[Footnote 1: [is] and in first Reprint.]
[Footnote 2: This quotation is made up of two passages in Dryden's
version of Chaucer's Knights Tale, Palamon and Arcite. The first four
lines are from Bk. ii. 11. 663-666, the other four lines are from Bk. i.
11. 176-179.]
[Footnote 3: Paradise Lost, Bk. iv. 11. 268-271.]
* * * * *
No. 366. Wednesday, April 30, 1712. Steele.
'Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor æstiva recreatur aura,
Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulce loquentem.'
Hor.
There are such wild Inconsistencies in the Thoughts of a Man in love,
that I have often reflected there can be no reason for allowing him more
Liberty than others possessed with Frenzy, but that his Distemper has no
Malevolence in it to any Mortal. That Devotion to his Mistress kindles
in his Mind a general Tenderness, which exerts it self towards every
Object as well as his Fair-one. When this Passion is represented by
Writers, it is common with them to endeavour at certain Quaintnesses and
Turns of Imagination, which are apparently the Work of a Mind at ease;
but the Men of true Taste can easily distinguish the Exertion of a Mind
which overflows with tender Sentiments, and the Labour of one which is
only describing Distress. In Performances of this kind, the most absurd
of all things is to be witty; every Sentiment must grow out of the
Occasion, and be suitable to the Circumstances of the Character. Where
this Rule is transgressed, the humble Servant, in all the fine things he
says, is but shewing his Mistress how well he can dress, instead of
saying how well he loves. Lace and Drapery is as much a Man, as Wit and
Turn is Passion.
Mr. SPECTATOR,
The following Verses are a Translation of a Lapland Love-Song, which I
met with in Scheffer's History of that Country. [1] I was agreeably
surprized to find a Spirit of Tenderness and Poetry in a Region which
I never suspected for Delicacy. In hotter Climates, tho' altogether
uncivilized, I had not wonder'd if I had found some sweet wild Notes
among the Natives, where they live in Groves of Oranges, and hear the
Melody of Birds about them: But a Lapland Lyric, breathing Sentiments
of Love and Poetry, not unworthy old Greece or Rome; a regular Ode
from a Climate pinched with Frost, and cursed with Darkness so great a
Part of the Year; where 'tis amazing that the poor Natives should get
Food, or be tempted to propagate their Species: this, I confess,
seemed a greater Miracle to me, than the famous Stories of their
Drums, their Winds and Inchantments.
I am the bolder in commending this Northern Song, because I have
faithfully kept to the Sentiments, without adding or diminishing; and
pretend to no greater Praise from my Translation, than they who smooth
and clean the Furs of that Country which have suffered by Carriage.
The Numbers in the Original are as loose and unequal, as those in
which the British Ladies sport their Pindaricks; and perhaps the
fairest of them might not think it a disagreeable Present from a
Lover: But I have ventured to bind it in stricter Measures, as being
more proper for our Tongue, tho perhaps wilder Graces may better suit
the Genius of the Laponian Language.
It will be necessary to imagine, that the Author of this Song, not
having the Liberty of visiting his Mistress at her Father's House, was
in hopes of spying her at a Distance in the Fields.
I. Thou rising Sun, whose gladsome Ray
Invites my Fair to Rural Play,
Dispel the Mist, and clear the Skies,
And bring my Orra to my Eyes.
II. Oh! were I sure my Dear to view,
I'd climb that Pine-Trees topmost Bough,
Aloft in Air that quivering plays,
And round and round for ever gaze.
III. My Orra Moor, where art thou laid?
What Wood conceals my sleeping Maid?
Fast by the Roots enrag'd I'll tear
The Trees that hide my promised Fair.
IV. Oh! I cou'd ride the Clouds and Skies,
Or on the Raven's Pinions rise:
Ye Storks, ye Swans, a moment stay,
And waft a Lover on his Way.
V. My Bliss too long my Bride denies,
Apace the wasting Summer flies:
Nor yet the wintry Blasts I fear,
Not Storms or Night shall keep me here.
VI. What may for Strength with Steel compare?
Oh! Love has Fetters stronger far:
By Bolts of Steel are Limbs confin'd,
But cruel Love enchains the Mind.
VII. No longer then perplex thy Breast,
When Thoughts torment, the first are best;
'Tis mad to go, 'tis Death to stay,
Away to Orra, haste away.
April the 10th.
Mr. SPECTATOR,
I am one of those despicable Creatures called a Chamber-Maid, and have
lived with a Mistress for some time, whom I love as my Life, which has
made my Duty and Pleasure inseparable. My greatest Delight has been in
being imploy'd about her Person; and indeed she is very seldom out of
Humour for a Woman of her Quality: But here lies my Complaint, Sir; To
bear with me is all the Encouragement she is pleased to bestow upon
me; for she gives her cast-off Cloaths from me to others: some she is
pleased to bestow in the House to those that neither wants nor wears
them, and some to Hangers-on, that frequents the House daily, who
comes dressed out in them. This, Sir, is a very mortifying Sight to
me, who am a little necessitous for Cloaths, and loves to appear what
I am, and causes an Uneasiness, so that I can't serve with that
Chearfulness as formerly; which my Mistress takes notice of, and calls
Envy and Ill-Temper at seeing others preferred before me. My Mistress
has a younger Sister lives in the House with her, that is some
Thousands below her in Estate, who is continually heaping her Favours
on her Maid; so that she can appear every Sunday, for the first
Quarter, in a fresh Suit of Cloaths of her Mistress's giving, with all
other things suitable: All this I see without envying, but not without
wishing my Mistress would a little consider what a Discouragement it
is to me to have my Perquisites divided between Fawners and Jobbers,
which others enjoy intire to themselves. I have spoke to my Mistress,
but to little Purpose; I have desired to be discharged (for indeed I
fret my self to nothing) but that she answers with Silence. I beg,
Sir, your Direction what to do, for I am fully resolved to follow your
Counsel; who am
Your Admirer and humble Servant,
Constantia Comb-brush.
I beg that you would put it in a better Dress, and let it come abroad;
that my Mistress, who is an Admirer of your Speculations, may see it.