 
 and resentments, are too great for their proportion of soul : could 
 the editor's indiscretion provoke me even so far as within the 
 rules of strictest honour I could go, and I were not restrained by 
 supererogatory affection to dear Mr. Addison, I would ask this 
 unskilful creature what he means, when he speaks in the air of a 
 reproach, that the Tatler was laid down as it was taken up, with- 
 out his participation ; let him speak out and say, why, ' without 
 his knowledge,' would not serve his purpose as well. If, as he 
 savs, he restrains himself to Mr. Addison's character, as a writer, 
 wliile he attempts to lessen me, he exalts me; for he has declared 
 to all the world, what I never have so explicitly done, that I am, 
 to all intents and purposes, the author of the Tatler. He very 
 justly* says, the occasional assistance Mr. Addison gave me in the 
 course of that paper, 'did not a little contribute to advance its 
 reputation, especially when, upon the change of the ministry, he 
 found leisure to engage more constantly in it,' It was advanced. 
 indeed, for it was raised to a greater thing than I intended it : 
 I'm- the elegance, purity, and correctness which appeared in his 
 writings, were not so much my purpose, as in any intelligible 
 manner as I could, to rally all those singularities of human life, 
 vol.. i. — 12*
 
 274 DR A MAS . 
 
 through the different professions and characters in it, which ob- 
 struct any thing that was truly good and great. After this ac- 
 knowledgment you will see, that is, such a man as you will see, 
 that I rejoiced in being excelled, and made those little talents, 
 whatever they are which I have, give way and be subservient to 
 the superior qualities of a friend whom I loved, and whose 
 modesty would never have admitted them to come into day-light 
 but under such a shelter. So that all which the editor has said, 
 either out of design or incapacity, Mr. Congreve must determine 
 to end in this, that Steele has been so candid and upright, that 
 he owes nothing to Mr. Addison, as a writer ; but whether he 
 does, or does not, whatever Steele owes to Mr. Addison, the 
 public owes Addison to Steele. But the editor has such a fan- 
 tastical and ignorant zeal for his patron, that he won't allow his 
 correspondents to conceal any thing of his, though in obedience 
 to his commands. What I never did declare was Mr. Addison's, 
 I had his direct injunctions to hide, against the natural warmth 
 and passion of my own temper towards my friends. Many of the 
 writings now published as his, I have been very patiently traduced 
 and calumniated for, as they were pleasantries and oblique strokes 
 upon certain the wittiest men of the age, who will now restore 
 me to their good will, in proportion to the abatement of wit which 
 they thought I employed against them. But I was saying, that 
 the editor won't allow us to obey his patron's commands in any 
 thing which he thinks would redound to his credit, if discovered. 
 And because I would shew a little wit in my anger, I shall have 
 the discretion to show you, that he has been guilty in this par- 
 ticular towards a much greater man than your humble servant, 
 and one whom you are more obliged to vindicate. Mr. Dryden 
 in his Virgil, after having acknowledged, that a 'certain excellent 
 young man' had shewed him many faults in his translation of 
 Virgil, which he had endeavoured to correct, goes on to ay
 
 THE DRUMMER, 
 
 ' Two other worthy friends of mine, who desire to have their 
 names concealed, seeing me straitened in my time, took pity on 
 me. and gave me the life of Virgil, the two prefaces to the Pas- 
 torals, and the Georgics, and all the arguments in prose to the 
 whole translation.' If Mr. Addison is one of the two friends, 
 and the preface to the Georgi6j? be what the editor calls the 
 essay upon the Georgics, as one may adventure to say they are, 
 from their being word for word the same, he has cast an inhuman 
 reflection upon Mr. Dryden, who, though tied down not to name 
 Mr. Addison, pointed at him, so as all mankind conversant in 
 these matters knew him, with an eulogium equal to the highest 
 merit, considering who it was that bestowed it. I could not 
 avoid remarking upon this circumstance, out of justice to Mr. 
 Dryden, but confess at the same time I took a great pleasure in 
 doing it, because I knew in exposing this outrage, I made my 
 court to Mr. Cougreve. 
 
 I have observed that the editor will not let me or any one 
 else obey Mr. Addison's commands, in hiding any thing he desires 
 should be concealed. I cannot but take further notice, that the 
 circumstance of marking his Spectators, which I did not know 
 till I had done with the work, I made my own act; because I 
 thought it too great a sensibility in my friend, and thought it, 
 since it was done, better to be supposed marked by me than the 
 author himself; the real state of which this zealot rashly and 
 injudiciously exposes. I ask the reader whether any thing but 
 an earnestness to disparage me, could provoke the editor in behalf 
 of Mr. Addison to say, that he marked it, out of caution against 
 me, when I had taken upon me to say, it was I that did it, out 
 of tenderness to him. 
 
 As the imputation of any the least attempt of arrogating to 
 myself, or detracting from Mi". Addison, is without any colour of 
 truth, you will give m e leave to go on in the same ardour toward i
 
 275 DRAMAS. 
 
 him, and resent the cold, unaffectionate, dry, and barren manner 
 which this gentleman gives an account of as great a benefactor, 
 as any one learned man ever had of another. Would any man, 
 who had been produced from a college life, and pushed into one 
 of the most considerable employments of the kingdom as to its 
 weight and trust, and greatly lucrative with respect to a fellow- 
 ship, and who had been daily and hourly with one of the greatest 
 men of the age, be satisfied with himself in saying nothing of 
 such a person, besides what all the world knew, except a par- 
 ticularity, and that to his disadvantage, which I, his friend from 
 a boy, don't know to be true, to wit, ' that he never had a regu- 
 lar pulse ! ' As for the facts and considerable periods of his 
 life, he either knew nothing of them, or injudiciously places them 
 in a worse light than that in which they really stood. Wli3n he 
 speaks of Mr. Addison's declining to go into orders, his way of 
 doing it is, to lament that his seriousness and modesty, which 
 might have recommended him, ' proved the chief obstacles to it j 
 it seems, these qualities, by which the priesthood is so much 
 adorned, represented the duties of it as too weighty for him, and 
 rendered him still more worthy of that honour which they made 
 him decline.' These, you knew very well, were not the reasons 
 which made Mr. Addison turn his thoughts to the civil world : 
 and as you were the instrument of his becoming acquainted with 
 my Lord Halifax, I doubt not but you remember the warm in- 
 stances that noble lord made to the head of the college not to 
 insist upon Mr. Addison's going into orders ; his arguments were 
 founded upon the general pravity and corruption of men of 
 business, who wanted liberal education. And I remember, as if 
 I had read the letter yesterday, that my lord ended with a com- 
 pliment, that however he might be represented as no friend to 
 the church, he never would do it any other injury than keeping 
 Mr. Addison out of it. The contention for this man in his early
 
 THE DRUMMER. 277 
 
 youth among the people of greatest power, Mr Secretary Tickell, 
 the executor for his fame, is pleased to ascribe to a serious visage 
 aud modesty of behaviour. When a writer is grossly and essen- 
 tially faulty, it were a jest to take notice of a false expression or 
 a phrase ; otherwise priesthood in that place might be observed 
 upon as a term not used by the real well-wishers to clergymen, 
 except when they would express some solemn act, and not when 
 that order is spoke of as a profession among gentlemen : I will 
 not, therefore, busy myself about ' the unconcerning parts of 
 knowledge, but be contented like a reader of plain sense without 
 politeness:' and, since Mr. Secretary will give us no account of 
 this gentleman, ' I admit the Alps and Appenines, instead of his 
 editor, to be commentators' of his works, which, as the editor 
 says, 'have raised a demand for correctness;' this demand, by 
 the way, ought to be more strong upon those who were most 
 about him. and had the greatest advantage of 'his example.' 
 But our editor says, ' that those who come the nearest to exact- 
 ness, are but too often fond of unnatural beauties, and aim at 
 something better than perfection.' Believe me. sir, Mr. Addi- 
 son's example will carry no man further than that height for 
 which nature capacitated him : and the affectation of following 
 great men in works above the genius of their imitators, will never 
 rise further than the production of uncommon and unsuitable 
 ornaments in a barren discourse, like flowers upon an heath, such 
 as the author's phrase of something better than perfection : but, 
 indeed, his preface, if ever any thing was, is that something better, 
 for it is so extraordinary, that we cannot say, it is too long or 
 too short, or deny but that it is both. I think I abstract myself 
 from all manner of prejudice, when I aver that no man, though 
 without any obligation to Mr. Addison, would have represented 
 him in his family, in his friendships, or his personal character, so 
 disadvantageous!)-, as his secretary, in preference of whom he
 
 278 DRAMAS. 
 
 incurred the warmest resentments of other gentlemen, hi? been 
 pleased to describe him in those particulars. 
 
 Mr. Dean Addison, father of this memorable man, left behind 
 him four children, each of whom for excellent talents and singular 
 perfections was as much above the ordinary world, as their brother 
 Joseph was above them. Were things of this nature to be ex- 
 posed to public view, I could shew, under the dean's own hand, 
 in the warmest terms, his blessing on the friendship between his 
 son and me ; nor had he a child who did not prefer me in the 
 first place of kindness and esteem, as their father loved me like 
 one of them : and I can with great pleasure say, I never omitted 
 any opportunity of shewing that zeal for their persons and interests 
 as became a gentleman and a friend. Were I now to indulge my- 
 self, I could talk a great deal to you, which I am sure would be 
 entertaining; but as I am speaking at the same time to all the 
 world, I considered it would be impertinent : let me, then, con- 
 fine myself a while to the following play, which I at first recom- 
 mended to the stage, and carried to the press : no one who reads 
 the preface which I published with it, will imagine I could be 
 induced to say so much as I then did, had I not known the man 
 I best loved had had a part in it, or had I believed that any 
 other concerned had much more to do than as an amanuensis. 
 
 But, indeed, had I not known, at the time of the transaction, 
 concerning the acting on the stage and sale of the copy, I should, 
 I think, have seen Mr. Addison in every page of it ; for he was 
 above all men in that talent we call humour, and enjoyed it in 
 such perfection, that I have reflected, after a night spent with 
 him apart from all the world, that I had had the pleasure of con- 
 versing with an intimate acquaintance of Terence and Catullus,, 
 who had all their wit and nature heightened with humour, more 
 uxquisite and delightful than any other man ever possessed. 
 
 They who shall read this play after being let into the secret,
 
 THE DRUMMER. 279 
 
 that it was writ by Mr. Addison, or under his direction, will 
 probably be attentive to those excellencies^which they before 
 overlooked, and wonder they did not till now observe, that there 
 is not an expression in the whole piece which has not in it the 
 most nice propriety and aptitude to the character which utters it ; 
 there is that smiling mirth, that delicate satire, and genteel rail- 
 lery, which appeared in Mr. Addison when he was free among 
 intimates ; I say, when he was free from ' his remarkable ' bash- 
 fulness, which is a cloak that hides and muffles merit ; and his 
 abilities were covered only by modesty, which doubles the beauties 
 which are seen, and gives credit and esteem to all that are con- 
 cealed. 
 
 The Drummer made no great figure on the stage, though ex- 
 quisitely well acted ; but when I observe this, I say a much 
 harder thing of the stage than of the comedy. When I say the 
 stage in this place, I am understood to mean in general the present 
 taste of theatrical representations, where nothing that is not vio- 
 lent, and, as I may say, grossly delightful, can come on withont 
 hazard of being condemned, or slighted. It is here republished, 
 and recommended as a closet-piece, to recreate an intelligent mind 
 in a vacaut hour ; for vacant the reader must be from every strong 
 prepossession, in order to relish an entertainment {quod nequeo 
 ■monstrare ct seulio tantum) which cannot be enjoyed to the 
 degree it deserves, but by those of the most polite taste among 
 scholars, the best breeding among gentlemen, and the least ac- 
 quainted with sensual pleasure aiming ladies. 
 
 The editor is pleased to relate concerning Cato, that a play 
 under that design was projected by the author very early, and 
 wholly laid aside: in advanced years he rcassmned the same de- 
 ii, and many years after four acts were finished, be writ the 
 fifth, and brought it upon the stage. All the town knows how 
 officious I was in bringing it on ; and you that know the town, the
 
 280 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 theatre, and mankind, very well can judge how necessary it wa8 
 to take measures fer making a performance of that sort, excellent 
 as it is, run into popular applause. I promised before it was act- 
 ed, and performed my duty accordingly to the author, that I 
 would bring together so just an audience on the first days of it, 
 that it should be impossible for the vulgar to put its success or 
 due applause to any hazard; but I don't mention this only tn 
 shew, how good an aid-de camp I was to Mr. Addison, but to shew 
 also that the editor does as much to cloud the merit of his work 
 as T. did to set it forth : Mr. Tickell's account of its being taken 
 up, laid down, and at last perfected, after such long intervals and 
 pauses, would make any one believe, who did not know Mr. Ad- 
 dison, that it was accomplished with the greatest pain and labour, 
 and the issue rather of learning and industry, than capacity and 
 genius ; but I do assure you, that never play, which could bring 
 the author any reputation for wit and conduct, notwithstanding it 
 was so long before it was finished, employed the author so little a 
 time in writing ; if I remember right, the fifth act was written in 
 less than a week's time ; for this was particular in this writer, 
 that when he had taken his resolution, or made his plan for what 
 he designed to write, he would walk about a room and dictate it 
 into language with as much freedom and ease as one could write 
 it down, and attend to the coherence and grammar of what he 
 dictated. I have been often thus employed by him, and never 
 took it into my head, though he only spoke it, and I took all the 
 pains of throwing it upon paper, that I ought to call myself the 
 writer of it. I will put all my credit among men of wit for the 
 truth of my averment, when I presume to say, that no one but 
 Mr. Addison was in any other way the writer of the Drummer ; 
 at the same time I will allow, that he sent for me, which he could' 
 always do, from his natural power over me, as much as he could 
 send for any of his clerk? when he was secretary of state, and told
 
 THE DRUMMER. 28 1 
 
 rue that ' a gentleman then in the room had written a play that 
 he was sure I would like, but it was to be a secret, and he knew 
 I would take as much pains, since he recommended it, as I would 
 for him.' 
 
 I hope nobody will be wronged, or think himself aggrieved, 
 that 1 give this rejected work where I do ; and if a certain gen 
 tlemau is injured by it, 1 will allow I have wronged him. upon 
 this issue, that (if the reputed translator of the first book of Ho- 
 mer shall please to give us another book) there shall appear an- 
 other good judge in poetry, besides Mr. Alexander Pope, who 
 shall like it. But I detain you too long upon things that are too 
 personal to myself, and will defer giving the M'orld a true notion 
 of the character and talents of Mr. Addison, till I can speak of 
 that amiable gentleman on an occasion void of controversy : I 
 shall then, perhaps, say many things of him, which will be new 
 even to you, with regard to him in all parts of his character ; for 
 which I was so zealous, that I could not be contented with prais- 
 ing and adorning him as much as lay in my own power, but was 
 ever soliciting and putting my friends upon the same office. And 
 since the editor has adorned his heavy discourse with prose in 
 rhyme at the end of it upon Mr. Addison's death, give me leave 
 to atone for this long and tedious epistle, by giving you after it 
 what I dare say you will esteem an excellent poem on his mar- 
 riage. I must conclude without satisfying as strong a desire as 
 ever man had, of saying something remarkably handsome to the 
 person to whom I am writing ; for you are so good a judge, that 
 you would find out the endeavourer to be witty : and, therefore 
 as I have tired you and myself, I will be contented with assuring 
 you, which I do very honestly, I had ratlin- have you satisfied 
 with me on this subject, than any other man living. 
 
 STou will please to pardon me, that I have, thus, laid this nice 
 affair before a person who has the acknowledged superiority to all
 
 2S2 DRAMAS. 
 
 others, not only it the most excellent talents, but possessing with 
 them an equanimity, candour, and benevolence, which render those 
 advantages a pleasure as great to the rest of the world, as they 
 can be to the owner of them. And since fame consists in the 
 opinion of wise and good men, you must not blame me for taking 
 the readiest way to baffle an attempt upon my reputation, by an 
 address to one whom every wise and good man looks upon with 
 the greatest affection and veneration. I am, Sir, 
 
 Your most obliged, most obedient, and 
 
 Most humble servant, 
 
 Richard Steele.
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OF WARWICK. 
 
 ON HER MARRIAGE. 
 
 BY MR. WELSTED. 
 
 Ambition long has woman's heart betray'd, 
 
 And tinsel grandeur caught th' unwary maid ; 
 
 The pompous styles, that strike th' admiring throng, 
 
 Have glitter'd in the eye of beauty long : 
 
 You, madam, first the female taste improve, 
 
 And give your fellow-charmers laws for love; 
 
 A pomp you covet, not to heralds known, 
 
 And sigh for virtues equal to your own: 
 
 Part in a man immortal greatly claim, 
 
 And frown on titles to ally with fame : 
 
 Not Edward's star, emboss'd with silver rays, 
 
 Can vie in glory with thy consort's bays ; 
 
 His country's pride does homage to thy charms 
 
 And every merit crowds into thy arms 
 
 W'liile others gain light conquests by their eyes, 
 "lis thine with wisdom to subdue the wise; 
 To their soft chains while courtly beaux submit, 
 'Tis thine to lead in triumph captive wit: 
 Her sighing yassals let Clarinda boast, 
 Of lace and languishing cockadcfi the toast:
 
 284 DRAMAS. 
 
 In beauty's pride unenvied let her reign, 
 And share that wanton empire with the vain. 
 For thee the arts of Greece and Rome combine ; 
 And all the glories, Cato gain'd, are thine : 
 Still Warwick in thy boasted rank of life, 
 But more illustrious, than when Warwick's wife. 
 
 Come forth, reveal thyself, thou chosen bride, 
 And shew great Nassau ; s poet by thy side; 
 Thy bright example shall instruct the fair, 
 And future nymphs shall make renown their care; 
 Embroid'ry less shall charm the virgin's eye, 
 And kind coquettes, for plumes, less frequent die J 
 Secure shall beauty reign, the Muse its guard ; 
 The Vuse shall triumph, beauty its. reward.
 
 THE PREFACE 
 
 Having recommended this play to the town, a,.d delivered the 
 copy of it to the bookseller, I think myself obliged to give some 
 account of it. 
 
 It had been some years in the hands of the author, and falling 
 under my perusal, I thought so well of it, that I persuaded him 
 to make some additions and alterations to it, and let it appear 
 upon the stage. I own I was very highly pleased with it, and 
 liked it the better, for the want of those studied similies and re- 
 partees, which we, who have writ before him, have thrown into 
 our plays, to indulge and gain upon a false taste that has pre- 
 vailed for many years in the British theatre. I believe the au- 
 thor would have condescended to fall into this way a little more 
 than he has, had lie, before the writing of it, been often present at 
 theatrical representations. I was confirmed in my thoughts of 
 the play, by the opinion of better judges to whom it was com- 
 municated, who observed that the scenes were drawn after'Moli- 
 erfi's manner, and that an easy and natural vein of humour ran 
 through the whole. 
 
 I do not question but the reader will discover this, and see 
 many beauties that escaped the audience ; the touches being too 
 delicate lor every taste in a popular assembly. My brother 
 Bharers were of opinion, at the first reading of it, that it was like 
 a picture in which the strokes wen' not strong enough to appear 
 at a distance. As it is not in the common way of writing, the ap-
 
 286 DRAM A 3. 
 
 probation was at first doubtful, but has risen every time it has 
 been acted, and has given an opportunity in several of its parts 
 for as just and good action as ever I saw on the stage. 
 
 The reader will consider that I speak here, not as the author, 
 but as the patentee. Which is, perhaps, the reason why I am 
 not diffuse in the praises of the play, lest I should seem like a 
 man who cries up his own wares only to draw in customers. 
 
 Richard Steele
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 In this grave age, when comedies are few, 
 We crave your patronage for one that's new ; 
 Though 'twere poor stuff, yet bid the author fair, 
 And let the scarceness recommend the ware. 
 Long have your ears been fill'd with tragic parts, 
 Blood and blank-verse have harden'd all your hearts ; 
 If e'er you smile, 'tis at some party strokes, 
 Round-heads and wooden-shoes are standing jokes 
 The same conceit gives claps and hisses birth, 
 You're grown such politicians in your mirth ! 
 For once we try (though 'tis, I own, unsafe,) 
 To please you all, and make both parties laugh. 
 
 Our author, anxious for his fame to-night, 
 And bashful in his first attempt to write, 
 Lies cautiously obscure and upreveal'd, 
 Like ancient actors in a mask conccal'd. 
 Censure when no man knows who writes the play, 
 Were much good malice merely thrown away. 
 The mighty critics will not blast, for shame, 
 A raw young thing, who dares not tell his name : 
 Good-natur'd judges will th' unknown defend, 
 And fear to blame, lest they shou'd hurt a friend : 
 Each wit may praise it, for his own dear sake, 
 And hint he writ it, if the thing shou'd take.
 
 288 
 
 DRAMAS, 
 
 But if you're rough, and use him like a dog, 
 Depend upon it — he'll remain incog. 
 If you shou'd hiss, he swears he'll hiss as high, 
 And, like a culprit, join the hue-and-cry. 
 If cruel men are still averse to spare 
 These scenes, they fly for refuge to the fair. 
 Though with a ghost our comedy be heighten'd, 
 Ladies, upon my word, you shan't be frighten'd ; 
 0, 'tis a ghost that scorns to be uncivil, 
 A well-spread, lusty, jointure-hunting devil ; 
 An am'rous ghost, that's faithful, fond, and tru<\ 
 Made up of flesh and blood — as much as you. 
 Then every evening come in flocks, undaunted. 
 We never think this house is too mueh hauntecL
 
 THE DRUMMER. 
 
 V>7.. I. — 13
 
 DRAMATIS PERBONJ. 
 
 Sir George Truman, Mr, "Wilks. 
 
 Tinsel, Mr. Cibber. 
 
 Fantome, the Drummer, .... Mr. Mills. 
 
 Vellum, Sir George Truman's Steward, . . Mr. Johnson. 
 
 Butler, . Mr. Pinkethman 
 
 Coachman, Mr. Miller. 
 
 Gardener, Mr. Norris. 
 
 Lady Truman. . Mrs. Oldfield. 
 
 Abigal, . .... Mrs. Saunders.
 
 THE DEUMMEB. 
 
 ACT I. 
 S E N E I . 
 
 A great Hall. 
 Enter the Butler, Coachman, and Gardener. 
 
 Butler. There came another coach to town last night, that 
 brought a gentleman to inquire about this strange noise we hear 
 il the house. This spirit will bring a power of custom to the 
 George — If so be he continues his pranks, I design to sell a 
 pot of ale, and set up the sign of the Drum. 
 
 Coachman. I'll give Madam warning, that's flat — I've 
 always lived in sober families. I'll not disparage myself to be a 
 servant in a house that is haunted. 
 
 Gardener. I'll e'en inar^y Nell, and rent a bit of ground 
 of my own, if both of you leave Madam, not but that Madam's 
 a very good woman — if Mrs. Abigal did not spoil her — come 
 ' °re'« her health. 
 
 Butler. It's a very hard thing to be a butler in a house 
 that is disturbed. He made such a racket in the cellar last 
 night, that I'm afraid he'll sour all the beer in my barrels. 
 
 Coachman. Why then, John, we ought to take it off as fast 
 as we can. Here's to you — He rattled so loud under the tiles 
 last night, that I verily thought tlie house would have fallen over 
 our heads. I durst not go up into the cock-loft this morning, if 
 I had not got one of the maids to go along with me.
 
 292 DRAMAS. 
 
 Gardener. I thought I heard him in one of my bedposts 
 — I marvel, John, how he gets into the house when all the gates 
 are shut. 
 
 Butler. Why, look ye, Peter, your spirit will creep you 
 into an augre-hole : — he'll- whisk ye through a key-hole, without 
 so much as justling against one of the wards. 
 
 Coachman. Poor Madam is mainly frighted, that's certain, 
 and verily believes 'tis my master that was kill'd in the Jast 
 campaign. 
 
 Butler. Out of all manner of question, Robin, 'tis Sir 
 George Mrs. Abigal is of opinion it can be none but his hon- 
 our ; he always loved the wars, and you know was mightily 
 pleased from a child with the music of a drum. 
 
 Gardener. I wonder his body was never found after tho 
 
 battle. 
 
 Butler. Found ! why, ye fool, is not his body here about 
 the house ? Dost thou think he can beat his drum without hands 
 and arms ? 
 
 Coachman. 'Tis master as sure as I stand here alive, and I 
 verily believe I saw him last night in the town-close. 
 
 Gardener. Ay ! how did he, appear ? 
 
 Coachman. Like a whiteliorse. 
 
 Butler. Pho, Robin, I tell ye he has never appear'd yet 
 but in the shape of the sound of a drum. 
 
 Coachman. This makes one almost afraid of one's own 
 shadow. As I was walking from the stable t'other night without 
 my lanthorn, I fell across a beam, that lay in my way, and faith 
 my heart was in my mouth — I thought I had stumbled over a 
 spirit. 
 
 Butler. Thou might'st as well have stumbled over a straw ; 
 why, a spirit is such a little thing, that I have heard a man, who 
 was a great scholar, say, that he'll dance ye a Lancashire horn
 
 THE DRUMMER. 293 
 
 pipe upon the point of a needle — As I sat in the pantry last 
 night counting my spoons, the candle methought burnt blue, and 
 the spay'd bitch look'd as if she saw something. 
 
 Coachman. Ay, poor cur, she's almost frighten'd out of her 
 wits. 
 
 Gardener. Ay, I warrant ye, she hears him many a time, 
 and often when we don't. 
 
 Butler. My lady must have him laid, that's certain, what 
 ever it cost her. 
 
 Gardener. I fancy when one goes to market, one might 
 hear of somebody that can make a spell. 
 
 Coachman. Why may not our parson of the parish lay him V 
 
 Butler. No, no, no, our parson cannot lay him. 
 
 Coachman. Why not he as well as another man ? 
 
 Butler. Why, ye fool, he is not qualified — He has not 
 taken the oaths. 1 
 
 Gardener. Why, d'ye think, John, that the spirit would take 
 the law of him ? — Faith, I could tell you one way to drive him off. 
 
 Coachman. How's that ? 
 
 Gardener. I'll tell you immediately {drinks) — I fancy 
 Mrs. Abigal might scold him out of the house. 
 
 Coachman. Ay, she has a tongue that would drown hia 
 drum, if any thing could. 
 
 Butler. Pugh, this is all froth ! you understand nothing of 
 the matter — The next time it makes a noise, I tell you what 
 ought to be done, — I would have the steward speak Latin to it. 
 
 Coachman. Ay, that would do, if the steward had but 
 cournu''. 
 
 Gardener. There you have it— He's a fearful man. If 
 I had as much learning as he, and I met the ghost, I'd tell him 
 
 'Test outlm for detecting Catholics ami I )i.sse ntera.— G.
 
 294 DRAMAS. 
 
 his own ! but, alack, what can one of us poor men i.o with a spirit 
 that can neither write nor read ? 
 
 Butler. Thou art always cracking and boasting, Peter, 
 thou dost not know what mischief it might do thee, if such a silly 
 dog as thee should offer to speak to it. For ought I know, lie 
 might flay thee alive, and make parchment of thy skin to cover his 
 drum with. 
 
 Gardener. A fiddlestick ! tell not me — I fear nothing . 
 not I ! I never did harm in my life, I never committed murder. 
 
 Butler. I verily believe thee, keep thy temper, Peter ; 
 after supper we'll drink each of us a double mug, and then let 
 come what will. 
 
 Gardener. Why, that's well said, John, an honest man that 
 is not quite sober, has nothing to fear — Here's to ye — why, how 
 if he should come this minute, here would I stand. Ha ! what 
 noise is that ? 
 
 Butler and Coachman. Ha ! where ? 
 
 Gardener. The devil ! the devil ! Oh, no ; 'tis Mra. 
 Abigal. 
 
 Butler. Ay, faith ! 'tis she ; 'tis Mrs. Abigal ! a good mis 
 take ! 'tis Mrs. Abigal. 
 
 'C 
 
 Enter Abigal. 
 
 Abigal. Here are your drunken sots for you ! Is this a 
 time to be guzzling, when gentry are come to the house ! Why 
 don't you lay your cloth ? How come you out of the stables ? 
 Why are you net at work in your garden ? 
 
 Gardener. Why, yonder's the fine Londoner and Madam 
 fetching a walk together, and methought they look'd as if they 
 should say they had rather have my room than my company. 
 
 Butler. And so, foorsooth, being all three met together,
 
 THE DRUMMER. 295 
 
 we are doing our endeavours to drink this same drummer out of 
 our heads. 
 
 Gardener. For you must know Mrs. Abigal, we are all of 
 opinion that one can't be a match for him, unless one be as drunk 
 as a drum. 
 
 Coachman. I am resolved to give Madam warning to hire 
 herself another coachman ; for I came to serve my master, d'ye 
 see, while he was alive, but do suppose that he has no further 
 occasion for a coach, now he walks. 
 
 Butler. Truly, Mrs. Abigal, I must needs say, that this 
 same spirit is a very odd sort of a body, after all, to fright Madam 
 and his old servants at this rate. 
 
 Gardener. And truly, Mrs. Abigal, I must needs bay, T 
 serv'd my master contentedly, while he was living ; but I will 
 serve no man living (that is, no man that is not living) without 
 double wages. 
 
 Abigal. Ay, 'tis such cowards as you that go about with 
 idle stories, to disgrace the house, and bring so many strangers 
 about it ; you first frighten yourselves, and then your neighbours. 
 
 Gardener. Frighteu'd ! I scorn your words. Frighten'd, 
 quoth-a ! 
 
 Abigal. What, you sot ! are you grown pot-valiant ? 
 
 Gardener. Frighten'd with a drum! that's a good one 1 it 
 will do us no harm, I'll answer for it. It will bring no blood- 
 shed along with it, take my word. It sounds as like a train-band 
 drum as ever I heard in my life. 
 
 Butler. Prithee, Peter, don't be so presumptuous. 
 
 Abigal. Well, these drunken rogues take it as I could wish. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Gardener I scorn to be frighten'd, now I am in for't ; f 
 old Pub-a-dub should come into the room, I would take him- • 
 
 Butler. Prithee hold thy tongue.
 
 29G 
 
 DRAMAS, 
 
 Gardener. I would take him — 
 [The drum beats, the Gardener endeavours to get off, mid falls 
 
 Butler and Coachman. Speak to it, Mrs. Abigal. 
 
 Gardener. Spare my life, and take all I have. 
 
 Coachman. Make off, make off, good butler, and let us go 
 bide ourselves in the cellar. 
 
 [ They all run off. 
 
 Abigal sola. 
 
 Abigal. So now the coast is clear, I may venture to call out 
 my drummer.— But first let me shut the door, lest we be sur- 
 prised. Mr. Fantome, Mr. Fantome ! (He beats.) Nay, nay, 
 pray come out, the enemy's fled — I must speak with you imme- 
 diately — don't stay to beat a parley. 
 
 [ The back scene opens, and discovers Fantome with a drum. 
 
 Fantome. Dear Mrs. Nabby, I have overheard all that has 
 been said, and find thou hast managed this thing so well, that I 
 could take thee in my arms, and kiss thee — if my drum did not 
 stand in my way. 
 
 Abigal. Well, o' my conscience, you are the merriest ghost ! 
 and the very picture of Sir George Truman. 
 
 Fantome. There you flatter me, Mrs. Abigal; Sir George 
 had that freshness in his looks, that we men of the town cannot 
 come up to. 
 
 Abigal. Oh ! death may have alter'd you, you know- 
 besides, you must consider, you lost a great deal of blood in the 
 battle. 
 
 Fantome. Ay, that's right, let me look never so pale, this 
 cut across my forehead will keep me in countenance. 
 
 Abigal. 'Tis just such a one as my master receiv'd from a 
 cursed French trooper, as my lady's letter inform'd her. 
 
 Fantome. It happens luckily that this suit of clothes of Sir
 
 THE DRUMMER. 207 
 
 George's fits me so well, — -I think I can't fail hitting the air of a 
 man with whom I was so long acquainted. 
 
 Abigal. You are the very man — I vow I almost start when 
 I look upon you. 
 
 Fantome. But what good will this do me, if I must remain 
 invisible ? 
 
 Abigal. Pray what good did your being visible do you ? 
 The fair Mr. Fantome thought no woman could withstand him — 
 But when you were seen by my lady in your proper person, after 
 she had taken a full survey of you, and heard all the pretty 
 things you could say, she very civilly dismiss'd you for the sake 
 of this empty, noisy creature Tinsel. She fancies you lutve been 
 gone from hence this fortnight. 
 
 Fantome. Why, really I love thy lady so well, that though 
 I had no hopes of gaining her for myself, I could not bear to see 
 her given to another, especially such a wretch as Tinsel. 
 
 Abigal. Well, tell me truly, Mr. Fantome, have not you a 
 great opinion of my fidelity to my dear lady, that I would not 
 suffer her to be deluded in this manner, for less than a thousand 
 pound ? 
 
 Fantome. Thou art always reminding me of my promise — 
 thou shalt have it, if thou canst bring our project to bear ; do'st 
 not know that stories of ghosts and apparitions generally end in a 
 pot of money ? 
 
 Abigal. Why, truly now, Mr. Fantome, I should think myself 
 a very bad woman, if I had done what I do for a farthing less. 
 
 Fantome. Dear Abigal, how I admire thy virtue ! 
 
 Abigal No, no, Mr. Fantome, I defy the worst of my ene- 
 mies to say I love mischief for mischief sake. 
 
 Fantome. But is thy lady persuaded that I am the ghost of 
 her deceased husband? 
 
 Abigal I endeavour to make her believe so, and tell her 
 voi - -13*
 
 298 DRAMAS. 
 
 every time your drum rattles, that her husband is chiding her for 
 entertaining this new lover. 
 
 Fantome. Prithee make use of all thy art, for I am tired to 
 death with strolling round this wide old house, like a rat behind 
 a wainscot. 
 
 Abigal. Did not I tell you, 'twas the purest place in the 
 world for you to play your tricks in ? there's none of the family 
 that knows every hole and corner in it besides myself. 
 
 Fantome. Ah ! Mrs. Abigal ! you have had your in- 
 trigues. — 
 
 Abigal. For you must know, when I was a romping young 
 girl, I was a mighty lover of hide and seek. 
 
 Fantome. I believe, by this time, I am as well acquainted 
 with the house as yourself. 
 
 Abigal. You are very much mistaken, Mr. Fantome ; but 
 no matter for that ; here is to be your station to-night. This is 
 the place unknown to any one living besides myself, since the 
 death of the joiner; who, you must understand, being a lover of 
 mine, contrived the wainscot to move to and fro, in the manner 
 that you find it. I designed it for a wardrobe for my lady's cast 
 clothes. Oh ! the stomachers, stays, petticoats, commodes, lac'd 
 shoes, and good things, that I have had in it ! — Pray take care 
 you don't break the cherry-brandy bottle that stands up in the 
 corner. 
 
 Fantome. Well, Mrs. Abigal, I hire your closet of you but 
 for this one night — a thousand pound you know is a very good rent. 
 
 Abigal. Well, get you gone : you have such a way with 
 you, there's no denying you any thing ! 
 
 Fantome. I'm a thinking how Tinsel will stare when he sees 
 me come out of the wall : for I am resolved to make my appear- 
 ance to-night. 
 
 Abigal. Get you in, get you in, my lady's at the door.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 299 
 
 Fantome. Pray take care she does not keep me up so late 
 as she did last night, or depend upon it I'll beat the tattoo. 
 
 Abigal. I'm undone, I'm undone — (As he is going in.) 
 Mr. Fantome, Mr. Fantome, you have put the thousand pound 
 bond into my brother's hands. 
 
 Faxtome. Thou shalt have it, I tell thee, thou shalt have it 
 
 [Fantome goes in. 
 
 Abigal. No more words — Vanish, vanish. 
 
 Enter Lady. 
 
 Abigal (opening the door). Oh, dear madam, was it you 
 that made such a knocking ? my heart does so beat — I vow you 
 have frightened me to death — I thought verily it had been tho 
 drummer. 
 
 Lady. I have been showing the garden to Mr. Tinsel ; he's 
 most insufferably witty upon us about this story of the drum. 
 
 Abigal. Indeed, madam, he's a very loose man ! I'm afraid 
 'tis he that hinders my poor master from resting in his grave. 
 
 Lady. Well ! an infidel is such a novelty in the country, 
 that I am resolv'd to divert myself a day or two at least with the 
 oddness of his conversation. 
 
 Aligal. Ah, madam! the drum begun to beat in the house 
 as soon as ever this creature was admitted to visit you. All 
 the while Mr. Fantome made his addresses to } r ou, there was not 
 a mouse stirring in the family more than us'd to be — 
 
 Lady. This baggage lias some design upon me, more than I 
 can yet discover. (Aside.) — Mr. Fantome was always thy 
 favourite. 
 
 Abigal. Ay, and should have been your's too, by my con 
 sent ! Mr. Fantome was not such a slight fantastic thing as this 
 is — Mr Fantome was the best built man one should see m .
 
 300 DRAMAS. 
 
 summer's day ! Mr. Fantonie was a man of honour, and lov'd 
 you ! Poor soul ' how has he sigh'd when he has talk'd to me of 
 my hard-hearted lady. — Well ! I had as lief as a thousand pounds 
 you would marry Mr. Fantomc ! 
 
 Lady. To tell thee truly, I lov'd him well enough till I 
 found he lov'd me so much. But Mr. Tinsel makes his court to 
 me with so much neglect and indifference, and with such an 
 agreeable sauciness — Not that I say I'll marry him. 
 
 Abigal. Marry him, quoth-a ! no, if you should, you'll be 
 awaken'd sooner than married couples generally are — You'll 
 quickly have a drum at your window. 
 
 Lady. I'll hide my contempt of Tinsel for once, if it be but 
 to see what this wench drives at. [Aside. 
 
 Abigal. Why, suppose your husband, after this fair warning 
 he has given you, should sound you an alarm at midnight ; then 
 open your curtains with a face as pale as my apron, and cry out 
 with a hollow voice, ' What dost thou do in bed with this spindle- 
 shank' d fellow ? ' 
 
 Lady. Why wilt thou needs have it to be my husband V he 
 never had any reason to be offended at me. I always lov'd him 
 while he was living, and should prefer him to any man, were he 
 so still. Mr. Tinsel is indeed very idle in his talk, but I fancy, 
 Abigal, a discreet woman might reform him. 
 
 Abigal. That's a likely matter indeed ; did you ever hear 
 of a woman who had power over a man, when she was his wife, 
 that had none while she was his mistress? Oh! there's noth 
 ing in the world improves a man in his complaisance like mar 
 riage ! 
 
 Lady. He is, indeed, at present, too familiar in his conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Abigal. Familiar ! madam, in troth, he's down-right rude. 
 
 Lady. But that, you know, Abigal, shows he has no dis-
 
 THE DRUMMER. 30) 
 
 simulation in him — Then he is apt to jest a little too much upon 
 grave subjects. 
 
 Abigal. Grave subjects ! he jests upon the church. 
 
 Lady. But that you know, Abigal, may be only to shew his 
 wit — Then it must be owned he is extremely talkative. 
 
 Abigal. Talkative, d'ye call it ! he's down-right imperti- 
 nent. 
 
 Lady. But that, you know, Abigal, is a sign he has beeu 
 us'd to good company — Then, indeed, he is very positive. 
 
 Abigal. Positive ! Why, I13 contradicts you in every thing 
 you say. 
 
 Lady. But then you know, Abigal, he has been educated at 
 the inns of court. 
 
 Abigal. A blessed education indeed ! it has made him for- 
 get his catechism ! 
 
 Lady. You talk as if you hated him. 
 
 Abigal. You talk as if you lov'd him. 
 
 Lady. Hold your tongue ! here he comes. 
 
 Knter Tinsel. 
 
 Tinsel. My dear widow ! 
 
 Abigal. My dear widow ! marry come up! [Aside. 
 
 Lady. Let him alone, Abigal, so long as he does not call 
 me my dear wife, there's no harm done. 
 
 Tinsel. I have been most ridiculously diverted since I left 
 you — Your servants have made a convert of my booby, Ills 
 head is so filled with this foolish story of a drummer, that I expect 
 the rogue will be afraid hereafter to go upon a message by moon- 
 light. 
 
 Lady. Ah, Mr Tinsel, what a loss of billet-doux would thai 
 be to many a fine lady !
 
 302 DRAMAS. 
 
 Ab. gat,. Then you still believe this to j a foolish story ? I 
 thought iiiy lady had told you, that she had heard it herself. 
 
 Tinsel. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Abigal. Why, you would not persuade us out of our 
 oenses ? 
 
 Tinsel. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Abigal. There's manners for you, madam. [Aside. 
 
 Lady. Admirably rally'd ! that laugh is unanswerable ! Now 
 I'll be hang'd if you could forbear being witty upon me, if I 
 should tell you I heard it no longer ago than last night. 
 
 Tinsel. Fancy. 
 
 Lady. But what if I should tell you my maid was with me ! 
 
 Tinsel. Vapours ! vapours ! Pray, my dear widow, will you 
 answer me one question ? — Had you ever this noise of a drum in 
 your head, all the while your husband was living ? 
 
 Lady. And pray, Mr. Tinsel, will you let me ask you ano- 
 ther question ? Do you think we can hear in the country, as well 
 as you do in town ? 
 
 Tinsel. Believe me, madam, I could prescribe you a cure 
 for these imaginations. 
 
 Abigal. Don't tell my lady of imaginations, sir, I have 
 heard it myself. 
 
 Tinsel. Hark thee, child — art thou not an old maid ? 
 
 Abigal. Sir, if I am, it is my own fault. 
 
 Tinsel. Whims ! freaks ! megrims ! indeed, Mrs. Abigal. 
 
 Abigal. Marry, sir, by your talk one would believe you 
 thought every thing that was good is a megrim. 
 
 Lady. Why, truly, I don't very well understand what you 
 meant by your doctrine to me in the garden just now, that every 
 thing we saw was made by chance. 
 
 Abigal. A very pretty subject, indeed, for a lover to divert 
 his mistress with.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 303 
 
 Lady. But I suppose that was only a taste of the conversa- 
 tion you would entertain me with after marriage. 
 
 Tinsel. Oh, I shall then have time to read you such lec- 
 tures of motions, atoms, and nature — that you shall learn to think 
 as freely as the best of us, and be convinced in less than a month, 
 that all about us is chance-work. 
 
 Lady. You are a very complaisant person indeed ; and so 
 you would make your court to me, by persuading me that I was 
 made by chance ! 
 
 Tinsel. Ha, ha, ha ! well said, my dear ! why, faith, thou 
 wert a very lucky hit, that's certain ! 
 
 Lady. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, where did you learn this odd way 
 of talking ? 
 
 Tinsel. Ah, widow, 'tis your country innocence makes you 
 think it an odd way of talking. 
 
 Lady. Though you give no credit to stories of apparitions, 
 I hope you believe there are such things as spirits ! 
 
 Tinsel. Simplicity ! 
 
 Abigal. I fancy you don't believe women have souls, d'ye 
 sir? 
 
 Tinsel. Foolish enough ! 
 
 Lady. I vow, Mr. Tinsel, I'm afraid malicious people will 
 say I'm in love with an atheist. 
 
 Tinsel. Oh, my dear, that's an old-fashion'd word — I'm a 
 Freethinker, child. 
 
 Abigal. I'm sure you are a free speaker ! 
 
 Lady. Really, Mr. Tinsel, considering that you are so fine a 
 gentleman, I'm amaz'd whore you got all this learning! I won 
 der it lias not spoil'd your breeding. 
 
 Tinsel. To tell you the truth, I have not time to ook into 
 these dry matters myself, but I am convinced by four or fivo 
 learned men, whom I sometimes overhear at a cofl'oe-houae I fre
 
 304 D II A M A S . 
 
 quent, that our forefathers were a pack of asses, that the world 
 has been in an error for some thousands of years, and that all the 
 people upon earth, excepting those two or three worthy gentlemen, 
 are impos'd upon, cheated, bubbled, abus'd, bamboozled — 
 
 Abigal. Madam, how can you hear such a profligate ? he talks 
 like the London prodigal. 
 
 Lady. Why, really, I'm a thinking, if there be no such things 
 as spirits, a woman has no occasion for marrying — She need not 
 be afraid to lie by herself' 
 
 Tinsel. Ah ! my dear ! are husbands good for nothing but to 
 frighten away spirits ? Dost thou think I could not instruct thee 
 in several other comforts of matrimony ? 
 
 Lady. Ah! but you are a man of so much knowledge, that 
 you would always be laughing at my ignorance- — You learned men 
 are so apt to despise one ! 
 
 Tinsel. No, child! I'd teach thee my principles, thou 
 should'st be as* wise as I am — in a week's time. 
 
 Lady. Do you think your principles would make a woman the 
 better wife ? 
 
 Tinsel. Prithee, widow, don't be queer. 
 
 Lady. I love a gay temper, but I would not have you rally 
 things that are serious. 
 
 Tinsel. Well enough, faith ! where's the jest of rallying any 
 thing else ? 
 
 Abigal. Ah, madam, did you ever hear Mr. Fantome talk at 
 this rate ? [Aside. 
 
 Tinsel. But where's this ghost ? this son of a whore of a 
 drummer ? I'd fain hear him, methinks. 
 
 Abigal. Pray, madam, don't suffer him to give the ghost 
 euch ill language, especially when you have reason to believe it is 
 my master 
 
 Tinsel. That's well enough, faith, Nab ; dost thou think
 
 THE DRUMMER. 305 
 
 thy master is so unreasonable as to continue his claim to his re- 
 lict after his bones are laid ? Pray, widow, remember the words 
 of your contract, you have fulfill'd them to a tittle — Did not you 
 marry Sir George to the tune of, ' till death us do part ? ' 
 
 Lady. I must not hear Sir George's memory treated in so 
 slight a manner — This fellow must have been at some uains to 
 make himself such a finish'd coxcomb. [Aside. 
 
 Tinsel. Give me but possession of your person, and I'll 
 whirl you up to town for a winter, and cure you at once. Oh ! 
 I have known many a country lady come to London with fright- 
 ful stories of the hall-house being haunted, of fairies, spirits, and 
 witches ; that by the time she had seen a comedy, play'd at an 
 assembly, and ambled in a ball or two, has been so little afraid 
 of bugbears, that she has ventur'd home in a chair at all hours 
 of the night. 
 
 Abigal. Hum — sauce-box. [Aside. 
 
 Tinsel. 'Tis the solitude of the country that creates these 
 whimsies ; there was never such a thing as a ghost heard of at 
 London, except in the playhouse — Oh, we'd pass all our time in 
 Loudon. 'Tis the scene of pleasure and diversions, where there's 
 something to amuse you every hour of the day. Life's not life 
 in the country. 
 
 Lady. Well then, you have an opportunity of showing the 
 sincerity of that love to me which you profess. You may give 
 a proof that you have an affection *p my person, not my jointure. 
 
 Tinsel. Your jointure ! how can you think me such a dog ! 
 Hut, child, won't your jointure be the same thing in London as 
 in the country ? 
 
 Lady. No, you're deceived ! You must know that it is set- 
 tled on me by marriage-articles, on condition that I live in this 
 old mansion-house, and keep it up in repair. 
 
 Tinsel. How !
 
 306 
 
 DRAMAS. 
 
 Ab/gal. That's well put, madam. 
 
 Tinsel. Why, faith, I have been looking upon this house, 
 and think it is the prettiest habitation I ever saw in my life. 
 
 Lady. Ay, but then this cruel drum ! 
 
 Tinsel. Something so venerable in it ! 
 
 Lady. Ay, but the drum ! 
 
 Tinsel. For my part, I like this Gothic way ot building 
 better than any of your new orders — it would be a thousand pities 
 it should fall to ruin. 
 
 Lady. Ay, but the drum ! 
 
 Tinsel. How pleasantly we two could pass our time m thia 
 delicious situation. Our lives would be a continued dream of 
 happiness. Come, faith, widow, let's go upon the leads, and take 
 a view of the country. 
 
 Lady. Ay, but the drum ! the drum ! 
 
 Tinsel. My dear, take my word for't 'tis all fancy : besides, 
 should he drum in thy very bed-chamber, I should only hug theo 
 the closer. 
 
 Clasp' d in the folds of love, I'd meet my doom, 
 And act my joys, tho' thunder shook the room. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Scene opens, and discovers Vellum in Ms Office, and a Letter in his 
 
 Hand. 
 
 Vellum. This letter astonisheth ; may I believe my own 
 eyes — or rather my spectacles — ' To Humphry Vellum, Esq., 
 Steward to the Lady Truman.' 
 ' Vellum, 
 
 ' I doubt not but you will be glad to hear your master is
 
 THE DRUMMER. 307 
 
 al.ve, and designs to be with you in half an hour. The report of 
 my being slain in the Netherlands, has, I find, produced some 
 disorders in my family. I am now at the George Inn. If an old 
 man with a grey beard, in a black cloak, inquires after you, give 
 him admittance, he passes for a conjurer, but is, really, 
 
 ' Your faithful friend, 
 
 ' G. Truman.' 
 ' P. S. Let this be a secret, and you shall find your account 
 in it.' 
 
 This amazeth me ! and yet the reasons why I should believe he 
 is still living, axe manifold — First, because this has often been 
 the case of other military adventurers. 
 
 Secondly, because the news of his death was first published in 
 Dyer's Letter. 
 
 Thirdhy, because this letter can be written by none but him- 
 self — I know his hand, and manner of spelling. 
 
 Fourthly — 
 
 Enter Butler. 
 
 Butler. Sir, here's a strange old gentleman that asks for 
 you ; he says he's a conjurer, but he looks very suspicious ; I wish 
 he ben't a Jesuit. 
 
 Vellum. Admit him immediately. 
 
 Butler. I wish he ben't a Jesuit; but he says he's nothing 
 but a conjurer. 
 
 Vellum. He says right — He is no more than a conjurer 
 Bring him in and withdraw. {Exit Butler. 
 
 And, Fourthly, As I was saying, because — 
 
 Enter Butler with Sir George. 
 Butler. Sir, here is the conjurer — what a devilish long
 
 308 DRAMAS 
 
 beard he has ! I warrant it has beeD growing these hundred 
 years. [Aside. Exit. 
 
 Sir George. Dear Vellum, you have receiv'd my letter : but 
 before we proceed loch the door. 
 
 Vellum. It is his voice. [Shuts the door. 
 
 Sir George. In the next place help me off with this cum- 
 bersome cloak. 
 
 Vellum. It is his shape. 
 
 Sir George. So, now lay my beard upon the table. 
 
 Vellum (After having looked on Sir George through his 
 spectacles). It is his face, every lineament ! 
 
 Sir George. Well, now I have put off the conjurer and the 
 old man, I can talk to thee more at my ease. 
 
 Vellum. Believe me, my good master, I am as much rejoiced 
 
 to see you alive, as I was upon the day you were born. Your 
 
 name was, in all the news-papers, in the list of those that were 
 slain. 
 
 Sir George. We have not time to be particular. I shall 
 only tell thee in general, that I was taken prisoner in the battle, 
 and was under close confinement for several months. Upon my 
 release, I was resolved to surprise my wife with the news of my 
 being alive. I know, Vellum, you are a person of so much pene- 
 tration, that I need not use any further arguments to convince 
 you that I am so. 
 
 Vellum. I am — and, moreover, I question not but your 
 good lady will likewise be convinced of it. Her ho-nour is a dis- 
 cerning lady. 
 
 Sir George. I'm only afraid she should be convinced of it 
 to her sorrow. Is not she pleas'd with her imaginary widow- 
 hood? Tell me truly, was she afflicted at the report of my 
 death ? 
 
 Vellum. Sorely.
 
 THE DRUMMER 309 
 
 Sir George. How long did her grief last ? 
 Vellum. Longer than I have known any wi aow's — at least 
 three days. 
 
 Sir George. Three days, say'st thou ? three whole days ? 
 I'm afraid thou flatterest me ! — woman ! woman ! 
 
 Vellum. Grief is twofold. 
 
 Sir George. This blockhead is as methodical as ever — but I 
 know he's honest. [Aside. 
 
 Vellum. There is a real grief, and there is a methodical 
 grief; she was drowned in tears till such a time as the tailor had 
 made her widow's weeds — Indeed they became her. 
 
 Sir George. Became her ! and was that her comfort ? 
 Truly, a most seasonable consolation ! 
 
 Vellum. But, I must needs say, she paid a due regard to 
 your memory, and could not forbear weeping when she saw com- 
 pany. 
 
 Sir George. That was kind indeed ! I find she griev'd with 
 a great deal of good breeding. But how comes this gang of lovers 
 about her ? 
 
 Vellum. Her jointure is considerable. 
 
 Sir George. How this fool torments me ! [Aside. 
 
 Vellum. Her person is amiable — 
 
 Sir George. Death ! [Aside. 
 
 Vellum. But her character is unblemished. She has been 
 as virtuous in your absence as a Penelope — 
 
 Sir George. And has had as many suitors. 
 
 Vellum. Several have made their overtures. 
 
 Sir George. Several ! 
 
 Vellum. But she has rejected all. 
 
 Sik George. There thou reviv'st me — but what means this 
 Tinsel ? Are his visits acceptable ? 
 
 Vellum. He is young.
 
 310 DRAMAS). 
 
 Sir George. Does she listen to him ? 
 
 Vellum. He is gay. 
 
 Sir George. Sure she could never entertain a thought of 
 marrying such a coxcomb ! 
 
 Vellum. He is not ill made. 
 
 Sir George. Are the vows and protestations that pass'd be- 
 tween us come to this ! I can't bear the thought of it ! Is Tin 
 sel the man design'd for my worthy successor ? 
 
 Vellum. You do not consider that you have been dead 
 these fourteen months — 
 
 Sir George. Was there ever such a dog ? L Aside. 
 
 Vellum. And I have often heard her say, that she must 
 never expect to find a second Sir George Truman — meaning your 
 ho-nour. 
 
 Sir George. I think she lov'd me ; but I must search into 
 this story of the Drummer before I discover myself to her. I 
 have put on this habit of a conjurer, in order to introduce my- 
 self. It must be your business to recommend me, as a most pro- 
 found person, that by my great knowledge in the curious arts, 
 can silence the Drummer, and dispossess the house. 
 
 Vellum. I am going to lay my accounts before my lady, 
 and I will endeavour to prevail upon her ho-nour to admit the 
 trial of your art. 
 
 Sir George. I have scarce heard of any of these stories that 
 did not arise from a love intrigue — Amours raise as many ghosts 
 as murders. 
 
 Vellum. Mrs. Abigal endeavours to persuade us, that 'tis 
 your ho-nour who troubles the house. 
 
 Sir George. That convinces me 'tis a cheat, for, I think, 
 Vellum, I may be pretty well assured it is not me. 
 
 Vellum. I am apt to think so, truly. Ha — ha — ha ! 
 
 Sir George. Abigal had always an ascendant over her lady,
 
 THE DRUMMER. 3 I 1 
 
 and if there is a trick in this matter, depend upon it she is at the 
 bottom of it. I'll be hang'd if this ghost be not one of Abigal's 
 familiars. 
 
 Vellum. Mrs. Abigal has of late been very mysterious. 
 
 Sir George. I fancy, Vellum, thou could'st worm it out of 
 her. I know formerly there was an amour between you. 
 
 Vellum. Mrs. Abigal hath her allurements, and she knows 
 I have pick'd up a competency in your ho-nour's service. 
 
 Sir George. If thou hast, all I ask of thee in return is, 
 that thou would'st immediately renew thy addresses to her. 
 Coax her up. Thou hast such a silver tongue, Vellum, as 'twill 
 be impossible for her to withstand. Besides, she is so very a 
 woman, that she'll like thee the better for giving her the pleasure 
 of telling a secret. In short, wheedle her out of it, and I shall 
 act by the advice which thou givest me. 
 
 Vellum. Mrs. Abigal was never deaf to me, when I talked 
 upon that subject. I will take an opportunity of addressing my- 
 self to her in the most pathetic manner. 
 
 Sir George. In the mean time lock me up in your office, 
 and bring me word what success you have — Well, sure I am the 
 first that ever was employ'd to lay himself. 
 
 Vellum. You act, indeed, a threefold part in this house ; 
 you are a ghost, a conjurer, and my ho-noured master, Sir George 
 Truman ; he, he, he ! You will pardon me for being jocular. 
 
 Sir George. 0, Mr. Vellum, with all my heart. You 
 know I love you men of wit and humour. Be as merry as thou 
 pleasest, so thou dost thy business {Mimicking him.) You 
 will remember, Vellum, your commission is twofold, first, to gain 
 admission for me to your lady ; and, secondly, to get the secret 
 out of Abigal. 
 
 Vellum. It sufficeth. [The scene shuts
 
 312 DR. AMAS. 
 
 Enter Lady, sola. 
 
 Lady. Women, who have been happy in a first marriage, arc 
 the most apt to venture upon a second. But for my part, I had 
 a husband so every way suited to my inclinations, that I must 
 entirely forget him before I can like another man. I have now 
 been a widow but fourteen months, and have had twice as many 
 lovers, all of them profess'd admirers of my person, but passion- 
 ately in love with my jointure. I think it is a revenge I owe my 
 sex to make an example of this worthless tribe of fellows, who 
 grow impudent, dress themselves fine, anTl fancy we are obliged 
 to provide for 'em. But of all my captives, Mr. Tinsel is the 
 most extraordinary in his kind. I hope the diversion I give my- 
 self with him is unblamable. I'm sure 'tis necessary to turn my 
 thoughts off from the memory of that dear man, who has been the 
 greatest happiness and affliction of my life. My heart would be 
 a prey to melancholy, if I did not find these innocent methods of 
 relieving it. But here comes Abigal. I must teaze the baggage, 
 for I find she has takes it into her head that I am entirely at her 
 disposal. 
 
 Enter Abigal. 
 
 Abigal. Madam ! Madam ! yonder's Mr. Tinsel has as 
 good as taken possession of your house. Marry, he says, he must 
 have Sir George's apartment enlarg'd ; for truly, says he, I hate 
 to be straiten'd. Nay, he was so impudent as to shew me the 
 chamber where he intended to consummate as he calls it. 
 
 Lady. Well ! he's a wild fellow. 
 
 Abigal. Indeed he's a very sad man, madam. 
 
 Lady. He's young, Abigal, "'tis a thousand pities he should 
 be lost ; I should be mighty glad to reform him. 
 
 Abigal. Reform him ! marry hang him !
 
 Los Angeles, Cal. 
 
 THE DRUMMER. 313 
 
 Lady. Has not he a great deal of life ? 
 
 Abigal Ay, enough to make your heart ache. 
 
 Lady. I dare say thou think'st him a very agreeable fel- 
 low. 
 
 Abigal. He thinks himself so, I'll answer for him. 
 
 Lady. He's very good natur'd ! 
 
 Abigal. He ought to be so, for he's very silly. 
 
 Lady. Dost thou think he loves me ? 
 
 Abigal Mr. Fantome did, I am sure. 
 
 Lady. With what raptures he talk'd ! 
 
 Abigal. Yes, but 'twas in piaise of your jointure-house. 
 
 Lady. He has kept bad company. 
 
 Abigal. They must be very bad indeed, if they were worse 
 than himself. 
 
 Lady. I have a strong fancy a good woman might reform 
 him. 
 
 Abigal. It would be a fine experiment, if it should not suc- 
 ceed. 
 
 Lady. Well, Abigal, we'll talk of that another time ; here 
 comes the steward, I have no further occasion for you at present. 
 
 [Exit Abigal. 
 
 Enter Vellum. 
 
 Vellum. Madam, is your ho-nour at leisure to look into the 
 accounts of the last week ? They rise very high — House-keeping 
 is chargeable in a house that is haunted. 
 
 Lady. How comes that to pass ? I hope the drum neither 
 eats nor drinks? But read your account, Vellum. 
 
 Vellum. {Putting on and off his spectacles in this scene.) 
 A hogshead ami a half of ale — it is not for the ghost's drinking — 
 but your ho-nour's servants say they must have something to 
 keep up their courage against this strange noise. They tell mc 
 
 Mil., i — 14
 
 314 DRAMAS. 
 
 they expecl a double quantity of malt in their sma\l beer so long 
 as the house continues in this condition. 
 
 Lady. At this rate they'll take care to be frighten 'd all the 
 year round, I'll answer for 'em. But go on. 
 
 Vellum. Item, two sheep, and a — where is the ox ? — Oh ! 
 here I have him — and an ox — Your ho-nour must always have a 
 piece of cold beef in the house for the entertainment of so many 
 strangers, who come from all parts to hear this drum. Item, 
 bread, ten peck loaves — They cannot eat beef without bread. — 
 Item, three barrels of table beer — They must have drink with 
 their meat. 
 
 Lady. Sure no woman in England has a steward that makes 
 such ingenious comments on his works. [Aside. 
 
 Vellum. Item, to Mr. Tinsel's servants, five bottles of port 
 wine — It was by your ho-nour's order — Item, three bottles of 
 sack for the use of Mrs. Abigal. 
 
 Lady. I suppose that was by your own order. 
 
 Vellum. We have been long friends, we are your ho-nour's 
 ancient servants, sack is an innocent cordial, and gives her spirit 
 to chide the servants when they are tardy in their bus'ness ! he, 
 he, he ! pardon me for being jocular. 
 
 Lady. Well, I see you'll come together at last. 
 
 Vellum. Item, a dozen pound of watchdights for the use of 
 the servants. 
 
 Lady. For the use of the servants ! What, are the rogues 
 afraid of sleeping in the dark ? What an unfortunate woman am 
 I ! This is such a particular distress, it puts me to my wit's end. 
 Vellum, what wou'd you advise me to do ? 
 
 Vellum. Madam, your ho-nour has two points to consider 
 Imprimis, To retrench these extravagant expences, which so 
 many strangers bring upon you. — Secondly, To clear the house 
 of this invisible drummer.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 615 
 
 Lady. This learned division leaves me just as wise as I was. 
 But how must we bring these two points to bear ? 
 
 Vellum. I beseech your ho-nour to give me the hearing. 
 
 Lady. I do. But, prithee, take pity on me, and be not 
 tedious. 
 
 Vellum. I will be concise. There is a certain person ar 
 rived this morning, an aged man, of a venerable aspect, and of a 
 long hoary teard, that reacheth down to his girdle. The com- 
 mon people call him a wizard, a white witch, a conjurer, a cunning 
 man, a necromancer, a — 
 
 Lady. No matter for his titles. But what of all this ? 
 
 Vellum Give me the hearing, good my lady. He pretends 
 to great skill m the occult sciences, and is come hither upon the 
 rumour of this Drum. If one may believe him, he knows the 
 secret of laying ghosts, or of quieting houses that are-haunted. 
 
 Lady. Pho, these are idle stories to amuse the country peo 
 pie ; this can do us no good. 
 
 Vellum. It can do us no harm, my lady. 
 
 Lady. I dare say thou dost not believe there is any thing in 
 it thyself. 
 
 Vellum. I cannot say I do ; there is no danger, however, in 
 the experiment. Let him try his skill ; if it should succeed, we 
 are rid of the drum ; if it should not, we may tell the world that 
 it has, and by that means at least get out of this expensive way 
 of living ; so that it must turn to your advantage one way or an 
 other. 
 
 Lady. I think you argue very rightly. But where is the 
 man ? I would fain see him. He must be a curiosity. 
 
 Vellum. I have already discours'd him, and lie is to be with 
 me, in my office, half an hour hence. lie asks nothing for his 
 pains, till he has done his work; — no cure, no money. 
 
 Lady That circumstance, I must confess, wou'd make one
 
 316 DRAMAS. 
 
 believe theri is more in his art than one wou'd imagine. Pray; 
 Vellum, go and fetch him hither immediately. 
 
 Vellum. I am gone. He shall be forth-coming forthwith. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Butler, Coachman, and Gardener. 
 
 Butler. Bare news, my lads, rare news ! 
 
 Gardener. Whajt's the matter ? hast thou got any more 
 f ales for us ? 
 
 Butler. No, 'tis better than that. 
 
 Coachman. Is there another stranger come to the house ? 
 
 Butler. Ay, such a stranger as will make all our lives easy. 
 
 Gardener. What ! is he a lord ? 
 
 Butler. A lord ! No, nothing like it. — He's a conjurer. 
 
 Coachman. A conjurer ! what, is he come a wooing to my 
 lady ? 
 
 Butler. No, no, you fool, he's come a purpose to lay the 
 spirit. 
 
 Coachman. Ay, marry, that's good news indeed ; but where 
 is he ? 
 
 Butler. He's lock'd up with the steward in his office, they 
 are laying their heads together very close. I fancy they are cast- 
 ing a figure. 
 
 Gardener. Prithee John, what sort of a creature is a con- 
 iurer. 
 
 Butler. Why he's made much as other men are, if it was 
 aot for his long grey beard. 
 
 Coachman. Look ye Peter, it stands with reason, that' a 
 conjurer shou'd have a long grey beard — for did ye ever know a 
 witch that was not an old woman ? 
 
 Gardener. Why ! I remember a conjurer once at a fair, 
 that to my thinking was a very smock-fac'd man, and yet he
 
 THE DRUMMER. 317 
 
 spew'd out fifty yards of green ferret. I fancy, John, if thou'dsl 
 get him into the pantry and give him a cup of ale, he'd shew us a 
 few tricks. Do'st think we cou'd not persuade hini to swallow 
 one of thy case-knives for his diversion ? He'll certainly bring it 
 up again. 
 
 Butler. Peter, thou art such a wiseacre ! Thou do'st not 
 know the difference between a conjurer and a juggler. This man 
 must be a very great master of his trade. His beard is at least 
 half a yard long, he's dress'd in a strange dark cloak, as black as 
 a coal. Your conjurer always goes in mourning. 
 
 Gardener. Is he a gentleman ? had he a sword by his side ? 
 
 Butler. No, no,' he's too grave a man for that, a conjurer is 
 as grave as a judge, — but he had a long white wand in his hand. 
 
 Coachman. You may be sure there's a good deal of virtue 
 in that wand — I fancy 'tis made out of witch-elm. 
 
 Gardener. I warrant you if the ghost appears, he'll whisk 
 ye that wand before his eyes, and strike you the drumstick out 
 of his hand. 
 
 Butler. No ; the wand, look ye, is to make a circle, and if 
 he once gets the ghost in a circle, then he has him — let him get 
 out again if he can. A circle, you must know, is a conjurer's 
 trap. 
 
 Coachman. But what will he do with him, when he has him 
 there ? 
 
 Butler. Why then he'll overpower him with his learning. 
 
 Gardener. If he can once compass him, and get him in 
 lobs-pound, he"ll make nothing of him, but speak a few hard 
 words to him, and perhaps bind him over to his good tehaviour 
 for a thousand years. 
 
 Coachman. Ay, ay, he'll send him packing to his grave with 
 i. flea in his ear, I warrant him. 
 
 Butler. No, no, 1 wouM advise madam to spare no cost. If
 
 318 DRAMAS . 
 
 the conjurer be but well paid, he'll take pains upon the ghost and 
 lay him, look ye, in the Red Sea — and then he's laid for ever. 
 
 Coachman. Ay, marry, that wou'd spoil his drum for him. 
 
 Gardener. Why, John, there must be a power of spirits in 
 that same Red Sea — I warrant ye they are as plenty as fish. 
 
 Coachman. Well, I wish after all that he may not be too 
 hard for the conjurer ; I'm afraid he'll find a tough bit of work 
 on't. 
 
 Gardener. I wish the spirit may not carry a corner of the 
 house off with him. 
 
 Butler. As for that, Peter, you may be sure that the 
 steward has made his bargain with the cunning man before-hand, 
 that he shall stand to all costs and damages — But hark ! yonder's 
 Mrs. Abigal, we shall have her with us immediately, if we do not 
 get off. 
 
 Gardener. Ay, lads ! if we could get Mrs. Abigal well laid, 
 too — we should lead merry lives. 
 
 For to a man like me that's stout and bold, 
 A ghost is not so dreadful as a scold. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Scene opens, and discovers Sir Geoege in Vellum's Office. 
 
 Sir George. I wonder I don't hear of Vellum yet. But I 
 know his wisdom will do nothing rashly. The fellow has b^en sc 
 us'd to form in business, that it has infected his whole conversa 
 tion. But I must not find fault with that punctual and exact
 
 THE DRUMMER. 319 
 
 oeliaviour which has been of so much use to me ; my estate is the 
 oetter for it. Enter Vellum. 
 
 Well Vellum, I m impatient to hear your success. 
 
 Vellum. First, let me lock the door. 
 
 Sir George. Will your lady admit me? 
 
 Vellum. If this lock is not mended soon, it will be quite 
 spoiled. 
 
 Sir George. Prithee let the lock alone at present, and an- 
 swer me. 
 
 Vellum. Delays in business are dangerous — I must send 
 for the smith next week — and in the mean time will take a 
 minute of it. 
 
 Sir George. What says your lady ? 
 
 Vellum. This pen is naught, and wants mending — My lady, 
 did you say ? 
 
 Sir George. Does she admit me ? 
 
 Vellum. I have gain'd admission for you as a conjurer. 
 
 Sir. George. That's enough ! I'll gain admission for my- 
 self as a husband. Does she believe there is any thing in my 
 art? 
 
 Vellum. It is hard to know what a woman believes. 
 
 Sir George. Did she ask no questions about me? 
 
 Vellum. Sundry — She desires to talk with you herself, be- 
 fore you ento" apon your business. 
 
 Sir Gv-jrge. But when ? 
 
 Vellum. Immediately. This instant. 
 
 Sir George. Pugh. What hast thou been doing all this 
 while! Why didst not tell me so ? Give mc my cloak — have 
 you yet met with Abigal ? 
 
 Vellum. I have not yet had an opportunity of talking with 
 her. But we have interchanged pome languishing glances. 
 
 Sin George. Let thee alone for that, Vellum, I have for
 
 320 DRAMAS. 
 
 merly seen thee ogle her through thy spectacles. Well ! This 
 is a most venerable cloak. After the business of this day is over, 
 I'll make thee a present of it. 'Twill become thee mightily. 
 
 Vellum. He, he, he ! wou'd you make a conjurer of your 
 steward ? 
 
 Sir George. Prithee don't be jocular, I'm in haste. Help 
 me on with my beard. 
 
 Vellum. And what will your ho-nour do with your cast 
 beard ? 
 
 Sir George. Why, faith, thy gravity wants only such a 
 beard to it ; if thou would'st wear it with the cloak, thou would'st 
 make a most complete heathen philosopher. But where's my 
 wand ? 
 
 Vellum. A fine taper stick ! It is well chosen. I will keep 
 this till you are sheriff of the county. It is not my custom to let 
 any thing be lost. 
 
 Sir George. Come, Vellum, lead the way. You must in- 
 troduce me to your lady. Thou'rt the fittest fellow in the world 
 to be a master of the ceremonies to a conjurer. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Abigal crossing the stage, Tinsel following. 
 
 Tinsel. Nabby, Nabby, whither so fast ? 
 
 Abigal. Keep your hands to yourself. I'm going to cal) 
 the steward to my lady. 
 
 Tinsel. What ? Goodman Two-fold ? I met him walking 
 with a strange old fellow yonder. I suppose he belongs to the 
 family too. He looks very antic ue. He must be some of the 
 furniture of this old mansion-house. 
 
 Abigal What does the man mean ? Don't think to palm 
 me, as you do my la ly.
 
 THE DRUM ME It. 321 
 
 Tinsel. Prithee, Nabby, tell me one thing ; what's the rea- 
 son thou art my enemy ? 
 
 Abigal. Marry, because I'm a friend to my lady. 
 
 Tinsel. Dost thou see any thing about me thou dost not 
 like ? Come here, hussy, give me a kiss : don't be ill-natur'd. 
 
 Abigal. Sir, I know how to be civil. ( Kisses her.) — This 
 rogue will carry off my lady, if I don't take care. [Aside. 
 
 Tixsel. Thy lips are as soft as velvet, Abigal. I must get 
 thee a husband. 
 
 Abigal. Ay, now you don't speak idly, I can talk to you. 
 
 Tinsel. I have one in my eye for thee. Dost thou love a 
 young lusty son of a whore ? 
 
 Abigal. Laud, how you talk ! 
 
 Tinsel. This is a thundering dog. 
 
 Abigal. What is he ? 
 
 Tinsel. A private gentleman. 
 
 Abigal. Ay ! where does he live ? 
 
 Tinsel. In the Horse-Guards — But he has one fault I must 
 tell thee of. If thou canst bear with that, he's a man for thy 
 purpose. 
 
 Abigal. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, what may that be ? 
 
 Tinsel. He's but five and twenty years old. 
 
 Abigal. 'Tis no matter for his age, if he has been well edu- 
 cated. 
 
 Tinsel. No man better, child ; he'll tye a wig, toss a dye, 
 make a pass, and swear with such a grace as would make thy heart 
 leap to hear him. 
 
 Abigal. Half these accomplishments will do, provided ho 
 has an estate. — Pray what has he ? 
 
 Tinsel. Not a farthing. 
 
 Abigal. Pox on him, what do I give him the hearing for ! 
 
 [Aside 
 vol.. i. — 14*
 
 322 DRAMAS. 
 
 Tinsel. But as for that I wou'd make it up to him. 
 
 Abigal How ? 
 
 Tinsel. Why look ye, child, as soon as I have married thy 
 lady, I design to discard this old prig of a steward, and to put 
 this honest gentleman, I am speaking of, into his place. 
 
 Abigal. (Aside.) This fellow's a fool — I'll have no more to 
 say to him. — Hark ! my lady's a coming ! 
 
 Tinsel. Depend upon it, Nab, I'll remember my promise. 
 
 Abigal. Ay, and so will I too — to your cost. [Aside. 
 
 [Exit Abigal. 
 
 Tinsel. My dear is purely fitted up with a maid. — But I 
 shall rid the house of her. 
 
 Enter Lady. 
 
 Lady. Oh, Mr. Tinsel, I am glad to meet you here. I am 
 going to give you an entertainment, that won't be disagreeable to 
 a man of wit and pleasure of the town. — There may be something 
 diverting in a conversation between a conjuror, and this conceited 
 ass. [Aside. 
 
 Tinsel. She loves me to distraction, I see that. (Aside.) — 
 Prithee, widow, explain thyself. 
 
 Lady. You must know here is a strange sort of man come 
 to town who undertakes to free the house from this disturbance. 
 The steward believes him a conjurer. 
 
 Tinsel. Ay ; thy steward is a deep one ! 
 
 Lady. He's to be here immediately. It is indeed an odd 
 figure of a man. 
 
 Tinsel. Oh ! I warrant he has studied the black art ! Ha, 
 ha, -ha ! Is he not an Oxford scholar ? — Widow, thy house is the 
 most extraordinarily inhabited of any widow's this day in Chris-
 
 THE DRUMMER. 323 
 
 tendom — I think thy four chief domestics are — a wither'd Abigal 
 — a superannuated steward — a ghost — and a conjurer. 
 
 Lady {mimicking Tinsel). And you wou'd have it inhabited 
 by a fifth, who is a more extraordinary person than any of all 
 these four. 
 
 Tinsel. It's a sure sign a woman loves you, when she imi- 
 tates your manner. (Aside.) — Thou'rt very smart, my dear. But 
 see ! smoke the doctor. 
 
 Enter Vellum and Sir George in his conjurer 's habit. 
 
 Vellum. I will introduce this profound person to your lady- 
 ship, and then leave him with you — Sir, this is her ho-nour. 
 
 Sir George. I know it well. [Exit Vellum 
 
 (Aside, walking in a musing posture.) That dear woman ! 
 The sight of her unmans me. I cou'd weep for tenderness, did 
 not I at the same time, feel an indignation rise in me, to see that 
 wretch with her : and yet I cannot but smile to see her in the 
 company of her first and second husband at the same time. 
 
 Lady. Mr. Tinsel, do you speak to him ; you are us'd to 
 the company of men of learning. 
 
 Tinsel. Old gentleman, thou dost not look like an inhabit- 
 ant of this world ; I suppose thou art lately come down from the 
 6tars. Pray what news is stirring in the Zodiac ? 
 
 Sir George. News that ought to make the heart of a coward 
 tremble. Mars is now entering into the first house, and will 
 shortly appear in all his donial dignities — 
 
 Tinsel. Mars ? Prithee, Father Grey-beard, explain thyself. 
 
 Sir George. The entrance of Mars into his house, portends 
 the entrance of a master into this family — and that soon. 
 
 Tinsel. D'ye hear that, widow ? The stars have cut me out 
 for 'hy husband. This house is to have a master, and that soor.
 
 324 DRAMAS. 
 
 — Hark thee old Gadbury, is not Mars very like a young fellow 
 call'd Tom Tinsel ? 
 
 Sir George. Not so much as Venus is like this lady. 
 
 Tinsel. A word in your ear, Doctor ; these two planets will 
 be in conjunction by and by ; I can tell you that. 
 
 Sir G eorge (aside, walking disturbed). Curse on this imper- 
 tinent fop ! I shall scarce forbear discovering myself — Madam, 
 I am told that your house is visited with strange noises. 
 
 Lady. And I am told that you can cpiiet them. I must con- 
 fess I had a curiosity to see the person I had heard so much of; 
 and, indeed, your aspect shows that you have had much experi- 
 ence in the world. You must be a very aged man. 
 
 Sir George. My aspect deceives you ; what do you think is 
 my real age ? 
 
 Tinsel. I shou'd guess thee within three years of Methuse- 
 lah. Prithee, tell me, was't not thou born before the flood ? 
 
 Lady. Truly I shou'd guess you to be in your second or 
 third century. I warrant you, you have great grand-children with 
 beards of a foot long. 
 
 Sir George. Ha, ha, ha ! If there be truth in man, I was 
 but five and thirty last August. ! the study of the occult sci- 
 ences makes a man's beard grow faster than you would imagine. 
 
 Lady. What an escape you have had, Mr. Tinsel, that you 
 were not bred a scholar ! 
 
 Tinsel. And -so I fancy, Doctor, thou think 'st me an illite- 
 rate fellow, because I have a smooth chin ? 
 
 Sir George. Hark ye, sir, a word in your ear. You are a 
 coxcomb by all the rules of physiognomy : but let that be a se- 
 cret between you and me. [Aside to Tinsel. 
 ' Lady. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, what is it the doctor whispers ? 
 
 Tinsel. Only a compliment, child, upon two or three of my 
 features. It does not become me to repeat it.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 325 
 
 Lady. Pray, Doctor, examine this gentleman's face, and ^ell 
 aie his fortune. 
 
 Sir George. If I may believe the lines of his face, he likes 
 it better than I do, or — than you do, fair lady. 
 
 Tinsel. Widow, I hope now thou'rt convinc'd he's a cheat 
 
 Lady. For my part I believe he's a witch — go on Doctor. 
 
 Sir George. He will be cross'd in love ; and that soon. 
 
 Tinsel. Prithee, Doctor, tell us Ihe truth. Dost not thou 
 live in Moorfields ? l 
 
 Sir George. Take my word for it, thou shalt never live in 
 my lady Truman's mansion-house. 
 
 Tinsel. Pray, old gentleman, hast thou never been pluck'd 
 by the beard when thou wert saucy ? 
 
 Lady. Nay, Mr. Tinsel, you are angry ! do you think I 
 wou'd marry a man that dares not have his fortune told ? 
 
 Sir George. Let him be angry — I matter not — he is but 
 short liv'd. He will soon die of — 
 
 Tinsel. Come, come, speak out, old Hocus, he, he, he ! this 
 fellow makes me burst with laughing. [Forces a laugh. 
 
 Sir George. He will soon die of a fright — or of the — let me 
 see your nose — Ay — 'tis so ! 
 
 Tinsel. You son of a whore ! I'll run ye through the body. 
 I never yet made the sun shine through a conjurer — 
 
 Lady. Oh, fy, Mr. Tinsel! you will not kill an old man? 
 
 Tinsel. An old man ! the dog says he's but five and thirty. 
 
 Lady. Oh, fy, Mr. Tinsel ! I did not think you could have 
 ocen so passionate ; I hate a passionate man. Put up your BWOld, 
 jr I must never see you again. 
 
 Tinsel. Ba, ha, ha I 1 was but in jest, my dear. [ had a 
 
 i Art thou of Bethlem'a noble college free, 
 Stark, staring mod. Dbtdev. 
 
 Bedlam had been removed a few years before to Moorfielda See ulao 
 the letter from the gentleman in Moorfields, in the Spectator. — G.
 
 326 DRAMAS. 
 
 mind to have made an experiment upon the doctors body. 1 
 would but have drill'd a little eyelet-hole in it, and have seen 
 whether he had art enough to close it up again. 
 
 Sir George. Courage is but ill shown before a lady. But 
 know, if ever I meet thee again, thou shalt find this arm can wield 
 other weapons besides this wand. 
 
 Tinsel. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Lady. Well, learned sir, you are to give a proof of your art, 
 not of your courage. Or if you will shew your courage, let it 
 be at nine o'clock — for that is the time the noise is generally 
 heard. 
 
 Tinsel. And look ye, old gentleman, if thou dost not do thy 
 business well, 1 can tell thee by the little skill I have, that thou 
 wilt be toss'd in a blanket before ten. We'll do our endeavour 
 to send thee back to the stars again. 
 
 Sir George. I'll go and prepare myself for the ceremonies 
 — And, lady, as you expect they shou'd succeed to your wishes, 
 treat that fellow with the contempt he deserves. 
 
 [Exit Sir George. 
 
 Tinsel. The sauciest dog I ever talk'd with in my whole 
 life! 
 
 Lady. Methinks he's a diverting fellow ; one may see he's 
 no fool. 
 
 Tinsel. No fool ! Ay, but thou dost not take him for a con- 
 jurer. 
 
 Lady. Truly I don't know what to take him for ; I am re- 
 solv'd to employ liiin however. When a sickness is desperate 
 we often try remedies that we have no great faith in. 
 
 Enter Abigal. 
 
 Abigal. Madam, the tea is ready in the parlour as you or 
 dered.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 327 
 
 Lady. Come, Mr. Tinsel, we may there talk cf this subject 
 more at leisure. [Exeunt Lady and Tinsel. 
 
 Abigal sola. Sure never any lady had such servants as mine 
 has ! "Well, if I get this thousand pound, I hope to have some 
 of my own. Let me see, I'll have a pretty tight girl — just such 
 as I was ten years ago (I'm afraid I may say twenty) — she shall 
 dress me and flatter me — for I will be flatter'd, that's pos ! M y 
 lady's cast suits will serve her after I have given them the wear- 
 ing. Besides, when I am worth a thousand pound, I shall cer- 
 tainly carry off the steward — Madam Vellum ! — how prettily that 
 will sound ! here, bring out Madam Vellum's chaise — nay, I do 
 not know but it may be a chariot — It will break the attorney's 
 wife's heart — for I shall take place of every body in the parish 
 but my lady. If I have a son, he shall be call'd Fantome. But 
 see Mr. Vellum, as I could wish. I know his humour, and will 
 do my utmost to gain his heart. 
 
 Enter Vellum with a pint of sack. 
 
 Vellum. Mrs. Abigal, don't I break in upon you unseason- 
 ably ? 
 
 Abigal. Oh, no, Mr. Vellum, your visits are always season 
 able. 
 
 Vellum I have brought with me a taste of fresh Canary, 
 which I think is delicious. 
 
 Abigal. Pray set it down — I have a dram glass just by — 
 
 [Brings in a rmnmrr 
 I'll pledge you ; my lady's good health. 
 
 Vellum. And your own with it — sweet Mrs. Abigal. 
 
 Abigal. Pray, good Mr. Vellum, buy me a little parcel of 
 this sack, and put it under the article of tea — I would not have 
 my name appear to it. 
 
 Vellum. Mrs. . Abigal, your name seldom appears in mv
 
 328 DRAMAS. 
 
 bills- '-and yet — if you will allow me a merry expression — You 
 have been always in my books, Mrs. Abigal. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Abigal. Ha, ha, ha ! Mr. Vellum, you are such a dry jest- 
 ing man ! 
 
 Vellum. Why, truly, Mrs. Abigal, I have been looking over 
 my papers — and I find you have been a long time my debtor. 
 
 Abigal. Your debtor ; for what Mr. Vellum ? 
 
 Vellum. For my heart, Mrs. Abigal — And our accounts 
 will not be balanc'd between us, till I have yours in exchange for 
 it. Ha, ha, ha !• 
 
 Abigal. Ha, ha, ha ! You are the most gallant dun, Mr. 
 Vellum. 
 
 Vellum. But I am not us'd to be paid by words only, Mrs. 
 Abigal ! when will you be out of my debt ? 
 
 Abigal. Oh, Mr. Vellum, you make one blush — My humble 
 service to you. 
 
 Vellum. I must answer you, Mrs. Abigal, in the country 
 phrase — ' Your love is sufficient.' Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Abigal. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, I must own I love a merry 
 man ! 
 
 Vellum. Let me see, how long is it, Mrs. Abigal, since I 
 first broke my mind to you — It was, I think, Undedmo Gulielmi 
 — We have convers'd together these fifteen years — and yet, Mrs. 
 Abigal, I must drink to our better acquaintance. He, he, he, — 
 Mrs. Abigal, you know I am naturally jocose. I 
 
 Abigal. Ah, you men love to make sport with us silly crea- 
 tures. 
 
 Vellum. Mrs. Abigal, I have a trifle about me, which I 
 wou'd willingly make you a present of. It is, indeed, but a 
 little toy. 
 
 Abigal. You are alwavs exceedingly obliging.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 320 
 
 Vellum. It is but a little toy — scarce worth your accept 
 ance. 
 
 Abigal. Pray do not keep me iu suspense ; what is it, Mr 
 Vellum ? 
 
 Vellum. A silver thimble. 
 
 Abigal. I always said Mr. Vellum was a generous lover. 
 
 Vellum. But I must put it on myself, Mrs. Abigal — Vou 
 have the prettiest tip of a finger — I must take the freedom to 
 salute it. 
 
 Abigal. Oh fye ! you make me ashamed, -Mr. Vellum ; how 
 can you do so ? I protest I am in such a confusion. — 
 
 [vl feign 'd struggle. 
 
 Vellum. This finger is not the finger of idleness ; it bears 
 the honourable scars of the needle — But why are you so cruel as 
 not to pare your nails ? 
 
 Abigal. Oh, I vow you press it so hard ! pray give me my 
 finder asrain. 
 
 Vellum. This middle finger, Mrs. Abigal, has a pretty 
 neighbour — A wedding ring would become it mightily — He, 
 he, he ! 
 
 Abigal. You're so full of your jokes. Ay, but where must 
 I find one for it ? 
 
 Veli.um. I design this thimble only as the .forerunner of it, 
 they will set off each other, and arc — indeed a twofold emblem. 
 The first will put you in mind of being a good housewife, and the 
 other of being a good wife. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Abigal. Yes, yes, I see you laugh at me. 
 
 Vellum. Indeed I am serious. 
 
 Abigal. I thought you had quite forsaken me — I am sure 
 you cannot forget the many repeated vows and promises you 
 formerly made me. 
 
 Vellum. I shou'd as soon forgot the multiplication table. 
 
 J
 
 330 DRAMAS. 
 
 Abigal. I have always taken your part before my lady. 
 
 Vei lum. You have so, and I have item'd it in my memory. 
 
 Abigal. For I have always look'd upon your interest as mj 
 own. 
 
 Vellum. It is nothing but your cruelty can hinder them 
 from being so. 
 
 Abigal. I must strike while the iron's hot. (Aside.) — 
 W«jI1, Mr. Vellum, there is no refusing you, you have such a be 
 witching tongue ! 
 
 Vellum. How ? Speak that again ! 
 
 Abigal. Why then in plain English, I love you. 
 
 Vellum. I'm overjoyed ! 
 
 Abigal. I must own my passion for you. 
 
 Vellum. I'm transported ! [ Catches her in his arms. 
 
 Abigal. Dear charming man ! 
 
 Vellum. Thou sum total of all my happiness ! I shall grow 
 extravagant ! I can't forbear ! — to drink thy virtuous inclinations 
 in a bumper of sack. Your lady must make haste, my duck, or 
 we shall provide a young steward to the estate, before she has 
 an heir to it — prithee my dear, does she intend to marry Mr. 
 Tinsel ? 
 
 Abigal. Marry him ! my love, no, no ! we must take care 
 Of that ! there would be no staying in the house for us if she did. 
 That young rake-hell wou'd send all the old servants a grazing. 
 You and I shou'd be discarded before the honey-moon was at 
 an end. 
 
 Vellum. Prithee, sweet one, does not this drum put the 
 thoughts of marriage out of her head ? 
 
 Abigal. This drum, my dear, if it be well manag'd, will be 
 no less than a thousand pound in our way. 
 
 Vellum. Ay, say'st thou so, my turtle ? 
 
 Afigal. Since we are now as good as man and wife — I
 
 THE DRUMMEK. 33 1 
 
 mean almost as good as man and wife — I ought to conceal no- 
 thing from you. 
 
 Vellum. Certainly my dove, not from thy yoke-fellow, thy 
 helpmate, thy own flesh and blood ! 
 
 Abigal. Hush 1 I hear Mr. Tinsel's laugh, my lady and he 
 are coming this way; if you will take a turn without, I'll tell you 
 the whole contrivance. 
 
 Vellum. Give me your hand, chicken. 
 
 Abigal. Here, take it, you have my heart already. 
 
 Vellum. We shall have much issue. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 Enter vellum and butler. 
 
 Vellum. John, I have certain orders to give you — and 
 therefore be attentive 
 
 Butler. Attentive! Ay, let me alone for that. — I suppose 
 he means being sober. [Aside. 
 
 Vellum. You know I have always recommended to you a 
 method in your business, I wou'd have your knives and forks, 
 your spoons and napkins, your plates and glasses, laid in a 
 method. 
 
 Butler. Ah, Master Vellum, you are such a sweet spoken 
 man, it does one's heart good to receive your orders. 
 
 Vellum. Method, John, makes business easy, it banishes all 
 perplexity and confusion out of families. 
 
 Butler. How be talks ! I cou'd hear him all day. 
 
 Vellum. And now, John, let me know whether your table- 
 linen, your side-board, your cellar, and every thing else within
 
 332 DRAMAS. 
 
 your province, are properly and methodically d.epos'd for an entei 
 tamment this evening. 
 
 Butler. Master Vellum, they shall be ready at a quarter 
 of an hour's warning. But pray, sir, is this entertainment to be 
 made for the conjurer ? 
 
 Vellum. It is, John, for the conjurer, and yet it is not for 
 the conjurer. 
 
 Butler. Why, look you Master Vellum, if it is for the con- 
 jurer, the cook-maid shou'd have orders to get him some dishes 
 to his palate. Perhaps he may like a little brimstone in hia 
 sauce. 
 
 Vellum. This conjurer, John, is a complicated creature, an 
 amphibious animal, a person of a twofold nature — But he eats 
 and drinks like other men. 
 
 Butler. Marry, Master Vellum, he shou'd eat and drink 
 as much as two other men, by the account you give of him. 
 
 Vellum. Thy conceit is not amiss, he is indeed a double 
 man, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Butler. Ha ! I understand you, he's one of your herma- 
 phrodites, as they call 'em. 
 
 Vellum. He is married, and he is not. — He hath a beard, 
 and he hath no beard. He is old, and he is young. 
 
 Butler. How charmingly he talks ! I fancy, Master Vel- 
 lum, you cou'd make a riddle. The same man old and young! 
 How do you make that out, Master Vellum ? 
 
 Vellum. Thou hast heard of a snake casting his skin, and 
 recovering his youth. Such is this sage person. 
 
 Butler. Nay, 'tis no wonder a conjurer shou'd be like a ser- 
 pent. 
 
 Vellum. When he has thrown aside the old conjurer's 
 slough that hangs about him, he'll come out as fine a young gen- 
 tleman as ever was seen in this house.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 333 
 
 Butler. Does lie intend to sup in Lis slough ? 
 
 Vellum. That time will show. 
 
 Butler, Well, I have not a head for these things. Indeed, 
 Mr. Vellum, I have not understood one word you have said this 
 half hour. 
 
 Veli um. I did not intend thou shouhTst — But to our busi- 
 ness — Let there 'he a table spread in the great hall. Let your 
 pots and glasses be wash'd, and in a readiness. Bid the cook 
 provide a plentiful supper, and see that all the servants be in 
 their best liveries. 
 
 Butler. Ay, now I understand every word you say. But I 
 wou'd rather hear you talk a little in that t'other way. 
 
 Vellum. I shall explain to thee what I have said by and 
 by. — Bid Susan lay two pillows upon your lady's bed. 
 
 Butler. Two pillows ! Madam won't sleep upon 'em both 1 
 She is not a double womau too? 
 
 Vellum. She will sleep upon neither. But hark, Mrs. 
 Abigal ! I think I hear her chiding the cook -maid. 
 
 Butler. Then I'll away, or it will be my turn next; she, I 
 am sure, speaks plain English, one may easily understand every 
 word she says. [Exit Butler. 
 
 Vellum solas. 
 
 Vellum. Servants arc good for nothing, unless they have an 
 opinion of the person's understanding who has the direction of 
 ti, em — 13ut see Mrs. Abigal ! she has a bewitching countenance 
 1 wish I may not be tempted to marry her in good earnest. 
 
 Enter Abigal. 
 
 Abigal. Ha! Mr. Vellum. 
 
 Vellum. Whai brings my sweet one hither ? 
 
 Ai:k;ai.. I am coining to speak to my friend behind the
 
 334 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 wainscot. It is fit, child, he should have an account of this con> 
 jurer, that he may not be surpris'd. 
 
 Vellum. That would be as much as thy thousand pound is 
 worth. 
 
 Abigal. I'll speak low — walls have ears. 
 
 [Pointing at the wainscot. 
 Vellum. But hark you ducklin ! be sure you do not tell him 
 that I am let into the secret. 
 
 Abigal. That's a good one indeed ! as if I should ever tell 
 what passes between you and me. 
 
 Vellum. No, no, my child, that must not be; he, he, he J 
 that must not be ; he, he, he ! 
 
 Abigal. You will always be waggish. 
 
 Vellum. Adieu, and let me hear the result of yoiu con» 
 ference. 
 
 Abigal. How can you leave one so soon ? I shall think it an 
 age till I see you again. 
 
 Vellum. Adieu my pretty one. 
 
 Abigal. Adieu sweet Mr. Vellum. 
 
 Vellum. My pretty one— [As he is going off. 
 
 Abigal. Dear Mr. Vellum ! 
 
 Vellum. My pretty one ! [Exit Vellum. 
 
 Abigal sola. 
 
 Abigal. I have him — if I can but get this thousand pound. 
 
 [Fantome gives three raps up>on his 
 , t drum behind the ivainscot. 
 
 Abigal. Ha ! three raps upon the drum ! the signal Mr. Fan- 
 tome and I agreed upon, when he had a mind to speak with me. 
 
 [Fantome raps again. 
 Abigal. Very wqI, I hear you; come fox, come out of 
 your hole.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 335 
 
 Scene opc?is, and Fantome comes out. 
 
 Abigal. You may leave your drum in the wardrobe, till you 
 have occasion for it. 
 
 Fantome. "Well, Mrs. Abigal, I want to hear what is a-doing 
 in the world. 
 
 Abigal. You are a very inquisitive spirit. But I must tell 
 you, if you do not take care of yourself, you will be laid this 
 evening. 
 
 Fantome I have overheard something of that matter. But 
 let me alone for the doctor — I'll engage to give a good account 
 of him. I am more in pain about Tinsel. When a lady's in the 
 case, I'm more afraid of one fop than twenty conjurers. 
 
 Abigal. To tell you truly, he presses his attacks with so 
 much impudence, that he has made more progress with my lady 
 in two days, than you did in two months. 
 
 Fantome. I shall attack her in another manner, if thou 
 canst but procure me another interview. There's nothing makes 
 a lover so keen, as being kept up in the dark. 
 
 Abigal. Pray no more of your distant bows, your respectful 
 compliments — Really, Mr. Fantome, you're only fit to make love 
 across a tea-table. 
 
 Fantome. My dear girl, I can't forbear hugging thee for thy 
 good advice. 
 
 Abigal. Ay, now I have some hopes of you; but why don't 
 you do so to my Lady ? 
 
 Fantome. Child, I always thought your lady loved to be 
 treated with respect. 
 
 Ahoal. Believe me, Mr. Fantome, there is not so great a 
 difference between woman and woman, as you imagine. You see 
 rinse! lias nothing but his sauciness to recommend him. 
 
 Fantome. Tinsel is too great a coxcomb to be capable of
 
 336 DRAMAS. 
 
 love — And let me tell thee, Abigal, a man who is sincere in his 
 passion, makes but a very awkward profession of it — But I'll 
 mend my manners. 
 
 Abigal. Ay, or you'll never gain a widow — Come, I must 
 tutor you a little ; suppose me to be my lady, and let me see how 
 you'll behave yourself. 
 
 Fantome. I'm afraid, child, we han't time for such a piece 
 of mummery. 
 
 Abigal. Oh, it will be quickly over, if you play your part 
 well. 
 
 Fantome. Why then, dear Mrs. Ab — I mean my Lady 
 Truman. 
 
 Abigal, Ay ! but you han't saluted me. 
 
 Fantome. That's right ; faith I forgot that circumstance. 
 (Kisses her.) Nectar and Ambrosia, ! 
 
 Abigal. That's very well — 
 
 Fantome. How long must I be condemned to languish ! 
 when shall my sufferings have an end ! My life ! my happiness, 
 my all is wound up in you — 
 
 Abigal. Well ! why don't you squeeze my hand ? 
 
 Fantome. What, thus ? 
 
 Abigal. Thus ? Ay — Now throw your arm about my mid- 
 dle ; hug me closer. — You are not afraid of hurting me ! Now- 
 pour forth a volley of rapture and nonsense, till you are out of 
 breath. 
 
 Fantome. Transport and ecstasy ! where am I ! — my life, my 
 bliss ! — I rage, I burn, I bleed, I die 
 
 Abigal. Go on, go on. 
 
 Fantome. Flames and darts — Bear me to the gloomy shade, 
 rocks and grottoes — flowers, zephyrs, and purling streams. 
 
 Abigal. Oh ! Mr. Fantome, you have a tongue would undo 
 a vestal ! You were born for the ruin of our sex. 

 
 THE DRUMMER. 337 
 
 Fantome. This will do tlien, Abigal ? 
 
 Abigal. Ay, this is talking like a lover. Though I only 
 represent my lady, I take a pleasure in hearing you. Well, o' 
 my conscience" when a man of sense has a little dash of the cox- 
 comb in him, no woman can resist him. Go on at this rate, and 
 the thousand pound is as good as in my pocket. 
 
 Fantome. I shall think it an age till I have an opportunity 
 of putting this lesson in practice. 
 
 Abigal. You may do it soon, if you make good use of yuur 
 time ; Mr. Tinsel will be here with my lady at eight, and at nine 
 the conjurer is to take you in hand. 
 
 Fantome. Let me alone with both of them. 
 
 Abigal. Well ! fore-warn'd, fore-arm'd. Get into your box, 
 and I'll endeavour to dispose every thing in your favour. 
 
 \Fantome goes in. Exit Abigal. 
 
 Enter Vellum. 
 
 Vellum. Mrs. Abigal is withdrawn. — I was in hopes to 
 have heard what passed between her and her invisible corres- 
 pondent. 
 
 Enter Tinsel. 
 
 Tinsel. Vellum ! Vellum ! 
 
 Vellum. Vellum ! "We are, methinks, very familiar ; I am 
 not used to be called so by any but their ho-nours. (Aside.) 
 — What would you, Mr. Tinsel? 
 
 Tinsel. Let me beg a favour of thee, old gentleman. 
 
 Vellum. What is that, good sir ? 
 
 Tinsel. Prithee, run and fetch me the rent-roll of thy lady's 
 estate. 
 
 Vellum. The rent-mil? 
 
 VOL. I. — 15
 
 338 DRAMAS 
 
 Tinsel. The rent-roll ? Ay, the rent-roll ! dost not unilej 
 stand what that means ? 
 
 Vellum. Why ? have you thoughts of purchasing of it? 
 
 Tinsel. Thou hast hit it, old boy ; that is my very iuten 
 tion. 
 
 Vellum. The purchase will be considerable. 
 
 Tinsel. And for that reason I have bid thy lady very high — 
 She is to hav3 no less for it than this entire person of mine. 
 
 Vellum. Is your whole estate personal, Mr. Tinsel? — he, 
 he, he ! 
 
 Tinsel. Why, you queer old dog, you don't pretend to jest 
 d'ye ? Look ye, Vellum, if you think of being continued my stew 
 ard, you must learn to walk with your toes out. 
 
 Vellum. An insolent companion ! [Aside. 
 
 Tinsel. Thou'rt confounded rich, I see, by that daugling of 
 thy arms. 
 
 Vellum. Au ungracious bird ! [Aside. 
 
 Tinsel. Thou shalt lend me a couple of thousand pounds. 
 
 Vellum. A very profligate ! [Aside. 
 
 Tinsel. Look ye, Vellum, I intend to be kind to you — I'll 
 borrow some money of you. 
 
 Vellum. I cannot but smile to consider the disappointment 
 this young fellow will meet with ; I will make myself merry with 
 him. (Aside.) And so, Mr. Tinsel, you promise you will be a 
 very kind master to me ? [Stifling a laugh. 
 
 Tinsel. What will you give for a life in the house you 
 live in ? 
 
 Vellum. What do you think »f five hundred pounds ? — Ha 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 Tinsel. That's too little 
 
 Vellum. And yet it is more than I shall give you — And I 
 will offer you two reasons for it
 
 THE DRU M MER. 339 
 
 Tinsel. Prithee, what are the} 7 ? 
 
 Vellum. First, because the tenement is not in your dis- 
 posal ; and, secondly, because it never will oe in your disposal : 
 and so fare you well, good Mr. Tinsel. Ha, La, ha ! You will 
 pardon me for being jocular. [Exit, Vellum. 
 
 Tixsel. This rogue is as saucy as the conjurer; I'll be 
 hang'd if the}* are not a-kin. 
 
 Enter Lady. 
 
 Lady. Mr. Tinsel ! what, all alone ? You free-thinkers are 
 great admirers of solitude. 
 
 Tinsel. No, faith, I have been talking with thy steward ; a 
 very grotesque figure of a fellow, the very picture of one of our 
 benchers. How can vou bear his conversation ? 
 
 Lady. I keep him for my steward, and not my companion. 
 He's a sober man. 
 
 Tinsel. Yes, yes, he looks like a put — -a queer old clog as 
 ever I saw in my life : we must turn him off, widow. He cheats 
 thee confoundedly, I sec that. 
 
 Lady. Indeed you're mistaken, he has always had the repu 
 tation of being a very honest man. 
 
 Tinsel. What, I suppose he goes to church. 
 
 Lady. Goes to church ! so do you too, I hope. 
 
 Tinsel. I would for once, widow, to make sure of you. 
 
 Lady. Ah, Mr. Tinsel, a husband who would not continue 
 to go thither, would quickly forget the promises he made there. 
 
 Tinsel. Faith, very innocent, and very ridiculous ! \V< II 
 tio-n, 1 warrant thee, widow, thou WOuld'st not for the world 
 man;, a Sabbath-breaker ! 
 
 I, dy. Truly, they generally come to a bad end. I remembei 
 the conjurer told yon you were Bhorl liv'd. 
 
 Tinsel. The conjurer ! I la, ha, ha !
 
 340 DRAMAS. 
 
 Lady. Indeed you're very witty ! 
 
 Tinsel. Indeed you're very handsome. 
 
 [Kisses hei hand. 
 
 Lady. I -wish the fool does not love me ! [ Aside. 
 
 Tinsel. Thou art the idol I adore. Here must I pay my 
 devotion — Prithee, widow, hast thou any timber upon thy 
 estate ? 
 
 Lady. The most impudent fellow I ever met with. [Aside. 
 
 Tinsel. I take notice thou hast a great deal of old plate here 
 in the house, widow. 
 
 Lady. Mr. Tinsel, you are a very observing man. 
 
 Tinsel. Thy large silver cistern would make a very good 
 coach ; and half a dozen salvers that I saw on the side-board, 
 might be turn'd into six as pretty horses as any that appear in 
 the ring. 
 
 Lady. You have a very good fancy, Mr. Tinsel — What 
 pretty transformations you could make in my house — But I'll see 
 where 'twill end. 
 
 Tinsel. Then I observe, child, vou have two or three ser- 
 vices of gilt plate ; we'd eat always in China, my dear. 
 
 Lady. I perceive you are an excellent manager — How quickly 
 you have taken an inventory of my goods ! 
 
 Tinsel. Now, hark ye, widow, to show you the love that I 
 have for you — 
 
 Lady. Very well, let me hear. 
 
 Tinsel. You have an old-fashioned gold caudle-cup, with the 
 figure of a saint upon the lid on't. 
 
 Lady. I have : what then ? 
 
 Tinsel. Why, look ye, I'd sell the caudle-cup with the old 
 saint for as much money as they'd fetch, which I would convert 
 into a diamond buckle, and make you a present of it. 
 
 Lady. Oh, you are generous to an extravagance. But,
 
 THE DRUMMER. 34 
 
 pray, Mr. Tinsel, don't dispose of my goods before you are sun 
 of my person. I find 3 ou have taken a great affection to my 
 moveables. 
 
 Tinsel. My dear, I love every tbing that belongs to you. 
 
 Ladv. I see you do, sir, you need not make any protesta- 
 tions upon that subject. 
 
 Tinsel. Pbo, pbo, my dear, we are growing serious ; and, 
 let me tell you, that's the very next step to being dull. Come, 
 tbat pretty face was never made to look grave with. 
 
 Lady. Believe me, sir, whatever you may think, marriage is 
 a serious subject. 
 
 Tinsel. For that very reason, my dear, let us get over it as 
 fast as we can. 
 
 Lady. I shou'd be very much in haste for a husband, if 1 
 married within fourteen months after Sir George's decease. 
 
 Tinsel. Pray, my dear, let me ask you a question ; dost not 
 thou think that Sir George is as dead at present, to all intents 
 and purposes, as he will be a twelvemonth hence ? 
 
 Ladv. Yes : but decency, Mr. Tinsel — 
 
 Tinsel. Or dost thou think thou'lt be more a widow then 
 than thou art now ? 
 
 Lady. The world would say I never lov'd my first hus- 
 band. 
 
 Tinsel. Ah, my dear, they wou'd say you lov'd your second ; 
 and they wou'd own I deserv'd it, for I shall love thee most in- 
 ordinately. 
 
 Lady. But what 'wou'd people think ? 
 
 Tinsel. Think ! why they wou'd think thee the mirror ot 
 widow-hood. — That a woman shou'd live fourteen whole months 
 after the decease of her spouse, without having engaged herself 
 Why, about town, we know many ;i woman of quality's second 
 husband several years before tin death of the first.
 
 342 DRAMAS. 
 
 Lady. Ay, I know you wits have \ »ur common-place jests 
 upon us poor widows. 
 
 Tinsel. I'll tell you a stor}', widow ; I know a certain lady 
 who, considering the eraziness of her husband, had, in case of 
 mortality, engaged herself to two young fellows of my acquaint- 
 ance. They grew such desperate rivals for her, while her hus- 
 band was alive, that one of them pink'd the t'other in a duel. 
 Bat the good lady was no sooner a widow, but what did my dow- 
 ager do ? Why faith, being a woman of honour, she married a 
 third, to whom, it seems, she had given her first promise. 
 
 Lady. And this is a true story upon your own knowledge ? 
 
 Tinsel. Every tittle, as I hope to be marry'd, or never be- 
 lieve Tom Tinse' 
 
 Lady. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, do you call this talking like a wit, 
 or like a rake ? 
 
 Tinsel. Innocent enough, He, he, he ! Why ! where's the 
 difference, my dear ? 
 
 Lady. Yes, Mr. Tinsel, the only man I ever loved in my 
 life, had a great deal of the one, and nothing of the other in 
 him. 
 
 Tinsel. Nay, now you grow vapourish ; thou'lt begin to 
 fancy thou hear'st the drum by and by. 
 
 Lady. If you had been here last night about this time, you 
 would not have been so merry. 
 
 Tinsel. About this time, say'st thou ? Come, faith, for the 
 humour's sake, we'll sit down and listen. 
 
 Lady. I will, if you'll promise to be serious. 
 
 Tinsel. Serious ! never fear me, child. Ha, ha, ha ! Dos' 
 not hear him ? 
 
 Lady. You break your word already. Pray, Mr. Tinsel, do 
 70U laugh tu chow your wit or your teeth ? 
 
 Tinsel. Why, both ! my dear — I'm glad, however, that she
 
 THE DRUMMER. 34o 
 
 bas taken notice of my teeth. {Aside.) But you look serious, 
 child ; I fancy thou hearst the drum, dost not? 
 
 Lady. Don't talk so rashly. 
 
 Tinsel. Why, my dear, you cou'd not look more frighted if 
 you had Lucifer's drum-major in your house. 
 
 Lady. Mr. Tinsel, I must desire to see you no more in it, 
 if you do not leave this idle way of talking. 
 
 Tinsel. Child, I thought I had told you what is my opinion 
 of spirits, as we were drinking a dish of tea but just now. — 
 There is no such thing, I give thee my word. 
 
 Lady'. Oh, Mr. Tinsel, your authority must be of great 
 weight to those that know you. 
 
 Tinsel. For my part, child, I have made myself easy in 
 those points. 
 
 Lady. Sure nothing was ever like this fellow's vanity, but 
 his ignorance. [Aside. 
 
 Tinsel. I'll tell thee what, now, widow — I wou'd engage 
 by the help of a white sheet and a penny-worth of link, in a dark 
 night, to frighten you a whole country village out of their senses, 
 and the vicar into the bargain. {Drumbeats.) — Hark! hark! 
 what noise is that ! Heaven defend us ! this is more than fancy. 
 
 Lady. It beats more terrible than ever. 
 
 Tinsel. 'Tis very dreadful ! "What a dog have I been to 
 speak against my conscience, only to show my parts ! 
 
 Lady. It comes nearer and nearer. I wish you have not 
 anger'd it by your foolish discourse. 
 
 Tinsel. Indeed, madam, I did not speak from my heart; I 
 hop e it will do me no hurt for a little harmless raillery. 
 
 Lady. Harmless, d'ye call it? it beats hard by us, as if it 
 wou'd break through the wall. 
 
 Tinsel What a devil had I to do with a white sheet?-— 
 {Scene opens and di&cners Fantome.) Mercy on us ' it appear;
 
 344 
 
 DRAMAS, 
 
 Lady. Oh ! 'tis he ! 'tis he himself, 'tis Sir George 'tis mv 
 husband. [She jaints. 
 
 Tinsel Now wou'd I give ten thousand pound that I were 
 in town. [Fantome advances to him drumming.) — I beg ten 
 thousand pardons. I'll never talk at this rate any more. [Fan- 
 tome still advances drumming.) — By my soul, Sir George, I was 
 not in earnest, [falls on his knees) have compassion on my youth, 
 and consider I am but a coxcomb — [Fantome points to the door.) 
 But see he waves me off — ay, with all my heart — What a devil 
 had I to do with a white sheet ? [He steals off the stage, 
 mending his pace as the drum beats. 
 
 Fantome. The scoundrel is gone, and has left his mistress 
 behind him. I'm mistaken if he makes love in this house any 
 more. I have now only the conjurer to deal with. I don't 
 question but I shall make his reverence scamper as fast as the 
 lover And then the day's my own. But the servants are 
 coming. I must get into my cupboard. [He goes in. 
 
 Enter Abigal and Servants. 
 
 abigal. Oh my poor lady ! This wicked drum has frighted 
 Mr. Tinsel out of his wits, and my lady into a swoon. Let me 
 bend her a little forward. She revives. Here, carry her into 
 the fresh air, and she'll recover. [They carry her off.) This is 
 a little barbarous to my lady, but 'tis all for her good : and I 
 know her so well, that she wou'd not be angry with ue, if she 
 knew what I was to get by it. And if any of her friends shou'd 
 hlame me for it hereafter, 
 
 I'll clap my band upon my purse and tell 'em, 
 Twas for a thousand pound and Mr. Vellum.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 3 1 f» 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Enter Sir George in his conjurer's habit, the Butler marching 
 before him irith two large candles, and (he two Servants coming 
 after him, one bringing a little table, and another a chair. 
 
 Butler. An't please your worship, Mr. Conjurer, the 
 steward has given all of us orders to do whatsoever you shall bid 
 us, and to pay you the same respect as if you were our master. 
 
 Sir George. Thou say'st well. 
 
 Gardener. An't please your conjurership's worship, shall 1 
 set the table down here ? 
 
 Sir George. Here, Peter. 
 
 Gardener. Peter ! — he knows my name by his learning. 
 
 I Aside. 
 
 Coachman. I have brought you, reverend sir, the largest 
 elbow-chair in the house ; 'tis that the steward sits in when he 
 holds a court. 
 
 Sir George. Place it there. 
 
 Butler. Sir, will you please to want any thing else? 
 
 Sir George. Paper, and a pen and ink. 
 
 Butler. Sir, I believe we have paper that is fit for yom 
 purpose! my lady's mourning paper, that is black'd at the edge^ 
 — wou'd you chuse to write with a crow quill? 
 
 Sir George. There is none better. 
 
 Butler. Coachman, go fetch the paper and Btandish out of 
 the little parlor. 
 
 Coachman. (To the Gardener.) Peter, prithee do thou go 
 along with me— I'm afraid — You know I went with you last 
 nigh! into the garden, when the oook-maid wanted a handful of 
 parsley. 
 
 VOL. I. — 15*
 
 346 DRAMAS. 
 
 Butler. Why, you don't think I'll stay with the conjurer 
 by myself! 
 
 Gardener Come, we'll all three go and fetch the pen and 
 ink together. [Exeunt Servants. 
 
 Sir George solus. There's nothing, I see, makes such 
 strong alliances as fear. These fellows are all enter ; d into a 
 confederacy against the ghost. There must be abundance of busi- 
 ness done in the family at this rate. But here comes the triple 
 alliance. Who could have thought these three rogues cou'd 
 have found each of 'em an employment in fetching a pen and ink ! 
 
 Enter Gardener with a sheet of paper, Coachman with a 
 standish, and Butler with a pen. 
 
 Gardener. Sir, there is your paper. 
 
 Coachman. Sir, there is your standish. 
 
 Butler. Sir, there is your crow-quill pen — I'm glad I have 
 got rid on't. [Aside. 
 
 Gardener. He forgets that he's to make a circle — (Aside.) 
 Doctor shall I help you to a bit of chalk '? 
 
 Sir George. It is no matter. 
 
 Butler. Look ye, sir, I show'd you the spot where he's 
 heard oftenest, if your worship can but ferret him out of that old 
 wall in the next room — 
 
 Sir George. We shall try. 
 
 Gardener. That's right, John. His worship must let fly 
 all his learning at that old wall. 
 
 Butler. Sir, if I was worthy to advise you, I wou'd have a 
 bottle of good October by me. Shall I set a cup of old stingo 
 at your elbow ? 
 
 Sir George. I thank thee — we shall do without it. 
 
 Gardener. John, he seems a very good-natur'd man for a 
 conjurer.
 
 THE DRUMMER 3 47 
 
 Butler. I'll take this opportunity of inquiring aftei a bit 
 of plate I have lost. I fancy, whilst he is in my lady's pay, oue 
 may hedge in a question or two into the bargain. Sir, Sir, may 
 I beg a word in your ear ? 
 
 Sir George. What would'st thou ! 
 
 Butler. Sir, I know I need not tell you, that I lost one of 
 my silver spoons last week. 
 
 Sir George. Mark'd with a swan's neck — 
 
 Butler. My lady's crest ! He knows every thing. (Aside ) 
 How would your worship advise me to recover it again ? 
 
 Sir George. Hum ! 
 
 Butler. What must I do to come at it ? 
 
 Sir George. Drink nothing but small-beer for a fortnight — 
 
 Butler. Small-beer ! Rot-gut ! 
 
 Sir Gkorge. If thou drink'st a single drop of ale before 
 fifteen days are expir'd — it is as much — as thy spoon — is worth. 
 
 Butler. I shall never recover it that way ; I'll e'en buy a 
 new one. [Aside. 
 
 Coachman. D'ye mind how they whisper ? 
 
 Gardener. I'll be hang'd if he be not asking him something 
 about Nell — 
 
 Coachman. I'll take this opportunity of putting a question 
 to him about poor Dobbin : I fancy he cou'd give me better 
 counsel than the farrier. 
 
 Butler. (To the Gardener.) A prodigious man ! he knows 
 every thing : Now is the time to find out thy pick-axe. 
 
 Gardener. I have nothing to give him : does he not expect 
 to have his hand cross'd with silver? 
 
 Coachman. {To Sir George.) Sir, may a man venture to 
 ask you a question ? 
 
 Sir George. Ask it.
 
 348 DRAMAS. 
 
 Coachman. I have a poor horse in the stable that'? be 
 witched — 
 
 Sir George. A bay gelding. 
 
 Coachman. How could he know that ? — [Aside 
 
 Sir George. Bought at Banbury. 
 
 Coachman. Whew — so it was o' my conscience. [ Whistles 
 
 Sir George Six years old last Lammas. 
 
 Coachman. To a day. (Aside.) Now, sir, I would know 
 whether the poor beast is bewitch'd by Goody Crouch, or Goody 
 Flye? 
 
 Sir George. Neither. 
 
 Coachman. Then it must be Goody Gurton ! for she is the 
 next oldest woman in the parish. 
 
 Gardener. Hast thou done, Robin ? 
 
 Coachman. (To the Gardener.) He can tell thee any 
 thing. 
 
 Gardener. (To Sir George.) Sir, I wou'd beg to take 
 you a little further out of hearing — 
 
 Sir George. Speak. 
 
 Gardener. The Butler and I, Mr. Doctor, were both of us 
 in love at the same time with a certain person. 
 
 Sir George. A woman. 
 
 Gardener. How could he know that ? [ Aside. 
 
 Sir George. Go on. 
 
 Gardener. This woman has lately had two children at a 
 birth. 
 
 Sir George. Twins. 
 
 Gardener. Prodigious ! where could he hear that ? [Aside. 
 
 Sir George. Proceed. 
 
 Gardener. Now, because I us'd to meet her sometimes in 
 the garden, she has laid them both — 
 
 Sir George. To thee.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 340 
 
 Gardener. What a power of learning he must have ! he 
 knows every thing. [Aside. 
 
 Sir George. Hast thou done ? 
 
 Gardener. I would desire to know whether I am really 
 father to them both. 
 
 Sir George. Stand before me, let me survey thee round. 
 (Lays his wand upon his head and makes him turn about.) 
 
 Coachman. Look yonder John, the silly dog is turning 
 about under the conjurer's wand. If he has been saucy to him, 
 we shall see him puff'd off in a whirlwind immediately. 
 
 Sir George. Twins dost thou say? [Still turniyxg him. 
 
 Gardener. Ay, are they both mine d'ye think ? 
 
 Sir George. Own but one of them. 
 
 Gardener. Ah, but Mrs. Abigal will have me take care of 
 iheni both — she's always for the Butler — If my poor master Sir 
 George had been alive, he wou'd have made him go halves with 
 me. 
 
 Sir George. What, was Sir George a kind master ? 
 
 Gardener. Was he ! ay, my fellow-servants will bear me 
 witness. 
 
 Sir George. Did ye love Sir George ? 
 
 Butler. Every body lov'd him — 
 
 Coachman. There was not a dry eye in the parish at the 
 news of his death — 
 
 Gardener. He was the best neighbour — 
 
 Butler. The kindest husbaml- 
 
 Coachman. The truest friend to the poor — 
 
 Butler. My good Lady took on mightily, we all thought it 
 wou'd have been the death of her — 
 
 Sik George I protest these fellows mell me I I think the 
 time long till I am their master again, that I may he kind to 
 them. [Aside.
 
 350 DRAMAS. 
 
 Enter Vellum. 
 
 Vellum. Have you provided the doctor ev'ry thing he has 
 occasion for ? if so — you may depart. 
 
 [Exeunt Servants. 
 
 Sir George. I can as yet see no hurt in my wife's be- 
 haviour ; but still have some certain pangs and doubts, that arc 
 natural to the heart of a fond man. I must take the advantage 
 of my disguise to be thoroughly satisfied. It wou'd neither be 
 for her happiness, nor mine, to make myself known to her till I 
 am so. {Aside.) Dear Vellum ! I am impatient to hear some 
 news of my wife, how does she after her fright ? 
 
 Vellum. It is a saying somewhere in my Lord Coke, that a 
 widow — 
 
 Sir George. I ask of my wife, and thou talk'st to me of 
 my Lord Coke — prithee tell me how she does, for I am in pain 
 for her. 
 
 Vellum. She is pretty well recover'd, Mrs. Abigal has put 
 her in good heart ; and I have given her great hopes from your 
 skill. 
 
 Sir George. That I think cannot fail, since thou hast got 
 this secret out of Abigal. But I cou'd not have thought my 
 friend Fantome would have served me thus — ■ 
 
 Vellum. You will still fancy you are a living man — 
 
 Sir George. That he should endeavour to ensnare my 
 wife. 
 
 Vellum. You have no right in her, after your demise : 
 death extinguishes all property. — Quoad hanc — It is a maxim 
 in the law. 
 
 Sir George. A pox on your learning ! Well, but what id 
 become of Tinsel. 
 
 Vellum. He rush'd out of the house, call'd for his horse.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 3.J 1 
 
 clapp r d spurs to his sides, and was out of sight in less time than 
 I — can — tell — ten. 
 
 Sir George. This is whimsical enough ! my wife will have 
 a quick succession of lovers in one day — Fautome has driven out 
 Tinsel, and I shall drive out Fantome. 
 
 Vellum. Ev'n as one wedge driveth out another — he, he, 
 he ! you must pardon me for being jocular. 
 
 Sir George. Was there ever such a provoking blockhead ! 
 but he means me well. {Aside.) Well! I must have satisfac- 
 tion of this traitor, Fantome ; and cannot take a more proper 
 one, than by turning him out of my house, in a manner that shall 
 throw shame upon him, and make him ridiculous as long as he 
 lives. You must remember, Vellum, you have abundance of 
 business upon your hands, and I have but just time to tell it 
 you over; all I require of you is dispatch, therefore hear me. 
 
 Vellum. There is nothing more requisite in business than 
 dispatch — 
 
 Sir George. Then hear me. 
 
 Vellum. It is indeed the life of business — 
 
 Sir George. Hear me then, I say. 
 
 Vellum. And as one has rightly observed, the benefit that 
 attends it is four-fold. First — 
 
 Sir George. There is no bearing this ! Thou art a going 
 to describe dispatch, when thou shouldst be practising it. 
 
 Vellum. But your ho-nour will not give me the hearing — 
 
 Sir George. Thou wilt not give me the hearing. 
 
 [Angrily. 
 
 Vellum. I am still. 
 
 Sir George. In the first place, you arc to lay my wig, hai 
 and sword, ready for me in the closet, and one of my scarlet 
 coats. You know how Abigal has described the ghost to you 
 
 VELLUM. I' shall he done.
 
 352 DRAMAS 
 
 Sir George. Then you must remember, whilst I am laying 
 this ghost, you are to prepare my wife for the reception of her 
 real husband ; tell her the whole story, and do it with all the 
 art you are master of, that the surprise may not be too great for 
 her. 
 
 Vellum. It shall be done — But since her ho-nour has seen 
 this apparition, she desires to see you once more, before you en- 
 counter it. 
 
 Sir George. I shall expect her impatiently. For now I 
 can talk to her without being interrupted by that impertinent 
 rogue Tinsel. I hope thou hast not told Abigal any thing of 
 the secret. 
 
 Vellum. Mrs. Abigal is a woman ; there are many reasons 
 
 why she should not be acquainted with it; I shall only mention 
 
 six — 
 
 Sir George. Hush, here she comes ! Oh my heart ! 
 
 Enter Lady and Abigal. 
 
 Sir George. (Aside, while Vellum talks' in dumb show to 
 Ij^dy.) that lov'd woman! How I long to take her in my 
 arms ! If I find I am still dear to her memory, it will be a 
 return to life indeed ! But I must take care of indulging this 
 tenderness, and put on a behaviour more suitable to my present 
 character. 
 
 [ Walks at a distance in a pensive posture 
 waving his hand. 
 
 Lady. (To Vellum.) This is surprising indeed! So all 
 ♦he servants tell me ; they say he knows every thing that has 
 happen'd in the family. 
 
 Abigal. (Aside.) A parcel of credulous fools ! they first 
 tell him their secrets, and then wonder how he comes to know 
 them. \Jxvit Vellum, exchanging fond looks with Abigal.
 
 THE DRUMMER, 3j3 
 
 Last. Learned sir, may I have some conversation with you, 
 before you begin your ceremonies ? 
 
 Sir George. Speak ! but hold — first let me feel your pulse. 
 
 Lady. What can you learn from that ? 
 
 Sir George. I have already learn'd a secret from it that 
 will astonish you. 
 
 Lady. Pray, what is it ? 
 
 Sir George. You will have a husband within this half 
 hour. 
 
 Abigal. (Aside.) I'm glad to hear that — He must mean 
 Mr. Fantome ; I begin to think there's a good deal of truth in 
 his art. 
 
 Lady. Alas ! I fear you mean I shall see Sir George's appa- 
 rition a second time. 
 
 Sir George. Have courage, you shall see the apparition no 
 more. The husband I mention shall be as much alive as I 
 am. 
 
 Abigal. Mr. Fantome to be sure. [Aside. 
 
 Lady. Impossible ! I lov'd my first too well. 
 
 Sir George. You could not love the first better than you 
 will love the second. 
 
 Abigal. (Aside.) I'll be hang'd if my dear steward has 
 not instructed him; he means Mr. Fantome to be sure; the 
 thousand pound is our own*! 
 
 Lady. Alas ! you did not know Sir George. 
 
 Sir George. As well as I do myself — I saw him with you 
 in the red damask room, when he first made love to you ; your 
 mother left you together, under pretence of receiving a visit from 
 Mrs. Hawthorn, on her return from London. 
 
 Lady. This is astonishing! 
 
 Sir George. You were a great admirer of a single life for 
 the lir.-t half hour ; your refusals then grew still fainter and fainter
 
 354 DRAMAS. 
 
 With what ecstasy did Sir George kiss your hand, when you 
 told him you should always follow the advice of your Mamma! 
 
 Lady. Every circumstance to a tittle ! 
 
 Sir George. Then, lady ! the wedding night ! I saw you 
 in your white satin night-gown ? you would not come out of your 
 dressing-room, till Sir George took you out by force. He drew 
 you gently by the hand — you struggled — but he was too strong 
 for you — You blush'd. lie — 
 
 Lady. Oh ! stop there ! go no farther ! — He knows every 
 thing. [Aside. 
 
 Abigal. Truly, Mr. Conjuier, I believe you have been a 
 wag in your youth. 
 
 Sir George. Mrs. Abigal, you know what your good word 
 cost Sir George, a purse of broad pieces, Mrs. Abigal — 
 
 Abigal. The devil's in him. (Aside.) Pray, sir, since 
 you have told so far, you should tell my lady that I refus'd to 
 take them. 
 
 Sir George. 'Tis true, child, he was forced to thrust them 
 into your bosom. 
 
 Abigal. This rogue will mention the thousand pound, if I 
 don't take care. (Aside.) Pray, sir, though you are a conjurer, 
 methinks you need not be a blab — 
 
 Lady. Sir, since I have now no reason to doubt of your 
 art, I must beseech you to treat this apparition gently — It has 
 the resemblance of my deceas'd husband ; if there be any un- 
 discover'd secret, any thing that troubles his rest, learn it of 
 him. 
 
 Sir George. I must to that end be sincerely informed by 
 you, whether your heart be engaged to another ; have not you 
 received the addresses of many lovers since his death ? 
 
 Lady. I have been obliged to receive more visits than have 
 been agreeable.
 
 THE DRUMMER o.rj 
 
 Sir Gborge. Was not Tinsel welcome ? — I'm afraid to hear 
 an answer to my own question. [Aside. 
 
 Lady. He was well recommended. 
 
 Sin George. Racks ! [Aside. 
 
 Lady. Of a good family. 
 
 Sir George. Tortures ! [Aside. 
 
 Lady. Heir to a considerable estate ! 
 
 Sir George. Death! (Aside.) And you still love him?- - 
 I'm distracted ! [Aside. 
 
 Lady. No, I despise him. I found he had a design upon 
 my fortune, was base, profligate, cowardly, and every thing that 
 could be expected from a man of the vilest principles ! — 
 
 Sir George. I'm recoverd. [Aside. 
 
 Abigal. Oh, madam, had you seen how like a scoundrel he 
 look'd when he left your ladyship in a swoon. Where have you 
 left my lady ? says I. In an elbow-chair, child, says he. And 
 where are you going ? says I. To town, child, says he : for to 
 tell thee truly, child, says he, I don't care for living under the 
 same roof with the devil, says he. 
 
 Sir George. Well, lady, I see nothing in all this, that may 
 hinder Sir George's spirit from being at rest. 
 
 Lady. If he knows any thing of what passes in my heart, he 
 cannot but be satisfied of that fondness which I bear to his memory. 
 My sorrow for him is always fresh when I think of him. He 
 was the kindest, truest, tendcrest — Tears will not let me go on — 
 
 Sir George. This quite o'erpowers me — I shall discover 
 myself before my time. (Aside.) — Madam, you may now retire 
 and leave inc to myself. 
 
 Lady. Success attend you! 
 
 Abxgal. I wish .Mr. Fantome gets well off from this old 
 don — I know he'll he with him immediately. 
 
 [Exeunt Lady and Abigal
 
 ■>56 DRAMAS. 
 
 Sir George solus. 
 
 Sir George. My heart is now at ease, she is the same dear 
 woman I left her — Now for my revenge upon Fantome. — I shall 
 cut the ceremonies short — A few words will do his business — 
 Now let me seat myself in form — A good easy chair for a con- 
 jurer this ! — Now for a few mathematical scratches — a good lucky 
 scrawl, that — faith, I think it looks very astrological — These 
 two or three magical pot-hooks about it, make it a compleat con- 
 jurer's scheme. {Drum beats.) Ha, ha, ha, sir, are you there? 
 Enter Drummer. Now must I pore upon my paper. 
 
 Enter Fantome, beating his drum. 
 
 Sir George. Prithee don't make a noise, I'm busy. {Fan- 
 tome beats.) — A pretty march ! prithee beat that over again. 
 
 [He beats and advances. 
 
 Sir George. {Rising.) Ha ! you're very perfect in the 
 step of a ghost. You stalk it majestically. {Fantome advances.) — 
 How the rogue stares ! he acts it to admiration ; I'll be hang'd if 
 he has not been practising this half hour in Mrs. Abigal's ward- 
 robe. {Fantome starts, gives a rap upon his drum.) — Prithee 
 don't play the fool ! {Fantome beats.) — Nay, nay, enough of this, 
 
 good Mr. Fantome. 
 
 Fantome. {Aside.) Death! I'm discover'd. This jade 
 Abigal has betrayed me. 
 
 Sir George. Mr. Fantome, upon the word of an astrologer, 
 your thousand pound bribe will never gain my lady Truman. 
 
 Fantome. 'Tis plain, she has told him all. [Aside. 
 
 Sir George. Let me advise you to make off as fast as you 
 can, or I plainly perceive by my art, Mr. Ghost will have his 
 bones broke. 
 
 Fantome.. {To Sir George.) Look ye, old gentleman, 1 
 perceive you ha^e learnt this secret from Mrs. Abigal.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 357 
 
 Sir George. I have leam'd it from my art. 
 
 Fantome. Tli}* art ! prithee no more of that. Look ye, I 
 know you are a cheat as much as I am. And if thou'lt keep my 
 counsel, I'll give thee ten broad pieces. 
 
 Sir George. I am not mercenary ! Young man, I scorn 
 thy gold. 
 
 Fantome. I'll make them up twenty. — 
 
 Sir George. A vaunt ! and that quickly, or I'll raise such an 
 apparition, as shall — 
 
 Fantome. An apparition, old gentleman ! you mistake y<Hir 
 man, I am not to be frighten'd with buirbcars. 
 
 Sir George. Let me retire but for a few moments, and I 
 will give thee such a proof of my art — 
 
 Fantome. Why, if thou hast any hocus pocus tricks to play, 
 why can'st not do them here? 
 
 Sir George. The raising of a spirit requires certain secret 
 mysteries to be performed, and words to be mutter'd in pri- 
 vate — 
 
 Fantome. Well, if I see through your trick, will you pro- 
 mise to be my friend ? 
 
 Sir George. I will — attend and tremble. [Exit. 
 
 Fantome solus. 
 
 Fantome. A very solsmn old ass! but I smoke him, — he 
 lias a mind to raise his price upon me. I (-(mid not think this 
 Blut would have used me thus— I begin to grow horriblv tir'd of 
 my drum, I wish 1 was well rid of it. However T have pot this 
 
 t, thai it has driven off Tinsel forg ' and all: I shan't have 
 
 ion to -ee my mistress carried off by such a rival. 
 Well, whatever happens, 1 must stop this old fellow's mouth, 1 
 must not he sp.uiiig in hush QlOnej Bui here lu' eoincs.
 
 358 DRAMAS. 
 
 Enter Sir George in Ibis own whit. 
 
 Fantome. Ha ! what's that ! Sir George Truman ! This 
 can he no counterfeit. His dress ! his shape ! his face ! the very 
 wound of which he died ! Nay, then 'tis time to decamp. 
 
 [Runs off. 
 
 Sir G-eorge. Ha, ha, ha ! Fare you well, good Sir George — 
 The enemy has left me master of the field : here are the marks 
 of my victory. This drum will I hang up in my great hall as the 
 trophy of the day. 
 
 Enter Abigal. 
 Sir George stands with his hand before his face in a musing posture. 
 
 Abigal. Yonder he is. O'iny conscience he has driven off 
 the conjurer. Mr. Fantome, Mr. Fantome ! I give you joy, I 
 give you joy. What do you think of your thousand pounds now ? 
 Why does not the man speak ? [Pulls him by the sleeve. 
 
 Sir G-eorge. Ha! [Taking his hand from his face. 
 
 Abigal. Oh ! 'tis my master. [Shrieks. 
 
 [Running away he catches her. 
 
 Sir George. Good Mrs. Abigal not so fast. 
 
 Abigal. Are you alive, sir? — He has given my shoulder 
 such a cursed tweak ! they must be real fingers. I feel 'em I'm 
 sure. 
 
 Sir George. What do'st think ? 
 
 Abigal. Think, sir ? Think? Troth I don't know what to 
 think. Pray, sir, how — 
 
 Sir George. No questions, good Abigal. Tl y curiosity 
 shall be satisfied in good time. Where's your lady ? 
 
 Abigal. Oh, I'm so frighted — and so glad !— 
 
 Sir George. Where's your lady, I ask you —
 
 THE DRUMMER. 359 
 
 Abigal. Marry I don't know where I am myself — I can't 
 forbear weeping for joy — 
 
 Sir George. Your lady ! I say your ladj ! T must bring 
 you to yourself with one pinch more — - 
 
 Adigal. Oh ! she has been talking a good while with the 
 steward. 
 
 Sir George. Then he has opened the whole story to her, 
 I'm glad he has prepard her. Oh ! here she comes. 
 
 Enter Lady followed by Vellum. 
 
 Lady. Where is he ? let me fly into his arms ! my life ! my 
 soul ! my husband ! 
 
 Sir George. Oh ! let me catch thee to my heart, dearest of 
 women ! 
 
 Lady. Are you then still alive, and are you here ! I can 
 scarce believe nry senses ! Now am I happy indeed ! 
 
 Sir George. My heart is too full to answer thee. 
 
 Lady. How could }-ou be so cruel to defer giving me that 
 joy which you knew I must receive from your presence? You 
 have robl/d my life of some hours of happiness that ought to have 
 been in it. 
 
 Sir (iiJiuGE. It was to make our happiness the more sincere 
 and unmix'd. There will be now no doubts to dash it. "What 
 lias been the affliction of our lives, has given a variety to them, 
 and will hereafter supply us with a thousand materials to talk of. 
 
 Lady. I am now satisfy'd that it is not in the power of ab- 
 sence to lessen your love towards inc. 
 
 Sii: (Ji:orge. And I am satisfy'd that it it not in the power 
 
 of death to destroy thai love which makes me the happiest of 
 men 
 
 Ladv. V. r woman so blesl ! to find again the darling 
 
 of her soul, when she thought him losl for everl to inter into a
 
 3G0 DRAMAS. 
 
 kind of second marriage with the only man whom she was ever 
 capable of loving ! 
 
 Sir. George. May it he as happy as our first, I desire no 
 more ! Believe me, my dear, I want words to express those 
 transports of joy and tenderness which are every moment rising 
 in my heart whilst I speak to thee. 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Butler. Just as the steward told us, lads ! look ye there, 
 if he ben't with my lady already. 
 
 Gardener. He! he! he! what a joyful night will this be 
 for madam ! 
 
 Coachman. As I was coming in at the gate, a strange gen- 
 tleman whisk'd by me ; but he took to his heels, and made away 
 to the George. If T did not see master before me, I should have 
 sworn it had been his honour. 
 
 Gardener. Hast given orders for the bells to be set a ringing 1 
 
 Coachman. Never trouble thy head about that, 'tis done. 
 
 Sir George. (To Lady.) My dear, I long as much to tell 
 you my whole story, as you do to hear it. In the mean while, 
 I am to look upon this as my wedding day. I'll have nothing 
 but the voice of mirth and feasting in iny house. My poor neigh- 
 bours and my servants shall rejoice with me. My hall shall be 
 free to every one, and let my cellars be thrown open. 
 
 Butler. Ah ! bless your honour, may you never die again ! 
 
 Coachman. The same good man that ever he was ! 
 
 Gardener. Whurra ! 
 
 Sir George. Vellum, thou hast done me much service to- 
 day. I know thou lov'st Abigal, but she's disappointed in a for- 
 tune. I'll make it up to both of you. I'll give thee a thousand 
 pounds with her. It is not fit there should be one sad heart in 
 my house to-night.
 
 THE DRUMMER. SGI 
 
 Lady. What you do for Abigal, I know is meant as a com- 
 pliment to me. This is a new instance of your love. 
 
 Abigal. Mr. Vellum, you are a well-spoken man : pray do 
 you thank my master and my lady. 
 
 Sir George. Vellum, I hope you are not displeased with 
 the gift I make you. 
 
 Vellum. The gift is twofold. I receive from ycu 
 A virtuous partner, and a portion too • 
 For which, in humble wise, I thank the donors: 
 And so we bid good-night to both your ho-CHir 
 
 VOL. L, 16
 
 THE EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. OLDFIELD. 
 
 Io-nigiit the poet's advocate I stand, 
 And he deserves the favour at my hand, 
 Who, in my equipage their cause debating; 
 Has plac'd two lovers, and a third in waitiug , 
 If both the first should from their duty swerve 
 There's one behind the wainscote in reserve. 
 In his nest play, if I would take this trouble, 
 He promis'd me to make the numbei double : 
 In troth 'twas spoke like an obliging creature, 
 For though 'tis simple, yet it shews good-nature. 
 
 My help thus ask'd, I could not chuse but grant t, 
 And really I thought the play would want it. 
 Void as it is of all the usual arts 
 To warm your fancies, and to steal your hearts : 
 No court intrigue, nor city cuckoldom, 
 No song, no dance, no music — but a drum — 
 No smutty thought in doubtful phrase express'd ; 
 And, gentlemen, if so, pray where's the jest ? 
 AVhen we would raise your mirth, you hardly know 
 
 Whether, in strictness, you should laugh or no, 
 But turn upon the ladies in the pit, 
 
 \nd if they redden, you are sure 'tis wit.
 
 THE DRUMMER. 3G3 
 
 4 
 
 Protect him then, ye fair ones ; for the fair 
 Of all conditions are his equal care. 
 He draws a widow, who of blameless carriage, 
 True to her jointure, hates a second marriage ; 
 And, to improve a virtuous wife's delights, 
 Out of one man contrives two wedding nights ; 
 Nay, to oblige the sex in every state, 
 A nymph of five and forty finds her mate. 
 
 Too long has marriage, in this tasteless age, 
 With ill-bred raillery supply'd the stage , 
 No little scribbler is of wit so bare, 
 But has his fling at the poor wedded pair. 
 Our author deals not in conceits so stale . 
 For should th 1 examples of his play prevail, 
 No man need blush, though true to marriage-vows, 
 Nor be a jest, though he should love his spouse. 
 Thus has he done you British consorts right, 
 Whose husbands, should they pry like mine to-night, 
 Would never find you in your conduct slipping, 
 Though they turn'd conjurers to take you tripping.
 
 CATO, 
 
 % Crngruii. 
 
 AS IT IS ACTED AT TI1E TnEATUE ROYAL, IN DhURY LANE, BT UIS 
 
 MAJESTY'S SERVANTS. 
 
 Ecce spcctaculuin ditrnum, arl qnod rospiciat, intentus (ipori suo, Deus! Kcce par Ueo 
 dignura, vi: fbrtis cum mala fortunu compositus! Non video, inqnara, quid haboat in 
 terria Jupitor pnlchrius, si eonvertere animum relit, quam ut. spectet Catoncm, jam V a'- 
 tibus doi seuiel fractis, niliilouiiniis inter ruinas publicos erertum. 
 
 5k.n. de Divin. Prov.
 
 INTRODUCTORY REMARKS 
 
 "The nexl year (1713), in which Cato came upon the stage, v;i? the 
 grand climacteric of Addison's reputation. Upon the death of Cato, he 
 had, as is said, planned a tragedy in the time of his travels, and had for 
 several years the first four acts finished, which were shewn to such as 
 were likely to spread their admiration. They were seen by Pope and by 
 Cibber, who relates that Steele, when he took back the copy, told him, in 
 the despicable cant of literary modesty, that, whatever spirit his friend 
 had shewn in the composition, he doubted whether he would have courage 
 sufficient to expose it to the censure of a British audience. 
 
 "The time however was now come, when those who affected to think 
 liberty in danger affected likewise to think that n stage play might pre- 
 serve it; and Addison was importuned, in the name of the tutelary deities 
 of Britain, to show his courage and his zeal by finishing his design. 
 
 "To resume his work he seemed perversely and unaccountably unwil- 
 ling; and by a request, which perhaps he wished to be denied, desired 
 Mr. Hughes to add a fifth act. Hughes supposed him serious; and, un- 
 dertaking the supplement, brought in a few day- some scenes for his ex- 
 amination; but he had in the mean time gone to work himself, and pro- 
 duced half an act, which he afterwards completed, but with brevityirre- 
 gularly disproportionate to the foregoing parts, like a task, performed 
 with reluctance and hurried to its conclusion." ' — Johnson, Life of Addison, 
 pp. 84, 85. 
 
 "The tragedy of Cato, which, contrary to the rale observed in selecting 
 the works of other poets, has by the weight of its character forced its way 
 into the late collection, is unquestionably the n'oblesl production of Ad- 
 dison's genius. Of a work so much read, it is d fficult to say anything 
 new. About, things oa which the public thinks long, it commonly attains 
 to think right; and of Cato it has been not unjustly determined, that it is 
 rather a poem in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession of ju 
 timents in elegant language, than a representation of natural affectioi 
 (J f .,,, , -!:,;,. probable or po jible in human life. Nothing here 'excites 
 or at ■notion:' here is 'no magical p. we- of raising phantastic 
 
 terroi or wild anxiety.' The events are expected without solicitude, and 
 
 are remembered without ]<•■ or sorrow. Of 1 he agent we havei are; 
 
 | e , n ,,t W \ UL \ , doing or what they an Buffering, we wish 
 
 i Alflyrt says that tin Flftl let should bo short and the action rapid. O.
 
 368 DRAMAS. 
 
 only to know what they have to say. Cato is a heing above our soli ci 
 tude ; a man of whom the gods take care, and whom we leave to their 
 care with heedless confidence. To the rest neither gods nor men can have 
 much attention; for there is not one amongst them that strongly attracts 
 either affection or esteem. But they are made the vehicles of such senti- 
 I ments and such expression, that there is scarcely a scene in the play which 
 ; the reader does not wish to impress upon his memory. 
 
 " When Cato was shewn to Pope, 1 he advised the author to print it, with- 
 out any theatrical exhibition ; supposing that it would be read more 
 favourably than heard. Addison declared himself of the same opinion ; 
 but urged the importunity of his friends for its appearance on the stage. 
 The emulation of parties made it successful beyond expectation; and its 
 success has introduced or confirmed among us the use of dialogue too de- 
 clamatory, of uuaffecting elegance, and (jjiill philosophy. 
 
 "The universality of applause, however it might quell the censure of 
 common mortals, had no other effect than to harden Dennis in fixed dis- 
 like ; but his dislike was not merely capricious. He found and shewed 
 many faults ; he shewed them indeed with anger, but he found them with 
 acuteness, such as ought to rescue his criticism from oblivion; though, at 
 last, it will have no other life than it derives from the work which it en- 
 deavours to oppress." — Id. pp. 110, 111. 
 
 "The first four acts of this drama had been lying in his desk since his 
 return from Italy. His modest and sensitive nature shrank from the risk 
 of a public and shameful failure; and, though all who saw the manuscript 
 were loud in praise, some thought it possible that an audience might be- 
 come impatient even of veiy good rhetoric; and advised Addison to print 
 the play without hazarding a representation. At length, after man}' fits 
 of apprehension, the poet yielded to the urgency of his political friends, 
 who hoped that the public would discover some analogy between the fol- 
 lowers of Caesar and the tories; between Sempronius and the apostate 
 whigs; between Cato, struggling to the last for the liberties of Rome, and 
 the band of patriots who still stood firm round Halifax and Wharton. 
 
 " Addison gave the play to the managers of Drury-lane theatre, without 
 stipulating for any advantage to himself. They, therefore, thought them- 
 selves bound to spare no cost in scenery and dresses. The decorations, it 
 is true, would not have pleased the skilful eye of Mr. Macready. Juba'a 
 waistcoat blazed with gold lace; Marcia's hoop was worthy of a duchess 
 on the birthday; and Cato wore a wig worth fifty guineas. The prologue 
 was written by Pope, and is undoubtedly a dignified and spirited compo- 
 sition. The part of the hero was excellently played by Booth. Steele 
 undertook to pack a house. The boxes were in a blaee with the stars of 
 the peers in opposition. The pit was crowded with attentive and friendly 
 listeners from the inns of court and the literary coffee-houses. Sir Gilbert 
 
 i Spence.
 
 c a t o . 3G9 
 
 Heathcote, governor of the Bank of England, was at the head of a power 
 ful body of auxiliaries from the city: warm men and true whigs, but be ; tei 
 known at Jonathan's and Garroway's than in the haunts of wits and 
 critics. 
 
 "These procautiors were quite superfluous. The tories, as a body, re 
 garded Addison with no unkind feelings. Nor was it for their interest — 
 professing, as they did, profound reverence for law and prescription, and 
 abhorrence both of popular insurrections and of standing armies — to ap- 
 propriate to themselves reflections thrown on the great military chief ami 
 demagogue, who, with the support of the legions and of the common peo- 
 ple, subverted all the ancient institutions of his country. Accordingly, 
 every shout that was raised by the members of the Kit-Cat was re-echoed 
 by the high churchmen of the October; and the curtain at length fell 
 amidst thunders of unanimous applause. 
 
 "The delight and admiration of the town were described by the Guar- 
 dian in terms which we might attribute to partiality, were it not that the 
 Examiner, the organ of the ministry, held similar language. The tories, 
 indeed, found much to sneer at in the conduct of their opponents. Steele 
 had on this, as on other occasions, shown more zeal than taste or judg- 
 ment. The honest citizens who marched under the orders of Sir Gibby, as 
 he was facetiously called, probably knew better when to buy and when 
 to sell stock than when to clap and when to hiss at a play ; and incurred 
 some ridicule by making the hypocritical Sempronius their favourite, and 
 by giving to his insincere rants louder plaudits than they bestowed on the 
 temperate eloquence of Cato. Wharton, too, who had the incredible 
 effrontery to applaud the lines about Hying from prosperous vice and from 
 the power of impious men to a private station, did not escape the sarcasms 
 of those who justly thought that he could fly from nothing more vicious 
 or impious than himself. The epilogue, which was written by Garth, a 
 zealous whig, was severely and not. unreasonably censured as ignoble and 
 out of place. But Addison was described, even by the bitterest tory 
 writes, as a gentleman of wit and virtue, in whose friendship many per- 
 sons of both parties were happy, and whose name ought not to be mixed 
 up with factious squabbles. 
 
 "Of the jests by which tie; triumph of the whig party was disturbed, 
 the ne.i severe and happy was Bolingbroke's. Between two acts, he- 
 sent for Booth to his box, and presented him, before the whole theatre, 
 with a purse of fifty guineas, for defending the (jause of liberty bo well 
 against a perpetual Dictator. 1 
 
 , •••! ray of the Duke of Marlborough," Bays Ml - \ikln," was here glanced at* 
 
 [fader favour, If Bollngbroke had meant no more than this, I • » - 1 sarcasm would liave boon 
 pointless. The allusion »;t- I ■ mpt which Marlborough had made to convert ilu 
 
 captain-generalship Int »a patent offlci . to be held bj hi isclffor life. The patent »;c lop> 
 •>u'l by Lord ' km per.
 
 370 
 
 DRAMAS. 
 
 "It was April; and in April, a hundred and thirty years ago, the Lon 
 don seasci: was thought to be far advanced. During a whole month, 
 however, Cato was performed to overflowing houses, and brought into the 
 treasury of the theatre twice the gains of an ordinary spring. In the 
 summer, the Drury-lane company went down to the act at Oxford, and 
 there, before an audience which retained an affectionate remembrance of 
 Addison's accomplishments and virtues, his tragedy was acted during 
 several days. The gownsmen began to besiege the theatre in the fore- 
 noon, and by one in the afternoon all the seats were filled. 
 
 "About the merits of the piece which had so extraordinary an effect, the 
 public, we suppose, has made up its mind. To compare it with the mas- 
 terpieces of the Attic stage, with the great English dramas of the time of 
 Elizabeth, or even with the productions of Schiller's manhood, would be 
 absurd indeed. Yet it contains excellent dialogue and declamation; and, 
 among plays fashioned on the French model, must be allowed to rank 
 high; not indeed with Athalie, Zaire, or Saul, hut, we think, not below 
 Cinna; and certainly above any other English tragedy of the same school 
 — above many of the plays of Corneille — above many of the plays of Vol- 
 taire and Alfieri — and above some plays of Racine. Be this as it may, we 
 have little doubt that Cato did as much as the Tatlers, Spectators, and 
 Freeholders united, to raise Addison's fame among his contemporaries. 
 
 "The modesty and good nature of the successful dramatist had tamed 
 even the malignity of faction. But literary envy, it should seem, is a 
 fiercer passion than party spirit. It was by a zealous whig that the 
 fiercest attack on the whig tragedy was made. John Dennis published 
 Remarks on Cato, which were written with some acuteness, and with 
 much coarseness and asperity. But Addison neither defended himself nor 
 retaliated." — Macaulay, Essays (Addison), pp. 153-156. 
 
 "It may not be a matter of great importance to ascertain when and 
 where this tragedy was written ; but as the accounts are conflicting, and 
 place the veracity of some of the parties in jeopardy, it may be as well, 
 notwithstanding the point has been touched on, to endeavour to reconcile 
 these contradictory assertions. 
 
 "Ticked assures us, that 'he took up the design of writing a play upon 
 this subject when he was very young at the university, and even attempt- 
 ed something in it there, though not a line as it now stands.' Tonson af- 
 firms, that he wrote 'the four first acts abroad.' Doctor Young savs 
 ' He wrote them all five at Oxford, and sent them from thence to Dryden, 
 to my knowledge.' Pope reports, that 'the love part was flung in after, 
 lo comply with the popular taste ; and that the last act was not written 
 till six or seven years after, when he came home.' Johnson informs us, 
 that Addison being unwilling to resume his work, 'desired Mr. Hughes to 
 add a fifth act. Hughes supposed him to be serious ; and, undertaking 
 the supplement, brougf t in a few days some scenes for his examination :— -
 
 CATO. 371 
 
 but he had in the mean time gone to work himself, and produced half an 
 act, which he afterwards completed. 
 
 " Tickell's account of four acts being written at the university is str jngly 
 Bupported by the nature of the testimony afforded by all the other ac- 
 counts, excepting Dr. Young's: for Tonson, Pope, Johnson, and Hughes, 
 only speak of four acts. It is highly probable that Addison remitted his 
 juvenile effort at tragedy to Dry den ; and it is not unlikely that Dr. Young, 
 who mentions this circumstance, might have mistaken the number of acts, 
 or hastily concluded that an imperfect work would not have been remitted 
 to Dryden. Tickell's incidental observation of there not being of that 
 effort 'a line as it now stands,' and that he performed the work abroad, 
 and retouched it in England, supports the declaration of Tonson, that four 
 acts were seen by him at Rotterdam ; and shows that Pope had some 
 foundation for his report, 'that the love-scenes were thrown in after.' 
 Johnson says, 'Such an authority it is hard to reject; yet the love is so 
 intimately mingled with the whole action, that it cannot easily be thought 
 extrinsic and adventitious; for, if it were taken away, what would be 
 left? or how were the four acts filled in the first draught? ' The remark 
 is, in my opinion, true ; and he who has ever woven the contexture of a 
 dramatic plot must know, that it would be next to impossible to intro- 
 duce and completely infuse into the web one of the most important and 
 uniting threads with every varying shade, harmonizing with the previously 
 finished portion. The two interrogations seem to imply the same ques- 
 tion, and therefore require this one answer, — a barren outline which 
 could lead to no dramatic climax; an unformed mass, unfit either for the 
 closet or the stage. 
 
 "I will propose, with humility, a solution of the enigma. Addison 
 wrote four acts of a tragedy when at the university, and sent them to 
 Dryden. After his judgment had become riper, and his ta-tc more formed, 
 he became displeased with bis performance, yet remained satisfied wiih 
 the subject. lie erased all that his better judgment pointed out to him 
 as unfit to stand, and retained all those thoughts he approved. With 
 these materials, he, while abroad, may be said to have rewritten the four 
 first acts, and to have added the fifth in England, when Hughes was com- 
 posing the supplementary act. This solution at least removes the di- 
 lemma in which the various accounts had placed the authors of them, ind 
 ■ihows that there was not more variation in their ace,, nuts than is seen 
 every day in the details of occurrences in which all the witnesses intend 
 to tell the truth." — Ogle, Life of Addison, pp. 56-60. 
 
 The reader ma}- be pleased to see Pope's account of the firel represen- 
 tation It is in a letter to Sir William Turnbull.' 
 
 i For felr specimens uf tho art of puffing In Queen Aim's day sco Nos. yy, 49, and 59 t 1 
 U1.5 Guardian — O.
 
 372 DRAMAS. 
 
 .... "As to poetica. affairs, I am content at present to be a hare 
 looker-on, and from a practitioner turn an admirer, which is (as the world 
 goes) not ver}- usual. Cato was not so much the wonder of Rome in his 
 d;iys, as l^eJs^oXJBritain injDurs ; and though all the foolish industry possible 
 has been used to make it i nought a party play, yet whaf the author once said 
 of another may the most properly in the world be applied to him on this 
 occasion, 
 
 'Envy itself is dumb, in wonder lost, 
 
 And factions strive who shall applaud hlir most.' 
 
 The numerous and violent claps of the whig party on the one side of the 
 theatre, were echoed back by the tories on the other ; while the author 
 sweated behind the scenes with concern to find their applause proceeding 
 more from the hand than the head. This was the case too of the prologue 
 writer, who was clapped into a staunch whig at almost every two lines. 
 I believe you have heard, that after all the applause of the opposite faction, 
 my lord Bolingbroke sent for Booth, who played Cato, into the box, be- 
 tween one of the acts, and presented him with fifty guineas; in acknow- 
 ledgment (as he expressed it) for defending the cause of liberty so well 
 against a Perpetual Dictator. The whigs are unwilling to be distanced 
 this way, and therefore design a present to the same Cato very speedily 
 in the mean time they are getting ready as good a sentence as the forme) 
 on their side: so betwixt them it is probable that Cato (as Dr. Garth ex 
 
 press'd it) may have something to live upon after he dies. Pope's works. 
 
 "When this triumphant performance had been continued, as it should 
 seem, during a greater number of nights than any play had before been 
 suffered to run, the publication was of course the next step. This ordeal, 
 which has proved too severe for many of the best acting plays, had in it 
 nothing formidable for Cato. If the wise man of the Stoics, with his 
 solemn dignity and impassive virtue, had been invested by the poet in his 
 last tragic scene with enough of human interest to engage the sympathies 
 of an audience, there could be little doubt of his conciliating the admira- 
 tion and esteem of the reader. QrTeffect, the experience of more than a 
 century has now shown, that although this noble work may occasionally 
 be restored to the stage with success during some particular states of 
 political feeling, and when aided by the powers of an actor distinguished 
 by the talent of impressive declamation, and endowed with sufficient 
 dignity of figure and carriage fitly to impersonate the noble Roman, it is 
 scarcely to be reckoned in the ordinary list of stock plays ; but so long 
 as English literature exists, it can scarcely lose its r;ink among closet pieces. \ 
 Thus Dr. Johnson, after remarking with much more than enough of seTeK 
 ity, on the failure of all the suhordinate characters strongly to attract 
 affecti: a or esteem, adds, that "they are made the vehicles of such senti- 
 ments and such expression, that there is scarcely a scene in the play which 
 the reader does not wish to impress upon his memory." The eminent
 
 n 
 
 cato. 373 
 
 pplicability of tin last remark is evinced by the extraordinary number 
 of quoted lines, with which Cato. even more than the other poems of Addi- 
 soi has enriched our language of this number are the following: 
 
 "The woman who deliberates is lost" 
 
 " Plant daggers in my heart." 
 
 "'Tis not in mortals to command success, 
 
 But we'll do more, Sempronias, we'll deserve it" 
 "The pale unripen'd beauties of the north." 
 "Tis not a set of features, or complexion. 
 
 The tincture of the skin that 1 admire.'" 
 " Painful pre-eminence." 
 "Curse on his virtues, they've undone his country!" 
 
 "These and others of the fine thoughts and pointed expressions with 
 which the piece abounds, still circulate among us like current coin, though 
 often now passed, it may be feared, with little thought or knowledge of 
 the mint which issued them. 
 
 "When Dr. Johnson remarks, that the success of Cato 'has introduced 
 or confirmed among us the use of dialogue too declamatory, of unaffecting 
 elegance and chill philosophy,' he overlooks, or possibly was unskilled to 
 explore, a more probable origin of the faults winch lie indicate 4 , and which 
 he has himself exemplified. These are found in Philips, Rowe, Hughes, 
 and other contemporaries, to at least as great a degree as in Addison, in 
 whom they are palliated, if not entii ely justified, by the nature of his sub- 
 ject : and they may surely be traced to imitation of the masters of French 
 tragedy, whose genius, like the ambition of their monarch, had gone near 
 to giving law to all Europe. With respect to Philip's Distressed Mother, 
 this origin is unquestionable, and little less so with respect to Cato; since 
 Addison always expressed himself concerning Corneille and Racine with 
 marked esteem, and seems to have laid the plan and begun the execution 
 of his tragedy during his long sojourn at Blois, while lie was making the 
 study of the French language his principal occupation. In the conduct of 
 his plot he has made considerable sacrifices to a rigid observance of tl e 
 unities of time and place, as laid down by Aristotle, and it can scarcely 
 be doubted that this restraint, unknown to our earlier dramatists, was 
 imposed upon him as an indisj ensable law by the precepts and practice 
 of the French school of dramatic art. 
 
 "That the tragedy of Cato does not appeal strongly to the passions, 
 may be frankly conceded ; but whatever be said of its 'unaffecting ele- 
 gance and chill philosophy,' it is at least free fi om the error which Boileau 
 mi forcibly remarked to Addison him i If in the maum r of Corneille. The 
 speakers run neither into description nor dec lamation unconnected with 
 the business of the seen.-, or unsuiteil to the persons or the occafiou. 
 
 ■ re correctness and good taste preside alike over the sentiments «^4 
 lliedjfiJjuBi
 
 374 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 "The verification, though deficient in the richness? and variety of pause 
 crhich charms in our older dramatists, and like all blank verse at this 
 period, constructed with too much resemblance to the rhymed couplet, is 
 yet easy and graceful; and certainly far preferable to that ol Roue, then 
 the most poj ular tragic writer." — Aixix, Life of AdJison, pp. 192-194.
 
 VERSES 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY OF CATO. 
 
 While you the fierce divided Britons awe, 
 
 And Cato with an equal virtue draw ; 
 
 While envy is itself in wonder lost, 
 
 And factions strive who shall applaud you most ; 
 
 Forgive the fond ambition of a friend, 
 
 Who hopes himself, not you, to recommend, 
 
 And join th' applause which all the learn'd bestow 
 
 On one, to whom a perfect work they owe. 
 
 To my a light scenes I once inscrib'd your name, 
 
 And impotently strove to borrow fame : 
 
 Soon will that die, which adds thy name to mine; 
 
 Let me, then, live, joiu'd to a work of thine. 
 
 Richard Steei e. 
 
 Tho' Cato shines in Virgil's epic song, 
 Prescribing laws among th' Elysian throng; 
 Tho' Lucan's verse, exalted by his name, 
 O'er gods themselves has rais'd the hero's fame; 
 The Etonian stage did ne'er his image see, 
 Drawn at full length ; a task reserv'd for theo. 
 
 " Tender LIusban I, dedicated to Mr. Addison.
 
 DRAMAS. 
 
 By thee we view the finish 'd figure rise, 
 And awful march before our ravish'd eyes ; 
 We hear his voice asserting virtue's cause ; 
 His fate renew'd our deep attention draws, 
 Excites by turns our various hopes and fears, 
 A.nd all the patriot in thy scene appears. 
 
 On Tiber's banks thy thought was first inspir'd ; 
 'Twas there, to some indulgent grove retir'd, 
 Rome's ancient fortunes rolling in thy mind, 
 Thy happy muse this manly work design'd : 
 Or in a dream thou saw'st Rome's genius stand, 
 /Vnd, leading Cato in his sacred hand, 
 Point out th' immortal subject of thy lays, 
 And ask this labour to record his praise. 
 
 'Tis done — the hero lives, and charms our age ! 
 While nobler morals grace the British stage. 
 Great Shakespear's ghost, the solemn strain to hear, 
 (Methinks I see the laurel'd shade appear !) 
 
 Will hover o'er the scene, and wond'ring view 
 His fav'rite Brutus rival'd thus by you. 
 
 Such Roman greatness in each action shines, 
 
 Such Roman elocpuence adorns your lines, 
 
 That sure the Sybils' books this year foretold, 
 
 And in some mystic leaf was seen enroll'd, 
 
 ' Rome, turn thy mournful eyes from Afric's shore, 
 
 Nor in her sands thy Cato's tomb explore ! 
 
 When thrice six hundred times the circling suu 
 
 His annual race shall thro' the Zodiac run, 
 
 An isle remote his monument shall rear, 
 
 And every generous Briton pay a tear.' 
 
 J. HurcriEs.
 
 C A T o . S77 
 
 What do we see ! is Cato then become 
 A greater name in Britain than in Ilome \ 
 Does mankind now admire his virtues more, 
 Tho' Lucan, Horace, Virgil, wrote before ? 
 How will posterity this truth explain ? 
 " Cato begins to live in Anna's reign : " 
 The world's great chiefs, in council or in arms, 
 Rise in your lines with more exalted charms; 
 Illustrious deeds in distant nations wrought, 
 And virtues by departed heroes taught, 
 
 Raise in your soul a pure immortal flame, 
 
 Adorn your life, and consecrate your fame ; 
 To your renown all ages you subdue, 
 And Cassar fought, and Cato bled for you. 
 
 Edward Youko 
 All- Sours College, Oxon. 
 
 'Tis nobly done thus to enrich the stage, 
 
 And raise the thoughts of a degenerate age, 
 
 To show, how endless joys from freedom spring . 
 
 How life in bondage is a worthless thing. 
 
 The inborn greatness of your soul we view, 
 
 You tread the paths frequented by the few. 
 
 With so much strength you write, and so much ease, 
 
 Virtue and sense ! how durst you hope to please ? 
 
 Yet crowds the sentiments of every line 
 
 Impartial dapp'd, and own'd the work divine. 
 
 Even the sour critics, who malicious came, 
 
 Eager to censure, and resolv'd to blame, 
 
 Finding the bero regularlj rise, 
 
 Great, while ho lives, but greater, when be dice
 
 37S 
 
 DRAM A B. 
 
 Sullen approv'd, too obstinate to melt, 
 And sicken'd with the pleasures which they felt. 
 Not so the fair their passions secret kept, 
 Silent they heard, but as they heard, they wept, 
 When gloriously the blooming Marcus dy'd, 
 And Cato told the gods, I'm' satisfy 'd. 
 
 See ! how your lays the British youth inflame 1 
 They long to shoot, and ripen into fame ; 
 Applauding theatres disturb their rest, 
 And unborn Catos heave in everv breast ; 
 Their nightly dreams, their daily thoughts repeat, 
 And pulses high with fancy'd glories beat. 
 So, griev'd to view the Marathonian spoils, 
 The young Themistocles vow'd equal toils ; 
 Did then his schemes of future honours draw 
 From the long triumphs which with tears he saw. 
 
 How shall I your unrival'd worth proclaim, 
 Lost in the spreading circle of your fame ! 
 We saw you the great William's praise rehearse, 
 And paint Britannia's joys in Roman verse. 
 We heard at distance soft, enchanting strains, 
 From blooming mountains, and Italian plains. 
 Virgil began in English dress to shine, 
 His voice, his looks, his grandeur still divine. 
 From him too soon unfriendly you withdrew, 
 But brought the tuneful Ovid to our view. 
 Then, the delightful theme of every tongue, 
 Th' immortal Marlb'rough was your daring song 
 From clime to clime the mighty victor flew, 
 From clime to clime as swiftly you pursue ; 
 Still with the hero's glow'd the poet's flame, 
 Still with his conquest? you enlarg'd your fame.
 
 cato. 379 
 
 "With boundless raptures here the muse could swell, 
 And on your Rosamond for ever dwell : 
 There opening sweets, and every fragrant flower 
 Luxuriant smile, a never-fading bower. 
 Next, human follies kindly to expose, 
 You change from numbers, but not sink in prose ; 
 Whether in visionary scenes you play, 
 Refine our tastes, or laugh our crimes away. 
 Now, by the buskin'd muse you shine confest, 
 The patriot kindles in the poet's breast. 
 Such energy of sense might pleasure raise, 
 Tho' unembellish'd with the charms of phrase : 
 Such charms of phrase would with success be crown'd, 
 Tho 1 nonsense flow'd in the melodious sound, 
 The chastest virgin needs no blushes fear, 
 The learn'd themselves, not uninstructed. hear, 
 The libertine, in pleasures us'd to roll, 
 And idly sport with an immortal soul, 
 Here comes, and by the virtuous heathen taught, 
 Turns pale, and trembles at the dreadful thought. 
 Whene'er you traverse vast Numidia's plains, 
 What sluggish Briton in his isle remains? 
 When Juba seeks the tiger with delight, „ 
 
 We beat the thicket, and provoke the fight. 
 By the description warm'd, we fondly sweat, 
 And in the ('lulling cast-wind pant with heat. 
 What eyes behold not, how ' the stream refines, 
 Till by degrees the floating mirror shines? ' 
 While hurricanes ' in circling eddies play, 
 Tear up the sands, and sweep whole plains away, 
 We slinnk with horror, and confess our fear, 
 And all the sudden sounding ruin hear.
 
 3S0 
 
 DRAMAS. 
 
 When purple robes, distain'd with blood, deceive 
 And make poor Marcia beautifully grieve, 
 When she her secret thoughts no more conceals, 
 Forgets the woman, and her flame reveals, 
 Well may the prince exult with noble pride, 
 Not for his Libyan crown, but Roman bride. 
 
 But I in vain on single features dwell, 
 While all the parts of the fair piece excel, 
 So rich the store, so dubious is the feast, 
 We know not which to pass, or which to taste. 
 The shining incidents so justly fall, 
 We may the whole new scenes of transport call. 
 Thus jewellers confound our wandering eyes, 
 And with variety of gems surprise. 
 Here sapphires, here the Sardian stone is seen, 
 The topaz yellow, and the jasper green. 
 The costly brilliant there, confus'dly bright, 
 From numerous surfaces darts trembling light. 
 The different colours mingling in a blaze, 
 Silent we stand, unable where to praise, 
 In pleasure sweetly lost ten thousand ways. 
 
 L. Eusden. 
 
 Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 
 Too long hath love engross'd Britannia's stage, 
 And sunk to softness all our tragic rage : 
 By that alone did empires fall or rise, 
 And fate depended on a fair one's eyes ; 
 The sweet infection, mixt with dangerous art, 
 Debas'd our manhood, while it sooth'd the heart
 
 You scorn to raise a grief thyself must blame, 
 Nor from our weakness steal a vulgar fame : 
 A patriot's fall may justly melt the mind, 
 And tears flow nobly, shed for all mankind. 
 
 How do our souls with gen'rous pleasure glow ! 
 Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow, 
 When thy firm hero stands beneath the weight 
 Of all his sufferings venerably great; 
 Rome's poor remains still shelt'ring by his side, 
 With conscious virtue, and becoming pride. 
 
 The aged oak thus rears his head in air, 
 His sap exhausted, and his branches bare ; 
 'Midst storms and earthquakes he maintains his state, 
 Fixt deep in earth, and fasten'd by his weight : 
 His naked boughs still lend the shepherds aid, 
 And his old trunk projects an awful shade. 
 
 Amidst the joys triumphant peace bestows, 
 Our patriots sadden at his glorious woes, 
 Awhile they let the world's great bus'ness wait, 
 Anxious for Rome, and sigh for Cato's fate. 
 Here taught how ancient heroes rose to fame, 
 Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame, 
 Where states and senates well might lend an ear, 
 And kings and priests without a blush appear. 
 
 France boasts no more, but, fearful to engage 
 Now first pays homage to her rival's stage, 
 Hastes to learn thee, and learning shall submit 
 Alike to British arms, and British wit: 
 No more she'll wonder, (fore'd to do us right,) 
 Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight, 
 
 Thy Oxford smiles this glorious work to see, 
 And fondly triumphs in a son like thee.
 
 3?2 . DRAMAS. 
 
 The senates, consuls, and the gods of Rome, 
 Like old acquaintance at their native home, 
 In thee we find : each deed, each word exprest, 
 And every thought that swell'd a Roman breast. 
 We trace each hint that could thy soul inspire 
 With Virgil's judgment, and with Lucan's fire ; 
 We know thy worth, and, give us leave to boast, 
 We most admire, because we know thee most. 
 
 Thos. Tickelu 
 
 Queen's College, Oxon. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 When your generous labour first I view'd, 
 And Cato's hands in his own blood imbru'd ; 
 That scene of death so terrible appears, 
 My soul could only thank you with her tears. 
 Yet with such wondrous art your skilful hand 
 Does all the passions of the soul command, 
 That even my grief to praise and wonder turn'd, 
 And envy'd the great death which first I mourn'd. 
 
 What pen but yours could draw the doubtful strife, 
 Of honour struggling with the love of life ? 
 Describe the patriot, obstinately good, 
 As hovering o'er eternity he stood : 
 The wide, th' unbounded ocean lay before 
 His piercing sight, and heaven the distant shore. 
 Secure of endless bliss, with fearless eyes, 
 He grasps the dagger, and its point defies, 
 He rushes out of life, to snatch the glorious prize. 
 
 How would old Rome rejoice, to hear you tell 
 How just her pt triot liv'd, how great he fell !
 
 CATO. 3S3 
 
 Recount his wondrous probity and truth, 
 And form new Jubas in the British youth. 
 Their generous souls, when he resigns his breath, 
 Are pleas'd with ruin, and in love with death. 
 And when her conquering sword Britannia draws. 
 Resolve to perish, or defend her cause. 
 Now first on Albion's theatre we see, 
 A perfect image of what man should be ; 
 The glorious character is now exprest, 
 Of virtue dwelling in a human breast. 
 Drawn at full length by your immortal* lines, 
 In Cato's soul, as in her heaven, she shines. 
 
 Digby Cote*. 
 
 All-Souls College, Oxon. 
 
 Left with the Printer by an unknown hand. 
 
 Now we may speak, since Cato speaks no more 
 'Tis praise at length, 'twas rapture all before ; 
 When crowded theatres with Ids rung 
 Sent to the skies, from whence thy genius sprung : 
 Even civil rage awhile in thine was lost; 
 And factions strove but to applaud thee most: 
 Nor could enjoyment pall our longing taste; 
 But every night was dearer than the last. 
 
 As when old Rome in a malignant hour 
 ]>< priv'd of some returning conqueror, 
 Her debt of triumph to the 'had discharg'd, 
 Fur Dime, for treasure, and her bounds cnlarg'd : 
 
 ■ George Jeffereys, Ksq. Gent Mag. xxiii. 45.
 
 384 DRAMAS. 
 
 And while his godlike figure mov'd along, 
 
 Alternate passions fir'd th' adoring throng; 
 
 Tears flow'd from every eye, and shouts from every tongue 
 
 So in thy pompous lines has Cato far'd, 
 
 Grac'd with an ample, tho' a late, reward : 
 
 A greater victor we in him revere ; 
 
 A nobler triumph crowns his image here. 
 
 With wonder, as with pleasure, we survey 
 A theme so scanty wrought into a play ; 
 So vast a pile on such foundations plac'd ; 
 Like Amnion's temple rear'd on Libya's waste: 
 Behold its glowing paint ! its easy weigbt ! 
 Its nice proportions ! and stupendous height ! 
 How chaste the conduct, how divine the rage! 
 A Roman worthy on a Grecian stage ! 
 
 But where shall Cato's praise begin or end ; 
 Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend, 
 The firmest patriot, and the gentlest friend ? 
 How great his genius, when the traitor crowd, 
 Ready to strike the blow their fury vow'd ; 
 Quell'd by his look, and list'ning to his lore, 
 Learn, like his passions, to rebel no more ! 
 When, lavish of his boiling blood, to prove 
 The cure of slavish life, and slighted love, 
 Brave Marcus new in early death appears, 
 While Cato counts his wounds, and not his years ; 
 Who, checking private grief, the public mourns, 
 Commands the pity he so greatly scorns. 
 But when he strikes, (to crown his generous part) 
 That honest, staunch, impracticable heart ; 
 No tears, no sobs pursue his parting breath ; 
 The dying Roman shames the pomp of death.
 
 cato. 385 
 
 ! sacred freedom, which the powers bestow 
 To season blessings, and to soften woe ; 
 Plant of our growth, and aim of all our caies, 
 The toil -of ages, and the crown of wars : 
 If, taught by thee, the poet's wit has flow'd 
 In strains as precious as his hero's blood ; 
 Preserve those strains, an everlasting charm 
 To keep that blood and thy remembrance warm ; 
 Be this thy guardian image still secure ; 
 In vain shall force invade, or fraud allure ; 
 Our great Palladium shall perform its part, 
 Fix'd and enshrin'd in every British heart. 
 
 The mind to virtue is by verse subdu'd ; 
 And the true poet is a public good. 
 This Britain feels, while by your lines inspir'd, 
 Her free-born sons to glorious thoughts are fir'd. 
 In Rome had you espous'd the vanquished cause, 
 Iuflam'd her senate, and upheld her laws ; 
 Your manly scenes had liberty restor'd, 
 And given the just success to Cato's sword : 
 O'er Caesar's arms your genius had prevail'd ; 
 And the muse triumph'd, where the patriot fail'd. 
 
 Amur. Philips. 
 
 vol. i. — 17
 
 
 PEOLOGUE BY MR. POPE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. WILKS. 
 
 To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
 To raise the genius and to mend the heart, 
 To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, 
 Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold ; 
 For this the tragic muse first trode the stage, 
 Commanding tears to stream through every ago ; 
 Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
 And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. 
 Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move 
 The hero's glory, or the virgin's love ; 
 f In pitying love we but our weakness show, 
 And wild ambition well deserves its woe. 
 Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, 
 Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : 
 He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, 
 And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. 
 Virtue confest in human shape he draws, 
 What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : 
 No common object to your sight displays, 
 But what with pleasure heaven itself surveys ; 
 A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, 
 And greatly falling with a falling state ! 
 While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
 What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
 
 cato. 387 
 
 Who sees him act, but envies every deed ? 
 
 Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? 
 
 Even then proud Caesar 'midst triumphal cars, 
 
 The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, 
 
 Ignobly vain, and impotently great, 
 
 Show'd Home her Cato's figure drawn in state, 
 
 As her dead father's reverend image past, 
 
 The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast, 
 
 The triumph ceas'd — tears gush'd from every eye. 
 
 The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by ; 
 
 Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd, 
 
 And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword. 
 
 Britons attend : a be worth like this approv'd, 
 And show you have the virtue to be inov'd. 
 With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato vicw'd 
 Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd. 
 Our scene precariously subsists too lung 
 On French translation, and Italian song : 
 Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the stage, 
 Be justly warm'd with your own native rage. 
 Such plays alone should please a British ear, 
 As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear. 
 
 » Britons attend. Altered thus by the author, from "Britons arisr" to 
 humour, we arc told, the timid delicacy of Mr. Addison, who was in pain 
 least that fierce word "arise," should be misconstrued (see Mr. Warbur- 
 fcon'a editioD of Pope, Imitations of Horace, ep. 1, 1>. 1.) One is apt, indeed, 
 to think this caution excessive; hut there was ground enough for it, as 
 will be seen, if we reflect, that the poet himself bad made Sempronius talk 
 in this strain — "Rise Romans, rise," (ad ii.se. 1;) a olear mmmcnt (.'*, 
 would have been said, in that furious time) on the line in question.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Cato, Mr. Booth, 
 
 Lucius, a Senator, Mr. Keen. 
 
 Sempronius, a Senator. .... Mr. Mills. 
 
 Juba, Prince of Numidia, .... Mr. Wilks. 
 
 Syphax, General of the Numidians, . . Mr. Gibber, 
 
 Tortus, ) .... Mr. Powell. 
 
 Sons of Cato, 
 
 Marcus, ) .... Mr. Ryan. 
 
 Decius, Ambassador from Caesar, . . Mr. Bowman. 
 
 Mutineers, Guards, (fee. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Marcia, Daughter to Cato, 
 Lucia, Daughter to Lucius, 
 
 Mrs. Oldkibld 
 Mrs. Porter. 
 
 Scene, a large Hall in the Governor's Palace of Utic a.
 
 CATO.' 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Portius, Marcus. 
 
 Fortius. The dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs, 
 And heavily in clouds brings on the day, 
 The great, th' important day, big with the fate 
 Of Cato and of Rome b — Our father's death 
 Would fill up all the guilt of civil war, 
 And close the scene of blood. Already Cocsar 
 Eas ravaged more than half the globe, and sees 
 Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword : 
 .Should he go further, numbers would be wanting 
 To form new battles, and support his crimes. 
 Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make 
 Among your works ! 
 
 • While the i resent humour of idolizing Shakespear continues, n<> 
 quarter will be given t<» this poem; though it be the naster-piece of tho 
 author, and was the pride of the age in which it was written, — Hut a time 
 will come, when, not as a tragedy, in. Ire. I, (for which the Bubjecl was un- 
 fit) but, as a work of ail an. I taste, it will !).• supremely admired by all 
 candid ami judicious cril i.-s. 
 
 '• This < < i > • • 1 1 i 1 1 lt of the drama is too solemn and declamatory. The <m- 
 thor speakp, — nol his " Persona dramatis" 1 1 > >r.i<-c has given a caution 
 against il.i misconduct, in his ridicule of " Fortunam Priami cantabo, et 
 nobile bellum," which was addressed t" the tragic, as well as, epic poet.
 
 390 DRAMAS. 
 
 Marcus. Thy steady temper, Portius," 
 
 Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Czesar, 
 
 In the calm lights of mild philosophy: 
 
 I'm tortured even to madness, when I think 
 
 On the proud victor : every time he's named 
 
 Pharsalia rises to my view — I see 
 
 Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field 
 
 Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter, 
 
 His horse's hoofs wet with Patrician blood ! 
 ^Oh, Portius ! is there not some chosen curse, 
 
 Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, 
 
 Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man, 
 
 Who owes his greatness, to his country's ruin 3 
 
 Portius. /Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness, ) 
 
 And mixt with too much horror to be envy'd : 
 
 How does the lustre of our father's actions, 
 
 Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, 
 
 Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness ! 
 
 His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round him ; 
 (Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause 
 
 Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome\ 
 
 His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head ; 
 
 Oppression, tyranny, and power usurp'd, 
 
 Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em. 
 
 Marcus. "Who knows not this ? but what can Cato do 
 
 Against a world, a base degenerate world, 
 
 That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Csesar? 
 
 Pent up in Utica he vainly forms 
 
 A poor epitome of Roman greatness, 
 
 •This a little palliates the indecorum, just now observed ; and may 
 'et us see, that the poet himself was aware of it (so exact was his taste); 
 but it does not wholly excuse it.
 
 CATO. 391 
 
 And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs 
 
 A feeble army, and an empty senate, 
 
 Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain. 
 
 By heavens, such virtues, join'd with such success, 
 
 Distract my very soul : our father's fortune 
 
 Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts. 
 
 Portius. Remember what our father oft has told us : 
 The ways of heaven are dark and intricate, 
 Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors : 
 Our understanding traces 'em in vain, 
 Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search ; 
 Nor sees with how much art the windings run, 
 Nor where the regular confusion ends. 
 
 M.\rcu&. These are suggestions of a mind at ease: 
 Oh Portius ! didst thou taste but half the griefs 
 That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly. 
 Passion unpity'd, and successless love, 
 Plant daggers in my heart, a and aggravate 
 My other griefs. "Were but my Lucia kind ! — 
 
 Portius. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy rival : 
 But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Aside 
 
 Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the proof: 
 Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve, 
 And call up all thy father in thy soul : 
 To quell the tyrant Love, and guard thy heart 
 On this weak side, where most our nature fails, 
 Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son. 
 
 Maroj s. Portius, the counsel which 1 cannot take, 
 Instead of healing, bul upbraids my weakness. 
 Bid me for honour plunge into a war 
 
 A strange unnatural phrase: which yet hath mode its fortune in 
 in. <Ji in tragi dy. B< tides, i! the ■ « orda have anj meaning, it was ridi- 
 ci.lous to add '* iiggrai <tt< my '■//" r griefa."
 
 392 DRAMAS. 
 
 Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death 
 Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not slow 
 To follow glory, and confess his father. 
 J \Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost 
 In high ambition, and a thirst of greatness : 
 'Tis second life, it grows into the soul, 
 Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse, 
 I feel it here : my resolution melts — 
 
 Portius. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince ! 
 With how much care he forms himself to glory, 
 And breaks the fierceness of his native temper 
 To copy out our father's bright example. 
 He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her, 
 His eyes, his looks, his actions all betray it : 
 But still the smother'd fondness burns within him. 
 When most it ^wells, and labours for a vent, 
 The sense of honour and desire of fame 
 Drive the big passion back into his heart./ 
 What ! shall an African, shall Juba's heir 
 Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world 
 A virtue wanting in a Roman soul ? 
 
 Marcus. Portius, no more ! your words leave stings be 
 hind 'em. 
 Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, show 
 A virtue that has cast me at a distance, 
 And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour ? 
 
 Portius. Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper well ; 
 Fling but th' appearance of dishonour on it, 
 It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze. 
 
 Marcus. A brother's sufferings claim a brother's pity. 
 
 Portius. Heaven knows I pity thee : behold my eyes 
 Even whilst I speak — Do they not swim in tears ?
 
 cato. 393 
 
 Were but my heart as naked to thy view, 
 Marcus would see it bleed in his behalf. 
 
 Marcus. Why then dost treat me with rebukes, instead 
 Of kind condoling cares, and friendly sorrow ? 
 
 Portius. Marcus ! did I kuow the wa}^ to ease 
 Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains, 
 Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it. 
 
 Marcus. Thou best of brothers, and thou best of friends 1 
 Pardon a weak distemper'd soul that swells 
 - With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in calms, 
 The sport of passions : — But Sempronius comes ; 
 He must not find this softness hanging on me. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Sempronius, Portius. 
 
 Semtronius. Conspiracies no sooner should be formed 
 Than executed. What means Portius here ? 
 I like not that cold youth. 1 I must dissemble, 
 And speak a language foreign to my heart. [Aside. 
 
 Good morrow, Portius ! let us once embrace, 
 Once more embrace ; whilst yet we both are free. 
 To-morrow should we thus express our friendship, 
 Each might receive a slave into his arms: 
 This sun, perhaps, this morning snn's the last, 
 That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty. 
 
 Portius. My father h;is this morning call'd together 
 To this poor hall his little Roman senate, 
 (The leavings of Pharsalia) to consult 
 
 *Cold youth. Finely observed. Men of cold passions have Quick eyes, 
 aii<) in-'' no lit company for Buch men as Sempronius ; whether they Hpcalc 
 iVoi 1 1 /A- In a ri, or <M88t mhli • hence, the indignant reproof of his passion, and 
 ! he abi upl depart ure from l>i- il.ti I eri< , 
 
 Mil., t. — 17*
 
 394 DRAMAS. 
 
 If yet he can oppose the mighty torrent 
 
 That bears clown Rome and all her gods, before it, 
 
 Or must at length give up the world to Caesar. 
 
 Sempronius. Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome 
 Can raise her senate more than Cato's presence. 
 His virtues render our assembly awful, 
 They strike with something like religious fear, 
 And make even Caesar tremble at the head 
 Of armies flush 'd with conquest : my Fortius ! 
 Could I but call that wondrous man my father, 
 Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious 
 To thy friend's vows : I might be bless'd indeed ! 
 
 Portius. Alas ! Sempronius, would'st thou talk of love 
 To Marcia, whilst her father's life's in danger? 
 Thou might'st as well court the pale trembling vestal,* 
 When she beholds the holy flame expiring. 
 
 Sempronius. The more I see the wonders of thy race, 
 The more I'm charm 'd. Thou must take heed, my Portius! 
 The world has all its eyes on Cato's son. 
 Thy father's merit sets thee up to view, 
 And shows thee in the fairest point of light, 
 To make thy virtues, or thy faults, conspicuous. 
 
 Portius. Well dost thou seem to check my ling'ring here 
 On this important hour — I'll straight away, 
 And while the fathers of the senate meet 
 In close debate to weigh th' events of war, 
 I'll animate the soldiers' drooping courage, 
 With love of freedom, and contempt of life : 
 I'll thunder in their ears their country's cause, 
 And try to rouse up all that's Roman in 'em. 
 
 * Wonderfully exact, both in the sentiment, and expression. — The ima 
 p ry, too, is in character ; the speaker being a person of the purest virtue, 
 and a Roman.
 
 c 
 
 CATO. 39a 
 
 'Tis not in mortals to command success. 
 But we'll do more, Sempronius: we'll deserve it. [Exit. 
 Sempron tus, solus. Curse on the stripling ! how he apes 
 his sire ? 
 Ambitiously sententious ! — but I wonder 
 Old Syphax comes not ; his Nuuiidian genius 
 Is well disposed to mischief, were he prompt 
 And eager on it ; but he must be spurr'd, 
 And every moment quieken'd to the course. 
 
 Cato has us'd me ill : he has refused 
 
 His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows. 
 
 Besides, his baffled arms, and ruined cause, 
 
 Are bars to my ambition. Caesar's favour, 
 
 That show'rs down greatness on his friends, will raise me 
 
 To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato, 
 
 I claim in my reward his captive daughter. 
 
 But Syphax comes ! — 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Syphax, Sempronius. 
 
 Syphax. Sempronius, all is ready, 
 
 I've sounded my Numidians, man by man, 
 
 And find 'em ripe for a revolt ; they all 
 
 Complain aloud of Cato's discipline, 
 
 Aim! wait but the command to change their master. 
 
 Sempronius. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time tc 
 waste ; 
 Even while we speak, our conqueror comes on, 
 And gathers ground upon ue every moment. 
 Alas I thou know'sl no1 Cajsar's active soul, 
 With what a dreadful <•< 'irse he rushes on
 
 396 DRAMAS. 
 
 From war to war in vain has nature form'd 
 
 Mountains and oceans to oppose his passage ; 
 
 He bounds o'er all, victorious in his march ; 
 
 The Alp? and Pyreneans sink before him, 
 
 Through winds and waves and storms he works his way 
 
 Impatient for the battle ; one day more 
 
 Will set the victor thundering at our gates. 
 
 But tell me hast thou yet drawn o'er young Juba ? 
 
 That still would recommend thee more to Caesar, 
 
 And challenge better terms. 
 
 Syphax. Alas ! he's lost, 
 He's lost, Sempronius ;' all his thoughts are full 
 Of Cato's virtues ; — but I'll try once more 
 (For every instant I expect him here) 
 If yet I can subdue those stubborn principles 
 Of faith, of honour, and I know not what, 
 That have corrupted his Numidian temper, 
 And struck th' infection into all his soul. 
 
 SEiviritONius. Be sure to press upon him every motive 
 Juba's surrender, since his father's death, 
 Would give up Afric into Caesar's hands, 
 And make him lord of half the burning zone. 
 
 Syphax. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate 
 Is call'd together ? Gods ! thou must be cautious ! 
 Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern 
 Our frauds, unless they're cover'd thick with art. 
 
 Sempronius. Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal 
 My thoughts in passion a ('tis the surest way ;) 
 
 * When a plain man, like Sempronius, turns villain, he loves to flatter 
 himself. and to be flattered by others, into an opinion of his own cunning: 
 hence the boast — "Let me alone, good Syphax" <fcc, and hence too, \h% 
 adroit answer to that boast — 
 
 " In troth thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs, 
 And te«h the » ly African deceit."
 
 c a t o . 397 
 
 I'll bellow out for Rome and for ni}- country, 
 
 And mouth at Caesar 'till 1 shake the senate. 
 
 Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device, 
 
 A worn-out trick : would 'st thou be thought in earnest ? 
 
 Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury! 
 
 Svphax. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs, 
 And teach the wily x\frican deceit ! 
 
 Sempronius. Once more, be sure to try thy skill on Juba. 
 Meanwhile I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers, 
 Inflame the mutiny, and underhand 
 Blow up their discontents, till they break out 
 Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato. 
 Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste : 
 think what anxious moments pass between 
 The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods. 
 Oh ! 'tis a dreadful interval of time, 
 Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death ! 
 Destruction hangs on every word we speak, 
 On every thought, till the concluding stroke 
 Determines all, and closes our design. [Exit. 
 
 Syphax solus. I'll try if vet I can reduce to reason 
 
 Bat something more must be observed, to let us into the artifice of ilm 
 following scenes. The vices of men are shaped and modified by their 
 general character. The character <>> a Roman was thai of virtue; in which 
 term, the idea oi and patriotism are combined: when such a man 
 
 would dissemble, he had bul one way of doing it. which is, to run those 
 
 qualities into the extreme.; ox, in the \ t's fine expression, 
 
 "To be virtuous, even to mads 
 
 The A-frican, on the other hand, being by complexion, n knave, bis dis- 
 simulation is of another cast It consists in a certain pliancy of temper 
 and a dextrous application of himself to all humours and occasions ; in a 
 endeavour, in Bhort, to conceal the proper vice of his nature, aa 
 the aim of a bi "•• man wo ild I"-. to outrn •■ the virtue of his. tlence 
 pronius is always in a storm of zeal; while Syphax assumes as many 
 shap be moment calls for, or bis Numidian genius Bugge ts, 1 i 
 
 the catastrophe of both is suited to this difference of character; Syphax 
 
 sneaks out of the conspiracy, and would escape death, ifl ould: Bern 
 
 pronius p? >vokei lii- fate ; and perishes in a rani of bravery, as he had lived.
 
 3 l JS DRAMAS. 
 
 This head-strong youth, and make him spurn at Cato. 
 The time is short, Caesar comes rushing on us — 
 But hold ! young Juba sees me, and approaches. 
 
 SCEXE IV. 
 Juba, Syphax. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone, 
 I have observed of late thy looks are fallen, 
 O'ercast with gloomy cares, and discontent; 
 Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me, 
 What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns, 
 And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince ? 
 
 Syphax. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts, 
 Or carry smiles and sunshine in my face, 
 When discontent sits heavy at my heart. 
 , I have not yet so much the Roman in me. 
 
 Juba. Why dost thou cast out such ungenerous terms 
 Against the lords and sov'reigns of the world ? 
 Dost thou not see mankind fall down before them, 
 /And own the force of their superior virtue ? 
 Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric, 
 Amidst our barren rocks, and burning sands, 
 That does not tremble at the Roman name ? 
 
 Syphax. Gods ! where's the worth that sets this people up 
 Above your own Numidia's tawny sons ! 
 Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow ? 
 Or flies the javelin swifter to its mark, 
 Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm ? 
 Who like our active African instructs 
 The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand ? 
 Or guides iu troops th' embattled elephant,
 
 c a t o . 399 
 
 Load en with war ? these, these are arts, my prince 
 Iu which your Zama does not stoop to Rome. 
 
 J DBA. These all are virtues of a meaner rank, 
 Perfections that are placed in bones and nerves. 
 A Roman soul is bent on higher views : 
 To civilize the rude unpolish'd world, 
 And lay it under the restraint of laws ; 
 To make man mild, and sociable to man ; 
 To cultivate the wild licentious savage 
 With wisdom, discipline, and liberal arts; 
 Th' embellishments of life : virtues like these 
 Make human nature shine, reform the soul, 
 And break our fierce barbarians into men. 
 
 SypHAX. Patience, kind heavens! — excuse an old man's 
 warmth. 
 What are these wondrous civilizing arts, 
 This Roman polish, and this smooth behaviour, 
 That render man thus tractable and tame ? 
 Are they not only to diiiguise our passions, 
 To set our looks at variance with our thoughts, 
 To check the starts and sallies of the soul, 
 And break off all its commerce with the tongue; 
 In short, to change us into other creatures, 
 Than what our nature and the gods design'd us ? 
 
 Juba. To strike thee dumb: turn up thy eyes to Cato ! 
 There may'st thou see to what a godlike height 
 The Roman virtues lift up mortal man, 
 While good, and just, and anxious for his friends, 
 lie's still seven ly bent against himself; 
 I: oum g sleep, ami rest, and food, ami ease, 
 Ele Btrives with thirst ami hunger, toil and heat; 
 Ami when his fortune Beta before him all
 
 400 DRAMAS. 
 
 The pomps and pleasures that his soul can wish, 
 His rigid virtue will accept of none. 
 
 Syphax. Believe me, prince, there's not an African 
 That traverses our vast Numidian deserts 
 In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow, 
 But better practises these boasted virtues. 
 Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase, 
 Amidst the running stream he slakes his thirst, 
 Toils all the day, and at th' approach of night 
 On the first friendly bank he throws him down, 
 Or rests his head upon a rock till morn : 
 Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted game ; 
 And if the following day he chance to find 
 A new repast, or an nntasted spring, 
 Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury. 
 
 .Tuba. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern 
 What virtues grow from ignorance and choice, 
 Nor how the hero differs from the brute. 
 But grant that others could with equal glory 
 Look down on pleasures, and the baits of sense ; 
 Where shall we find the man that bears affliction, 
 (Ireat and majestic in his griefs, like Cato ? 
 Heavens ! with what strength, what steadiness of mind, 
 He triumphs in the midst of all his sufferings ! 
 How does he rise against a load of woes, 
 And thank the gods that throw the weight upon him ! 
 
 Syphax. 'Tis prid-3, rank pride, and haughtiness of Soul. 
 I think the Romans call it Stoicism. 
 Had not your royal father thought so highly 
 Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause, 
 He had not fallen by a slave's hand, inglorious : 
 Nor would his slaughter'd army now have lain
 
 CATO 401 
 
 On Afric's sands, disfigur'd with their wounds, 
 To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia. 
 
 Juba. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh ? 
 My father's name brings tears into my eyes. 
 
 Syfhax Oh ! that you'd profit by your father's ills ! 
 
 Juba. What wouldst thou have me do ? 
 
 Syphax. Abandon Cato. 
 
 Juba. S} T phax, I should be more than twice an orphan 
 By such a loss. 
 
 Syphax. Ay, there's the tie that binds you! 
 You long to call him father. Marcia's charms 
 Work in your heart unseen, and plead for Cato. 
 No wonder you are deaf to all I say. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate; 
 I've hitherto permitted it to rave, 
 And talk at large ; but learn to keep it in, 
 Lest it should take more freedom than I'll give it. 
 
 Syphax. Sir, your great father never used me thus. 
 Alas ! he's dead ! but can you e'er forget 
 The tender sorrows, and the pangs of nature, 
 The fond embraces, and repeated blessings, 
 Which yuu drew from him in your last farewel ? 
 Still must t cherish the dear, sad remembrance, 
 At once to torture and to please my soul. 
 The good old king at parting wrung my hand, 
 (His eyes brim-full of tears) then sighing cry'd, 
 Prithee be careful of my sou ! — his grief 
 Swell'd up so high, he could not utter more. 
 
 Juba. Alas! thy Btory melts away my bouI. 
 That best of fathers! how shall I discharge 
 The gratitude and duty which I owe him ! 
 
 Syphax \>y la)ing up his counsels in your heart
 
 402 DRAA1AS 
 
 Juba. His counsels bade me yield to tliy directions'. 
 Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms, 
 Vent all thy passion, and I'll stand its shock, 
 Calm and unruffled as a summer-sea, 
 When not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface. 
 
 Syphax. Alas ! my prince, I'd guide you to your safety 
 
 Juba. I do believe thou wouldst: but tell me how? 
 
 Syphax: Fly from the fate that follows Caesar's foes. 
 
 Juba. My father scorn'd to do it. 
 
 Sypiiax. And therefore died. 
 
 Juba. Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths, 
 Than wound my honour. 
 
 Sypiiax. Rather say your love. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my temper. 
 Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame 
 I long have stifled, and would fain conceal ? 
 
 Syihax. Believe me, prince, tho' hard to conquer love, 
 'Tis easy to divert and break its force : 
 Absence might cure it, or a second mistress 
 Light up another flame, and put out this. 
 The glowing dames of Zama's royal court 
 Have faces flusht with more exalted charms ; 
 The sun, that rolls his chariot o'er their heads 
 Works up more fire and colour in their cheeks : 
 Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon forget 
 The pale, unripen'd beauties of the north. 
 
 Ji;ba. 'Tis not a set of features, or complexion, 
 The tincture of a skin, that I admire. 
 Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, 
 Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense 
 The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her sex. 
 True, she is fair, (oh how divinely fair!) 

 
 <: a t o . 403 
 
 But still the lovely maid improves her charms 
 With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom, 
 And sanctity of manners. Cato's soul 
 Shines out in every thing she acts or speaks, 
 While winning mildness and attractive smiles 
 Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace 
 Soften the rigour of her father's virtues. 
 
 Syphax. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise ! 
 But on my knees I beg you would consider — 
 
 Juba. Hah ! Syphax, is'tnot she ? — she moves this way : 
 And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter. 
 My heart beats thick — I prithee, Syphax, leave me. 
 
 Syphax. Ten thousand curses fasten on 'em both !• 
 Now will this woman, with a single glance, 
 Undo what I've been labouring all this while. \Exit 
 
 SCENE V. ft 
 Juba, Marcia, Lucia. 
 
 Juba. Hail, charming maid ! how does thy beauty smooth 
 TV; face of war, and make even horror smile ! 
 At sight of thee my heart shakes off its sorrows; 
 T feel a dawn of joy break in upon me, 
 And for a while forget th' approach of Crcsar. 
 
 Marcia. I should be griev'd, young prince, to think my 
 presence 
 Unbent your thoughts, and slacken'd 'em to arms, 
 
 •The love-scenee in Cato, arc beautiful in themselves, and the play 
 could n'»t have made its fortune without them. Bui " Non eral hie locus, 
 — yel they are not so much out of place here, ■■<" they mighl have been 
 
 ewhere ; for the) erve, in some di ee, I ver (he defect of the fable, 
 
 which ; - v.rv andramntic; and could, I think, by n<> management, be 
 irorked up t,<> a d le degr< distress.
 
 404 DRAMAS. 
 
 While, warm with slaughter, our victorious foe 
 Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field. 
 
 Jui.a. Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns 
 And gentle wishes follow me to battle ! 
 The thought will give new vigour to my arm, 
 Add strength and weight to my descending sword, 
 And drive it in a tempest on the foe. 
 
 Marcia. My prayers and wishes always shall attend 
 The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue, 
 And men approv'd of by the gods and Cato. 
 
 Juba. That Juba may deserve thy pious cares, 
 I'll gaze for ever on thy godlike father, 
 Transplanting, one by one, into my life, 
 His bright perfections, till I shine like him. 
 
 Marcia. My father never, at a time like this, 
 Would lay out his great soul in words, and waste 
 Such precious moments. 
 
 Juba. Thy reproofs are just, 
 
 Thou virtuous maid; I'll hasten to my troops 
 And fire their languid souls with Cato's virtue. 
 If e'er I lead them to the field, when all 
 The war shall stand rang'd in its just array, 
 And dreadful pomp : then will I think on thee ! 
 lovely maid, then will I think on thee ! 
 And, in the shock of charging hosts, remember 
 What glorious deeds should grace the man, who hopes 
 For Marcia's love. ~ Exit.
 
 C A T o 405 
 
 SCENE VT. 
 LucrA, Marcia. 
 
 Lucia. Marcia, you're too severe : 
 
 How could you chide the young good-natured pi. nee, 
 And drive him from you with so stern an air; 
 A prince that loves and doats on you to death ? 
 
 Mai; cia. "lis therefore, Lucia, that I chide him from me 
 His air, his voice, his looks, and honest soul 
 Speak all so movingly in his behalf, 
 I dare not trust myself to hear him talk. 
 
 Lucia. Why will you fight against so sweet a passion, 
 And steel your heart to such a world of charms ? 
 I' Marcia. How, Lucia ! would : st thou have me sink away 
 In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love, 
 When every moment Cato's life's at stake 1 
 Caesar comes arm'd with terror and revenge, 
 And aims his thunder at my father's head: 
 Should not the sad occasion swallow up 
 My other cares, and draw them all into it ? 
 
 Lucia.' Why have not I this constancy of mind, 
 Who have so many griefs to try its force? 
 Sure, nature form'd me of her softest mould, 
 Enfeebled all my soul with tender passions, 
 And sunk me even below my own weak sex: 
 Pity and love, by turns, oppress my heart. 
 
 M iecia. Lucia, disburthen all thy cares on rac, 
 A ' i < I lei me .-hare thy most retired distri 
 Tell me who raises up this conflict in thee? 
 
 Li ci \. I need not blush to name them, when 1 icll thee 
 Thev're Marc > brothers, and the sons of Cato
 
 406 DRAMAS. 
 
 Marcia. They both behold thee with their sister's cy6 . 
 And often have revealed their passion to me. 
 But tell me whose address thou favour'st most : 
 I long to know, and yet I dread to hear it. 
 
 Lucia. Which is it Marcia wishes for ? 
 
 Marcia. For neither — 
 
 And yet for both — the youths have equal share 
 In Marcia's wishes, and divide their sister : 
 But tell me, which of them is Lucia's choice? 
 
 Lucia. Marcia, they both are high in my esteem, 
 But in my love — why wilt thou make me name him ? 
 Thou know'st it is a blind and foolish passion, 
 Pleas'd and disgusted with it knows not what — 
 
 Marcia. Lucia, I'm perplex'd, tell me which 
 I must hereafter call my happy brother ? 
 
 Lucia. Suppose 'twere Portius, could you blame my choice? 
 — Portius, thou hast stol'n away my soul ! 
 With what a graceful tenderness he loves ! 
 And breathes the softest, the sincerest vows ! 
 Complacency, and truth, and manly sweetness 
 Dwell ever on his tongue, and smooth his thoughts. 
 Marcus is over warm, his fond complaints 
 Have so much earnestness and passion in them, 
 I hear him with a secret kind of horror, 
 And tremble at his vehemence of temper. 
 
 Marcia. Alas, poor youth ! how canst thou throw Lim 
 from thee ? 
 Lucia, thou know'st not half the love he bears thee ; 
 Whene'er he speaks of thee, his heart's in flames, 
 He sends out all his soul in every word, 
 And thinks, and talks, and looks like one transported. 
 Unhappy youth ! how will thy coldness raise 

 
 CATO. 407 
 
 Tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom ! 
 : T dread the consequence. 
 
 Lucia. You seem to plead 
 Against your brother Portius. 
 
 Marcca. Heaven forbid ! 
 Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover, 
 The same compassion would have fall'n on him. 
 
 Lucia. Was ever virgin love distress'd like mine ! 
 Portius himself oft falls in tears before me, *• 
 As if he mourn'd his rival's ill success, 
 Then bids me hide the motions of my heart, 
 Nor show which way it turns. So much he fears 
 The sad effects that it would have on Marcus. 
 
 Marcia. He knows too well how* easily he's fir«d, 
 And would not plunge his brother in despair, 
 But waits for happier times, and kinder moments 
 
 Lucia. Alas ! too late I find myself involved 
 In endless griefs, and labyrinths of woe, 
 Born to afflict my Marcia's family, 
 And sow dissension in the hearts of brothers. 
 Tormenting thought ! it cuts into my soul. 
 
 Marcia. Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our sorrows 
 But to the gods permit th' event of things. 
 Our lives, discolour'd with our present woes, 
 May still grow white, and smile witli happier hours. 
 
 So the pure limpid stream, 1 when foul with stains 
 Of rushing torrents and descending rains, 
 
 • Falls in tears. It should be "falls into tears," li" might bay* laid, 
 
 h Si, tin- pure limpid tin <"/'. A beaut iful Bimile, in the mout li <>f ,i lady. 
 uri'l tin- iM".-i. natural thai could be, in the mouth of ;i Roman ladv, win 
 had freqnenl opportunities "I seeing the yellow Tiber, aa it wu* tailed, 
 .•..riii-;i<-i, uij'I discharge il - colour,
 
 408 DRAMAS. 
 
 Works itself clear, and as it runs, refines ; 
 
 Till, by degrees, the floating mirror shines, 
 
 Reflects each flow'r that on the border grows, 
 
 A.nd a new heaven in its fair bosom shows. [Exeunt 
 
 ACT II. 
 SCENE I.» 
 
 The Senate. 
 
 Sempronius. Rome still survives in this assembled sen- 
 ate ! 
 Let us remember we are Cato's friends, 
 And act like men who claim that glorious title. 
 
 Lucius. Cato will soon be here, and open to us 
 Th' occasion of our meeting. Hark ! he comes ! 
 
 [A sound of trumpets 
 May all the guardian gods of Rome direct him ! 
 
 Enter Cato. 
 
 Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in council 
 Caesar's approach has summon'd us together, 
 And Rome attends her fate from our resolves : 
 How shall we treat this bold aspiring man ? 
 
 That no grace might be wanting, we have it introduced by a metaphoi 
 taken from this circumstance: 
 
 " Our lives discoloured.'" 
 
 I question if there be another instance of so consummate art, and taste, in 
 any writer. 
 
 a Before the author wrote this and the following scene, he had warmed 
 his patriotism, as well as imagination, with the Philippics of Cicero.
 
 cato. 400 
 
 Success still follows him, and backs his crimes; 
 Pharsalia gave him Rome ; Egypt has since 
 Receiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cesar's. 
 Why should I mention Juba's overthrow, 
 And Scipio's death ? Numidia's burning sands 
 Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree 
 What course to take. Our foe advances on us, 
 And envies us even Libya's sultry deserts. 
 Fathers, pronounce your thoughts, are they still fixt 
 To hold it out, and fight it to the last 7 
 Or are your hearts subdu'd at length, and wrought 
 By time and ill success to a submission ? 
 Sempronius, speak. 
 
 Sempronius. My voice is still for war. 
 Gods, can a Roman senate long debate 
 Which of the two to chuse, slavery or death ! 
 No, let us rise at once, gird on our swords, 
 And, at the head of our remaining troops, 
 Attack the foe, break through the thick array 
 Of his throng'd legions, and charge home upon him. 
 Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, 
 May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage 
 Rise, fathers, rise ! 'tis Rome demands your help ; 
 Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd citizens, 
 Or share their fate ! the corps of half her senate 
 Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we 
 Sit here, "deliberating in cold debates, 
 If we should Baerifice our lives to honour, 
 Or wear them oul in servitude and chains. 
 House up, for shame ! our brothers of Pharsalia 
 I'.'int nt tli<ir wounds, and <r\ aloud To battle! 
 
 vcu.. :. — 18
 
 410 DRAMAS. 
 
 Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, 
 And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us ! 
 Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal 
 M Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason : 
 True fortitude is seen in great exploits 
 That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides, 
 All else is towering phrenzy and distraction. 
 Are not the lives of those, who draw the sword 
 In Rome's defence, intrusted to our care ? 
 Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter, 
 Might not th' impartial world with reason say 
 We lavish'd at our death the blood of thousands, 
 To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious ? 
 Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion. 
 
 Lucius. My thoughts, I must confess, are turn'd on 
 peace. 
 Already have our quarrels fill'd the world 
 "With widows and with orphans : Scythia mourns 
 Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions 
 Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome : 
 'Tis time to sheath the sword, and spare mankind. 
 It is not Caesar, but the gods, my fathers, 
 The gods declare against us, and repel 
 Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle, 
 (Prompted by blind revenge and wild despair) 
 Were to refuse th' awards of Providence, 
 And not to rest in heaven's determination. 
 Already have we shown our love to Rome, 
 Now let us show submission to the gods. 
 We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, 
 But free the common-wealth ; when this end fails, 
 Arms have no further use : our country's sause,
 
 CATO. 411 
 
 That drew our swords, now wrests 'em from our bands, 
 
 And bids us not delight iu Roman blood, 
 
 Unprofitably shed ; what men could do 
 
 Is done already : Heaven and earth will witness, 
 
 If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. 
 
 Sempronius. This smooth discourse and mild behavioui 
 oft 
 Conceal a traitor — something whispers me 
 All is not right — Cato, beware of Lucius. [Aside to C'Uo 
 
 Cato. Let us appear nor rash nor diffident: 
 Immoderate valour swells into a fault, 
 &/ And fear, admitted into public councils, 
 
 Betrays like treason. Let us shun 'em both. 
 
 Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs 
 
 Are grown thus desperate. "We have bulwarks fVmd us; 
 
 Within our walls are troops inured to toil 
 
 Iu Afric's heat, and season'd to the sun; 
 
 Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us, 
 
 Ready to rise at its young prince's call. 
 
 While there is hope, do not distrust the gods ; 
 
 But wait at least till Crcsars near approach 
 
 Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late 
 
 To sue for chains and own a conqueror. 
 
 Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time? 
 
 No, let us draw her term of freedom out 
 
 In its full length, and spin it to the last, 
 
 Ho shall wi- gain still one day's liberty ; 
 
 And lei nil- perish, bul in Cato's judgment 
 
 A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty, 
 
 Is worth a whole eternity in bondage.
 
 412 
 
 DRAMAS, 
 
 Enter Marcus. 
 
 Marcus. Fathers, this moment, as I watched the gates 
 Lodged on my post, a herald is arrived 
 From Caesar's camp, and with him comes old Decius, 
 The Roman knight; he carries in his looks 
 Impatience, and demands to speak with Cato. 
 
 Cato. By your permission, fathers, bid him enter. 
 
 {Exit Marcus, 
 Decius was once my friend, but other prospects 
 Have loosed those ties, and bound him fast to Caesar. 
 His message may determine our resolves. 
 
 SCENE IT. 
 Decius, Cato, Etc. 
 
 Decius. Cassar sends health to Cato. — 
 
 Cato. Could he send it 
 To Cato's slaughter'd friends' it would be welcome. 
 Are not your orders to address the senate ? 
 
 Decius. My business is with Cato : Cresar sees 
 The straits to which you're driven ; and, as he knows 
 Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life. 
 
 Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome : 
 Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country. 
 Tell your dictator this ; and tell him, Cato 
 Disdains a life which he has power to offer. 
 
 Decius. Rome and her senators submit to Caesar; 
 Her generals and her consuls are no more, 
 "Who check'd his conquests, and denied his triumphs. 
 Why will not. Cato be this Caesar's friend ? 
 
 Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urged forbid it.
 
 C ATO. 41S 
 
 Decius. Cato, I've orders to expostulate 
 And reason with you as from friend to friend : 
 Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head, 
 And threatens every hour to burst upon it ; 
 Still may you stand high in your country's honours, 
 Do but compty, and make your peace with Caesar. 
 Rome will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato, 
 As on the second of mankind. 
 
 Cato. No more ! 
 
 I must not think of life on such conditions. 
 
 Decius. Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues, 
 And therefore sets this value on your life : 
 Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship, 
 And name your terms. 
 
 Cato. Bid him disband his legions, 
 
 Restore the commonwealth to liberty, 
 Submit his actions to the public censure, 
 And stand the judgment of a Roman senate. 
 Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. 
 
 Decius. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom— 
 
 Cato. Nay more, tho' Cato's voice was ue'er employ'd 
 To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes, 
 Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour, 
 And strive to gain his pardon from the people. 
 
 Decius. A style like this becomes a conqueror. 
 
 Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman. 
 
 Decius. What is a Roman, that is Ciesar's foe ? 
 
 Cato. Greater than Caesar: he's a friend to virtue. 
 
 Decius. Consider, Cato, you're in Utica, 
 And at the head of your own little senate; 
 You ilun't now thunder in the Capitol, 
 With all the mouths of Rome t<> second you.
 
 4 J 4 DRAMAS. 
 
 Cato. Let him consider that, who drives us hithe 
 'Tis Caesar's sword has made Rome's senate little, 
 i And thinn'd its ranks. Alas! thy dazzled eye 
 Beholds this man in a false glaring light, 
 Which conquest and success have thrown upon him ; 
 Didst thou but view him right, thou'dst see him black 
 With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes 
 That strike my soul with horror but to name 'em. 
 I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch 
 Beset with ills, and cover'd with misfortunes ; 
 But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds 
 Should never buy me to be like that Caesar. 
 
 Decius. Does Cato send this answer back to Caesar, 
 For all his generous cares, and profFer'd friendship ? 
 
 Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain : 
 Presumptuous man ! the gods take care of Cato. 
 Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul, 
 Bid him employ his care for these my friends, 
 And make good use of his ill-gotten power, 
 By shelt'ring men much better than himself. 
 
 Decius. Your high unconquer'd heart makes you forget 
 You are a man. You rush on your destruction. 
 But I have done. When I relate hereafter 
 The tale of this unhappy embassy, 
 All Rome will be in tears. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Sempronius, Lucius, Cato, Etc. 
 
 Semtronius. Cato, we thank thee. 
 
 The mighty genius of immortal Rome 
 Speaks in thy voice, thy soul breathes liberty :
 
 CATC 4 1 5 
 
 Cassar will shrink to hear the words thou utter'st, 
 And shudder in the midst of all his conquests. 
 
 Lucius. The senate owns its gratitude to Cato, 
 "Who with so great a soul consults its safety, 
 And guards our lives, while he neglects his own. 
 
 Sempronius. Sempronius gives no thanks on this account 
 Lucius seems fond of life ; but what is life ? 
 'Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air 
 From time to time, or gaze upon the sun ; 
 'Tis to be free. When liberty is gone, 
 Life grows insipid, and has lost its relish. 
 could my dying hand but lodge a sword 
 In Caesar's bosom, and revenge my country, 
 By heavens I could enjoy the pangs of death, 
 And smile in agony. 
 
 Lucius. Others, perhaps, 
 
 May *«rvc their country with as warm a zeal, 
 Though 'tis not kindled into so much rage. 
 
 Sempronius. This sober conduct is a mighty virtue 
 In lukewarm patriots. 
 
 Cato. Come .' no more, Sempronius, 
 
 All here are friends to Home, and to each other. 
 Let us not weaken still the weaker side 
 By our divisions. 
 
 Sempronius. Cato, mf resentments 
 Are sacrificed to Rome — I stand reprov'd. 
 
 Cato. Fathers, 'tis time you come to a resolve. 
 
 Lucius. Cato, we all go into your opinion. 
 Caesar's behaviour has convinced the senate 
 We ought to hold it out till terms arrive." 
 
 * 77// termt arriie. Terms //<"/ arrived, already; or which is better, 
 D"''!ti-i t<-ll* Cato Ik was at liberty to name his termt; but uo terms could
 
 416 DRAMAS. 
 
 Sempronius. We ought to hold it out till death ; but, Cato, 
 My private voice is drown'd amid the senate's. 
 
 Cato. Then let us rise, my friends, and strive to fill 
 This little interval, this pause of life, 
 (While yet our liberty and ff.tes are doubtful) 
 With resolution, friendship, Roman bravery, 
 And all the virtues we can crowd into it ; 
 That heaven may say, it ought to be prolong'd. 
 Fathers, farewel — The young Numidian prince 
 Comes forward, and expects to know our counsels. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Cato, Juba. 
 
 Cato. Juba, the Roman senate has resolv'tl, 
 Till time give better prospects, still to keep 
 The sword unsheath'd, and turn its edge on Caesar. 
 
 Juba. The resolution fits a Roman senate 
 But, Cato, lend me for a while thy patience, 
 And condescend to hear a young man speak. 
 
 My father, when some days before his death 
 He order 'd me to march for Utica 
 (Alas ! I thought not then his death so near !) 
 Wept o'er me, prest me in his aged arms, 
 And, as bis griefs gave way,* My son,' said he, 
 
 be accepted, so long as Cfesar resolved to keep his power. The sentence be- 
 fore us is, then, clearly incomplete, and should be given thus, without a full 
 stop, — " We ought to hold it out till terms arrive," meaning to add "which 
 it becomes .is to accept" or some such tiling. But Sempronius, in his blus- 
 tering way, catches at the word "terms," and breaks in upon Lucius, with 
 wiving — "We ought to hold it out till death." That some such clause, as I 
 have supposed, is wanting to complete the sense, is evident, not only from 
 the reason of the thing, but from what Cato tells Juba in the next scene, that 
 the resolution of the senate was to hold out "Till time give better proa 
 pects," i. e. not only till terms arrive but better itrms, than had vet b»cD 
 otfered.
 
 C ATO . 
 
 ' Whatever fortune shall befall thy father, 
 Be Cato's friend, he'll train thee up to great 
 J And virtuous deeds : do but observe him well, 
 Thou'lt shun misfortunes, or thou'lt learn to bear 'em. 1 
 
 Cato. Juba, thy father was a worthy prince, 
 And merited, alas ! a better fate ; 
 But heaven thought otherwise. 
 
 Juba. My father's fate, 
 
 In spite of all the fortitude that shines 
 Before my face, in Cato's great example, 
 Subdues my soul, and fills my eyes with tears. 
 Cato. It is an honest sorrow, and becomes thee. 
 Juba. My father drew respect from foreign climes ■ 
 The kings of Afric sought him for their friend ; 
 Kings far remote, that rule, as fame reports, 
 Behind the hidden sources of the Nile, 
 In distant worlds, on t'other side the sun : 
 Oft have their black ambassadors appeared, 
 Loaden with gifts, and fill'd the courts of Zama. 
 Cato. I am no stranger to thy father's greatness ! 
 Juba. I would not boast the greatness of my father 
 But point out new alliances to Cato. 
 Had we not better leave this Utica, . 
 To arm Numidia in our cause, and court 
 Th' assistance of my father's powerful friends ? 
 Did they know Cato, our remotest kings 
 Would pour embattled multitudes about him; 
 Their swarthy hosts would darken all our plains 
 Doubling the native horror of the war, 
 And making death more grim. 
 
 Cato. And canst thou think 
 
 Cato will fly before the sword of Caesar ? 
 
 VOL. I. — 18* 
 
 417
 
 
 418 DRAMAS. 
 
 Reduced like Hannibal, to seek relief 
 
 From court to court, and wander up and down, 
 
 A vagabond in Afric ! 
 
 Juba. Cato, perhaps 
 
 I'm too officious, but my forward cares 
 "Would fain preserve a life of so much value. 
 My heart is wounded, when I see such virtue 
 Afflicted by the weight of such misfortunes. 
 
 Cato. Thy nobleness of soul obliges me. 
 But know, young prince, that valour soars above 
 What the world calls misfortune and affliction. 
 ' These are not ills ; else would they never fall 
 On heaven's first favourites, and the best of men 
 The gods, in bounty, work up storms about us, 
 That give mankind occasion to exert 
 Their hidden strength, and throw out into practice 
 Virtues, which shun the day, and lie conceald 
 In the smooth seasons and the calms of life. 
 
 Juba. I'm charm'd whene'er thou talk'st ! I pant for 
 virtue ! 
 And all my soul endeavours at perfection. 
 
 Cato. Dost thou love watchings, abstinence, and toil. 
 Laborious virtues .all ? learn them from Cato : 
 Success and fortune must thou learn from Caesar. 
 
 Juba. The best good fortune that can fall on Juba, 
 The whole success at which my heart aspires 
 Depends on Cato. 
 
 Cato. What does Juba say ? 
 
 Thy words confound me. 
 
 Juba. I would fain retract them, 
 
 Give 'em me back again. They aiin'd at nothing.
 
 C ATO. 419 
 
 Cato. Tell mc thy wish, young prince; make not my ear 
 A. stranger to thy thoughts.* 
 
 Juba. Oh ! they're extravagant ; 
 
 Still let me hide them. 
 
 Cato. What can Juba ask 
 
 That Cato will refuse ! 
 
 Juba. I fear to name it. 
 
 Marcia — inherits all her father's virtues. 
 
 Cato. What wouldst thou say ? 
 
 Juba. Cato, thou hast a daughter. 
 
 Cato. Adieu, young prince : I would not hear a word 
 Should lessen thee in my esteem : remember 
 The hand of fate is over us, and heaven 
 Exacts severity from all our thoughts : 
 It is not now a time to talk of aught 
 But chains or conquest; liberty or death. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Syphax, Juba. 
 
 Syphax. How's this, my prince! what, . cover'd with 
 confusion ? 
 You look as if yon stern philosopher 
 Had just now chid you. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, I'm undone ! 
 
 Syphax. I know it well. 
 
 Juba. Cato thinks meanly of me. 
 
 Syphax And so will all mankind. 
 
 • Make not my car a stranger to thy thoughts. Quaintly expressed, 
 tad hco.n better to say plainly, 
 
 " and mnke me not 
 
 A stranger to thy thoughts."
 
 420 D E A M A S . 
 
 Juba. I've opened to him 
 
 The weakness of my soul, my love for Marcia. 
 
 Syphax. Cato's a proper person to intrust 
 A love-tale with. 
 
 Juba. Oh ! I could pierce my heart, 
 
 My foolish heart ! was ever wretch like Juba ? 
 
 Syphax. Alas ! my prince, how you are changed of late t 
 I've known young Juba rise, before the sun, 
 To beat the thicket where the tiger slept, 
 Or seek the lion in his dreadful haunts : 
 How did the colour mount into your cheeks, 
 When first you rous'd him to the chase ! I've seen you, 
 Even in the Libyan dog-days, hunt him down, 
 Then charge him close, provoke him to the rage 
 Of fangs and claws, and stooping from your horse 
 Rivet the panting savage to the ground. 
 
 Juba. Prithee, no more ! 
 
 Syphax. How would the old king smile 
 
 To see you weigh the paws, when tipp'd with gold, 
 And throw the shaggy spoils about your shoulders ! 
 
 Juba. Syphax, this old man's talk (tho' honey flow'd 
 In every word) would now lose all its sweetness. 
 Cato's displeas'd, and- Marcia lost for ever ! 
 
 Syphax. Young prince, I yet could give you good advice 
 Marcia might still be yours. 
 
 Juba. What say'st thou, Syphax ? 
 
 By heavens, thou turn'st me all into attention 
 
 Syphax. Marcia might still be yours. 
 
 Juba. As how, dear Syphax? 
 
 Syphax. Juba commands Numidia's hardy troops, 
 Mounted on steeds, unused to the restraint 
 Of curbs or bits, and fleeter than the winds :
 
 C A T o . 42 , 
 
 Give but the word, we'll snatch this damsel up 
 And bear her off. 
 
 Juba. Can such dishonest thoughts 
 
 Rise up in man ! wouldst thou seduce my youth 
 To do an act that would destroy my honour ? 
 
 Sypiiax. Gods ! I could tear my beard to hear you talk ! 
 Honour's a fine imaginary notion, 
 That draws in raw and unexperienced men 
 To real mischiefs, while they hunt a shadow. 
 
 Juba. "Wouldst thou degrade thy prince into a ruffian ? 
 
 Syfhax. The boasted ancestors of these great men, 
 Whose virtues you admire, were all such ruffians. 
 This dread of nations, this almighty Rome, 
 That comprehends in her wide empire's bounds 
 All under heaven, was founded on a rape. 
 Your Scipios, Csesars, Pompeys, and your Catos, 
 (These gods on earth) are all the spurious brood 
 Of violated maids, of rayish'd Sabines. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, I fear that hoary head of thine 
 Abounds too much in our Numidian wiles. 
 
 Sypiiax. Indeed, my prince, you want to know the world 
 You have not read mankind ; your youth admires 
 The throws and swellings of a Roman soul, 
 Cato's bold flights, the extravagance of virtue. 
 
 Juba. If knowledge of the world makes man perfidious, 
 May Juba ever live in ignorance ! 
 
 Syphax. Go, go, you're young. 
 
 .1 1 ba. Gods! must I tamely bear 
 
 This arrogance unanswer'd ! thou'rt a traitor, 
 A false "Id traitor. 
 
 Hv rii ax. I have gone too far. [Aside 
 
 J i;.i Cato shall know the baseness of thy soul
 
 4 22 DRAMAS. 
 
 Syphax I must appease this storm, or perish in it. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Young prince, behold these locks that are grown white 
 Beneath a helmet in your father's battles. 
 
 Juba. Those locks shall ne'er protect thy insolence 
 
 Syphax. Must one rash word, th' infirmity of age, 
 Throw down the merit of my better years ? 
 This the reward of a whole life of service ! 
 — Curse on the boy ! how steadily he hears me ! [Aside. 
 
 Juba. Is it because the throne of my forefathers 
 Still stands unfill'd, and that Numidia's crown 
 Hangs doubtful yet, whose head it shall inclose, 
 Thou thus presumest to treat thy prince with scorn ? 
 
 Syphax. Why will you rive my heart with such 
 expressions? 
 Does not old Syphax follow you to war 1 
 What are his aims % why does he load with darts 
 His trembling hand, and crush .beneath a casque 
 His wrinkled brows ? what is it he aspires to ? 
 Is it not this ? to shed the slow remains, 
 His last poor ebb of blood, in your defence ? 
 Juba. Syphax, no more ! I*would not hear you talk. 
 
 Syphax. Not hear me talk! what, when my faith tc 
 Juba, 
 My royal master's son, is call'd in question? 
 My prince may strike me dead, and I'll be dumb : 
 But whilst I live I must not hold my tongue, 
 And languish out old age in his displeasure. 
 
 Juba. Thou know'st the way too well into my heart, 
 I do believe thee loyal to thy prince. 
 
 Syphax. What greater instance can I giva? I've offer'd
 
 c a t o . 423 
 
 To do an action, which my soul abnors, 
 And gain you whom you love at any price. 
 
 Juba. "Was this thy motive ? I have been too hasty. 
 
 Syphax. And 'tis for this my prince has called me 
 traitor. 
 
 Juba. Sure thou mistakest ; I did not call thee so. 
 
 Syphax. You did indeed, my prince, you called me 
 traitor : 
 Nay, farther, threaten'd you'd complain to Cato. 
 Of what, my prince, would you complain to Cato ? 
 That Syphax loves you, and would sacrifice 
 His life, nay, more, his honour in your service. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, I know thou lov'st me, but indeed 
 Thy zeal for Juba carried thee too far. 
 a Honour's a sacred tie, the law of kings, 
 The noble mind's distinguishing perfection, 
 That aids and strengthens virtue where it meets her, 
 And imitates her actions, where she is not : 
 It ought not to be sported with. 
 
 Syphax. By heavens 
 
 I'm ravish'd when you talk thus, tho' you chide me 1 
 Alas ! I've hitherto been used to think 
 A blind officious zeal to serve my king 
 The ruling principle that ought to burn 
 And quench all others in a subject's heart. 
 Happy the people, who preserve their honour 
 liy the same duties that oblige their prince ! 
 
 Juba. Syphax, thou now bcgin'st to speak thyself. 
 Numidia'a grown a scorn among the nations 
 For breach of public vows. Our Punic faith 
 
 •For a comment on these famonn lines, see Note on the Quard.an, No 
 161. 
 
 /
 
 421 DRAMA? 
 
 Is infamous, and branded to a proverb. 
 Syphax, we'll join our cares, to purge away 
 Our country's crimes, and clear her reputation. 
 
 Syphax. Believe me, prince, you make old Syj. has. weep 
 To hear you talk — but 'tis with tears of joy. 
 If e'er your father's crown adorn your brows, 
 Numidia will be blest by Cato's lectures. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, thy hand ! we'll mutually forget 
 The warmth of youth, and forwardness of age : 
 Thy prince esteems thy worth, and loves thy person. 
 If e'er the sceptre comes into my hand, 
 Syphax shall stand the second in my kingdom. 
 
 Syphax. Why will you overwhelm my age with kindness ? 
 My joy grows burdensome, I shan't support it. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, farewel, I'll hence, and try to find 
 Some blest occasion that may set me right 
 In Cato's thoughts. I'd rather have that man a 
 Approve my deeds, than worlds for my admirers. 
 
 Syphax solus. Young men soon give, and soon forget 
 affronts ; 
 Old age is slow in both — a false old traitor ! 
 Those words, rash boy, may chance to cost thee dear. 
 My heart had still some foolish fondness for thee : 
 But hence ! 'tis gone : I give it to the winds : — 
 Ctesar, I'm wholly thine — b 
 
 * I'd rather have that man, &c. That is, Juba's honour was the love of 
 honest praise. See the note before referred to. 
 
 b C'wsar, I'm wholly thine. Nature is finely touched >n this scene, but 
 especially in the concluding soliloquy of Syphax An ordinary writer 
 would not have reflected, that the worst of .men ar^ e;lad to hvj bold o. 
 some pretence, to reconcile their baseness to then. selves.
 
 c a t o . 425 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Sypiiax. Sempronius. 
 
 Syphax. All hail, Sempronius ! 
 
 Well, Cato's senate is resolved to wait 
 The fury of a siege before it yields. 
 
 Sempronius. Syphax, we both were on the verge of fate : 
 Lucius declared for peace, and terms were offer'd 
 To Cato by a messenger from Caesar. 
 Should they submit, ere our designs are ripe, 
 We both must perish in the common wreck, 
 Lost in a general undistinguish'd ruin. 
 
 Syphax. But how stands Cato ? 
 
 Sempronius. Thou hast seen Mount Atlas ■ » 
 
 While storms and tempests thunder on its brows, 
 And oceans break their billows at its feet, 
 It stands unmoved, and glories in its height. 
 Such is that haughty man ; his towering soul, 
 'Midst all the shocks and injuries of fortune, 
 llises superior, and looks down on Caesar. 
 
 Syphax. But what's this messenger? 
 
 Sempronius. I've praetis'd with him, 
 
 And found a means to let the victor know 
 That Syphax and Sempronius are his friends. 
 But let me now examine in my turn: 
 i.i Juba fixt ? 
 
 Sypiiax. Yes — but it is to Cato, 
 
 I've try'd the force of every reason on him, 
 
 a Hum host teen M<,hi<i Alius. Wonderfully judicious. The simile, aa 
 fine as it is, had been eold and trivial, if ho particular mountain had been 
 specified; and none could !»■ so properly and gacefully specified in ■ 
 »i.nii<: addressed t" Syphax, as Mount Ail<is.
 
 126 DRAMAS. 
 
 Sooth'd and caress'd, been angry, sooth'd again, 
 Laid safety, life, and interest in his sight, 
 But all are vain, he scorns them all for Cato. 
 
 Sempronius. Come, 'tis no matter, we shall do without him. 
 He'll make a pretty figure in a triumph, 
 And serve to trip before the victor's chariot. 
 Syphax, I now may hope thou hast forsook 
 Thy Juba's cause, and wishest Marcia mine. 
 
 Syphax. May she be thine as fast as thou wouldst have her ! 
 
 Sempronius. Syphax, I love that woman ; though I curse 
 Her and myself, yet, spite of me, I love her. 
 
 Syphax. Make Cato sure, and give up Utica, 
 Caesar will ne'er refuse thee such a trifle. 
 But are thy troops prepared for a revolt ? 
 Does the sedition catch from man to man, 
 And run among their ranks ? 
 
 Sempronius. All; all is ready, 
 
 The factious leaders are our friends, that spread 
 Murmurs and discontents among the soldiers. 
 They count their toilsome marches, long fatigues, 
 Unusual fastings, and will bear no more 
 This medley of philosophy and war. 
 Within an hour they'll storm the senate-house. 
 
 Syphax. Meanwhile I'll draw up my Numidian troops. 
 Within the square, to exercise their arms, 
 And, as I see occasion, favour thee. 
 I laugh to think how your unshaken Cato 
 Will look aghast, while unforeseen destruction 
 Pours in upon him thus from every side. 
 So, where our wide Numidian wastes a extend, 
 Sudden, th' impetuous hurricanes descend, 
 
 » Numidian. wastes The same beauty as in the simile of Mount Atlas.
 
 C A T O . 
 
 42? 
 
 Wheel through the air, in circling eddies play, 
 Tear up the sands, and sweep whole plains away. 
 The helpless traveller, with wild surprise, 
 Sees the dry desert, all around him rise, 
 And smotker'd in the dusty whirlwind dies. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Marcus, Portius. 
 
 Marcus. Thanks to my stars, I have not ranged about 
 The wilds of life, ere I could find a friend ; 
 Nature first pointed out my Portius to me, 
 And early taught me, by her secret force, 
 To love thy person, ere I knew thy merit ; 
 -Till, what was instinct, grew up into friendship. 
 
 Portius. Marcus, the friendships of the world are oft 
 Confederacies in vice, or leagues of pleasure ; 
 O'u-s has severest virtue for its basis, 
 / ad such a friendship ends not but with life. 
 
 Marcus. Portius. thou know'st my soul in all its weakness, 
 Then prithee spare me on its tender side, 
 Indulge me but in love, my other passions 
 Shall rise and fall by virtue's nicest rules. 
 
 Portius. When love's well-timed, 'tis not a fault to love 
 The strong, the brave, the virtuous, and the wise, 
 Sink in the soft captivity together, 
 I would not urge thee to dismiss thy passion, 
 (I know 'twere vain) but to suppress its force, 
 Till better times may make it look more graceful. 
 
 Marcus. Alas thou talk'st like one who never felt 
 
 /
 
 428 DRAMAS. 
 
 Th' impatient throbs and longings of a soul, 
 That pants, and reaches after distant good. 
 A lover does not live by vulgar time : 
 Believe me, Portius, in my Lucia's absence 
 Life hangs upon me, and becomes a burden ; 
 And yet, when I behold the charming maid, 
 I'm ten times more undone ; while hope and fear, 
 And grief, and rage, and love, rise up at once, 
 And with variety of pain distract me. 
 
 Portius. What can thy Portius do to give thee help ? 
 
 Marcus. Portius, thou oft enjoy'st the fair one's presence: 
 Then undertake my cause, and plead it to her 
 Wi th all the strength and heats of eloquence 
 Fraternal love and friendship can inspire. 
 Tell her thy brother languishes to death, 
 And fades away, and withers in his bloom ; 
 That he forgets his sleep, and loaths his food, 
 That youth, and health, and war, are joyless to him 
 Describe his anxious days, and restless nigh«s, 
 And all the torments that thou seest me suffer. 
 
 Portius. Marcus, I beg thee give me not an office 
 That suits me so ill. Thou know'st my temper. 
 
 Marcus. Wilt thou behold me sinking in my woes ? 
 And wilt thou not reach out a friendly arm, 
 To raise me from amidst this plunge of sorrows ?■ 
 
 Portius. Marcus, thou canst not ask what I'd refuse. 
 But here believe me, I've a thousand reasons — 
 
 Marcus. I know thou'lt say my passion's out of season; 
 That Cato's great example and misfortunes 
 Should both conspire to drive it from my thoughts. 
 
 * i. e. This flood of sorrows, into which / am plunyed. Very ill ex- 
 pressed
 
 f 
 
 c a t o . 429 
 
 But what's all this to one who loves like me ! 
 Oh Fortius, Fortius, from my soul I wish 
 Tlmu didst but know thyself what 'tis to love! 
 Then wouldst thou pity and assist thy brother. 
 
 Fortius. What should I do ! if I disclose my passion 
 Our friendship's at an end : if I conceal it, 
 The world will call me false to a friend and brother. [Aside 
 
 Marcus. But see where Lucia, at her wonted hour, 
 Amid the cool of yon high marble arch, a 
 Enjoys the noon-day breeze ! observe her, Portius ! 
 That face, that shape, those eyes, that heaven of beauty ! 
 Observe her well, and blame me if thou canst. 
 
 Portius. She sees us, and advances — 
 
 Marcus. I'll withdraw, 
 
 And leave you for a while. Remember, Portius, 
 Thy brother's life depends upon thy tongue. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Lucia, Portius. 
 
 Lucia. Did I not see your brother Marcus here ? 
 Why did he fly the place, and shun my presence? 
 
 Portius. Oh, Lucia, language is too faint to show 
 His rage of love ; it preys upon his life; 
 II pines, he sickens, lie despairs, he dies: 
 II is passions and his virtues lie confused, 
 And mixt together in so wild a tumult, 
 That the whole man is quite disfigur'd in him. 
 [leavens ! would one think 'twere possible for love 
 To make such ravage in a noble soul! 
 
 • Amid ili- cool of yon high marble arch. A Roman idea. Ad ordinary 
 *. tt< r wi nil not have been jo observant of decorum
 
 430 DRAMAS. 
 
 Oh, Lucia, I'm distrest ! my heart bleeds for liim ; 
 Even now, while thus I stand blest in thy presence, 
 A secret damp of grief comes o'er my thoughts, 
 And I'm unhappy, tho' thou smilest upon me. 
 
 Lucia. How wilt thou guard thy honour, in the shock 
 Of love and friendship ! think betimes, my Fortius, 
 Think how the nuptial tie, that might insure 
 Our mutual bliss, would raise to such a height 
 Thy brother's griefs, as might perhaps destroy him. 
 
 Portius. Alas, poor youth ! what dost thou think, in j 
 Lucia ? 
 His generous, open, undesigning heart 
 Has begg'd his rival to solicit for him. 
 Then do not strike him dead with a denial, 
 But hold him up in life and cheer his soul 
 With the faint glimmering of a doubtful hope . 
 Perhaps, when we have pass'd these gloomy hours, 
 And weather'd out the storm that beats upon us — 
 
 Lucia. No, Portius, no ! I see thy sister's tears, 
 Thy father's anguish, and thy brother's death, 
 In the pursuit of our ill-fated loves. 
 And, Portius, here I swear, to heaven I swear, 
 To heaven, and all the powers that judge mankind, 
 Never to mix my plighted hands with thine, 
 "While such a cloud of mischiefs hangs about us, 
 But to forget our loves, and drive thee out 
 From all my thoughts, as far — as I am able. 
 
 Portius. What hast thon said ! I'm thun'der-&i» uoL 
 — recall 
 Those hasty words, or I am lost for ever. 
 
 Lucia. Has not the vow already pass'd my lips ? 
 The gods have heard it, and 'tis seal'd in heaven.
 
 C A T O , 
 
 431 
 
 May all the vengeance that was ever pour'd 
 On perjur'd heads, o'erwhelm me, if I break it ! 
 
 Portius. Fixt in astonishment, I gaze upon thee ; 
 Like one just blasted by a stroke from heaven, 
 Who pants for breath, and stiffens, yet alive, 
 In dreadful looks : a monument of wrath ! 
 
 Lucia. At length I've acted my severest part, 
 I feel the woman breaking in upon me, 
 And melt about my heart ! my tears will flow. 
 But oh I'll think no more! the hand of fate 
 Has torn thee from me, and I must forget thee. 
 
 Fortius. Hard-hearted, cruel maid ! 
 
 Lucia. Oh stop those sounds, 
 
 Those killing sounds ! why dost thou frown upon me ? 
 My blood runs cold, my heart forgets to heave, 
 And life itself goes out at thy displeasure. 
 The gods forbid us to indulge our loves, 
 But, oh ! I cannot bear thy hate, and live ! 
 
 Portius. Talk not of love, thou never knew'st its 
 force, 
 I've been deluded, led into a dream 
 Of fancied bliss. Oh Lucia, cruel maid ! 
 Thy dreadful vow, loaden with death, still sounds 
 In my stunn'd ears. What shall I say or do ? 
 Quick, let us part ! perdition's in thy presence, 
 And horror dwells about thee ! — hah, she faints! 
 Wretcli that I am ! what has my rashness done! 
 Lucia, thou injur'd innocence ! thou best 
 And loveliest of thy sex! awake, my Lucia, 
 Or Portius rushes on his swfcrd to join thee. 
 ■ — Her imprecations reach nut to the tomb. 
 They -lint not out society in death —
 
 432 DRAMAS. 
 
 But, hah ! she moves ! life wanders up and down 
 Through all her face, and lights up every charm. 
 
 Lucia. Fortius, was this well ! — to frown on her 
 That lives upon thy smiles ! to call in doubt 
 The faith of one expiring at thy feet, 
 That loves thee more than ever woman lov'd ! 
 — What do I say? my half-recover'd sense 
 Forgets the vow in which my soul is bound. 
 Destruction stands betwixt us ! we must part. 
 
 Portius. Name not the word, my frighted thoughts run 
 back, 
 And startle into madness at the sound. 
 
 Lucia. What wouldst thou have me do ? consider weP 
 The train of ills our love would draw behind it. 
 Think, Portius, think, thou seest thy dying brothc 
 Stabb'd at his heart, and all besmear'd with blood, 
 Storming at heaven and thee ! thy awful sire 
 Sternly demands the cause, the accursed cause, 
 That robs him of his son! poor Marcia trembles, 
 Then tears her hair, and frantic in her griefs 
 Calls out on Lucia ! what could Lucia answer ? 
 Or how stand up in such a scene of sorrow ! 
 
 Portius. To my confusion and eternal grief, 
 I must approve the sentence that destroys me. 
 The mist that hung about my mind, clears up ; 
 And now, athwart the terrors that thy vow 
 Has planted round thee, thou appear'st more fair, 
 More amiable, and risest in thy charms. 
 Loveliest of women ! heaven is in thy soul, 
 Beauty and virtue shine for ever round thee, 
 Bright'ning each other! thou art all divine!
 
 HA TO. 43b 
 
 Lucia. Portius, no more ! thy words shoot through rny 
 heart, 
 Melt my resolves, and turn me all to love. 
 Why are those tears of fondness in thy eyes ? 
 Why heaves thy heart? why swells thy soul with sorrow? 
 It softens me too much — farewel, my Portius, 
 Farewel, though death is in the word, for-ever ! 
 
 Portius. Stay, Lucia, stay, what dost thou say? 
 For-ever ? 
 
 Lucia. Have I not sworu ? if, Portius, thy success 
 Must throw thy brother on his fate ? farewel, 
 Oh, how shall I repeat the word ? for-ever ! 
 
 Portius. Thus o'er the dying lamp » th' unsteady flame 
 Hangs quivering on a point, leaps off by fits, 
 And falls again, as loath to quit its hold. 
 — Thou must not go, my soul still hovers o'er thee, 
 And can't get loose. 
 
 Lucia. If the firm Portius shake 
 
 To hear of parting, think what Lucia suffers ! 
 
 Portius. 'Tis true ; unruffled and serene I've met 
 The common accidents of life, but here 
 Such an uulook'd-for storm of ills falls on me, 
 It beats down all my strength. I cannot bear it. 
 We must not part. 
 
 Lucia. What dost thou say? not part? 
 
 Hast thou forgot the vow that I have made ? 
 Are there not heavens, and gods, and thunder o'er us ? 
 — But sou! thy brother .Marcus bends this way ! 
 I sicken at the sight. Once more, farewel, 
 
 1 '/'In* iter the dying lamp. An elegant sjmile, and well expressed; 
 but too pretty for the circumstances ol the speuker. [f the author had 
 hail n chorus at his command, he might have introduced it more naturally. 
 
 vol. i. — V.)
 
 434 DRAMAS. 
 
 Farewel, and knew thou wrong'st me, if thou think'st 
 Ever was love, cr ever prief, like mine. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Marcus, Portius. 
 
 Marcus. Portius, what hopes? how stands she ? am I 
 doom'd 
 To life or death ? 
 
 Portius. What would'st thou have me say ? 
 
 Marcus. What means this pensive posture ? thou ap- 
 pear'st 
 Like one amazed and terrified. 
 
 Portius. I've reason. 
 
 Marcus. Thy down-cast looks, and thy disorder'd 
 thoughts 
 Tell me my fate. I ask not the success 
 My cause has found. 
 
 Portius. I'm griev'd I undertook it. 
 
 Marcus. What ! does the barbarous maid insult my 
 heart, 
 My aching heart ! and triumph in my pains ? 
 That I could cast her from my thoughts for ever ! 
 
 Portius. Away ! you're too suspicious in your griefs ; 
 Lucia, though sworn never to think of love, 
 Compassionates your pains, and pities you. 
 
 Marcus. Compassionates my pains, and pities me ' 
 What is compassion when 'tis void of love ? 
 Fool that I was to cbuse so cold a friend 
 To urge my cause ! compassionates my pains ! 
 Prii.hee what :irt, what rhetoric didst thou use 
 To gain this mighty boon ? She pities me J
 
 c a t o . 435 
 
 To one that asks the 'warm return of love. 
 Compassion's cruelty, "tis scorn, 'tis death — 
 
 Portius. Marcus, no more ! have I deserv'd this treat- 
 ment ? 
 
 Marcus. What have I said ! Portius. forgive me ' 
 A soul exasperated in ills falls out 
 With every thing, its friend, its self — but. hah! 
 What means that shout, big with the sounds of war ? 
 What new alarm ? 
 
 Portius. A second, louder yet, 
 
 Swells in the winds, and comes more full upon us. 
 
 Marcus. Oh, for some glorious cause to fall in battle ! 
 Lucia, thou hast undone me ! thy disdain 
 Has broke my heart : 'tis death must give me ease. 
 
 Portius. Quick, let us hence ; who knows if Cato's life 
 Stand sure ? Marcus, I am wann'd. my heart 
 Leaps at the trumpet's voice, and burns for glory. 
 
 SCE^ E IV. 
 Sempronius with the leaders of the mutiny. 
 
 Sempronius. At length the winds are rais'd, the storm 
 blows high, 
 Be it your care, my friends, to keep it up 
 In its full fury, and direct it right, 
 Till it has spent itself on Cato's head. 
 Meanwhile I'll herd among his friends, and seem 
 One of the Dumber, that whate'er arrive 
 My friends and fellow soldiers may be safe. 
 
 First Leader; We all are safe. Sempronius is our friend. 
 Sempronius is as brave a man as Cato. 
 But. hark ' he enters. Bear up boldly to him ;
 
 436 DRAMAS. 
 
 Be Mire you beat him down, and bind him fast. 
 This day will end our toils, and give us rest ! 
 Fear nothing, for Sempronius is our friend. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Cato, Sempronius, Lucius, Portius, Marcus, &c. 
 
 Cato. Where are these bold intrepid sons of war, 
 That greatly turn their backs upon the foe, 
 And to their general send a brave defiance 1 
 
 Sempronius. Curse on their dastard souls, they stand 
 astonish'd ! [Aside 
 
 Cato. Perfidious men ! and will you thus dishonour 
 Your past exploits, and sully all your wars ? 
 Do you confess 'twas not a zeal for Rome, 
 Nor love of liberty, nor thirst of honour, 
 Drew you thus far ; but hopes to share the spoil 
 Of conquer'd towns and plunder'd provinces '? 
 Fir'd with such motives you do well to join 
 "With Cato's foes, and follow Cassar's banners. 
 Why did I 'scape th' invenom'd aspic's rage, 
 And all the fiery monsters of the desert, 
 To see this day ? why could not Cato fall 
 Without your guilt 1 behold, ungrateful men, 
 Behold my bosom naked to your swords, 
 And let the man that's injur'd strike the blow. 
 Which of you all suspects that he is wrong'd, 
 Or thinks he suffers greater ills than Cato ? 
 Am I distinguish'd from you but by toils, 
 Superior toils, and heavier weight of eares ? 
 Painful pre-eminence !
 
 u ato, 437 
 
 Sempronius. By heavens they drtop ! 
 
 Coufusion to the villains ! all is lost. [Asid-e. 
 
 Cato. Have you forgotten Libya's burning waste, 
 Its barren rocks, parch'd earth, and hills of sand, 
 Its tainted air, and all its broods of poison ? 
 Who was the first to explore th' untrodden path, 
 When life was hazarded in every step ? 
 Or, fainting in the long laborious march, 
 "When on the banks of an unlook'd-for stream 
 You sunk the river with repeated draughts, 
 Who was the last in all your host that thirsted ? 
 
 Sempronius. If some penurious source by chance 
 appear'd, 
 Scanty of waters, when you scoop'd it dry, 
 And offer'd the full helmet up to Cato, 
 Did he not dash th' untasted moisture from him ? 
 Did not he lead you through the mid-day sun, 
 And clouds of dust ? did not his temples glow 
 In the same sultry winds, and scorching heats ? 
 
 Cato. Hence, worthless men ! hence ! and complain to 
 Caesar. 
 You could not undergo the toils of war, 
 Nor bear the hardships that your leader bore. 
 
 Lucius. See, Cato, see th' unhappy men ! they weep f 
 Fear, and remorse, and sorrow for their crime, 
 Appear in every look, and plead for mercy. 
 
 Cato. Learn to be honest men, give up your leaders, 
 And pardon shall descend on all the rest. # * 
 
 Sempronius. Cato, commit these wretches to my care. 
 First let 'em each be broken on the rack, 
 
 Then, with what life remains, impaled and left 
 To writhe at leisure round the bloody stake.
 
 43^ DRAMAS. 
 
 There let 'em hang, and taint the southern wind. 
 The partners of their crime will learn obedience, 
 When they look up and see their fellow-traitors 
 Stuck on a fork, and blackening in the sun. 
 
 Lucius. Sempronius, why, why wilt thou urge the jate 
 Of wretched men 1 
 
 Sempronius. How ! wouldst thou clear rebellion ? 
 
 Lucius (good man) pities the poor offenders, 
 That would imbrue their hands in Cato's blood. 
 
 Cato. Forbear, Sempronius ! — see they suffer death, 
 But in their deaths remember they are men. 
 Strain not the laws to make their tortures grievous 
 Lucius, the base degenerate age requires 
 Severity, and justice in its rigour; 
 This awes an impious, bold, offending world, 
 Commands obedience, and gives force to laws. 
 When by just vengeance guilty mortals perish, 
 The gods behold their punishment with pleasure, 
 And lay the uplifted thunder-bolt aside. 
 
 Sempronius. Cato, I execute thy will with pleasure 
 
 Cato. Meanwhile we'll sacrifice to liberty. 
 Remember, my friends, the laws, the rights, 
 The generous plan of power deliver'd down, 
 From age to age, by your renown'd forefathers 
 (So dearly bought, the price of so much blood) 
 let it never perish in your hands ! 
 But piously transmit it to your children. 
 Do thoufcgreat liberty, inspire our souls, 
 And make our lives in thy possession happy, 
 Or our deaths glorious in thy just defence.
 
 c a T o . 439 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Sempronius and the leaders of the ntitiny. 
 
 First Leader. Sempronius, you have acted like yourself, 
 One would have thought you had been half in earnest. 
 
 Sempronius. Villain, stand off! base, groveling, worthless 
 wretches, 
 /' Mongrels in faction, poor faint-hearted traitors ! 
 
 Second Leader. Nay, now you carry it too far, 
 Sempronius. 
 Throw off the mask, there are none here but friends. 
 
 Sempronius. Know, villains, when such paltry slaves 
 presume 
 To mix in treason, if the plot succeeds, 
 They're thrown neglected by : but if it fails, 
 They're sure to die like dogs, as you shall do. 
 Here, take these factious monsters, drag 'em forth 
 To sudden death. 
 
 Enter Guards. 
 
 Friisx Leader. Nay, since it comes to this — 
 
 Sempronius. Dispatch 'em quick, but first pluck out their 
 tongues, 
 Lest with their dying breath they sow sedition. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Syphax, Sempronius. 
 
 Hypiiax. Our first design, my friend, has prov'd abortive , 
 Still there remains an aftergame to play : 
 My troops arc mounted ; their Nuinidian steeds
 
 440 DRAMAS. 
 
 Snuff up the wind, and long to scour the desert : 
 Let but Sempronius head us in our flight, 
 We'll force the gate where Marcus keeps his guard, 
 And hew down all that would oppose our passage. 
 A day will bring us into Caesar's camp. 
 
 Sempronius. Confusion! I have fail'd of half my purpose 
 Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind ! 
 
 Syphax. How! will Sempronius turn a woman's slave? 
 Sempronius. Think not thy friend can ever feel the soft 
 Unmanly warmth and tenderness of love. 
 Syphax, I long to clasp that haughty maid, 
 / And bend her stubborn virtue to my passion : 
 When I have gone thus far, I'd cast her off. 
 
 Syphax. Well said! that's spoken like thyself, Sempronius. 
 What hinder then, but that thou find her out, 
 And hurry her away by manly force ? 
 
 Sempronius. But how to gain admission ? for access 
 Is given to none but Juba, and her brothers. 
 
 Syphax. Thou shalt have Juba's dress, and Juba's guards ■ ■ 
 The doors will open, when Numidia's prince 
 Seems to appear before the slaves that watch them. 
 
 Sempronius. Heavens, what a thought is there ! Mar- 
 cia's my own ! 
 How will my bosom swell with anxious joy, 
 When I behold her struggling in my arms, 
 With glowing beauty and disorder'd charms, 
 While fear and anger, with alternate grace, 
 Pant in her breast, and vary in her face ! 
 
 
 * Thou shaft have Juba's dress, and Juba's guards. It was so natural for 
 Syphax, so much in his character, to suggest this expedient, that one has 
 no suspicion of its being contrived to carry on the fable, and so brinw 
 
 about the interesting discovery in the third scene of the fourth act. It is 
 
 by the invention and improvement of such incidents as these, that th 
 true dramatic poet is distinguished from an ordinary play-writer. 
 
 'i
 
 
 C AT o. 441 
 
 So Pluto, b seiz'd of Proserpine, convey'd 
 To hell's tremendous gloom th' affrighted maid, 
 There grimly smil'd, pleas'd with the beauteous prize, 
 Nor envy'd Jove his sun-shine and his skies. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 Lucia, Marcia. 
 
 Lucia. Now tell me, Marcia, tell me from thy soul, 
 If thou believ'st 'tis possible for woman 
 To suffer greater ills than Lucia suffers 1 
 
 Marcia. Lucia, Lucia, might my big-swoln heart 
 Vent) all its griefs, and give a loose to sorrow 
 Marcia could answer thee in sighs, keep pace 
 With all thy woes, and count out tear for tear. 
 
 Lucia. I know thou'rt doom'd, alike, to be belov'd 
 By Juba and thy father's friend, Sempronius ; 
 But which of these has power to charm like Portius ! 
 
 Marcia. Still must I beg thee not to name Sempronius? 
 Lucia, I like not that loud boisterous man ; 
 Juba to all the bravery of a hero 
 Adds softest love, and more than female sweetness ; 
 Juha might make the proudest of our sex, 
 Any of woman-kind, but Marcia, happy. 
 
 Lucia. And why not Marcia? come, you strive in vain 
 To hide your thoughts from one who knows too well 
 The inward glowinga of a heart in love. 
 
 C 
 
 1 So /'/■"/<!, &e The Bimi!e is in i-h:ir;i<:lrr; l>ul is not so properly ad- 
 dtoSyphax: [could wish the Nu nidian had oeeu dismissed, and 
 this last speech had past in soliloquy 
 
 VOL. i. — l'J*
 
 44"2 DRAMAS. 
 
 Marcia. While Cato lives, his daughter has no right 
 To love or hate, but as his choice directs. 
 
 Lucia. But should this father give you to Sempronius ? 
 
 Marcia. I dare not think he will : but if he should — 
 Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer 
 Imaginary ills, and fancy'd tortures ? 
 I hear the sound of feet ! they march this way ! 
 Let us retire, and try if we can drown 
 Each softer thought in sense of present danger. 
 When love once pleads admission to our hearts 
 (In spite of all the virtue we can boast) 
 The woman that deliberates is lost. "■ 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 Sempronius, dressed like Juba, with Numidian guaras. 
 
 Sempronius. The deer is lodg'd. I've tracked her to 
 her covert. 
 Be sure you mind the word, and when I give it, 
 Bush in at once, and seize upon your prey. 
 Let not her cries or tears have force to move you 
 — How will the young Numidian rave, to see 
 His mistress lost ! if aught could glad my soul, 
 Beyond th' enjoyment of so bright a prize, 
 'Twould be to torture that young gay barbarian. 
 — But, hark, what noise ! death to my hopes ! 'tis he, 
 
 The woman that deliberates is lost. This line has been thought too 
 fre / nd injurious to the sex: but it is to be remembered that Marcia is 
 S|it/ ing of virtuous love, which vindicates the sentence from sucli impu- 
 tat-i is. What, then, it may be asked, is meant by — "In spite of all the 
 virtue we can boast?" clearly, the virtue of firmness, in resolving not to 
 admit a lawful passion in unfit circumstances. But all the virtue of this 
 sort, which the best women can muster up, will hardly keep its ground 
 against deliberation. However, the severe Marcia was lost by surprise, and 
 not by deliberation.
 
 
 C ATO. 413 
 
 ,'Tis Juba's self ! there is but one way left — 
 He must be niurder'd, and a passage cut 
 Through those his guards — Hah ! dastards, do yon tremble ? 
 Or act like men, or by yon azure heaven — 
 
 Enter Juba. 
 
 Juba. What do I see 1 who's this that dare usurp 
 The guards and habit of Numidia's prince 1 
 
 Sempronius. One that was born to scourge thy arrogance, 
 Presumptuous youth ! 
 
 Juba. What can this mean 1 Sempronius ! 
 
 Sempronius. My sword shall answer thee. Have at thy 
 heart. 
 
 Juba. Nay, then beware thy own, proud, barbarous man ! 
 [Sempronius falls. His guards surrender. 
 
 Sempronius. Curse on my stars ! am I then doom'd to fall 
 By a boy's hand 1 disfigur'd in a vile 
 Numidian dress, and for a worthless woman 1 ) 
 Gods, I'm distracted ! this my close of life ! 
 for a peal of thunder that would ma,ke 
 Earth, sea, and air, and heaven, and Cato tremble ! [Dies. 
 
 Juba. With what a spring his furious soul brake loose, 
 And left the limbs still quivering on the ground ! 
 Hence let us carry off those slaves to Cato, 
 That wc may there at length unravel all 
 This dark design, this mystery of fate.
 
 444 DRAMAS. 
 
 i 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Lucia, Marcia. 
 
 Lucia. Sure 'twas the clash of swords , my troubled heart 
 Is so cast down, and sunk amidst its sorrows, 
 It throbs with fear, and aches at ever}- sound. 
 
 Marcia, should thy brothers for my sake ' — 
 
 1 die away with horror at the thought. 
 
 Marcia. See, Lucia, see ! here's blood ! here's blood and 
 murder ! 
 Hah ! a Numidian ! heavens preserve the prince ; 
 The face lies muffled up within the garment. 
 But, hah ! death to my sight ! a diadem, 
 And purple robes ! O gods ! 'tis he ! tis he ! 
 Juba, the loveliest youth that ever warm'd 
 A virgin's heart, Juba lies dead before us ! 
 
 Lucia. Now, Marcia, now call up to thy assistance 
 Thy wonted strength and constancy of mind ; 
 Thou canst not put it to a greater trial 
 
 Marcia. Lucia, look there, and wonder at my patience. 
 Have I not cause to rave, and beat my breast, 
 To rend my heart with grief, and run distracted ? 
 
 Lucia. What can I think or say to give thee comfort 1 
 
 Marcia. Talk not of comfort, 'tis for lighter ills * 
 Behold a sight, that strikes all comfort dead. 
 
 Enter Juba listening. 
 
 I will indulge my sorrows, and give way 
 
 To all the pangs and fury of despair, 
 
 That man, the best of men, deserv'd it from me. 
 
 Juba. What do I hear 1 and was the false Sempronius 
 The best of men ? had I fallen like him,
 
 C A T . I: J 
 
 And could have thus been mourn'd, I had been happy ! 
 
 Lucia. Here will I stand, companion in thy woes, 
 And help thee with my tears ; when I behold 
 A loss like thine, I half forget my own. 
 
 Marcia. 'Tis not in fate to ease my tortur'd breast. 
 This empty world, to me a j.yless desert, 
 Has nothing left to make poor Marcia happy. 
 
 Juba. I'm on the rack ! was he so near her heart ? 
 
 Marcia. Oh ! he was all made up of love and charms, 
 Whatever maid could wish, or man admire : 
 Delight of every eye ! when he appear'd, 
 A secret pleasure glad'ned all that saw him ; 
 But when he talk'd, the proudest Roman blush'd 
 To hear his virtues, and old age grew wise. 
 
 Juba. I shall run mad — 
 
 Marcia. Juba ! Juba ! Juba ! 
 
 Juba. What means that voice ? did she not call on Jub» 1 
 
 Marcia. Why do I think on what he was ! he's dead ! 
 He's dead, and never knew how much I lov'd him. 
 Lucia, who knows but his poor bleeding heart, 
 Amidst its agonies, remember'd Marcia, 
 And the last words he utter'd call'd me cruel ! 
 Alas ! he knew not, hapless youth, he knew not 
 Marcia's whole soul was full of love and Juba. ! 
 
 Juba. Where am I ! do I live ! or am 'ndeed 
 What Man-ia thinks! all is Elysium round me! 
 
 M u:<ia. Ye dear remains of the most lov'd of men l 
 Nor modesty nor virtue here forbid 
 A last embrace, while thus — 
 
 JuBA. — See, Man-ia, see, 
 
 [Throwing hi/'isc/f before h 
 The happy Juba lives ! he lives to catch
 
 <46 DRAMAS. 
 
 That dear embrace, and to return it too 
 With mutual warmth and eagerness of love. 
 
 Marcia. With pleasure and amaze," I stand transported! 
 Sure 'tis a dream ! dead and alive at once ! 
 If thou art Juba, who lies there ? 
 
 Juba. A wretch 
 
 Disguis'd like -Juba, on a curs'd design. 
 The tale is long, nor have I heard it out. 
 Thy father knows it all. I could not bear 
 To leave thee in the neighbourhood of death, 
 But flew, in all the haste of love, to find thee : 
 I found thee weeping, and confess this once, 
 Am rapt with joy to see my Marcia's tears. 
 
 Marcia. I've been surprised in an unguarded hour. 
 But must not now go back : the love, that lay 
 Half smother'd in my breast, has broke through all 
 Its weak restraints, and burns in its full lustre, 
 I cannot, if I would, conceal it from thee. 
 
 Juba. I'm lost in ecstacy ! and dost thou love, 
 Thou charming maid ? 
 
 Marcia. And dost thou live to ask it? 
 
 Juba. This, this is life indeed ! life worth preserving, 
 Such life as Juba never felt till now ! 
 
 Marcia. Believe me, prince, before I thought thee dead, 
 I did not know myself how much I lov'd thee. 
 
 Juba. fortunate mistake ! 
 
 Marcia. happy Marcia ! 
 
 Juba. My joy ! my best beloved ! my only wish ! 
 How shall I speak the transport of my soul ? • 
 
 ■ Amaze, for amazement ; a liberty in which the poets of that time in- 
 dulged themselves S<> Poi e: 
 
 "In Tofnaiii fields, the brethren, with amaze 
 Trick all their eare up, and forget to graze." 
 
 Dun ci ad, b. ii. 261.
 
 C ATO. 
 
 447 
 
 Marcia. Lucia, thy arm ! oh let me rest upon it ! — 
 (. The vital blood, that had forsook my heart, 
 Returns again in such tumultuous tides, 
 It quite o'ercomes me. Lead to my apartment. — 
 prince ! I blush to think what I have said 
 But fate has wrested the confession from me ; 
 Go on, and prosper in the paths of honour, 
 Thy virtue will excuse my passion for thee, 
 And make the gods propitious to our love. 
 
 Juba. I am so blest, I fear 'tis all a dream 
 Fortune, thou now hast made amends for all 
 Thy past unkindness. I absolve my stars. 
 What though Numidia add her conquer'd towns 
 And provinces to swell the victor's triumph ! 
 Juba will never at his fate repine ; 
 Let Caesar have the world, if Marcia's mine. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 4 March at a Distance. 
 
 Ca"-j, Lucius. 
 
 Lucius. I stand astonisht ! what, the bold Sempronius ! 
 That still broke foremost through the crowd of patriots, 
 As with a hurricane of zeal transported, 
 And virtuous even to madness — 
 
 CATOf Trust me, Lucius, 
 
 Our civil discords have produced such crimes, 
 Such monstrous crimes, I am surprised at nothing. 
 
 Lucius ! I am side of this bad world ! 
 
 The .Jay light and the sun grow painful to me." 
 
 Tbi <J«u lioht and the sun. "Tcedet cu;li convexa tueri." 
 
 Viuo. /Enkid, 1iL>. v. 461,
 
 44o dramas, 
 
 Enter Portius. 
 
 
 But see •where Portius comes ! what means this haste ? 
 Why are thy looks thus changed ? 
 
 Fortius. My heart is griev'd 
 
 I bring such news as will afflict my father. 
 
 Cato. Has Caesar shed more Roman blood? 
 
 Portius. Not so. 
 
 The traitor Syphax, as within the square 
 He exercised his troops, the signal giveu, 
 Fiew off at once with his Numidian horse 
 To the south gate, where Marcus holds the watch. 
 I saw, and call'd to stop him, but in vain, 
 He toss'd his arm aloft, and proudly told me, 
 He would not stay and perish like Sempronius. 
 
 Cato. Perfidious men ! but haste, my son, and see 
 Thy brother Marcus acts a Roman's part. \_Exit Pontius 
 — Lucius, the torrent bears too hard upon me : 
 (justice gives way to force: the conquer'd world 
 Is Caesar's : Cato has no business in it. 
 
 Lucius. / While pride, oppression, and injustice reign, 
 The world will still demand her Cato's presence. 
 In pity to mankind, submit to Caesar, 
 And reconcile thy mighty soul to life. 
 
 Cato. Would Lucius have me live to swell the number 
 Of Caesar's slaves, or by a base submission 
 Give up the cause of Rome, and own a tyrant ? 
 
 Lucius. The victor never will impose on Cato 
 Ungen'rous terms. His enemies confess 
 The virtues of humanity are Caesar's. 
 
 Cato. Curse on his virtues ! they've undone his country 
 Such popular humanity is treason
 
 C A T o . 449 
 
 But see young Juba ! the good youth appears 
 Full of the guilt of his perfidious subjects. 
 
 Lucius. Alas ! poor prince ! his fate deserves compassion 
 
 Enter Juba. 
 
 Juba. I blush, and am confounded to appear 
 Before thy presence, Cato. 
 
 Cato. What's thy crime ? 
 
 Juba. I'm a Numidian. 
 
 Cato. And a brave one too. 
 
 Thou hast a Roman soul. 
 
 Juba. Hast thou not heard 
 
 Of my false countrymen ? 
 
 Cato. Alas ! young prince, 
 
 Falsehood and fraud shoot up in every soil, 
 The product of all climes — Borne has its Caesars, 
 
 Juba. 'Tis gen'rous thus to comfort the distrest. 
 
 Cato. 'Tis just to give applause where 'tis deserv'd ; 
 Thy virtue, prince, has stood the test of fortune, 
 Like purest gold, that, tortur'd in the furnace, 
 Comes out more bright, and brings forth all its weight. 
 
 Juba. What shall I answer thee? my ravish'd heart 
 O'erflows with secret joy : I'd rather gain 
 Thy praise, Cato ! than Numidia's empire 
 
 Re-enter Portius 
 
 Portius. Misfortune on misfortune ! grief on grief 1 
 My brother Marcus — 
 
 <! ito. Uali ! what has he done ? 
 Has h<: forsook his post? has he given way ? 
 Did he look tamely on, and let 'em pass?
 
 i;"0 DRAMAS. 
 
 Portius. Scarce had I left my father, hut I met him 
 Borne on the shields of bis surviving soldiers, 
 Breathless and pale, and cover'd o'er with wounds. 
 Long at the head of his few faithful friends, 
 He stood the shock of a whole host of foes ; 
 Till, obstinately brave, and bent on death, 
 Opprest with multitudes, he greatly fell. 
 
 Cato. I'm satisfy'd. 
 
 Portius. Nor did he fall before 
 
 His sword had pierc'd through the false heart of Syphax. 
 Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor 
 Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the ground. 
 
 Cato. Thanks to the gods ! my boy has done his dutj 
 — Portius, when I am dead, be sure thou place 
 His urn near mine. 
 
 Portius. Long may they keep asunder ! 
 
 Lucius. Cato ! arm thy soul with all its patience ; 
 See where the corpse of thy dead son approaches ! 
 The citizens and senators, alarm'd, 
 Have gather'd round it, and attend it weeping. 
 
 Cato, meeting the corpse. 
 
 Welcome, my son ! here lay him down, my friends, 
 Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure 
 The bloody corse, and count those glorious wounds. 
 — How beautiful is death, when earn'd by virtue i 
 Who would not be that youth ? what pity is it 
 That we can die but once to serve our country ! 
 — Why sits this sadness on your brows, my friends? 
 I should have blush'd if Cato's house had stood 
 Secure, and flourish 'd in a civil war.
 
 
 / 
 
 CATO. 451 
 
 — Portius, behold thy brother, and rcmemlcr 
 Thy life is not thy own, when Rome demands it. 
 
 Juba. Was ever man like this ! [Aside. 
 
 Cato. Alas ! my friends ! 
 
 Why mourn you thus ^ let not a private loss 
 j Afflict your hearts. 'Tis Rome requires our tears. 
 The mistress of the world, the seat of empire, 
 The nurse of heroes, the delight of gods, 
 That humbled the proud tyrants of the earth, 
 And set the nations free, Rome is no more. 
 liberty ! virtue ! my country ! ^ 
 
 Juba. Behold that upright man ! Rome fills his eyes 
 With tears, that flow'd not o'er his own dead son. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Cato. Whate'er the Roman virtue has subdu'd, 
 The sun's whole course, the day and year, are Caesar's. 
 For him the self-devoted Decii dy'd, 
 The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquer'd ; 
 Even Pompey fought for Caesar. Oh ! my friends ! 
 How is the toil of fate, the work of ages, 
 The Roman empire fallen ! curst ambition ! 
 Fallen into Caesar's hands ! our great forefathers 
 Had left him nought to conquer but his country. 
 
 ,Juba. While Cato lives, Caesar will blush to see 
 Mankind enslaved, and be ashamed of empire. 
 
 Cato. Caosar ashamed ! has not he seen Pharsalia ? 
 
 Lucius. Cato, 'tis time thou save thyself and us. 
 
 Cato. Lose not a thought on me, I'm out of danger. 
 Heaven will not leave me in the victor's hand. 
 Ca sar shall never say 1 conquer'd Cato. 
 Rut, oh ! my friends, your safety fills my heart 
 With anxious thoughts: a thousand secret terrors
 
 452 
 
 DP. HAS, 
 
 Rise in my soul : how shall I save my friends ! 
 'Tis now, Cassar, I begin to fear thee. 
 
 Lucius. Caesar has mercy, if we ask it of him. 
 
 Cato. Then ask it, I conjure you ! let him know 
 Whate'er was done against him, Cato did it. 
 Add, if you please, that I request it of him, 
 The virtue of my friends may pass unpunish'd. 
 — Juba, my heart is troubled for thy sake. 
 Should I advise thee to regain Numidia, 
 Or seek the conqueror ? — 
 
 Juba. If I forsake thee 
 
 Whilst I have life, may heaven abandon Juba ! 
 
 Cato. Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee aright, 
 Will one day make thee great ; at Rome, hereafter, 
 'Twill be no crime to have been Cato's friend. 
 Portius, draw near ! my son, thou oft hast seen 
 Thy sire engaged in a corrupted state, 
 Wrestling with vice and faction : now thou seest me 
 Spent, overpower'd, despairing of success ; 
 Let me advise thee to retreat betimes 
 To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field, 
 Where the great Censor toil'd with his own hands, 
 And all our frugal ancestors were blest 
 In humble virtues, and a rural life. 
 There live retired, pray for the peace of Rome : 
 Content thyself to be obscurely good. 
 When vice prevails, and impious men bear swav, 
 The post of honour is a private station. 
 
 Portius. I hope my father does not recommend 
 A life to Portius that he scorns himself. 
 
 Cato. Farewel, my friends ! if there be any of you 
 Who dare not trust the victor's clemency,
 
 C ATO. 
 
 453 
 
 Know, there are ships prepared by my command, 
 (Their sails already opening to the winds) 
 * That shall convey you to the wish'd-for port. 
 
 Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you ? 
 The conqueror draws near. Once more farewell 
 If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet 
 In happier climes, and on a safer shore, 
 Where Caesar never shall approach us more. 
 
 [■Pointing to his dead son 
 There the brave youth, with love of virtue fired, 
 Who greatly in his country's cause expired, 
 Shall know he conquer'd. The firm patriot there 
 (Who made the welfare of mankind his care) 
 Though still, by faction, vice, and fortune, crost, 
 Shall find the gen'rous labour was not lost. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Uato snhis. silting- in a thoughtful posture: in his hand Plato's 
 Book on the Immortality of the Soul. A drawn sword on the 
 table by him. 
 
 It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well ! — 
 
 Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
 
 This hinging after immortality V 
 
 Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 
 
 Of falling into nought V why shrinks the soul 
 
 Back nil herself, and startles at destruction? 
 
 'TU the divinity that stirs within us; 
 
 'TU heaven itself, thai points out an hereafter, 
 
 And intimates eternity to man.
 
 454 DRAMAS. 
 
 Eternity ! tliou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 
 
 Through what variety of untry'd being, 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! 
 
 The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me ; 
 
 But shadows, clouds, aud darkness rest upon it. 
 
 Here will I hold. If there's a power above us, 
 
 (And that there is all nature cries aloud 
 
 Through all her works) he must delight in virtue , 
 
 And that which he delights in, must be happy. 
 
 But when ! or where ! — This world was made for Caesar. 
 
 I'm weary of conjectures — This must end 'em. 
 
 [Laying his hand on Ids sword,. 
 
 Thus am I doubly arm'd : my death and life, 
 My bane and antidote are both before me : 
 This in a moment brings me to an end ; 
 But this informs me I shall never die. 
 The soul secured in her existence, smiles 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
 The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years, 
 But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
 Unhurt amidst the wars of elements, 
 The wrecks of matter,' and the crush of worlds * 
 
 What means this heaviness that hangs upon me ? 
 This lethargy that creeps through all my senses ? 
 Nature oppress'd, and harass'd out with care, 
 Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her, 
 That my awaken'd soul may take her flight, 
 Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life, 
 An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear 
 Disturb man's rest ; Cato knows neither of 'em, 
 Indifferent in lis choice to sleep or die.
 
 cato. 455 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Cato, Portius. 
 
 Cato. But, hah ! how's this, my son ? why this intrusion ? 
 Were not my orders that I would be private ? 
 Why am I disobey 'd ? 
 
 Portius. Alas ! my father ! 
 
 What means this sword ? this instrument of death ? 
 Let me convey it hence ! 
 
 Cato. Jlash youth, forbear ! 
 
 Portius. let the prayers, th' entreaties of your friends, 
 Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from you. 
 
 Cato. Wouldst thou betray me ? wbuldst thou give me up 
 A slave, a captive, into Caesar's hands 1 
 Retire, and learn obedience to a father 
 Or know, young man ! — 
 
 Portius. Look not thus sternly on me , 
 
 You know I'd rather die than disobey you. 
 
 Cato. 'Tis well ! again I'm master of myself. 
 Now, Caesar, let thy troops beset our gates, 
 And bar each avenue, thy gathering fleets 
 O'erspread the sea, and stop up every port ; 
 Cato shall open to himself a passage, 
 And mock thy hopes — 
 
 Portius. 0, sir ! forgive your son, 
 
 Whose grief hangs heavy on him ! O my fatli »r ! 
 How am I sure it is not the last time 
 I e'er shall call yon so ! be not displeased, 
 be not angry with me whilst I weep, 
 And, in the anguish of my heart beseech you 
 To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul 1
 
 4/56 DRAMAS. 
 
 i 
 
 Cato. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful. 
 
 [Embracing him 
 "Weep not, my son. All will be well again. 
 The righteous gods, whom I have sought to please, 
 Will succour Cato, and preserve his children. 
 
 Fortius. Your words give comfort to my drooping heart 
 
 Cato. Portius, thou mayst rely upon my conduct. 
 Thy father will not act what misbecomes him. 
 But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting 
 Among thy father's friends; see them embarked; • 
 And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them. 
 My soul is quite weighed down with care, and asks 
 The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep. 
 
 Portius. My thoughts are more at ease, my heart revives. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Portius, Marcia. 
 
 Portius. Marcia, my sister, still there's hope ! 
 Our father will not cast away a life 
 So needful to us all, and to his country. 
 He is retired to rest, and seems to cherish 
 Thoughts full of peace. He has dispatch'd me hence 
 With orders that bespeak a mind composed, 
 And studious for the safety of his friends. 
 Marcia, take care that none disturb his slumbers. 
 
 Marcia. ye immortal powers, that guard the just, 
 Watch round his couch, and soften his repose, 
 Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul 
 With easy dreams ; remember all his virtues ! 
 And show mankind that goodness is your care.
 
 cato 457 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Lucia, Marcia. 
 
 Lucia. Where is your father, Marcia, where is Cato ? 
 
 Marcia. Lucia, speak low, he is retired to rest. 
 Lucia, I feel a gently-dawning hope 
 Rise in my soul. We shall be happy still. 
 
 Lucia. Alas ! I tremble when I think on Cato, 
 In every view, in every thought I tremble ! 
 Cato is stern, and awful as a god, 
 He knows not how to wink at human frailty, 
 Or pardon weakness that he never felt. 
 
 Marcia. Though stern and awful to the foes of Rome, 
 He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild, 
 Compassionate, and gentle to his friends. 
 Fill'd with domestic tenderness, the best, 
 The kindest father ! I have ever found him 
 Easy, and good, and bounteous to my wishes. 
 
 Lucia. 'Tis his consent alone can make us blest. 
 Marcia, we both are equally involv'd 
 In the same intricate, perplcxt distress. 
 The cruel hand of fate, that has destroy'd 
 Thy brother Marcus, whom we both lament — 
 
 Marcia. And ever shall lament, unhappy youth ! 
 
 Lucia. Has set my soul at large, and now I stand 
 Loose of my vow. But who knows Cato's thoughts? 
 Who knows how yet be may dispose of Fortius, 
 Or how be bas determin'd of thyself? 
 
 Marcia. Let him but live! commit the rest to heaven. 
 
 vol. i.— 20
 
 458 T1UAMAS. 
 
 Enter Lucius. 
 
 Lucius. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man ! 
 
 Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father: 
 Some power invisible supports his soul. 
 And bears it up in all its wonted greatness. 
 A kind refreshing sleep is fallen upon him : 
 
 1 saw him stretch 'd at ease, his fancy lost 
 
 In pleasing dreams ; as I drew near his coucn, 
 
 He smiled, and cry'd, Csesar 'thou canst not hurt me. 
 
 Marcia. His mind still labours with some dreadful 
 thought. 
 
 Lucius. Lucia, why all this grief, these floods of sorrow ? 
 Dry up thy tears, my child, we all are safe 
 While Cato lives — his presence will protect us. 
 
 Enter Juba. 
 
 Juba. Lucius, the horsemen are return'd from viewing 
 The number, strength, and posture of our foes, 
 Who now encamp within a short hour's march. 
 On the high point of yon bright western tower, 
 We ken them from afar, the setting sun 
 Plays on their shining arms and burnish'd helmets, 
 And covers all the field with gleams of fire. 
 
 Lucius. Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy fa'her. 
 Cnesar is still disposed to give us terms, 
 And waits at distance till he hears from Cato. 
 
 Enter Portius. 
 
 Portius, thy looks speak somewhat of importance. 
 What tidings dost thou bring? methinks I see 
 Unusual gladness sparkling in thy eyes.
 
 c a t o . 459 
 
 Portius. As I was hasting to the port, where now 
 My father's friends, impatient for a passage, 
 Accuse the ling'ring winds, a sail arrived 
 From Pompey's son, who through the realms of Spain 
 Calls out for vengeance on his father's death, 
 And rouses the whole nation up to arms. 
 Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome 
 Assert her rights, and claim her liberty. 
 But, hark ! what means that groan ! give me way, 
 And let me fly into my father's presence. [Exit. Portius. 
 
 Lucius. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome, 
 And in the wild disorder of his soul 
 Mourns o'er his country. — Hah ! a second groan — 
 Heaven guard us all — 
 
 Marcia. Alas ! 'tis not the voice 
 
 Of one who sleeps ! 'tis agonizing pain, 
 'Tis death is in that sound — 
 
 He-enter Portius. 
 
 Portius. sight of woe ! 
 
 Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass ! 
 Cato is fallen upon his sword — 
 
 Lucius. Portius, 
 
 Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale, 
 And let us guess the rest. 
 
 Portius. I've rais'd him up, 
 
 And placed him in his chair, where, pale and faint, 
 He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him, 
 Demands to sec his friends! His servants weeping, 
 Obsequious to his orders, bear liim hither. 
 
 [The b<<<k scene opens, and discovers Colo 

 
 4(H) DRAMAS. 
 
 Marcia. heaven assist me in this dreadful hour 
 To pay the last sad duties to my father. 
 
 Juba. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, Caesar I 
 
 Lucius. Now is Rome fallen iudeed ! — 
 
 [Cato brought forward in his chair 
 
 Cato. Here set me down — 
 
 Portius come near me — are my friends embark'd ? 
 Can any thing be thought of for their service ? 
 Whilst I yet live let me not live in vain. 
 — Lucius, art thou here ? — thou art too good ! — 
 Let this our friendship live between our children ; 
 Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia. 
 Alas ! poor man, he weeps ! — Marcia, my daughter — 
 — beud me forward ! — Juba loves thee, Marcia. 
 A senator of Rome, while Rome survived, 
 Would not have match'd his daughter with a king, 
 But Caesar's arms have thrown down all distinction ; 
 Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman — 
 — I'm sick to death — when shall I get loose 
 From this vain world, th' abode of guilt and sorrow ! 
 — And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in 
 On my departing soul. Alas ! I fear 
 I've been too hasty." ye powers that search 
 The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts, 
 If I have done amiss, impute it not ! — 
 The best may err, but you are good, and — oh! [Dies. 
 
 Lucius. There fled the greatest soul that ever warm'd 
 A Roman breast. Cato ! my friend 1 
 Thy will shall be religiously observ'd. 
 
 a Alas' I fear I've been too hasty. This sentiment is not in character' 
 but the amiable author, ever attentive to the interests of religion and vir 
 tue, chose, fo> - the sake of these, to violate decorum.
 
 C A T <"> 
 
 461 
 
 But let us bear this awful corpse to Cflesar, 
 And lay it in his sight, that it may stand 
 A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath ; 
 Cato, tho' dead, shall still protect his friends. 
 
 From hence, let fierce contending nations know 
 What dire effects from civil discord flow. 
 'Tis this that shakes our country with alarms, 
 And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms, 
 Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife, 
 And robs the guilty world of Cato's life.
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 BY DJt. GARTH. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. PORTER. 
 
 What odd fantastic things we women do ! 
 
 Who wou'd not listen when young lovers woo ? 
 
 But die a maid, yet have the choice of two ! 
 
 Ladies are often cruel to their cost; 
 
 To give you pain, themselves they punish most. 
 
 Vows of virginity should well be weigh'd ; 
 
 Too oft they're cancell'd, tho' in convents made. 
 
 AYould you revenge such rash resolves — you may : 
 
 Be spiteful — and believe the thing we say ; 
 
 We hate you when you're easily said nay. 
 
 How needless, if you knew us, were your fears ! 
 
 Let love have eyes, and beauty will have ears. 
 
 Our hearts are form'd as you yourselves would chuse, 
 
 Too proud to ask, too humble to refuse : 
 
 We give to merit, and to wealth we sell ; 
 
 He sighs with most success that settles well. 
 
 The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix : 
 
 'Tis best repenting in a coach and sis. 
 
 Blame not our conduct, since we but pursue 
 Those lively lessons we have learn'd from you :
 
 cato. 4G3 
 
 Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms, 
 But wicked wealth usurps the power of charms , 
 What pains to get the gaudy thing you hate, 
 To swell in show, and be a wretch in state ! 
 At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow ; 
 Even churches are no sanctuaries now : 
 There, golden idols all your vows receive, 
 She is no goddess that has nought to give. 
 Oh, may once more the happy age appear, 
 When words were artless, and the thoughts sincere 
 When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things, 
 And courts less coveted than groves and springs. 
 Love then shall only mourn when truth complainR, 
 And constancy feel transport in its chains ; 
 Sighs with success their own soft anguish tell, 
 And eyes shall utter what the lips conceal : 
 Virtue again to its bright station climb, 
 And beauty fear no enemy but time ; 
 The fair shall listen to desert alone, 
 And every Lucia find a Cato's son.
 
 TO HEK, ROYAL HIGHNESS 
 
 THE PKINCESS OF WALES, 
 
 WITII THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.— Nov. 1T14 
 
 The muse that oft, with sacred raptures fir'd, 
 Has gen'rous thoughts of liberty inspir'd, 
 And, boldly rising for Britannia's laws, 
 Engaged great Cato in her country's cause,* 
 On you submissive waits, with hopes assur'd, 
 By whom the mighty blessing stands secur'd, 
 And all the glories, that our age adorn, 
 Are promis'd to a people yet unborn. 
 
 No longer shall the widow'd land bemoan 
 A broken lineage, and a doubtful throne ; 
 But boast her royal progeny's increase, 
 And count the pledges of her future peace. 
 born to strengthen and to grace our isle ! 
 While you, fair Princess, in your offspring smile, 
 
 * Engaged grtat Onto in her country's cause. Some little disingenuity 
 has been charged on the author, from this line (see Pope's Works, Ep. to 
 Aii£. v. 215, Mr. Warburton's edition), nor can I wholly acquit him of it. 
 The truth, however, seems to be this: Mr. A. had no party-views iri com- 
 posing this tragedy ; and he was only solicitous (whatever his friends 
 might be), to secure the suffrage of both parties, when it was brought on 
 the stage. But the public would only see it in a political light: and was 
 it to be wondered at, that a poet, in a dedication too, should take advan- 
 tage of the general voice, to make a merit of his imputed patriotism, with 
 the new family ? How spotless must that muse be, that, in passing through 
 a court, had only contracted this slight stain, even in the opinion of so so- 
 rare a censor and casuist as Mr. Pope 1
 
 c a t o . 465 
 
 Supplying charms to the succeeding age, 
 Each heavenly daughter's triumphs we presage ; 
 Already see th' illustrious youths complain, 
 And pity monarchs doorn'd to sigh in vain. 
 
 Thou too, the darling of our fond desires, 
 Whom Albion, opening wide her arms, requires 
 With manly valour and attractive air 
 Shalt quell the fierce and captivate the fair. 
 England's younger hope ! in whom conspire 
 The mother's sweetness, and the father's fire ! 
 For thee, perhaps, even now, of kingly race, 
 Some dawning beauty blooms in every grace, 
 Some Carolina, to heaven's dictates true, 
 Who, while the sceptr'd rivals vainly sue, 
 Thy inborn worth with conscious eyes shall see, 
 And slight th' imperial diadem for thee. 
 
 Pleas'd with the prospect of successive reigns 
 The tuneful tribe no more in daring strains 
 Shall vindicate, with pious fears opprest, 
 Endanger'd rights, and liberty distrest : 
 To milder sounds each muse shall tune the lyre, 
 And gratitude, and faith to kings inspire, 
 And filial love ; bid impious discord cease, 
 And soothe the madding factions into peace ; 
 Or rise ambitious in more lofty lays, 
 And teach the nation their new monarch's praise, 
 Describe his awful look, and godlike mind, 
 And Caesar's power with Cato's virtue join'd. 
 
 Meanwhile, bright Princess, who, with graceful ease 
 And native majesty, are form'd to please, 
 Behold those arts with a propitious eye, 
 Tliut suppliant \<> their great protectress fly I 
 voi. i.— 20*
 
 466 DRAMAS. 
 
 Then shall they triumph, and the British stage 
 Improve her manners and refine her rage, 
 More noble characters expose to view, 
 And draw her finisht heroines from you. 
 
 Nor you the kind indulgence will refuse, 
 Skill'd in the labours of the deathless muse : 
 The deathless muse with undiminish'd rays 
 Through distant times the lovely dame conveya 
 To Gloriana Waller's harp was strung ; 
 The queen still shines, because the poet sung. 
 Even all those graces, in your frame combin'd, 
 The common fate of mortal charms may find; 
 (Content our short-lived praises to engage, 
 The joy and wonder of a single age,) 
 Unless some poet in a lasting song 
 To late posterity their fame prolong, 
 Instruct our sons the radiant form to prize, 
 And see your beauty with their fathers' eye*.
 
 POEMATA.
 
 INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 
 
 "The following Latin poems are, in tiieir kind, excellent. They are the 
 Letter worth reading, as they show with what care our young author had 
 studied the prince of the Latin poets ; and from what source he afterwards 
 derived, what a certain writer calls, a little whimsically indeed, but, I 
 think, not unhapily, his sweet Virgilian prose. This Virgiliani&m, if I may 
 so speak, consists in opening a subject by degrees; in presenting it, first, 
 in a few and simple terms, and the"n enlarging and brightening it by a more 
 distinct and exquisite expr -as* u, ',iL i,h»\ » &«..- ption becomes, as it were, 
 full-blown, and is set before u? >c all -t» grv^ and beauty. With this 
 gradual extension of a sentiment, or image, is joined an improvement in 
 the rhythm. The ear is consulted, as well as the imagination ; and the 
 harmony of numbers keeps pace with the energy of expression. It is re 
 markable that Mr. Addison's studious imagination of Virgil's manner, hurt 
 iis English poetry sometimes, though it always improved his English prose. 
 The reason was, he had an facility in rhyming; and so was obliged many 
 times to take up with a weaker word or phrase, than its place in his verse 
 required. Hence, the frequent redundancies in his rhymed poetry, which 
 were intended by him, as amplifications. In his prose, he was under no 
 such restraint; and his exact taste always led him to perfection. That this 
 observation is just, we may see from his Cato, where the freedom of blank 
 verse, as it is called, secured him from this mischance; and from these 
 Latin poems, in which Virgilian gradation is every where observed, and 
 nicely imitated." — Hurd. 
 
 " Here (Oxford) he continued to cultivate poetry and criticism, and 
 grew first eminent by his Latin compositions, which are indeed entitled 
 to particular praise. He has not confined himself to the imitation of any 
 ancient author, but has formed his style from the general language, such 
 as a diligent perusal of the productions of different ages happened to supply. 
 
 " His Latin compositions seem to have had much of his fondness, for he 
 collected a second volume of the ' Muste Anglican**,' perhaps for a conve- 
 nient receptacle in which all his Lati. pieces are inserted, and where Lia
 
 POEMATA. 469 
 
 poem on the Peace has the first place. Three of his Latin poems are upon 
 subjects on which, perhaps, he would not hava ventured to have written 
 in his own language : T7ie Battle of the Pigmies and Cranes ; Tlie Baro- 
 meter ; and a Bowling Green. When the matter is low or scanty, a dead 
 language, in which nothing is mean because nothing is familiar, affords 
 great conveniences; and by the sonorous magnificence of Roman syllables 
 the writer conceals penury of thought and want of novelty often from the 
 reader and often from himself. In 1697 appeared his Latin verses on the 
 Peace of Ryswiek, which he dedicated to Montague, and which was after- 
 wards called by Smith 'the best Latin poem since the iEneid.' Praise 
 must not be too rigorously examined ; but the performance cannot be de- 
 nied to be vigorous and elegant." — Johnson — Life of Addison. 
 
 Ocde's opinion is less favorable — "He collected a second volume of the 
 1 Musae Anglicana?,' and inserted in it most of his Latin compositions. 
 Though they will always be valued by the scholar, aud considered as 
 productions of promise, they cannot compete with the poems of Buchanan, 
 or of Vincent Brown ; and in correctness must yield not only to Johnson, 
 but now to many whose classical precision has been derived from the 
 labors of the philologists of the greater portion of a century." — Ogle — Life 
 of Addison, pp xv., xvi. 
 
 Miss Aikin is not, perhaps, the best authority upon this subject — but her 
 remarks deserve insertion: — 
 
 "In furtherance of this design, he now printed at the Sheldon press a 
 second volume of the Musa? Anglicans, in which hi* own poems occupy a 
 conspicuous place ; — celebrated productions of which some account must 
 here be given. 
 
 "The composition of Latin verse, even when not a commanded exercise 
 of the schools, seems an effort of imitation so natural and obvious to the 
 academic, with a memory stored from the treasury of the ancient classics, 
 and a taste formed almost exclusively on their models, that it cannot be 
 regarded as a serious derogation from the credit of early English scholar- 
 ship, to have produced so little of this kind of fruit. Dr. Johnson has 
 remarked, that before the appearance of the works of Milton and Cowley, 
 and of May's Continuation of Lucan's Pharsalia, the English ' appeared 
 unable to contest the palm of Latin poetry with any other of the learned 
 nations.' Tlicse writers had found no successors of equal merit wliei: 
 Addison, whether moved by the example of two poets, both of them earlv 
 objects of his fervent admiration, or solely by the promptings of his own 
 elegant and h ghly classical spirit, first determined to build up a literary 
 reputation on the foundation of Roman Bong. Some pieces of merit had 
 however been produced, which, mingled with others of inferior quality, 
 had issued from the Oxford press, but with a London editor, in IC'Jl in a 
 eingle volume entitled Mus» Anglicanffl. 
 
 ' A sequel to this work, also from the Sheldon press, appeared in 109d,
 
 470 POEMATA. 
 
 in which all the Latin pieces of Addison, eight in number, were con- 
 tained ; his poem on the Peace leading the way. No name of editor is 
 given, but there is no doubt that the selection was made by Addison him 
 self, nor of course that the elegant Latin preface which reappeared with 
 some improvements in the enlarged and corrected edition of 1714, was 
 from his pen. In this address to the public it is emphatically stated that 
 no piece has been inserted in this collection but witbTthe consent of its 
 author ; and a severe censure is passed upon the editor of the former 
 volume, who, in publishing without authority several impeifect and juve- 
 nile attempts, is said to have consulted his own profit more than the repu- 
 tation of the writers. The absence of any contributions from Cambridge 
 scholars, is adverted to in terms of great politeness, which yet suggest 
 the suspicion that they had been withheld from a spirit of petty jealousy 
 towards the rival university. 
 
 "Great and general was the applause given by contemporary scholars 
 to the first fruits of the learned muse of Addison; nor has their fame 
 proved fugitive. The correctness and classical purity of these graceful 
 productions have received no attaint ; and although, as Dr. Johnson 
 observes, that praise must not be too nicely weighed which assigned to 
 his poem on the Peace the character of 'the best Latin poem since 
 Virgil,' judges of the present day, both competent and impartial, have 
 held that in the flow and cadence of his verse, at least, Addison has more 
 nearly attained the sweetness and majesty of Virgil than any other mo- 
 dern, 
 
 " It appears that Addison, on setting out for his travels, carried with 
 him the new volume of MusaB Anglicanas, and occasionally availed himself 
 of it as a kind of credential letter in his visits to the scholars of the 
 continent." — Aikin— Life of Addison, pp. 48, 51.
 
 HO\ T ORATISS1MO VIRO 
 
 CAROLO MONTAGU, 
 
 ARMIGEEO, BCACCHARII CAXCELLAElO, jERAEII PBJ2FECTO, REGI A 
 SECEETIOEIBUS CONS1LII3, &o. 
 
 Cum tanta auribus tuis obstrepat vatum nequissimorum 
 turba, nihil est cur queraris aliquid inusitatum tibi con- 
 tigisse, ubi preeclaruni hoc argumentum meis etiam nunie- 
 ris violatum conspexeris. Quantum virtute bellica prse- 
 stent Britanni, recens ex rebus gestis testatur gloria ; quam 
 vero in humanioribus pacis studiis non ernineamus, indicio 
 sunt quos nuper in lucem emisimus versiculi. Quod si 
 Congrevius ille tuus divino, quo solet, furore correptus 
 materiam hanc non exornasset, vix tanti esset ipsa pax, ut 
 ilia lsetarernur tot perditissimis poetis tam misere decan- 
 tata. At, dum alios inscctor, mei ipsius oblitus fuisse 
 videor, qui hand minores forsan ex Latinis tibi molestiaa 
 allaturus sum, quam quas i 11 1 exvernaculis suis carminibus 
 attulerunt; nisi quod inter ipsos crucial us lenimentum 
 aliquud dolori tribuat tormenti varietas. Nee quidem un-
 
 472 DEDICATIO. 
 
 quani adduci possem, ut poeuia patrio serinone conscrip- 
 
 tum oculis tuis subjicereni, qui ab istis conatibus cteteros 
 
 omnes scribendo non minus deterres, quam favendo exci- 
 
 taveris. 
 
 Humani tatis Tuse 
 
 Cultor devotissimus, 
 
 dOSiSPHUS ADDIbON.
 
 POEMATA. 
 
 PAX GULIELMI AUSPICIIS EUROPE P.EDDITA, 1697. 
 
 Pos ^uam ingens clamorque virum, strepitusque tubarum, 
 Atque omnis belli cecidit fragor ; aspice, Caesar, 
 Quae tibi soliciti, turba importuna, poetae 
 Munera deducunt : generosae a pectore flammae, 
 Diraeque armorum effigies, simulacraque belli 
 Tristia diffugiant : tandem absiste triumpbis 
 Expletus, penitusque animo totum excute Martem. 
 
 Non ultra ante oculos numeroso milite campi 
 Miscentur, solito nee fervent arva tumultu ; 
 Stat circum alta quies, curvoque innixus aratro 
 Desertas fossas, et castra minantia castris 
 Rusticus invertit, tacita formidine lustrans 
 Horrorernque loci, et funestos stragibus agros. 
 Jamque super vallum et lnuniniina longa virescit 
 Expectata seges, jam propugnacula ridcut 
 Verc novo; insuetos mirabitur incola culmos, 
 Luxuriemque soli, et turgentem a sanguine messem. 
 
 Aspicis ut toto excitus venit advena mundo 
 Bellorum inviaena sedem, et confusa minis 
 Oppida, et eversoa uammarum turbine murosl 
 Ut trepidoa rerum Annales, triatemque laborum 
 Inquirit aerien , attonitia at spectat ocellia
 
 474 
 
 POEMA1A, 
 
 Seniirutas turres, et adhuc polluta cruore 
 Flurnina, farnososque Ormondi volnere cainpos ! 
 
 Hie, ubi saxa jacent disperso infecta cerebro, 
 Atque interruptis hiscunt divortia inuris, 
 Vexillum intrepidus * fixit, cui tempora dudum 
 Budenses palnise, peregriuaque laurus obumbrat. 
 Hie ruens aciem in mediaui, qua ferrea grando 
 Sparsa furit circum, et pluuibi densissimus imber, 
 Sulphurearu nocteni, tetrasque bitumiue nubes 
 Ingreditur, crebroque rubentem fulgure fuinum. 
 Et vario anfractu, et disjectis undique saxis 
 Maenia disceduat, scopulisque immane minantur 
 Desuper horrificis, et formidabile pendent ! 
 
 Hie pestem occultain, et foecundas sulphure moles 
 Cernere erat, magno quas inter mota tumultu 
 Praelia fervebant ; subito cum elaustra fragore 
 Horrendum disrupta tonant, semiustaque membra, 
 Fumantesque artus, laniataque corpora iethum 
 Corripit informe, et rotat ater in ,'e there turbo. 
 
 Sic, postquam Enceladi dejecit fulmine fratres 
 Coelicolum pater, et vetuit contemnere divos : 
 Divulsam terrae faciem, ingentesque ruinas 
 Mortales stupuere ; altum hinc mirantur abesse 
 Pelion, invertique imis radicibus Ossam ; 
 Hie fluvium moles inter eonfusaque saxa 
 Reptare, atque aliis discentem currere ripis. 
 Stant dubii, et notos montes umbrasque requirunt, 
 Errore ambiguo elusi, et novitate locorum. 
 Nempe hie Auriaci nuper vexilla secutas 
 Confluxere acie3, hie, aspera corda, Britanni, 
 Germanusque ferox, et juncto foedere Belga; 
 
 * Honoratissimua D. Dominus CUTTS. Baro de Gowran, Ac.
 
 P E M A T A . 475 
 
 Quique truci Borese, et coelo damnatus iniquo 
 Vitam agit in tenebris ; et qui dudum ore perusto 
 Decolor admoti prodit vestigia Phoebi : 
 Undique conveniunt, totum conscripta per orbem 
 Agmina, Nassovi que latus socialibus arinis 
 Circumfusa tcgunt, fremitusque et murinura iniscent 
 Tarn vario disjuncta situ, tot dissona Unguis. 
 
 Te tamen e mediis, * Ductor Fortissimo turmis 
 Exere, Tu vitam (si quid mea carmina possunt) 
 Accipies, populique encomia sera futuri, 
 Quern varias edoctum artes, studiisque Minervac 
 Omnibus ornatum Marti Rhedycina furenti 
 Credidit invita, et tanto se jactat alumno. 
 Hunc nempe ardorem, atque immensos pectoris asstus 
 Non jubar Arctoum, aut uostri penuria coeli, 
 Sed plaga torridior, qua sol intentius omnes 
 Effuudit radios, totiquc obnoxia Phcebo 
 India progenuit, tenerisque incoxit ab annis 
 Virtutem immodicam, et generosa) incendia mentis. 
 
 Jam quoque torpentem qui infelix suspicit Arcton, 
 Brumamque seternam frigusque perambulat, ursae 
 Ilorridus exuviis, Gulielmi ingentia facta 
 Describit sociis, pugnataque in ordinc bella 
 Attentus numerat, neque brumam aut frigora curat. 
 En ! vastos nivium tractus et pallida rcgna 
 Deserit, imperio extremum b qui subjicit orbem, 
 Indigenasque hyemes, Britonumque Heroa pererrat 
 Luminibus tacitis ; subeunt nunc fusa Namurcao 
 Maenia, nunc tardo quae sanguine plurima-fluxit 
 Boinia, nunc dubii palma indiscreta Seneffi. 
 
 ■ [neig. Dom. Christoph. Codrington, anus ex Regii Satellitii Prsefectift 
 k Muscovite Impcrator.
 
 476 foEmata 
 
 Quaa facies, et quanta viri ! quo vertice in auras 
 Assurgit ! quali firmat vestigia gressu, 
 Majestate rudi, et torvo spectabilis ore ! 
 
 Sic olini Alcides, immania membra Leonis 
 Instratus spoliis, vasta se mole ferebat, 
 Evandri amplexus dextramque adjungere dextrae 
 Cum peteret, tectisque ingens succederet hospes. 
 
 Dum pugnas, Gulielme, tuas, camposque cruentos 
 Accipit, in venis ebullit vividus humor, 
 Corda micant crebro, et mentem ferit semulus ardor. 
 Non jam Ripbaeos bostis populabitur agros 
 Impune, aut agitabit inultas Sarmata praedas. 
 
 Quis tamen ille procul fremitus ! Quas murmura vulgi 
 Nassovium ingeminant! video cava littora cireum 
 Fervere remigibus, subitisque albescere velis. 
 Anglia solve metus, et inanes mitte querelas, 
 Nassovi secura tui, desiste tumentes 
 Prospicere in fluctus animo suspensa, trucesque 
 Objurgare notos, tardamque requirere puppim : 
 Optatus tibi Cassar adest, nee ut ante videbis 
 Sollicitum belli studiis, fatalia Gallo 
 Consilia et tacitas versantem in pectore pugnas. 
 Olli grata quies et pax tranquilla verendum 
 Composuit vultum, laetosque afflavit bonores. 
 
 Ut denso cireum se plurimus agmine miles 
 Agglomerat lateri ! ut patriam veteresque penatea 
 Respicit exultans ! juvat ostentare recentes 
 Ore cicatrices, et vulnera cruda, notasque 
 Mucronum insignes, afflataque sulpbure membra. 
 • Cbara stupet conjux, reducisque incerta mariti 
 Vestigat faciem ; trepida formidine proles 
 Stat procul, et patrios borrescit nescia vultus.
 
 POEM AT A. 477 
 
 Ille graves casus, duri et diacrimina belli 
 Enunierat, tumidisque instaurat praelia verbis. 
 Sic, postquani in patriam foecunda heroibus Argo 
 Phryxeam attulerat pellem, lauamque rigentem 
 Exposuit Graiis. et tortile velleris aurum, 
 Navita terrificis infamia littora uioiistris 
 Describit, niixto spirantern incendia fumo 
 Serpenteni, vigilesque feras, plaustroque gementes 
 Insolito tauros, et anbelos igne juvencos. 
 
 Te tarnen, quantis Gulielme erepte periclis, 
 Accipimus reducem : tibi Diva Britannia fundit 
 Plebeinque et proceres : medias quacunque per urbes 
 Iugrederis, crebraa consurgunt undique pompse, 
 Gaudiaque et plausus : niixto ordine vulgus euntem 
 Circunistat freinitu denso : Tibi Jupiter annum 
 Serius iuvertit, luces mirata serenas 
 llidet Hyeins, festoque vacat coclum omne triumpho. 
 
 Jamque a nepos tibi parvus adest, laatoque juveutaa 
 Incessu, et blando testatur gaudia risu. 
 Ut patrius vigor atque elati gratia vultus 
 Caesareum spirant, magistatemque verendam 
 Infundunt puero ! ut mater formosa serenat 
 Augustam frontem, et sublimia temperat ora ! 
 Agnosco faciem ambiguam, mixtosque parentes. 
 Ille tuas, Gulielme, acies, et tristia bella, 
 Pugnasque innocua dudum sub imagine lusit. 
 Nunc indignanti sirailis t'ugitiva pusillaa 
 Terga premit turmae, et falsis terroribus implet, 
 Sternitque exiguum ficto cognomine Galium. 
 Nunc simulat turres, et propugaacula parva 
 Nominibtts signat earns; Bubitoque bumultu 
 
 * Celsiseiraui l*i 1 1 1 - - ■ i - - Dux GloceBtrenaiSi
 
 4 78 POEMATA. 
 
 Sedulus infirmas arces, hurailemque Namurcam 
 Diruit ; interea generosre in pectore flammge 
 Assurgunt sensim juveni, notat ignis honestas 
 Purpureo fervore genas, et amabilis horror. 
 
 Quis'tamen Augustae immensa.8 in carmine pompas 
 Instruet, in luteos ubi vuigo effusa eanales 
 Vina rubent, variatque infectas purpura sordes ? 
 Quis lapsus referet stellarum, et fictile coeluni, 
 Qua lacerarn ostendunt redolentia compita chartam, 
 Sulphuris exuvias, tubulosque bitumine cassos ? 
 En procul attonitam video clarescere noctem 
 Fulgore insolito ! ruit undique lucidus iniber, 
 Flagrantesque hyemes ; crepitantia sidera passim 
 Scintillant, totoque pluunt incendia coelo. 
 Nee minus in terris Vulcanus mille fi<mras 
 
 O 
 
 Iuduit, ignivomasque feras, et fulgida monstra, 
 Terribiles visu formas ! hie membra Leonis 
 Hispida mentitur, tortisque comantia flammis 
 Colla quatit, rutilasque jubas ; hie lubricus Anguem 
 Ludit, subsiliens, et multo sibilat igne. 
 
 Lgetitiam ingentem atque effusa base gaudia civis 
 Jam tandem securus agit, positoque timore 
 Exercet ventos, classemque per ultima mundi 
 Impune educit, pelagoque licentius errat : 
 Seu constricta gelu, mediisque horreutia Cancri 
 Meusibus arva videt ; seu turgida malit olenti 
 Tendere vela noto, qua tburea flamina miscet 
 JEolus, et placidis perfimdit odoribus auras. 
 
 Vos animae illustres heroum, umbrseque recentea, 
 Quarum trunca jacent et adhuc stillantia-crudic 
 Corpora vulneribus, quibus haac optabilis orbi 
 Parta quies, nondum Nassovo abducite vestro
 
 POCMATA. 479 
 
 Fida satellitia, at solitis .tipate catervis 
 Ductorem, et tenues circum diffundite turmas. 
 Tuque Maria, tuos non unquam oblita Britannos, 
 Diva, patiens magnuin expectarc niaritum ," 
 Ne terris Dominum iuvideas, quanquam amplius ilium 
 Detineant, longamque agitent sub vindice pacem. 
 
 BAROMETRI DESCRIPTIO. 
 
 Qua penetrat fossor terrae caeca antra, metallo 
 
 Fcecunda informi, rudibusque nitentia venis ; 
 
 Dura stupet occultas gazas, nummosque futuros, 
 
 Eruit argenti latices, nitidumque liquorem; 
 
 Qui nullo effusus prodit vestigia tractu, 
 
 Nee terrain signo revolubilis imprimit udo, 
 
 Sed fractus sparsira in globulos formam usque rotundam 
 
 Servat, et in teretes lapsans se colligit orbes. 
 
 Ineertum qua sit natura, an negligat ultra 
 Perficier, jubar et maturus inutile temnat ; 
 An potius solis vis imperfecta relinquat 
 Argentum male coctum, divitiasque fluentes: 
 Quicquid crit, magno se jactat nobilis usu ; 
 Nee Deus effulsit magis aspectabilis olim, 
 Cum Danaen flavo circum pretiosus aniictu 
 Ambiit, et, gratam suadente libidine formam, 
 Depluit irriguo liquefactum Numen in Auro. 
 
 Quin age, sume tubum fragilem, cui densior aer 
 Exclusus; fundo vitri Bubsidat in imo 
 Argenti Btagnum; ut pluvia impendente metallum 
 Mobile descendat, vel contra, ubi postulat aestus,
 
 \i'J POEM AT A 
 
 Prodeat hinc liquor emergens, et rursus inane 
 Occupet ascensu, tubulumque excurrat in oninem. 
 
 Jam coeli faciem fcempestatesque futuras 
 Conscia lympka mouet, brumamque et frigora narrat 
 Nam quoties liquor insurgit, vitreoque canali 
 Sublatum nequeunt ripae cobibere priores ; 
 Tarn betos sperare dies licet, arva fatentur 
 JEstatem, et large diffuse lumine rident. 
 Sin sese immodicum attolleus Argenteus bumor, 
 Et nimium oppressus, conteudat ad ardua vitri, 
 Jam sitiunt herbae, jam succos flamma feraces 
 Excoquit, et languent consumto prata virore 
 
 Cum vero tenues nebulas spiracula terrae 
 Fundunt, et madidi fluitant super aequora fumi, 
 Pabula ventura: pluvhe : turn fusile pondus 
 Inferiora petit ; nee eertior Ardea cuelos 
 Indicat bumentes, medias quando aetheris oras 
 Tranando, crassa fruitur sublimius aura, 
 Biscutit et madidis rorantia nubila pennis. 
 Nunc guttaa agglomerant, dispersas frigora stipant 
 Particulas, rarusque in nimbum cogitur humor ' 
 Prata virent, segetem foecundis imbribus aether 
 Irrigat, et bibube radici alimenta ministrat. 
 Quin ubi plus aequo descendens uda metalli 
 Fundum amat, impatiens pluviae, metuensque procellam, 
 Agricolae caveant ; nou hoc impune colonus 
 Aspicit; ostendet mox fceta vaporibus aura 
 Collectas byemes, tenipestatemque sonoram. 
 A.t licet Argentum mole incumbente levatum 
 Subsidat, penil usque imo se coudat in alveo, 
 Cgetera quajque tument ; eversis flumina ripis 
 Expatiata ruunt, spumantibus icstuat uudis
 
 POEMATA. 48 1 
 
 Diluviuiii, rapidique effusa licentia ponti 
 
 Nulla tacet secreta poli mirabile vitrum 
 Quin varios cceli vultus et tempora proclit, 
 Ante refert, quando tenui velaminc tutus 
 Incedes, quando sperabis frigidus ignera. 
 
 Augurio hoc fretus, quanquam atri nubila coeli 
 Dirumpunt, obscura diem, pluviasque minantur ; 
 Machina si neget, et sudum promittat apertum, 
 Audax carpat iter nimbo pendente viator ; 
 Nee metuens imbrem, poscentes Messor aristas 
 Prosternat : terras jam bruma incumbit inermis, 
 Frigoraque haud nocitura cadunt, feriuntque paratos. 
 
 [1 YrMAJO-lEPANOMAXIA, 
 
 S1VE, 
 
 P R M L I U M 
 
 INTER 
 
 PYGM^EOS ET GRUES COMMISSUM. 
 
 Pennatas acies, et lamentabile bellum 
 Pygmeadum refero : parvas tu, Musa, cohortes 
 Instrue; tu gladios, mortemque minantia rostra, 
 Offensosque Grues, indignantesque pusillam 
 Militiam eelebra ; volucrumque hominumque tumultua. 
 
 Heroum ingentes animos et tristia bella 
 Pieriduni labor exhausit, versuque sonoro 
 Jussit et acterna Qumerorom assurgere pompa: 
 Quis lectos Graium juveues, et torva tuentem 
 Thesea, quis pedibus veloceiu iguorat Achillem? 
 vol. i. — 21
 
 482 POEM AT A. 
 
 Quem dura JEneac certamina, quem Gulielm: 
 Gesta latent ? frames Tbebani, et flebile fatum 
 Pompeii quem non delassavere legentem ? 
 Primus ego intactas acies, gracilemque tubarum 
 Carmine depingam sonitum, nova castra secutus; 
 Exiguosque canam pugiles, Gruibusque malignos 
 Heroas, nigrisque ruentem e nubibus bostem. 
 
 Qua solis tepet ortu, primitiisque diei 
 India laata rubet, medium inter inhospita saxa 
 (Per placidam vallem, et paucis accessa vireta) 
 Pygmaeum quondam steterat, dum fata sinebant, 
 Imperium. Hie varias vitam excoluere per artes 
 Seduli, et assiduo fervebant arva popello. 
 Nunc si quis dura evadat per saxa viator, 
 Desertosque lares, et valles ossibu.- albas 
 Exiguis videt, et vestigia parva stupeseit. 
 Desolata tenet victrix impune volucris 
 Regna, et securo crepitat Grus improba nido. 
 Non sic, dum multos stetit insuperabilis annos 
 Parvula progenies ; turn, si quis cominus ales 
 Congredi, et immixta3 auderet se credere pugnae, 
 Miles atrox aderat, sumptisque feroculus armis 
 Sternit bumi volucrem moribundam, bumerisque reportat 
 Ingentem praedam ; coesoque epulatur in boste. 
 Srepe improvisas mactabat, saepe juvabat 
 Diripere aut nidum, aut ulcisci in prole parentem. 
 Nempe larem quoties multa construxerat arte, 
 Aut uteri posuisset onus, volucremque futuram; 
 Continuo vultu spirans immane minaci 
 Omnia vastaret miles, foetusque necaret 
 Immeritos, vitamque abrumperet imperfectam, 
 Gum tepido noudum maturuit hostis in ovo.
 
 POEMATA. 433 
 
 Hinc causae irarum, bella hinc, fatalia lella, 
 Atque acies letho intentae, volucrumque virumque 
 Coinrnissre strages, confusaque mortis imago. 
 Non tantos motus, nee tarn memorabile bellum, 
 Masonius quondam sublimi carmine vates 
 Lusit ; ubi totara strepituque armisque paludem 
 Miscuit: hie (visu miserabile !) corpora murum 
 Sparsa jacent juncis transfixa, hie gutture rauco 
 Rana dolet, pedibusque abscisso poplite ternis 
 Reptar humi, solitis nee sese saltibus effert. 
 
 Jamque dies Pygmaso aderat. quo tempore caesi 
 Poenituit foetus, intactaque maluit ova. 
 Nam super his accensa graves exarsit in iras 
 Grus stomachans ; omnesque simul, quas Strymonis jnda, 
 Aut stagnum Mareotidis, imi aut uda Caystri 
 Prata tenent, adsunt; Seythicaque excita palude, 
 Et conjurato volucris descendit ab Istro, 
 Stragesque immensas et vulnera cogitat absens, 
 Exacuitque ungues ictum meditata futurum, 
 Et rostrum parat acre, fugaeque accommodat alas. 
 Tantus arnor belli, et vindictas arrecta cupido. 
 Ergo ubi ver nactus proprium, suspensus in alto 
 Acre concussis exercitus obstrepit alis, 
 Terrasque immensos tractus, semotaque longe 
 iEquora despiciunt, Boreamque et nubila tranant 
 Innumeri : crebro circum ingens fluctuat aether 
 Flamine, efrassiduus miscet coclum omne tumultus, 
 
 Nee minor in terris motus, dum bella facessit 
 Iinpiger, inwtituitque aginen, firmatqiie phalangas 
 Et fur it arrcptis aniuiosus homunoio tclis : 
 D'ottec *nriii;i duas roinposta excurral in alas. 
 Ordinibusquc frequens, et, ■ marte instructa perito.
 
 484 POEM AT A. 
 
 Jamque acies inter medias sese arduus infert 
 Pygmeadum ductor, qui majestate verendus 
 Incessuque gravis reliquos supereminet oirmes 
 Mole gigantea, mediamque assurgit in ulnam. 
 Torvior aspeetu (hostilis nam insculpserat unguis. 
 Ore cicatrices) vultuque ostentat honesta 
 Rostrorum signa, et crudos in pectore morsus. 
 Iinmortali odio, seternisque exercuit iris 
 Alituum gentem, non ilium impune volucris 
 Aut ore, aut pedibus peteret confisus aduneis 
 Fatalem quoties Gruibus distrinxerat ensem, 
 Truncavitque alas, celerique fugam abstulit bosti ! 
 Quot fecit strages ! quae nudis funera pullis 
 Intulit, beu ! quoties implevit Strymona fletu ! 
 
 Jamque procul sonus auditur, piceamque volantun 
 Prospectant nubem bellumque hostesque ferentem. 
 Crebrescit tandem, atque oculis se plurimus offert 
 Ordinibus structus variis exercitus ingens 
 Alituum, motisque eventilat aera pennis. 
 Turba polum replet, specieque immanis obumbrat 
 Agmina Pygmasorurn, et deusa in nubibus haeret : 
 Nunc densa, at patriis mox reddita rarior oris. 
 Belli ardent studio Pygmaei, et lumine sasvo 
 Suspiciunt bostem ; nee longum tempus, et ingens 
 Turba Gruum horrifico sese super agmina lapsu 
 Prsecipitat gravis, et bellum sperantfbus infert : 
 Fit fragor ; avulsae volitant circum aeim plum®. 
 Mox defessa iterum levibus ses^ eripit alis, 
 Et vires reparata iterum petit irapete terras. 
 Armofum pendet fortuna : hie fixa volucris 
 Cuspide, sanguineo sese furibuuda rotatu 
 Torquet agens circum, rostrumque intendit in hostem
 
 POEMATA. 465 
 
 Imbelle, et curvos in morte recolligit ungues. 
 Pygmtei hie stillat lentus de vulnere sanguis, 
 Singultusque ciet crebros, pedibusque pusillis 
 Tundit humum, et morieus unguem execratur acutum 
 iEstuat omne solum strepitu, tepidoque rubeseit 
 Sanguine, sparguntur gladii, sparguntur et alae, 
 Unguesque et digiti, commistaque rostra lacertis. 
 
 Pyguieadum sayrit, niediisque in millibus ardet 
 Ductor, quern late bine atque bine pereuntia eingunt 
 Corpora fusa Gruuin ; niedlaque in morte vagatur. 
 Nee plausu alarum, nee rostri eoncidit ietu. 
 Ille Gruuin terror, ilium densissima cireum 
 Miscetur pugna, et bellum omne laborat in uno : 
 Cum, subito appulsus (sie Di voluere) tumultu 
 Ex inopino ingens et formidabilis Ales 
 Comprendit pedibus pagnantem ; et (triste relatu) 
 Sustulit in coelum ; bellator ab unguibus hawet 
 Pendulus, agglomerat strepitu globus undique densus 
 Alituum ; frustra P} T gmjei lumine moesto 
 Regem inter nubes lugent, solitoque minorem 
 Heroem aspieiunt Gruibus plaudentibus eseam 
 
 Jamque reerudescit bellum. Grus desuper urget 
 Pygmceum rostro, atque bostem petit ardua morsu ; 
 Turn fugit alta volans; is sursum braebia jacta 
 Vulneris impatiens, et inanes stevit in auras. 
 Talis erat belli facies, cum Pelion iugens 
 Mitteret in eoelum Briareus, solioque Tonantem 
 Pnccipitein exeuteret; sparguntur in aetbere toto 
 Fulminaque seopulique : flagrantia tela deorsum 
 Torquentur Jovis acta manu, dam vasta Gigantuni 
 Corpora fusa jaccnt. semiustaque sulphure fumant. 
 
 Viribus absumptia penitus Pygmefa tandem
 
 486 POEM AT A. 
 
 Agmina languescunt ; ergo pars vertere terga 
 Horribili perculsa metu, pars tollere vocem 
 Exiguam ; late populus Cubitalis oberrat. 
 Instant a tergo volucres, lacerantque trahuntque 
 Immites, certae genteni extirpare nefandam. 
 
 Sic Pygmaea domus multos dominata per annos, 
 Tot bellis defuncta, Gruum tot laeta triurnphis, 
 Funditus interiit : Nempe exitus omnia tandem 
 Certus Regna manet, sunt certi denique fines, 
 Quos ultra transire nefas : sic corruit olim 
 Assyriae Imperium, sic magnae Persidis imis 
 Sedibus eversum est, et majus utroque Latinum. 
 Elysii valles nunc agmine lustrat inani, 
 Et veterum Heroum miscetur grandibus urabris 
 Plebs parva : aut, si quid fidei mereatur anilis 
 Fabula, Pastores per noctis opaca pusillas 
 Saepe vident umbras, Pygmaaos corpore cassos. 
 Dum secura Gruum, et veteres oblita labores, 
 Laetitiae penitus vacat, indulgetque choreis, 
 Angustosque terit calles, viridesque per orbes 
 Turba levis salit, et lemurum cognomine gaudev
 
 POEM ATA 487 
 
 RESURRECTIO 
 
 DELINEATA 
 
 AD ALTARE COL. MAGD. OXON. 
 
 Egregios fuci tractus, ealamique labores, 
 Surgentesque hominum forraas, ardentiaque ora 
 Judicis, et simulacra modis pallentia miris, 
 Terribilem visu pouipam, tu carmine Musa 
 Pande novo, vatique sacros accende furores. 
 
 Olim planitiem (quam nunc foccunda colorum 
 Insignit pictura) inhonesto et simplice cultu 
 Vestiit albedo, sed ne rima ulla priorem 
 Agnoscat faciem, mox fundamenta futurae 
 Substravit pictor tabulae, bumoremque sequacem 
 Per muros traxit ; velamine moenia crasso 
 Squallent obducta, et rudioribus illita fucis. 
 
 Utque (polo nondum stellis fulgentibus apto) 
 Ne spatio moles immensa debiscat inani, 
 Per cava coelorum, et convexa patentia late 
 Hinc atque bine interfusus fluitaverat aether; 
 Mox radiante novum torrebat lumiue mundum 
 Titan, et pallens alienos mitius ignes 
 Cynthia vibrabat ; crebris nunc consitus astris 
 Scintillare polus, nunc fulgor Lacteus omne 
 Diffluere in coclum, longoque albescerc tractu. 
 
 Sic, operis postquam lusit primordia pictor, 
 Dum sordet paries, nullumque i'atetur Apcllcm, 
 Cautius exercet calumos, atque arte tenacem
 
 488 P O E M A T A . 
 
 Confundit viscum, succosque attemperat, omnes 
 Inducit tandem formas ; apparet ubique 
 Muta cohors, et picturaruin vulgus inane. 
 
 Aligeris niuri vacat ora suprema ministris, 
 Sparsaque per totam coelestis turba tabellam 
 Raucos inspirat lituos, buccasque tumentes 
 Inflat, et attonitum replet clangoribus orbem. 
 Defunctis sonus auditur, tabulamque per imam 
 Picta gravescit humus, terris emergit apertis 
 Progenies rediviva, et plurima surgit imago. 
 
 Sic, dum foecundis Cadmus dat semina sulcis 
 Terra tumet praegnans, animataque gleba laborat, 
 Luxuriatur ager segete spirante, calescit 
 Omne solum, crescitque virorum prodiga messis. 
 
 Jam pulvis varias terrae dispersa per oras, 
 Sive inter venas teneri concreta metalli, 
 Sensim diriguit, seu sese immiseuit herbis, 
 Explicita est ; molem rursus coalescit in unam 
 Divisuin funus, sparsos prior alligat artus 
 Junctura, aptanturque iterum coeuntia membra. 
 Hie nondum specie perfecta resurgit imago, 
 Vultum truncata, atque inhonesto vulnere nares 
 Manca, et adhuc deest informi de corpore multum. 
 Paulatim in rigidum hie vita insinuata cadaver 
 Motu aegro vix dum redivivos erigit artus. 
 Inficit his horror vultus, et imagine tota 
 Fusa per attonitam pallet formido figuram. 
 
 Detrahe quin oculos spectator, et, ora nitentem 
 Si poterint perferre diem, medium inspice murum, 
 Qua sedet orta Deo proles, Deus ipse, sereno 
 Lumine perfusus, radiisque inspersus acutis. 
 Circum tranquillae funduutur tempora flammse,
 
 P O E M A T A . 489 
 
 Regius ore vigor spirat, nitet ignis ocellis", 
 Plurimaque effulget ruajestas nuraine toto. 
 Quantum dissiinilis, quantum o ! mutatus ab illo, 
 Qui peccata luit cruciatus non sua, vitaui 
 Quando luctantcm eunctata morte trahebat ! 
 Sed frustra voluit defunctum Golgotha numeu 
 Condere, dum victa fatorum lege triumphans 
 Nativum petiit coelum, et super aetliera vectus 
 Despexit lunam exiguam, solemque minorem. 
 
 Jam latus effossum, et palmas ostendit utrasqu« 
 Vulnusque infixum pede, clavorumque recepta 
 Signa, et transacti quondam vestigia ferri. 
 Umbrae hue felices tendunt, numerosaque coelos 
 Turba petuut, atque immortalia dona capessunt. 
 Matres, et longae nunc reddita corpora vitae 
 Infantum, juvenes,' pueri, innuptaeque puellae 
 Stant circum, atque avidos jubar immortale bibentea 
 Affigunt oculos in Numine ; laudibus aether 
 Intonat, et hcto ridet coelum omne triumpho. 
 His amor impatiens concept aque gaudia mentem 
 Funditus.exagitant, imoque in pectore fervent. 
 Non aoque exultat flagranti corde Sibylla, 
 Hospite emm tumet incluso, et prajcordia sentit 
 Mota Dei stimulis, nimioque calentia Phoebo. 
 
 Quis tamen ille novus perstringit lumina fulgor ? 
 Quam Mitra effigicm distinxit pictor, honesto 
 Surgentcm e tumulo, alatoque satellite fultam ? 
 Agnosco faciem, vultu latet alter in illo 
 Wainfletu8, a sic ille oculos, sic ora ferebat : 
 Eheu quando animi par invenietur Imago 1 
 Quando aliuin similem virtus hahitura ! — 
 
 - coll. Magd. Fumlator. 
 
 vol. i.— 21 k
 
 490 P E M A T A . 
 
 Irati innocuas seeurus numinis iras 
 Aspicit, impavidosque in Judice figit ocellos. 
 
 Quin age, et horrentem commixtis igne tenebris 
 Jam videas scenam ; multo hie stagnantia fuco 
 Mcenia, flagrantem liquefacto sulphure rivum 
 Fingunt, et falsus tanta arte accenditur ignis, 
 Ut toti metuas tabulae, ne flamma per omne 
 Livida serpat opus, tenuesque absumpta recedat 
 Pictura in cineres, propriis peritura favillis. 
 Hue turba infelix agitur, turpisque videri 
 Infrendet dentes, et rugis contrabit ora. 
 Vindex a tergo implaeabile saavit, et ensem 
 Fulmineum vibrans acie flagrante seelestos 
 Jam Paradiseis iterum depellit ab oris. 
 Heu ! quid agat tristis ? quo se coelestibus iris 
 Subtrabat ? o ! quantum vellet nunc sethere in alto 
 Virtutem eolere ! at tandem suspiria ducit 
 Nequiequam, et sero in laehrymas effunditur ; obstant 
 Sortes non revocandae, et inexorabile numen. 
 
 Quam varias aperit veneres pictura ! periti 
 Quot calami legimus vestigia ! quanta colorum 
 Gratia se profert ! tales non discolor Iris 
 Ostendat, vario cum lumine floridus imber 
 Rore nitet toto, et gutta scintillat in omni. 
 fuci nitor, o pulchri durate colores ! 
 Nee, pictura, tuae languescat gloria formae, 
 Dum lucem videas, qualem exprimis ipsa, supremam.
 
 POEM AT A. 491 
 
 SPH^RISTERIUM. 
 
 Hie, ubi graminea in latum sese explicat aequor 
 Planities, vacuoque ingens patet area campo, 
 Cum solem nondum fumantia prata fatentur 
 Exortum, et tumidsc pendent in gramine guttae, 
 Tmproba falx noctis parva incrementa prioris 
 Desecat, exiguam radens a cespite messem : 
 Turn motu assiduo saxum versatile terram 
 Deprimit extantem, et surgentes atterit herbas. 
 Lignea percurrunt vernantem turba palaestram 
 Uncta, nitens oleo, formaB quibus esse rotundas 
 Artificis ferrum dederat, facilisque moveri. 
 Ne tamen offendant incauti errore globorum 
 Quaeque suis incisa notis stat sphaera ; sed unus 
 Hanc vult, quae infuso multum inclinata metallo 
 Vertitur in gyros, et iniquo tramite currit ; 
 Qu ; n alii diversa placet, quam parcius urget 
 Piumbea vis, motuque sinit procedere recto. 
 
 Postquam ideo in partes turbam distinxerat aequas 
 Consilium, aut sors ; quisque suis accingitur armis. 
 Evolat orbiculus, quae cursum meta futurum 
 Designat ; jactique legens vestigia, primam, 
 Qui eertamen init, sphaeram deinittit. at ilia 
 Lenitcr effusa, exiguum quod ducit in orb m, 
 Kadit iter, donee sensiin primo impete fesso 
 Subsistat ; subito globus emicat alter et alter. 
 
 Mox ubi funduntur late agniina crebra minorem 
 Sparsa per orbiculum 3 stipantc|ue frequentia metam,
 
 492 POEM AT A. 
 
 Atque negant faciles aditus ; jam cautiua exit, 
 Et leviter sese insinuat revolubile lignum. 
 At si forte globum, qui misit, speotat iuertem 
 Serpere, et impressum subito languescere motum, 
 Pone urget sphgeras vestigia, et anxius instat, 
 Objurgatque moras, currentique imminet orbi. 
 Atque ut segnis bonos dextrae servetur, iniquam 
 Incusat terram, ac surgeiitem in marmore nodum. 
 
 Nee risus tacuere, globus cum volvitur actus 
 Infami jactu, aut nimium vestigia plumbum 
 Allicit, et spbacrarn a recto trahit insita virtus. 
 Turn qui projecit, strepitus effundit inanes, 
 Et, variam in speciem distorto corpore, falsos 
 Increpat errores, et dat convitia ligno. 
 Sphaera sed, irarum temnens ludibria, coeptum 
 Pergit iter, nullisque movetur surda querelis. 
 
 Ilia tamen laudes summumque meretur bonorein, 
 Quae non dirumpit cursum, absistitque moveri, 
 Donee turbain inter crebram dilapsa supremum 
 Perfecit stadium, et metae inciinata recumbit. 
 Hostis at baerentem orbiculo detrudere spbaeram 
 Certat, luminibusque viam signantibus omnes 
 Intendit vires, et missile fortiter urget : 
 Evolat adducto non segnis spbaera lacerto. 
 
 Ilaud ita prosiliens Eleo carcere pernix 
 Auriga invebitur, cum raptus ab axe citato 
 Currentesque domos videt, et fugientia tecta. 
 
 Si tamen in duros, obstructa satellite multo, 
 Impingant socios, confundatque orbibus orbes ; 
 Turn fervet bilis, fortunam damnat acerbam, 
 Atque Deos atque astra vocat crudelia. — 
 
 Si vero iucursus ficiles, aditumque pateutem
 
 POEM r A . 
 
 Inveuiat, partoque hostis spolietur honore : 
 Turba freuiit eonfusa, sonisque frequentibus, euge 
 Exclainant socii ; plausu strepit omne viretuni. 
 
 Interea fessos inimico Sirius astro 
 Corripit, et falsas exudant corpora guttas ; 
 Lenia jam zephyri spirantes frigora, et umbrae 
 Captantur, vultuque fluens abstergitur humor. 
 
 403 
 
 D. D. HANNES, 
 
 INSIGNISSIMUM MEDICUM ET POETAM. 
 
 qui canoro blandius Orpbeo 
 Vocale ducis carmen, et exitu 
 Feliciore luctuosis 
 
 Ssepe animam revocas ab umbris, 
 Jam seu solutos in numerum pedes 
 Cogis, vel 33grum et vix ariinue tenax 
 Corpus tueris,, seu cadaver 
 Luminibus penetras acutis ; 
 Opus relinquens eripe te morae, 
 Frontemque curis solicitam explica, 
 Scyphumaue jucundus require 
 Purpureo gravidum Lyax>. 
 Nunc plena magni pocula postules 
 Memor WlLHELMl, nunc nioveat sitim 
 Minister ingenB, Lmperlque 
 
 Priusidiam Laud love, Montacutu».
 
 494 POEMATA. 
 
 Omitte tandem triste negotium 
 Gravesque curas, heu nimium pius ! 
 Nee caeteros cautus mederi 
 Ipse tuatn minuas salutem. 
 Frustra eruorem pulsibus incitis 
 Ebullientem pollice comprimis, 
 Attentus explorare venam 
 
 Quoe febris exagitet tumentera : 
 Frustra liquores quot Chymica expedit 
 Fornax, et error sanguinis, et vigor 
 Innatus berbis te fatigant : 
 Serius aut citius sepulcbro 
 Debemur omnes, vitaque deseret 
 Expulsa morbis corpus inhospitum, 
 Lentumque deflebunt nepotes 
 (Relliquias animae) cadaver. 
 Manes videbis tu quoque fabulas, 
 Quos pauciores fecerit ars tua; 
 Suumque victorem vicissim 
 Subjiciet libitina victrix. 
 Decurrit illi vita beatior 
 Quicunque lucem non minis anxius 
 Reddit molestam, urgetve curaB 
 Sponte sua satis ingruentes ; 
 Et quem dierum lene fluentium 
 Delectat ordo, vitaque mutuih 
 Felix amieis, gaudiisque 
 Innocuis bene temperata
 
 POEM AT A. 495 
 
 HI ACHING GESTICULANTES, 
 
 A PUPPET-SHOW. 
 
 Admiranda cano levium spectacula rerum, 
 Exiguam gentem, et vacuum sine mente popellum ; 
 Quem, non surreptis coeli de fornice flammis, 
 Innocua melior fabricaverat arte Prometheus. 
 
 Compita qua risu fervent, glomeratque tumultum 
 Histrio, delectatque inhiantem scommate turbam ; 
 Quotquot laetitioe studio aut novitate tenentur, 
 Undique congressi permissa sedilia complent. 
 Nee confusus honos ; nuimno subsellia cedunt 
 Diverso, ct varii ad pretium stat copia scarani. 
 Tandem ubi subtrahitur velatnen, luniina passim 
 Angustos penetrant aditus, qua plurima visum 
 Fila secant, ne, cum vacuo datur ore fenestra, 
 Pervia fraus pateat : mox stridula turba penates 
 Ingreditur pictos, et majnia squallida fuco. 
 Hie humiles inter scenas, angustaque claustra, 
 Quicquid agunt homines, concursus, bella, triumphos, 
 Ludit in exiguo plebecula parva theatro. 
 
 Sed prjeter reliquos iucedit IIomuncio rauca 
 Voce strepens ; major subnectit fibula vestem, 
 Et referunt vivos errantia lumina motus ; 
 In ventrem tumet immodicum ; pone eminet uigena 
 A tergo gibbus ; Pygniamm territat aginen 
 Major, et iiiuiianciu iniratur turi»a (iigantcin.
 
 496 TOEMATA. 
 
 Hie magna fretus mole, imparibusque lacertis 
 Confisus, gracili jactat convitia vulgo, 
 Et crebro solvit, lepidum caput, ora cachinno. 
 Quanquam res agitur solenni seria pompa, 
 SDernit sollicitum intractabilis ille tumultum, 
 
 A. 
 
 Et risu importunus adest, atque omnia turbat. 
 Nee raro invadit molles, pietamque protervo 
 Ore petit Nympham, invitoque dat oscula ligno. 
 
 Sed comitum vulgus diversis membra fatigant 
 Ludis, et vario lascivit mobile saltu. 
 
 Saepe etiam gemmis rutila, et spectabilis auro, 
 Lignea gens prodit, nitidisque superbit in ostris. 
 Nam, quoties festam celebrat sub imagine lucem, 
 Ordine composito Nyinpbarum incedit honestum 
 Agmen, et exigui proceres, parvique quirites. 
 Pygmseos credas positis mitescere bellis, 
 Jamque, infensa Gruum temnentes praelia, tutos 
 Indulgere jocis, tenerisque vacare choreis. 
 
 Tales, cum medio labuntur sidera coelo, 
 Parvi subsiliunt Lenmres, populusque pusillus 
 Festivos, rediens sua per vestigia, gyros 
 Ducit, et angustum crebro pede pulsitat orbem. 
 Mane patent gressus ; bine succos terra feraces 
 Concipit, in multam pubentia gramina surgunt 
 Luxuriem, tenerisque virescit circulus lierbis. 
 
 At non tranquillas nulla abdunt nubila luces, 
 Saepe gravi surgunt bella, borrida bella, tumultu. 
 Arma cient truculenta cobors, placidamque quietem 
 Dirumpunt pugnas ; usque adeo insincera voluptas 
 Omnibus, et mistae castigant gaudia curae. 
 Jam gladii, tubulique ingesto sulphure fceti, 
 Protensaaque bastas, lulgentiaque arma, minaeque
 
 POEKATA 4°7 
 
 Telorum ingentes subeunt ; dant claustra fragorem 
 Horrendum, ruptae stridente bitumine chartae 
 Confusos redduut crepitus, et sibila miscent. 
 Sternitur omne solum pereuntibus ; undique caesaa 
 Apparent turinaD, civilis crimina belli. 
 
 Sed postquam iusanus puguse deferbuit aestus, 
 Exuerintque truces amnios, jam Marte fugato, 
 Diversafa repetunt artes, curasque priores. 
 Nee raro prisci heroes, quos pagina sacra 
 Suggerit, atque olim peperit felicior aetas, 
 Hie parva redeunt specie. Cano ordine ceruas 
 Antiquos prodire, agmen venerabile, Patres. 
 Rugis sulcantur vultus, prolixaque barbae 
 Canities mento pendct : sic tarda scnectus 
 Tithonum minuit, cum moles tota cicadam 
 Induit, in gracilem sensim collecta figuram. 
 
 Nunc tamen unde genus ducat, quae dextra latentefl 
 Suppeditet vires, quern poscat turba moventem, 
 Expediam. Truncos opifex et inutile lignum 
 Cogit in bumanas species, et robore natam 
 Progeniem telo efformat, nexuque tenaci 
 Crura ligat pedibus, bumerisque accommodat armos, 
 Et membris membra aptat, et artubus insuit artus. 
 Tunc habiles addit trochleas, quibus arte pusillum 
 Versat onus, molique manu famulatus inerti 
 Sufficit occultos motus, vocemque ministrat. 
 Ili~ structa auxiliis jam machina tota peritos 
 Ostcndit sulcns, duri et vestigia ferri : 
 Hiuc salit, atque agili se sublevat incita mota, 
 Vocesque emittit tcnues, et non sua verba.
 
 4lvS FOE MAT A 
 
 AD INSIGNISSIMUM VIRUM 
 
 D. THO. BURNETTUM 
 
 8ACRJ2 THEORIZE TELLURIS AUTOREM. 
 
 Non usitatuni carminis alitem, 
 Burnette, poscis, non humiles niodos : 
 Vulgare plectrum, languidaeque 
 Respuis officium camoenae. 
 Tu mixta rerum semina conscius, 
 Molemque cernis dissociabilem, 
 Terramque coucretam, et latentem 
 Oceanian gremio capaci : 
 Dum veritatem quserere pertinax 
 Ignota pandis, sollicitus parum 
 Utcunque stet commune vulgi 
 Arbitrium et popularis error. 
 Auditur ingens continuo fragor, 
 Illapsa tellus lubrica deserit 
 Fundamina, et compage fracta 
 Suppositas gravis urget undas. 
 Impulsus erumpit medius liquor 
 Terras aquarum effusa licentia 
 Claudit vicissim ; bas inter orbis 
 Relliquige fluitaut prioris. .
 
 POEMATA, 
 
 499 
 
 Nunc et recluso carcere lucidam 
 Balaena spectat solis imaginein, 
 Ste'lasque miratur nataotes, 
 Et tremulae simulacra lunao. 
 Qujb ponipa vocum nou inmabilis ! 
 Qualis calescit spiritus ingeui ! 
 Ut tollis undas ! ut frementem 
 Diluvii reprimis tumultuin I 
 Quis tarn valenti pectore ferreus 
 TJt non tremiscens et tiraido pede, 
 Incedat, orbis dum dolosi 
 Detegis iustabiles ruinas ? 
 Quin baec cadentum fragmina montium 
 Natura vultum sumere simplicem 
 Coget refingens, in priorem 
 Mox iterum reditura formam. 
 Nimbis rubentem sulphureis Jovem 
 Cernas; ut udu aajv.t auvA litems 
 Incendiis, connnune lnundo 
 Et populis meditata bustum ! 
 Nudus liquent.es plorat Athos nives, 
 Et mox liquescens ipse adamautinum 
 Fundit cacumen, dum per imaa 
 Saxa fluunt resoluta valles. 
 Jamque alta coeli inoenia corruunt, 
 Et vestra tandem pagina (proh nefas ! ; 
 Burnette, vestra augebit ignes, 
 Heu socio peritura mundo. 
 Mox aequa tellus, mox subitus viror 
 Ubique riden*, : En tcrctem globum » 
 En beta verriMitis Favonl 
 
 Flamina, perpetuosque nores I
 
 K 00 r O E M A T A 
 
 pectus ingens ! animum graveia, 
 Mundi capacem ! si bonus auguror, 
 Te, nostra quo tellus superbit, 
 Accipiet renovata civetu. 
 
 8 6 23 10
 
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