I must further acquaint you, that before I Jilted him, there had been

the greatest Intimacy between us for an Year and half together, during

all which time I cherished his Hopes, and indulged his Flame. I leave

you to guess after this what must be his Surprize, when upon his

pressing for my full Consent one Day, I told him I wondered what could

make him fancy he had ever any Place in my Affections. His own Sex

allow him Sense, and all ours Good-Breeding. His Person is such as

might, without Vanity, make him believe himself not incapable to be

beloved. Our Fortunes indeed, weighed in the nice Scale of Interest,

are not exactly equal, which by the way was the true Case of my

Jilting him, and I had the Assurance to acquaint him with the

following Maxim, That I should always believe that Man's Passion to be

the most Violent, who could offer me the largest Settlement. I have

since changed my Opinion, and have endeavoured to let him know so much

by several Letters, but the barbarous Man has refused them all; so

that I have no way left of writing to him, but by your Assistance. If

we can bring him about once more, I promise to send you all Gloves and

Favours, and shall desire the Favour of Sir ROGER and your self to

stand as God-Fathers to my first Boy.

I am, SIR,

Your most Obedient

most Humble Servant,

Amoret.

Philander to Amoret.

Madam,

I am so surprised at the Question you were pleased to ask me

Yesterday, that I am still at a loss what to say to it. At least my

Answer would be too long to trouble you with, as it would come from

a Person, who, it seems, is so very indifferent to you. Instead of

it, I shall only recommend to your Consideration the Opinion of one

whose Sentiments on these matters I have often heard you say are

extremely just. A generous and Constant Passion, says your favourite

Author, in an agreeable Lover, where there is not too great a

Disparity in their Circumstances, is the greatest Blessing that can

befal a Person beloved; and if overlook'd in one, may perhaps never

be found in another.

I do not, however, at all despair of being very shortly much better

beloved by you than Antenor is at present; since whenever my Fortune

shall exceed his, you were pleased to intimate your Passion would

encrease accordingly.

The World has seen me shamefully lose that Time to please a fickle

Woman, which might have been employed much more to my Credit and

Advantage in other Pursuits. I shall therefore take the Liberty to

acquaint you, however harsh it may sound in a Lady's Ears, that tho

your Love-Fit should happen to return, unless you could contrive a

way to make your Recantation as well known to the Publick, as they

are already apprised of the manner with which you have treated me,

you shall never more see Philander.

Amoret to Philander.

SIR,

Upon Reflection, I find the Injury I have done both to you and my

self to be so great, that though the Part I now act may appear

contrary to that Decorum usually observed by our Sex, yet I

purposely break through all Rules, that my Repentance may in some

measure equal my Crime. I assure you that in my present Hopes of

recovering you, I look upon Antenor's Estate with Contempt. The Fop

was here Yesterday in a gilt Chariot and new Liveries, but I refused

to see him. Tho' I dread to meet your Eyes after what has pass'd, I

flatter my self, that amidst all their Confusion you will discover

such a Tenderness in mine, as none can imitate but those who Love. I

shall be all this Month at Lady D--'s in the Country; but the Woods,

the Fields and Gardens, without Philander, afford no Pleasures to

the unhappy Amoret.

I must desire you, dear Mr. Spectator, to publish this my Letter to

Philander as soon as possible, and to assure him that I know nothing

at all of the Death of his rich Uncle in Gloucestershire.

X.

* * * * *

No. 402. Wednesday, June 11, 1712. Steele.

[--quæ

Spectator tradit sibi--

Hor. [1]]

Were I to publish all the Advertisements I receive from different Hands,

and Persons of different Circumstances and Quality, the very Mention of

them, without Reflections on the several Subjects, would raise all the

Passions which can be felt by human Mind[s], As Instances of this, I

shall give you two or three Letters; the Writers of which can have no

Recourse to any legal Power for Redress, and seem to have written rather

to vent their Sorrow than to receive Consolation.

Mr. SPECTATOR,

I am a young Woman of Beauty and Quality, and suitably married to a

Gentleman who doats on me. But this Person of mine is the Object of an

unjust Passion in a Nobleman who is very intimate with my Husband.

This Friendship gives him very easie Access, and frequent

Opportunities of entertaining me apart. My Heart is in the utmost

Anguish, and my Face is covered over with Confusion, when I impart to

you another Circumstance, which is, that my Mother, the most mercenary

of all Women, is gained by this false Friend of my Husband to sollicit

me for him. I am frequently chid by the poor believing Man my Husband,

for shewing an Impatience of his Friend's Company; and I am never

alone with my Mother, but she tells me Stories of the discretionary

Part of the World, and such a one, and such a one who are guilty of as

much as she advises me to. She laughs at my Astonishment; and seems to

hint to me, that as virtuous as she has always appeared, I am not the

Daughter of her Husband. It is possible that printing this Letter may

relieve me from the unnatural Importunity of my Mother, and the

perfidious Courtship of my Husband's Friend. I have an unfeigned Love

of Virtue, and am resolved to preserve my Innocence. The only Way I

can think of to avoid the fatal Consequences of the Discovery of this

Matter, is to fly away for ever; which I must do to avoid my Husband's

fatal Resentment against the Man who attempts to abuse him, and the

Shame of exposing the Parent to Infamy. The Persons concerned will

know these Circumstances relate to 'em; and though the Regard to

Virtue is dead in them, I have some Hopes from their Fear of Shame

upon reading this in your Paper; which I conjure you to do, if you

have any Compassion for Injured Virtue.

Sylvia.

Mr. SPECTATOR,

I am the Husband of a Woman of Merit, but am fallen in Love, as they

call it, with a Lady of her Acquaintance, who is going to be married

to a Gentleman who deserves her. I am in a Trust relating to this

Lady's Fortune, which makes my Concurrence in this Matter necessary;

but I have so irresistible a Rage and Envy rise in me when I consider

his future Happiness, that against all Reason, Equity, and common

Justice, I am ever playing mean Tricks to suspend the Nuptials. I have

no manner of Hopes for my self; Emilia, for so I'll call her, is a

Woman of the most strict Virtue; her Lover is a Gentleman who of all

others I could wish my Friend; but Envy and Jealousie, though placed

so unjustly, waste my very Being, and with the Torment and Sense of a

Daemon, I am ever cursing what I cannot but approve. I wish it were

the Beginning of Repentance, that I sit down and describe my present

Disposition with so hellish an Aspect; but at present the Destruction

of these two excellent Persons would be more welcome to me than their

Happiness. Mr. SPECTATOR, pray let me have a Paper on these terrible

groundless Sufferings, and do all you can to exorcise Crowds who are

in some Degree possessed as I am.

Canniball.

Mr. SPECTATOR,

I have no other Means but this to express my Thanks to one Man, and my

Resentment against another. My Circumstances are as follows. I have

been for five Years last past courted by a Gentleman of greater

Fortune than I ought to expect, as the Market for Women goes. You must

to be sure have observed People who live in that sort of Way, as all

their Friends reckon it will be a Match, and are marked out by all the

World for each other. In this View we have been regarded for some

Time, and I have above these three Years loved him tenderly. As he is

very careful of his Fortune, I always thought he lived in a near

Manner to lay up what he thought was wanting in my Fortune to make up

what he might expect in another. Within few Months I have observed his

Carriage very much altered, and he has affected a certain Air of

getting me alone, and talking with a mighty Profusion of passionate

Words, How I am not to be resisted longer, how irresistible his Wishes

are, and the like. As long as I have been acquainted with him, I could

not on such Occasions say down-right to him, You know you may make me

yours when you please. But the other Night he with great Frankness and

Impudence explained to me, that he thought of me only as a Mistress. I

answered this Declaration as it deserv'd; upon which he only doubled

the Terms on which he proposed my yielding. When my Anger heightned

upon him, he told me he was sorry he had made so little Use of the

unguarded Hours we had been together so remote from Company, as

indeed, continued he, so we are at present. I flew from him to a

neighbouring Gentlewoman's House, and tho' her Husband was in the

Room, threw my self on a Couch, and burst into a Passion of Tears. My

Friend desired her Husband to leave the Room. But, said he, there is

something so extraordinary in this, that I will partake in the

Affliction; and be it what it will, she is so much your Friend, that

she knows she may command what Services I can do her. The Man sate

down by me, and spoke so like a Brother, that I told him my whole

Affliction. He spoke of the Injury done me with so much Indignation,

and animated me against the Love he said he saw I had for the Wretch

who would have betrayed me, with so much Reason and Humanity to my

Weakness, that I doubt not of my Perseverance. His Wife and he are my

Comforters, and I am under no more Restraint in their Company than if

I were alone; and I doubt not but in a small time Contempt and Hatred

will take Place of the Remains of Affection to a Rascal.

I am

SIR,

Your affectionate Reader,

Dorinda.

Mr. SPECTATOR,

I had the Misfortune to be an Uncle before I knew my Nephews from my

Nieces, and now we are grown up to better Acquaintance they deny me

the Respect they owe. One upbraids me with being their Familiar,

another will hardly be perswaded that I am an Uncle, a third calls me

Little Uncle, and a fourth tells me there is no Duty at all due to an

Uncle. I have a Brother-in-law whose Son will win all my Affection,

unless you shall think this worthy of your Cognizance, and will be

pleased to prescribe some Rules for our future reciprocal Behaviour.

It will be worthy the Particularity of your Genius to lay down Rules

for his Conduct who was as it were born an old Man, in which you will

much oblige,

Sir,

Your most obedient Servant,

Cornelius Nepos.

T.

[Footnote 1: No motto in the first issue.]

* * * * *

No. 403. Thursday, June 12, 1712. Addison

'Qui mores hominun multorum vidit?'

Hor.

When I consider this great City in its several Quarters and Divisions, I

look upon it as an Aggregate of various Nations distinguished from each

other by their respective Customs, Manners and Interests. The Courts of

two Countries do not so much differ from one another, as the Court and

City in their peculiar Ways of Life and Conversation. In short, the

Inhabitants of St. James's, notwithstanding they live under the same

Laws, and speak the same Language, are a distinct People from those of

Cheapside, who are likewise removed from those of the Temple on the one

side, and those of Smithfield on the other, by several Climates and

Degrees in their way of Thinking and Conversing together.

For this Reason, when any publick Affair is upon the Anvil, I love to

hear the Reflections that arise upon it in the several Districts and

Parishes of London and Westminster, and to ramble up and down a whole

Day together, in order to make my self acquainted with the Opinions of

my Ingenious Countrymen. By this means I know the Faces of all the

principal Politicians within the Bills of Mortality; and as every

Coffee-house has some particular Statesman belonging to it, who is the

Mouth of the Street where he lives, I always take care to place my self

near him, in order to know his Judgment on the present Posture of

Affairs. The last Progress that I made with this Intention, was about

three Months ago, when we had a current Report of the King of France's

Death. As I foresaw this would produce a new Face of things in Europe,

and many curious Speculations in our British Coffee-houses, I was very

desirous to learn the Thoughts of our most eminent Politicians on that

Occasion.

That I might begin as near the Fountain Head as possible, I first of all

called in at St James's, where I found the whole outward Room in a Buzz

of Politics. The Speculations were but very indifferent towards the

Door, but grew finer as you advanced to the upper end of the Room, and

were so very much improved by a Knot of Theorists, who sat in the inner

Room, within the Steams of the Coffee-Pot, that I there heard the whole

Spanish Monarchy disposed of, and all the Line of Bourbon provided for

in less than a Quarter of an Hour.

I afterwards called in at Giles's, where I saw a Board of French

Gentlemen sitting upon the Life and Death of their Grand Monarque. Those

among them who had espoused the Whig Interest, very positively affirmed,

that he departed this Life about a Week since, and therefore proceeded

without any further Delay to the Release of their Friends on the

Gallies, and to their own Re-establishment; but finding they could not

agree among themselves, I proceeded on my intended Progress.

Upon my Arrival at Jenny Man's, I saw an alerte young Fellow that cocked

his Hat upon a Friend of his who entered just at the same time with my

self, and accosted him after the following Manner. Well, Jack, the old

Prig is dead at last. Sharp's the Word. Now or never, Boy. Up to the

Walls of Paris directly. With several other deep Reflections of the same

Nature.

I met with very little Variation in the Politics between Charing-Cross

and Covent-Garden. And upon my going into Wills I found their Discourse

was gone off from the Death of the French King to that of Monsieur

Boileau, Racine, Corneile, and several other Poets, whom they regretted

on this Occasion, as Persons who would have obliged the World with very

noble Elegies on the Death of so great a Prince, and so eminent a Patron

of Learning.

At a Coffee-house near the Temple, I found a couple of young Gentlemen

engaged very smartly in a Dispute on the Succession to the Spanish

Monarchy. One of them seemed to have been retained as Advocate for the

Duke of Anjou, the other for his Imperial Majesty. They were both for

regulating the Title to that Kingdom by the Statute Laws of England; but

finding them going out of my Depth, I passed forward to Paul's

Church-Yard, where I listen'd with great Attention to a learned Man, who

gave the Company an Account of the deplorable State of France during the

Minority of the deceased King. I then turned on my right Hand into

Fish-street, where the chief Politician of that Quarter, upon hearing

the News, (after having taken a Pipe of Tobacco, and ruminated for some

time) If, says he, the King of France is certainly dead, we shall have

Plenty of Mackerell this Season; our Fishery will not be disturbed by

Privateers, as it has been for these ten Years past. He afterwards

considered how the Death of this great Man would affect our Pilchards,

and by several other Remarks infused a general Joy into his whole

Audience.

I afterwards entered a By Coffee-house that stood at the upper end of a

narrow Lane, where I met with a Nonjuror, engaged very warmly with a

Laceman who was the great Support of a neighbouring Conventicle. The

Matter in Debate was, whether the late French King was most like

Augustus Cæsar, or Nero. The Controversie was carried on with great Heat

on both Sides, and as each of them looked upon me very frequently during

the Course of their Debate, I was under some Apprehension that they

would appeal to me, and therefore laid down my Penny at the Bar, and

made the best of my way to Cheapside.

I here gazed upon the Signs for some time before I found one to my

Purpose. The first Object I met in the Coffeeroom was a Person who

expressed a great Grief for the Death of the French King; but upon his

explaining himself, I found his Sorrow did not arise from the Loss of

the Monarch, but for his having sold out of the Bank about three Days

before he heard the News of it: Upon which a Haberdasher, who was the

Oracle of the Coffee-house, and had his Circle of Admirers about him,

called several to witness that he had declared his Opinion above a Week

before, that the French King was certainly dead; to which he added, that

considering the late Advices we had received from France, it was

impossible that it could be otherwise. As he was laying these together,

and dictating to his Hearers with great Authority, there came in a

Gentleman from Garraway's, who told us that there were several Letters

from France just come in, with Advice that the King was in good Health,

and was gone out a Hunting the very Morning the Post came away: Upon

which the Haberdasher stole off his Hat that hung upon a wooden Pegg by

him, and retired to his Shop with great Confusion. This Intelligence put

a Stop to my Travels, which I had prosecuted with [much [1]]

Satisfaction; not being a little pleased to hear so many different

Opinions upon so great an Event, and to observe how naturally upon such

a Piece of News every one is apt to consider it with a Regard to his own

particular Interest and Advantage.

L.

[Footnote 1: [great]]

* * * * *

No. 404. Friday, June 13, 1712. Budgell

['--Non omnia possumus omnes.'

Virg. [1]]

Nature does nothing in vain: the Creator of the Universe has appointed

every thing to a certain Use and Purpose, and determin'd it to a settled

Course and Sphere of Action, from which, if it in the least deviates, it

becomes unfit to answer those Ends for which it was designed. In like

manner it is in the Dispositions of Society, the civil Oeconomy is

formed in a Chain as well as the natural; and in either Case the Breach

but of one Link puts the Whole into some Disorder. It is, I think,

pretty plain, that most of the Absurdity and Ridicule we meet with in

the World, is generally owing to the impertinent Affectation of

excelling in Characters Men are not fit for, and for which Nature never

designed them.

Every Man has one or more Qualities which may make him useful both to

himself and others: Nature never fails of pointing them out, and while

the Infant continues under her Guardianship, she brings him on in this

Way; and then offers her self for a Guide in what remains of the

Journey; if he proceeds in that Course, he can hardly miscarry: Nature

makes good her Engagements; for as she never promises what she is not

able to perform, so she never fails of performing what she promises. But

the Misfortune is, Men despise what they may be Masters of, and affect

what they are not fit for; they reckon themselves already possessed of

what their Genius inclined them to, and so bend all their Ambition to

excel in what is out of their Reach: Thus they destroy the Use of their

natural Talents, in the same manner as covetous Men do their Quiet and

Repose; they can enjoy no Satisfaction in what they have, because of the

absurd Inclination they are possessed with for what they have not.

Cleanthes had good Sense, a great Memory, and a Constitution capable of

the closest Application: In a Word, there was no Profession in which

Cleanthes might not have made a very good Figure; but this won't

satisfie him, he takes up an unaccountable Fondness for the Character of

a fine Gentleman; all his Thoughts are bent upon this: instead of

attending a Dissection, frequenting the Courts of Justice, or studying

the Fathers, Cleanthes reads Plays, dances, dresses, and spends his Time

in drawing-rooms; instead of being a good Lawyer, Divine, or Physician,

Cleanthes is a downright Coxcomb, and will remain to all that knew him a

contemptible Example of Talents misapplied. It is to this Affectation

the World owes its whole Race of Coxcombs: Nature in her whole Drama

never drew such a Part: she has sometimes made a Fool, but a Coxcomb is

always of a Man's own making, by applying his Talents otherwise than

Nature designed, who ever bears an high Resentment for being put out of

her Course, and never fails of taking her Revenge on those that do so.

Opposing her Tendency in the Application of a Man's Parts, has the same

Success as declining from her Course in the Production of Vegetables; by

the Assistance of Art and an hot Bed, we may possibly extort an

unwilling Plant, or an untimely Sallad; but how weak, how tasteless and

insipid? Just as insipid as the Poetry of Valerio: Valerio had an

universal Character, was genteel, had Learning, thought justly, spoke

correctly; 'twas believed there was nothing in which Valerio did not

excel; and 'twas so far true, that there was but one; Valerio had no

Genius for Poetry, yet he's resolved to be a Poet; he writes Verses, and

takes great Pains to convince the Town, that Valerio is not that

extraordinary Person he was taken for.

If Men would be content to graft upon Nature, and assist her Operations,

what mighty Effects might we expect? Tully would not stand so much alone

in Oratory, Virgil in Poetry, or Cæsar in War. To build upon Nature, is

laying the Foundation upon a Rock; every thing disposes its self into

Order as it were of Course, and the whole Work is half done as soon as

undertaken. Cicero's Genius inclined him to Oratory, Virgil's to follow

the Train of the Muses; they piously obeyed the Admonition, and were

rewarded. Had Virgil attended the Bar, his modest and ingenious Virtue

would surely have made but a very indifferent Figure; and Tully's

declamatory Inclination would have been as useless in Poetry. Nature, if

left to her self, leads us on in the best Course, but will do nothing by

Compulsion and Constraint; and if we are not satisfied to go her Way, we

are always the greatest Sufferers by it.

Wherever Nature designs a Production, she always disposes Seeds proper

for it, which are as absolutely necessary to the Formation of any moral

or intellectual Excellence, as they are to the Being and Growth of

Plants; and I know not by what Fate and Folly it is, that Men are taught

not to reckon him equally absurd that will write Verses in Spite of

Nature, with that Gardener that should undertake to raise a Jonquil or

Tulip without the Help of their respective Seeds.

As there is no Good or bad Quality that does not affect both Sexes, so

it is not to be imagined but the fair Sex must have suffered by an

Affectation of this Nature, at least as much as the other: The ill

Effect of it is in none so conspicuous as in the two opposite Characters

of Cælia and Iras; Cælia has all the Charms of Person, together with an

abundant Sweetness of Nature, but wants Wit, and has a very ill Voice;

Iras is ugly and ungenteel, but has Wit and good Sense: If Cælia would

be silent, her Beholders would adore her; if Iras would talk, her

Hearers would admire her; but Cælia's Tongue runs incessantly, while

Iras gives her self silent Airs and soft Languors; so that 'tis

difficult to persuade one's self that Cælia has Beauty and Iras Wit:

Each neglects her own Excellence, and is ambitious of the other's

Character; Iras would be thought to have as much Beauty as Cælia, and

Cælia as much Wit as Iras.

The great Misfortune of this Affectation is, that Men not only lose a

good Quality, but also contract a bad one: They not only are unfit for

what they were designed, but they assign themselves to what they are not

fit for; and instead of making a very good Figure one Way, make a very

ridiculous one another. If Semanthe would have been satisfied with her

natural Complexion, she might still have been celebrated by the Name of

the Olive Beauty; but Semanthe has taken up an Affectation to White and

Red, and is now distinguished by the Character of the Lady that paints

so well. In a word, could the World be reformed to the Obedience of that

famed Dictate, Follow Nature, which the Oracle of Delphos pronounced to

Cicero when he consulted what Course of Studies he should pursue, we

should see almost every Man as eminent in his proper Sphere as Tully was

in his, and should in a very short time find Impertinence and

Affectation banished from among the Women, and Coxcombs and false

Characters from among the Men. For my Part, I could never consider this

preposterous Repugnancy to Nature any otherwise, than not only as the

greatest Folly, but also one of the most heinous Crimes, since it is a

direct Opposition to the Disposition of Providence, and (as Tully

expresses it) like the Sin of the Giants, an actual Rebellion against

Heaven.

Z.

[Footnote 1:

Continuo has leges æternaque foedera certis

Imposuit natura locis.

Virg.]

* * * * *

No. 405. Saturday, June 14, 1712. Addison.

[Greek:

Oi dè panaemérioi molpàe theòn hiláskonto,

Kalòn aeídontes paiáeona kouroi Achaiôn,

Mélpontes Ekáergon. Ho dè phréna térpet akoúôn.]

Hom.

I am very sorry to find, by the Opera Bills for this Day, that we are

likely to lose the greatest Performer in Dramatick Musick that is now

living, or that perhaps ever appeared upon a Stage. I need not acquaint

my Reader, that I am speaking of Signior Nicolini. [1] The Town is

highly obliged to that Excellent Artist, for having shewn us the Italian

Musick in its Perfection, as well as for that generous Approbation he

lately gave to an Opera of our own Country, in which the Composer

endeavoured to do Justice to the Beauty of the Words, by following that

Noble Example, which has been set him by the greatest Foreign Masters in

that Art.

I could heartily wish there was the same Application and Endeavours to

cultivate and improve our Church-Musick, as have been lately bestowed on

that of the Stage. Our Composers have one very great Incitement to it:

They are sure to meet with Excellent Words, and, at the same time, a

wonderful Variety of them. There is no Passion that is not finely

expressed in those parts of the inspired Writings, which are proper for

Divine Songs and Anthems.

There is a certain Coldness and Indifference in the Phrases of our

European Languages, when they are compared with the Oriental Forms of

Speech: and it happens very luckily, that the Hebrew Idioms run into the

English Tongue with a particular Grace and Beauty. Our Language has

received innumerable Elegancies and Improvements, from that Infusion of

Hebraisms, which are derived to it out of the Poetical Passages in Holy

Writ. They give a Force and Energy to our Expressions, warm and animate

our Language, and convey our Thoughts in more ardent and intense

Phrases, than any that are to be met with in our own Tongue. There is

something so pathetick in this kind of Diction, that it often sets the

Mind in a Flame, and makes our Hearts burn within us. How cold and dead

does a Prayer appear, that is composed in the most Elegant and Polite

Forms of Speech, which are natural to our Tongue, when it is not

heightened by that Solemnity of Phrase, which may be drawn from the

Sacred Writings. It has been said by some of the Ancients, that if the

Gods were to talk with Men, they would certainly speak in Plato's Style;

but I think we may say, with Justice, that when Mortals converse with

their Creator, they cannot do it in so proper a Style as in that of the

Holy Scriptures.

If any one would judge of the Beauties of Poetry that are to be met with

in the Divine Writings, and examine how kindly the Hebrew Manners of

Speech mix and incorporate with the English Language; after having

perused the Book of Psalms, let him read a literal Translation of Horace

or Pindar. He will find in these two last such an Absurdity and

Confusion of Style, with such a Comparative Poverty of Imagination, as

will make him very sensible of what I have been here advancing.

Since we have therefore such a Treasury of Words, so beautiful in

themselves, and so proper for the Airs of Musick, I cannot but wonder

that Persons of Distinction should give so little Attention and

Encouragement to that Kind of Musick, which would have its Foundation in

Reason, and which would improve our Virtue in proportion as it raised

our Delight. The Passions that are excited by ordinary Compositions

generally flow from such silly and absurd Occasions, that a Man is

ashamed to reflect upon them seriously; but the Fear, the Love, the

Sorrow, the Indignation that are awakened in the Mind by Hymns and

Anthems, make the Heart better, and proceed from such Causes as are

altogether reasonable and praise-worthy. Pleasure and Duty go hand in

hand, and the greater our Satisfaction is, the greater is our Religion.

Musick among those who were styled the chosen People was a Religious

Art. The Songs of Sion, which we have reason to believe were in high

Repute among the Courts of the Eastern Monarchs, were nothing else but

Psalms and Pieces of Poetry that adored or celebrated the Supreme Being.

The greatest Conqueror in this Holy Nation, after the manner of the old

Grecian Lyricks, did not only compose the Words of his Divine Odes, but

generally set them to Musick himself: After which, his Works, tho' they

were consecrated to the Tabernacle, became the National Entertainment,

as well as the Devotion of his People.

The first Original of the Drama was a Religious Worship consisting only

of a Chorus, which was nothing else but an Hymn to a Deity. As Luxury

and Voluptuousness prevailed over Innocence and Religion, this Form of

Worship degenerated into Tragedies; in which however the Chorus so far

remembered its first Office, as to brand every thing that was vicious,

and recommend every thing that was laudable, to intercede with Heaven

for the Innocent, and to implore its Vengeance on the Criminal.

Homer and Hesiod intimate to us how this Art should be applied, when

they represent the Muses as surrounding Jupiter, and warbling their

Hymns about his Throne. I might shew from innumerable Passages in

Ancient Writers, not only that Vocal and Instrumental Musick were made

use of in their Religious Worship, but that their most favourite

Diversions were filled with Songs and Hymns to their respective Deities.

Had we frequent Entertainments of this Nature among us, they would not a

little purifie and exalt our Passions, give our Thoughts a proper Turn,

and cherish those Divine Impulses in the Soul, which every one feels

that has not stifled them by sensual and immoderate Pleasures.

Musick, when thus applied, raises noble Hints in the Mind of the Hearer,

and fills it with great Conceptions. It strengthens Devotion, and

advances Praise into Rapture. It lengthens out every Act of Worship, and

produces more lasting and permanent Impressions in the Mind, than those

which accompany any transient Form of Words that are uttered in the

ordinary Method of Religious Worship.

O.

[Footnote 1: See note on p. 51, vol. i [Footnote 1 of No. 13]. He took

leave, June 14, in the Opera of Antiochus.]

* * * * *

No. 406. Monday, June 16, 1712. Steele.

'Hæc studia Adolescentiam alunt, Senectutem oblectant, secundas res

ornant, adversis solatium et perfugium præbet delectant domi, non

impediunt foris; Pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.'

Tull.

The following Letters bear a pleasing Image of the Joys and

Satisfactions of private Life. The first is from a Gentleman to a

Friend, for whom he has a very great Respect, and to whom he

communicates the Satisfaction he takes in Retirement; the other is a

Letter to me, occasioned by an Ode written by my Lapland Lover; this

Correspondent is so kind as to translate another of Scheffer's Songs [1]

in a very agreeable Manner. I publish them together, that the Young and

Old may find something in the same Paper which may be suitable to their

respective Taste in Solitude; for I know no Fault in the Description of

ardent Desires, provided they are honourable.

Dear Sir,

You have obliged me with a very kind Letter; by which I find you shift

the Scene of your Life from the Town to the Country, and enjoy that

mixt State which wise Men both delight in, and are qualified for.

Methinks most of the Philosophers and Moralists have run too much into

Extreams, in praising entirely either Solitude or publick Life; in the

former Men generally grow useless by too much Rest, and in the latter

are destroyed by too much Precipitation: As Waters lying still,

putrifie and are good for nothing; and running violently on, do but

the more Mischief in their Passage to others, and are swallowed up and

lost the sooner themselves. Those who, like you, can make themselves

useful to all States, should be like gentle Streams, that not only

glide through lonely Vales and Forests amidst the Flocks and

Shepherds, but visit populous Towns in their Course, and are at once

of Ornament and Service to them. But there is another sort of People

who seem designed for Solitude, those I mean who have more to hide

than to shew: As for my own Part, I am one of those of whom Seneca

says, Tum Umbratiles sunt, ut putent in turbido esse quicquid in luce

est. Some Men, like Pictures, are fitter for a Corner than a full

Light; and I believe such as have a natural Bent to Solitude, are like

Waters which may be forced into Fountains, and exalted to a great

Height, may make a much nobler Figure, and a much louder Noise, but

after all run more smoothly, equally and plentifully, in their own

natural Course upon the Ground. The Consideration of this would make

me very well contented with the Possession only of that Quiet which

Cowley calls the Companion of Obscurity; but whoever has the Muses too

for his Companions, can never be idle enough to be uneasie. Thus, Sir,

you see I would flatter my self into a good Opinion of my own Way of

Living; Plutarch just now told me, that 'tis in human Life as in a

Game at Tables, one may wish he had the highest Cast, but if his

Chance be otherwise, he is even to play it as well as he can, and make

the best of it.

I am, SIR,

Your most obliged,

and most humble Servant.

Mr. SPECTATOR,

The Town being so well pleased with the fine Picture of artless Love,

which Nature inspired the Laplander to paint in the Ode you lately

printed; we were in Hopes that the ingenious Translator would have

obliged it with the other also which Scheffer has given us; but since

he has not, a much inferior Hand has ventured to send you this.

It is a Custom with the Northern Lovers to divert themselves with a

Song, whilst they Journey through the fenny Moors to pay a visit to

their Mistresses. This is addressed by the Lover to his Rain-Deer,

which is the Creature that in that Country supplies the Want of

Horses. The Circumstances which successively present themselves to him

in his Way, are, I believe you will think, naturally interwoven. The

Anxiety of Absence, the Gloominess of the Roads, and his Resolution of

frequenting only those, since those only can carry him to the Object

of his Desires; the Dissatisfaction he expresses even at the greatest

Swiftness with which he is carried, and his joyful Surprize at an

unexpected Sight of his Mistress as she is bathing, seems beautifully

described in the Original.

If all those pretty Images of Rural Nature are lost in the Imitation,

yet possibly you may think fit to let this supply the Place of a long

Letter, when Want of Leisure or Indisposition for Writing will not

permit our being entertained by your own Hand. I propose such a Time,

because tho it is natural to have a Fondness for what one does ones

self, yet I assure you I would not have any thing of mine displace a

single Line of yours.

I. Haste, my Rain-Deer, and let us nimbly go

Our am'rous Journey through this dreery Waste;

Haste, my Rain-Deer! still still thou art too slow;

Impetuous Love demands the Lightning's Haste.

II. Around us far the Rushy Moors are spread:

Soon will the Sun withdraw her chearful Ray:

Darkling and tir'd we shall the Marshes tread,

No Lay unsung to cheat the tedious Way.

III. The wat'ry Length of these unjoyous Moors

Does all the flow'ry Meadow's Pride excel,

Through these I fly to her my Soul adores;

Ye flowery Meadows, empty Pride, Farewel.

IV. Each Moment from the Charmer I'm confin'd,

My Breast is tortur'd with impatient Fires;

Fly, my Rain-Deer, fly swifter than the Wind,

Thy tardy Feet wing with my fierce Desires.

V. Our pleasing Toil will then be soon o'erpaid,

And thou, in Wonder lost, shalt view my Fair,

Admire each Feature of the lovely Maid,

Her artless Charms, her Bloom, her sprightly Air,

VI. But lo! with graceful Motion there she swims,

Gently moving each ambitious Wave;

The crowding Waves transported clasp her Limbs:

When, when, oh when, shall I such Freedoms have!

VII. In vain, you envious Streams, so fast you flow,

To hide her from a Lover's ardent Gaze:

From ev'ry Touch you more transparent grow,

And all reveal'd the beauteous Wanton plays.

T.

[Footnote 1: See No. 366 and note.]

* * * * *

No. 407. Tuesday, June 17, 1712. Addison.

'--abest facundis Gratia dictis.'

Ovid.

Most Foreign Writers who have given any Character of the English Nation,

whatever Vices they ascribe to it, allow in general, that the People are

naturally Modest. It proceeds perhaps from this our National Virtue,

that our Orators are observed to make use of less Gesture or Action than

those of other Countries. Our Preachers stand stock-still in the Pulpit,

and will not so much as move a Finger to set off the best Sermons in the

World. We meet with the same speaking Statues at our Bars, and in all

publick Places of Debate. Our Words flow from us in a smooth continued

Stream, without those Strainings of the Voice, Motions of the Body, and

Majesty of the Hand, which are so much celebrated in the Orators of

Greece and Rome. We can talk of Life and Death in cold Blood, and keep

our Temper in a Discourse which turns upon every thing that is dear to

us. Though our Zeal breaks out in the finest Tropes and Figures, it is

not able to stir a Limb about us. I have heard it observed more than

once by those who have seen Italy, that an untravelled Englishman cannot

relish all the Beauties of Italian Pictures, because the Postures which

are expressed in them are often such as are peculiar to that Country.

One who has not seen an Italian in the Pulpit, will not know what to

make of that noble Gesture in Raphael's Picture of St. Paul preaching at

Athens, where the Apostle is represented as lifting up both his Arms,

and pouring out the Thunder of his Rhetorick amidst an Audience of Pagan

Philosophers.

It is certain that proper Gestures and vehement Exertions of the Voice

cannot be too much studied by a publick Orator. They are a kind of

Comment to what he utters, and enforce every thing he says, with weak

Hearers, better than the strongest Argument he can make use of. They

keep the Audience awake, and fix their Attention to what is delivered to

them, at the same time that they shew the Speaker is in earnest, and

affected himself with what he so passionately recommends to others.

Violent Gesture and Vociferation naturally shake the Hearts of the

Ignorant, and fill them with a kind of Religious Horror. Nothing is more

frequent than to see Women weep and tremble at the Sight of a moving

Preacher, though he is placed quite out of their Hearing; as in England

we very frequently see People lulled asleep with solid and elaborate

Discourses of Piety, who would be warmed and transported out of

themselves by the Bellowings and Distortions of Enthusiasm.

If Nonsense, when accompanied with such an Emotion of Voice and Body,

has such an Influence on Men's Minds, what might we not expect from many

of those Admirable Discourses which are printed in our Tongue, were they

delivered with a becoming Fervour, and with the most agreeable Graces of

Voice and Gesture?

We are told that the great Latin Orator very much impaired his Health by

this laterum contentio, this Vehemence of Action, with which he used to

deliver himself. The Greek Orator was likewise so very Famous for this

Particular in Rhetorick, that one of his Antagonists, whom he had

banished from Athens, reading over the Oration which had procured his

Banishment, and seeing his Friends admire it, could not forbear asking

them, if they were so much affected by the bare reading of it, how much

more they would have been alarmed, had they heard him actually throwing

out such a Storm of Eloquence?

How cold and dead a Figure in Comparison of these two great Men, does an

Orator often make at the British Bar, holding up his Head with the most

insipid Serenity, and streaking the sides of a long Wigg that reaches

down to his Middle? The truth of it is, there is often nothing more

ridiculous than the Gestures of an English Speaker; you see some of them

running their Hands into their Pockets as far as ever they can thrust

them, and others looking with great Attention on a piece of Paper that

has nothing written in it; you may see many a smart Rhetorician turning

his Hat in his Hands, moulding it into several different Cocks,

examining sometimes the Lining of it, and sometimes the Button, during

the whole course of his Harangue. A deaf Man would think he was

Cheap'ning a Beaver, when perhaps he is talking of the Fate of the

British Nation. I remember, when I was a young Man, and used to frequent

Westminster-Hall, there was a Counsellor who never pleaded without a

Piece of Pack-thread in his Hand, which he used to twist about a Thumb,

or a Finger, all the while he was speaking: The Waggs of those Days used

to call it the Thread of his Discourse, for he was not able to utter a

Word without it. One of his Clients, who was more merry than wise, stole

it from him one Day in the midst of his Pleading; but he had better have

let it alone, for he lost his Cause by his Jest.

I have all along acknowledged my self to be a Dumb Man, and therefore

may be thought a very improper Person to give Rules for Oratory; but I

believe every one will agree with me in this, that we ought either to

lay aside all kinds of Gesture, (which seems to be very suitable to the

Genius of our Nation) or at least to make use of such only as are

graceful and expressive.

O.

* * * * *

No. 408. Wednesday, June 18, 1712. Pope.

'Decet affectus animi neque se nimium erigere, nec subjacere

serviliter.'

Tull. de Finibus.

Mr. SPECTATOR,

I have always been a very great Lover of your Speculations, as well in

Regard to the Subject, as to your Manner of Treating it. Human Nature

I always thought the most useful Object of human Reason, and to make

the Consideration of it pleasant and entertaining, I always thought

the best Employment of human Wit: Other Parts of Philosophy may

perhaps make us wiser, but this not only answers that End, but makes

us better too. Hence it was that the Oracle pronounced Socrates the

wisest of all Men living, because he judiciously made Choice of human

Nature for the Object of his Thoughts; an Enquiry into which as much

exceeds all other Learning, as it is of more Consequence to adjust the

true Nature and Measures of Right and Wrong, than to settle the

Distance of the Planets, and compute the Times of their

Circumvolutions.

One good Effect that will immediately arise from a near Observation of

human Nature, is, that we shall cease to wonder at those Actions which

Men are used to reckon wholly unaccountable; for as nothing is

produced without a Cause, so by observing the Nature and Course of the

Passions, we shall be able to trace every Action from its first

Conception to its Death; We shall no more admire at the Proceedings of

Catiline or Tiberius, when we know the one was actuated by a cruel

Jealousie, the other by a furious Ambition; for the Actions of Men

follow their Passions as naturally as Light does Heat, or as any other

Effect flows from its Cause; Reason must be employed in adjusting the

Passions, but they must ever remain the Principles of Action.

The strange and absurd Variety that is so apparent in Men's Actions,

shews plainly they can never proceed immediately from Reason; so pure

a Fountain emits no such troubled Waters: They must necessarily arise

from the Passions, which are to the Mind as the Winds to a Ship, they

only can move it, and they too often destroy it; if fair and gentle,

they guide it into the Harbour; if contrary and furious, they overset

it in the Waves: In the same manner is the Mind assisted or endangered

by the Passions; Reason must then take the Place of Pilot, and can

never fail of securing her Charge if she be not wanting to her self:

The Strength of the Passions will never be accepted as an Excuse for

complying with them, they were designed for Subjection, and if a Man

suffers them to get the upper Hand, he then betrays the Liberty of his

own Soul.

As Nature has framed the several Species of Beings as it were in a

Chain, so Man seems to be placed as the middle Link between Angels and

Brutes: Hence he participates both of Flesh and Spirit by an admirable

Tie, which in him occasions perpetual War of Passions; and as a Man

inclines to the angelick or brute Part of his Constitution, he is then

denominated good or bad, virtuous or wicked; if Love, Mercy, and

Good-nature prevail, they speak him of the Angel; if Hatred, Cruelty,

and Envy predominate, they declare his Kindred to the Brute. Hence it

was that some of the Ancients imagined, that as Men in this Life

inclined more to the Angel or Brute, so after their Death they should

transmigrate into the one or the other: and it would be no unpleasant

Notion, to consider the several Species of Brutes, into which we may

imagine that Tyrants, Misers, the Proud, Malicious, and Ill-natured

might be changed.

As a Consequence of this Original, all Passions are in all Men, but

all appear not in all; Constitution, Education, Custom of the Country,

Reason, and the like Causes, may improve or abate the Strength of

them, but still the Seeds remain, which are ever ready to sprout forth

upon the least Encouragement. I have heard a Story of a good religious

Man, who, having been bred with the Milk of a Goat, was very modest in

Publick by a careful Reflection he made on his Actions, but he

frequently had an Hour in Secret, wherein he had his Frisks and

Capers; and if we had an Opportunity of examining the Retirement of

the strictest Philosophers, no doubt but we should find perpetual

Returns of those Passions they so artfully conceal from the Publick. I

remember Matchiavel observes, that every State should entertain a

perpetual jealousie of its Neighbours, that so it should never be

unprovided when an Emergency happens; [1] in like manner should the

Reason be perpetually on its Guard against the Passions, and never

suffer them to carry on any Design that may be destructive of its

Security; yet at the same Time it must be careful, that it don't so

far break their Strength as to render them contemptible, and

consequently it self unguarded.

The Understanding being of its self too slow and lazy to exert it self

into Action, its necessary it should be put in Motion by the gentle

Gales of the Passions, which may preserve it from stagnating and

Corruption; for they are as necessary to the Health of the Mind, as

the Circulation of the animal Spirits is to the Health of the Body;

they keep it in Life, and Strength, and Vigour; nor is it possible for

the Mind to perform its Offices without their Assistance: These

Motions are given us with our Being, they are little Spirits that are

born and dye with us; to some they are mild, easie, and gentle, to

others wayward and unruly, yet never too strong for the Reins of

Reason and the Guidance of Judgment.

We may generally observe a pretty nice Proportion between the Strength

of Reason and Passion; the greatest Genius's have commonly the

strongest Affections, as on the other hand, the weaker Understandings

have generally the weaker Passions; and 'tis fit the Fury of the

Coursers should not be too great for the Strength of the Charioteer.

Young Men whose Passions are not a little unruly, give small Hopes of

their ever being considerable; the Fire of Youth will of course abate,

and is a Fault, if it be a Fault, that mends every Day; but surely

unless a Man has Fire in Youth, he can hardly have Warmth in Old Age.

We must therefore be very cautious, lest while we think to regulate

the Passions, we should quite extinguish them, which is putting out

the Light of the Soul: for to be without Passion, or to be hurried

away with it, makes a Man equally blind. The extraordinary Severity

used in most of our Schools has this fatal Effect, it breaks the

Spring of the Mind, and most certainly destroys more good Genius's

than it can possibly improve. And surely 'tis a mighty Mistake that

the Passions should be so intirely subdued; for little Irregularities

are sometimes not only to be borne with, but to be cultivated too,

since they are frequently attended with the greatest Perfections. All

great Genius's have Faults mixed with their Virtues, and resemble the

flaming Bush which has Thorns amongst Lights.

Since, therefore the Passions are the Principles of human Actions, we

must endeavour to manage them so as to retain their Vigour, yet keep

them under strict Command; we must govern them rather like free

Subjects than Slaves, lest while we intend to make them obedient, they

become abject, and unfit for those great Purposes to which they were

designed. For my Part I must confess, I could never have any Regard to

that Sect of Philosophers, who so much insisted upon an absolute

Indifference and Vacancy from all Passion; for it seems to me a Thing

very inconsistent for a Man to divest himself of Humanity, in order to

acquire Tranquility of Mind, and to eradicate the very Principles of

Action, because its possible they may produce ill Effects.

I am, SIR,

Your Affectionate Admirer,

T. B.

Z.

[Footnote 1: The Prince, ch. xlv, at close.]

* * * * *

No. 409. Thursday, June 19, 1712. Addison.

'Musæo contingere cuncta lepore.'

Lucr.

Gratian very often recommends the Fine Taste, [1] as the utmost

Perfection of an accomplished Man. As this Word arises very often in

Conversation, I shall endeavour to give some Account of it, and to lay

down Rules how we may know whether we are possessed of it, and how we

may acquire that fine Taste of Writing, which is so much talked of among

the Polite World.

Most Languages make use of this Metaphor, to express that Faculty of the

Mind, which distinguishes all the most concealed Faults and nicest

Perfections in Writing. We may be sure this Metaphor would not have been

so general in all Tongues, had there not been a very great Conformity

between that Mental Taste, which is the Subject of this Paper, and that

Sensitive Taste which gives us a Relish of every different Flavour that

affects the Palate. Accordingly we find, there are as many Degrees of

Refinement in the intellectual Faculty, as in the Sense, which is marked

out by this common Denomination.

I knew a Person who possessed the one in so great a Perfection, that

after having tasted ten different Kinds of Tea, he would distinguish,

without seeing the Colour of it, the particular Sort which was offered

him; and not only so, but any two Sorts of them that were mixt together

in an equal Proportion; nay he has carried the Experiment so far, as

upon tasting the Composition of three different Sorts, to name the

Parcels from whence the three several Ingredients were taken. A Man of a

fine Taste in Writing will discern, after the same manner, not only the

general Beauties and Imperfections of an Author, but discover the

several Ways of thinking and expressing himself, which diversify him

from all other Authors, with the several Foreign Infusions of Thought

and Language, and the particular Authors from whom they were borrowed.

After having thus far explained what is generally meant by a fine Taste

in Writing, and shewn the Propriety of the Metaphor which is used on

this Occasion, I think I may define it to be that Faculty of the Soul,

which discerns the Beauties of an Author with Pleasure, and the

Imperfections with Dislike. If a Man would know whether he is possessed

of this Faculty, I would have him read over the celebrated Works of

Antiquity, which have stood the Test of so many different Ages and

Countries, or those Works among the Moderns which have the Sanction of

the Politer Part of our Contemporaries. If upon the Perusal of such

Writings he does not find himself delighted in an extraordinary Manner,

or if, upon reading the admired Passages in such Authors, he finds a

Coldness and Indifference in his Thoughts, he ought to conclude, not (as

is too usual among tasteless Readers) that the Author wants those

Perfections which have been admired in him, but that he himself wants

the Faculty of discovering them.

He should, in the second Place, be very careful to observe, whether he

tastes the distinguishing Perfections, or, if I may be allowed to call

them so, the Specifick Qualities of the Author whom he peruses; whether

he is particularly pleased with Livy for his Manner of telling a Story,

with Sallust for his entering into those internal Principles of Action

which arise from the Characters and Manners of the Persons he describes,

or with Tacitus for his displaying those outward Motives of Safety and

Interest, which give Birth to the whole Series of Transactions which he

relates.

He may likewise consider, how differently he is affected by the same

Thought, which presents it self in a great Writer, from what he is when

he finds it delivered by a Person of an ordinary Genius. For there is as

much Difference in apprehending a Thought cloathed in Cicero's Language,

and that of a common Author, as in seeing an Object by the Light of a

Taper, or by the Light of the Sun.

It is very difficult to lay down Rules for the Acquirement of such a

Taste as that I am here speaking of. The Faculty must in some degree be

born with us, and it very often happens, that those who have other

Qualities in Perfection are wholly void of this. One of the most eminent

Mathematicians of the Age has assured me, that the greatest Pleasure he

took in reading Virgil, was in examining Æneas his Voyage by the Map; as

I question not but many a Modern Compiler of History, would be delighted

with little more in that Divine Author, than in the bare Matters of

Fact.

But notwithstanding this Faculty must in some measure be born with us,

there are several Methods for Cultivating and Improving it, and without

which it will be very uncertain, and of little use to the Person that

possesses it. The most natural Method for this Purpose is to be

conversant among the Writings of the most Polite Authors. A Man who has

any Relish for fine Writing, either discovers new Beauties, or receives

stronger Impressions from the Masterly Strokes of a great Author every

time he peruses him; Besides that he naturally wears himself into the

same manner of Speaking and Thinking.

Conversation with Men of a Polite Genius is another Method for improving

our Natural Taste. It is impossible for a Man of the greatest Parts to

consider anything in its whole Extent, and in all its Variety of Lights.

Every Man, besides those General Observations which are to be made upon

an Author, forms several Reflections that are peculiar to his own Manner

of Thinking; so that Conversation will naturally furnish us with Hints

which we did not attend to, and make us enjoy other Men's Parts and

Reflections as well as our own. This is the best Reason I can give for

the Observation which several have made, that Men of great Genius in the

same way of Writing seldom rise up singly, but at certain Periods of

Time appear together, and in a Body; as they did at Rome in the Reign of

Augustus, and in Greece about the Age of Socrates. I cannot think that

Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boileau, la Fontaine, Bruyere, Bossu, or the

Daciers, would have written so well as they have done, had they not been

Friends and Contemporaries.

It is likewise necessary for a Man who would form to himself a finished

Taste of good Writing, to be well versed in the Works of the best

Criticks both Ancient and Modern. I must confess that I could wish there

were Authors of this kind, who beside the Mechanical Rules which a Man

of very little Taste may discourse upon, would enter into the very

Spirit and Soul of fine Writing, and shew us the several Sources of that

Pleasure which rises in the Mind upon the Perusal of a noble Work. Thus

although in Poetry it be absolutely necessary that the Unities of Time,

Place and Action, with other Points of the same Nature, should be

thoroughly explained and understood; there is still something more

essential to the Art, something that elevates and astonishes the Fancy,

and gives a Greatness of Mind to the Reader, which few of the Criticks

besides Longinus have considered.

Our general Taste in England is for Epigram, Turns of Wit, and forced

Conceits, which have no manner of Influence, either for the bettering or

enlarging the Mind of him who reads them, and have been carefully

avoided by the greatest Writers, both among the Ancients and Moderns. I

have endeavoured in several of my Speculations to banish this Gothic

Taste, which has taken Possession among us. I entertained the Town, for

a Week together, with an Essay upon Wit, in which I endeavoured to

detect several of those false Kinds which have been admired in the

different Ages of the World; and at the same time to shew wherein the

Nature of true Wit consists. I afterwards gave an Instance of the great

Force which lyes in a natural Simplicity of Thought to affect the Mind

of the Reader, from such vulgar Pieces as have little else besides this

single Qualification to recommend them. I have likewise examined the

Works of the greatest Poet which our Nation or perhaps any other has

produced, and particularized most of those rational and manly Beauties

which give a Value to that Divine Work. I shall next Saturday enter upon

an Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagination, which, though it shall

consider that Subject at large, will perhaps suggest to the Reader what

it is that gives a Beauty to many Passages of the finest Writers both in

Prose and Verse. As an Undertaking of this Nature is entirely new, I

question not but it will be received with Candour.

O.

[Footnote 1: See note on p. 620, ante [Footnote 3 of No. 379]. This fine

taste was the 'cultismo', the taste for false concepts, which Addison

condemns.]

* * * * *

No. 410. Friday, June 20, 1712. Tickell.

'Dum foris sunt, nihil videtur Mundius,

Nec magis compositum quidquam, nec magis elegans:

Quæ, cum amatore suo cum coenant, Liguriunt,

Harum videre ingluviem, sordes, inopiam:

Quam inhonestæ solæ sint domi, atque avidæ cibi,

Quo pacto ex Jure Hesterno panem atrum varent.

Nosse omnia hæc, salus est adolescentulis.'

Ter.

WILL. HONEYCOMB, who disguises his present Decay by visiting the Wenches

of the Town only by Way of Humour, told us, that the last rainy Night he

with Sir ROGER DE COVERLY was driven into the Temple Cloister, whither

had escaped also a Lady most exactly dressed from Head to Foot. WILL,

made no Scruple to acquaint us, that she saluted him very familiarly by

his Name, and turning immediately to the Knight, she said, she supposed

that was his good Friend, Sir ROGER DE COVERLY: Upon which nothing less

could follow than Sir ROGER'S Approach to Salutation, with, Madam the

same at your Service. She was dressed in a black Tabby Mantua and

Petticoat, without Ribbons; her Linnen striped Muslin, and in the whole

in an agreeable Second-Mourning; decent Dresses being often affected by

the Creatures of the Town, at once consulting Cheapness and the

Pretensions to Modesty. She went on with a familiar easie Air. Your

Friend, Mr. HONEYCOMB, is a little surprized to see a Woman here alone

and unattended; but I dismissed my Coach at the Gate, and tripped it

down to my Council's Chambers, for Lawyer's Fees take up too much of a

small disputed Joynture to admit any other Expence but meer Necessaries.

Mr. HONEYCOMB begged they might have the Honour of setting her down, for

Sir ROGER'S Servant was gone to call a Coach. In the Interim the Footman

returned, with no Coach to be had; and there appeared nothing to be done

but trusting herself with Mr. HONEYCOMB and his Friend to wait at the

Tavern at the Gate for a Coach, or to be subjected to all the

Impertinence she must meet with in that publick Place. Mr. HONEYCOMB

being a Man of Honour determined the Choice of the first, and Sir ROGER,

as the better Man, took the Lady by the Hand, leading through all the

Shower, covering her with his Hat, and gallanting a familiar

Acquaintance through Rows of young Fellows, who winked at Sukey in the

State she marched off, WILL. HONEYCOMB bringing up the Rear.

Much Importunity prevailed upon the Fair one to admit of a Collation,

where, after declaring she had no Stomach, and eaten a Couple of

Chickens, devoured a Trusse of Sallet, and drunk a full Bottle to her

Share, she sung the Old Man's Wish to Sir ROGER. The Knight left the

Room for some Time after Supper, and writ the following Billet, which he

conveyed to Sukey, and Sukey to her Friend WILL. HONEYCOMB. WILL. has

given it to Sir ANDREW FREEPORT, who read it last Night to the Club.

Madam,

I am not so meer a Country-Gentleman, but I can guess at the

Law-Business you had at the Temple. If you would go down to the

Country and leave off all your Vanities but your Singing, let me know

at my Lodgings in Bow-street Covent-Garden, and you shall be

encouraged by

Your humble Servant,

ROGER DE COVERLY.

My good Friend could not well stand the Raillery which was rising upon

him; but to put a Stop to it I deliverd WILL. HONEYCOMB the following

Letter, and desired him to read it to the Board.

Mr. SPECTATOR,

Having seen a Translation of one of the Chapters in the Canticles into

English Verse inserted among your late Papers, I have ventured to send

you the 7th Chapter of the Proverbs in a poetical Dress. If you think

it worthy appearing among your Speculations, it will be a sufficient

Reward for the Trouble of

Your constant Reader,

A. B.

My Son, th' Instruction that my Words impart,

Grave on the Living Tablet of thy Heart;

And all the wholesome Precepts that I give,

Observe with strictest Reverence, and live.

Let all thy Homage be to Wisdom paid,

Seek her Protection and implore her Aid;

That she may keep thy Soul from Harm secure,

And turn thy Footsteps from the Harlot's Door,

Who with curs'd Charms lures the Unwary in,

And sooths with Flattery their Souls to Sin.

Once from my Window as I cast mine Eye

On those that pass'd in giddy Numbers by,

A Youth among the foolish Youths I spy'd,

Who took not sacred Wisdom for his Guide.

Just as the Sun withdrew his cooler Light,

And Evening soft led on the Shades of Night,

He stole in covert Twilight to his Fate,

And passd the Corner near the Harlot's Gate

When, lo, a Woman comes!--

Loose her Attire, and such her glaring Dress,

As aptly did the Harlot's Mind express:

Subtle she is, and practisd in the Arts,

By which the Wanton conquer heedless Hearts:

Stubborn and loud she is; she hates her Home,

Varying her Place and Form; she loves to roam;

Now she's within, now in the Street does stray;

Now at each Corner stands, and waits her Prey.

The Youth she seiz'd; and laying now aside

All Modesty, the Female's justest Pride,

She said, with an Embrace, Here at my House

Peace-offerings are, this Day I paid my Vows.

I therefore came abroad to meet my Dear,

And, Lo, in Happy Hour I find thee here.

My Chamber I've adornd, and o'er my Bed

Are cov'rings of the richest Tap'stry spread,

With Linnen it is deck'd from Egypt brought,

And Carvings by the Curious Artist wrought,

It wants no Glad Perfume Arabia yields

In all her Citron Groves, and spicy Fields;

Here all her store of richest Odours meets,

Ill lay thee in a Wilderness of Sweets.

Whatever to the Sense can grateful be

I have collected there--I want but Thee.

My Husband's gone a Journey far away, }

Much Gold he took abroad, and long will stay, }

He nam'd for his return a distant Day. }

Upon her Tongue did such smooth Mischief dwell,

And from her Lips such welcome Flatt'ry fell,

Th' unguarded Youth, in Silken Fetters ty'd,

Resign'd his Reason, and with Ease comply'd.

Thus does the Ox to his own Slaughter go,

And thus is senseless of th' impending Blow.

Thus flies the simple Bird into the Snare,

That skilful Fowlers for his Life prepare.

But let my Sons attend, Attend may they

Whom Youthful Vigour may to Sin betray;

Let them false Charmers fly, and guard their Hearts

Against the wily Wanton's pleasing Arts,

With Care direct their Steps, nor turn astray,

To tread the Paths of her deceitful Way;

Lest they too late of Her fell Power complain,

And fall, where many mightier have been Slain.

T.

* * * * *

No. 411. Saturday, June 21, 1712. Addison.

'Avia Pieridum peragro loca, nullius ante

Trita solo; juvat integros accedere fonteis;

Atque haurire:--'

Lucr.

Our Sight is the most perfect and most delightful of all our Senses. It

fills the Mind with the largest Variety of Ideas, converses with its

Objects at the greatest Distance, and continues the longest in Action

without being tired or satiated with its proper Enjoyments. The Sense of

Feeling can indeed give us a Notion of Extension, Shape, and all other

Ideas that enter at the Eye, except Colours; but at the same time it is

very much streightned and confined in its Operations, to the number,

bulk, and distance of its particular Objects. Our Sight seems designed

to supply all these Defects, and may be considered as a more delicate

and diffusive kind of Touch, that spreads it self over an infinite

Multitude of Bodies, comprehends the largest Figures, and brings into

our reach some of the most remote Parts of the Universe.

It is this Sense which furnishes the Imagination with its Ideas; so that

by the Pleasures of the Imagination or Fancy (which I shall use

promiscuously) I here mean such as arise from visible Objects, either

when we have them actually in our View, or when we call up their Ideas

in our Minds by Paintings, Statues, Descriptions, or any the like

Occasion. We cannot indeed have a single Image in the Fancy that did not

make its first Entrance through the Sight; but we have the Power of

retaining, altering and compounding those Images, which we have once

received, into all the varieties of Picture and Vision that are most

agreeable to the Imagination; for by this Faculty a Man in a Dungeon is

capable of entertaining himself with Scenes and Landskips more beautiful

than any that can be found in the whole Compass of Nature.

There are few Words in the English Language which are employed in a more

loose and uncircumscribed Sense than those of the Fancy and the

Imagination. I therefore thought it necessary to fix and determine the

Notion of these two Words, as I intend to make use of them in the Thread

of my following Speculations, that the Reader may conceive rightly what

is the Subject which I proceed upon. I must therefore desire him to

remember, that by the Pleasures of the Imagination, I mean only such

Pleasures as arise originally from Sight, and that I divide these

Pleasures into two Kinds: My Design being first of all to Discourse of

those Primary Pleasures of the Imagination, which entirely proceed from

such Objects as are [before our [1]] Eye[s]; and in the next place to

speak of those Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination which flow from

the Ideas of visible Objects, when the Objects are not actually before

the Eye, but are called up into our Memories, or formed into agreeable

Visions of Things that are either Absent or Fictitious.

The Pleasures of the Imagination, taken in the full Extent, are not so

gross as those of Sense, nor so refined as those of the Understanding.

The last are, indeed, more preferable, because they are founded on some

new Knowledge or Improvement in the Mind of Man; yet it must be confest,

that those of the Imagination are as great and as transporting as the

other. A beautiful Prospect delights the Soul, as much as a

Demonstration; and a Description in Homer has charmed more Readers than

a Chapter in Aristotle. Besides, the Pleasures of the Imagination have

this Advantage, above those of the Understanding, that they are more

obvious, and more easie to be acquired. It is but opening the Eye, and

the Scene enters. The Colours paint themselves on the Fancy, with very

little Attention of Thought or Application of Mind in the Beholder. We

are struck, we know not how, with the Symmetry of any thing we see, and

immediately assent to the Beauty of an Object, without enquiring into

the particular Causes and Occasions of it.

A Man of a Polite Imagination is let into a great many Pleasures, that

the Vulgar are not capable of receiving. He can converse with a Picture,

and find an agreeable Companion in a Statue. He meets with a secret

Refreshment in a Description, and often feels a greater Satisfaction in

the Prospect of Fields and Meadows, than another does in the Possession.

It gives him, indeed, a kind of Property in every thing he sees, and

makes the most rude uncultivated Parts of Nature administer to his

Pleasures: So that he looks upon the World, as it were in another Light,

and discovers in it a Multitude of Charms, that conceal themselves from

the generality of Mankind.

There are, indeed, but very few who know how to be idle and innocent, or

have a Relish of any Pleasures that are not Criminal; every Diversion

they take is at the Expence of some one Virtue or another, and their

very first Step out of Business is into Vice or Folly. A Man should

endeavour, therefore, to make the Sphere of his innocent Pleasures as

wide as possible, that he may retire into them with Safety, and find in

them such a Satisfaction as a wise Man would not blush to take. Of this

Nature are those of the Imagination, which do not require such a Bent of

Thought as is necessary to our more serious Employments, nor, at the

same time, suffer the Mind to sink into that Negligence and Remissness,

which are apt to accompany our more sensual Delights, but, like a gentle

Exercise to the Faculties, awaken them from Sloth and Idleness, without

putting them upon any Labour or Difficulty.

We might here add, that the Pleasures of the Fancy are more conducive to

Health, than those of the Understanding, which are worked out by Dint of

Thinking, and attended with too violent a Labour of the Brain.

Delightful Scenes, whether in Nature, Painting, or Poetry, have a kindly

Influence on the Body, as well as the Mind, and not only serve to clear

and brighten the Imagination, but are able to disperse Grief and

Melancholy, and to set the Animal Spirits in pleasing and agreeable

Motions. For this Reason Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health,

has not thought it improper to prescribe to his Reader a Poem or a

Prospect, where he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtile

Disquisitions, and advises him to pursue Studies that fill the Mind with

splendid and illustrious Objects, as Histories, Fables, and

Contemplations of Nature.

I have in this Paper, by way of Introduction, settled the Notion of

those Pleasures of the Imagination which are the Subject of my present

Undertaking, and endeavoured, by several Considerations, to recommend to

my Reader the Pursuit of those Pleasures. I shall, in my next Paper,

examine the several Sources from whence these Pleasures are derived. [2]

O.

[Footnote 1: [present to the]]

[Footnote 2: From a MS. Note-book of Addison's, met with in 1858, Mr. J.

Dykes Campbell printed at Glasgow, in 1864, 250 copies of some portions

of the first draught of these papers on Imagination with the Essay on

Jealousy (No. 176) and that on Fame (No. 255). The MS. was an old calf

bound 8vo volume obtained from a dealer. There were about 31 pages

written on one side of each leaf in a beautiful print-like hand, which

contained the Essays in their first state. Passages were added by

Addison in his ordinary handwriting upon the blank pages opposite to

this carefully-written text, and there are pieces in a third

hand-writing which neither the keeper of the MSS. Department of the

British Museum nor the Librarian of the Bodleian could identify. The

insertions in this third hand form part of the paper as finally

published. Thus in the paper on Jealousy (No. 171) it wrote the English

verse translation added to the quotation from Horace's Ode I. xiii. The

MS. shows with how much care Addison revised and corrected the first

draught of his papers, especially where, as in the series of eleven upon

Imagination here commenced, he meant to put out all his strength. In

Blair's Rhetoric four Lectures (20-23) are given to a critical

Examination of the Style of Mr. Addison in Nos. 411, 412, 413, and 414

of the Spectator. Akenside's poem on the Pleasures of the Imagination,

published in 1744, when he was 23 years old, was suggested by these

papers. Many disquisitions upon Taste were written towards the close of

the last century. They formed a new province in literature, of which

Addison here appears as the founder and first lawgiver.]

* * * * *

No. 412. Monday, June 23, 1712. Addison.

'--Divisum sic breve fiet Opus.'

Mart.

I shall first consider those Pleasures of the Imagination, which arise

from the actual View and Survey of outward Objects: And these, I think,

all proceed from the Sight of what is Great, Uncommon, or Beautiful.

There may, indeed, be something so terrible or offensive, that the

Horror or Loathsomeness of an Object may over-bear the Pleasure which

results from its Greatness, Novelty, or Beauty; but still there will be

such a Mixture of Delight in the very Disgust it gives us, as any of

these three Qualifications are most conspicuous and prevailing.

By Greatness, I do not only mean the Bulk of any single Object, but the

Largeness of a whole View, considered as one entire Piece. Such are the

Prospects of an open Champain Country, a vast uncultivated Desart, of

huge Heaps of Mountains, high Rocks and Precipices, or a wide Expanse of

Waters, where we are not struck with the Novelty or Beauty of the Sight,

but with that rude kind of Magnificence which appears in many of these

stupendous Works of Nature. Our Imagination loves to be filled with an

Object, or to grasp at any thing that is too big for its Capacity. We

are flung into a pleasing Astonishment at such unbounded Views, and feel

a delightful Stillness and Amazement in the Soul at the Apprehension[s]

of them. The Mind of Man naturally hates every thing that looks like a

Restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy it self under a sort of

Confinement, when the Sight is pent up in a narrow Compass, and shortned

on every side by the Neighbourhood of Walls or Mountains. On the

contrary, a spacious Horizon is an Image of Liberty, where the Eye has

Room to range abroad, to expatiate at large on the Immensity of its

Views, and to lose it self amidst the Variety of Objects that offer

themselves to its Observation. Such wide and undetermined Prospects are

as pleasing to the Fancy, as the Speculations of Eternity or Infinitude

are to the Understanding. But if there be a Beauty or Uncommonness

joined with this Grandeur, as in a troubled Ocean, a Heaven adorned with

Stars and Meteors, or a spacious Landskip cut out into Rivers, Woods,

Rocks, and Meadows, the Pleasure still grows upon us, as it rises from

more than a single Principle.

Every thing that is new or uncommon raises a Pleasure in the

Imagination, because it fills the Soul with an agreeable Surprize,

gratifies its Curiosity, and gives it an Idea of which it was not before

possest. We are indeed so often conversant with one Set of Objects, and

tired out with so many repeated Shows of the same Things, that whatever

is new or uncommon contributes a little to vary human Life, and to

divert our Minds, for a while, with the Strangeness of its Appearance:

It serves us for a kind of Refreshment, and takes off from that Satiety

we are apt to complain of in our usual and ordinary Entertainments. It

is this that bestows Charms on a Monster, and makes even the

Imperfections of Nature [please [1]] us. It is this that recommends

Variety, where the Mind is every Instant called off to something new,

and the Attention not suffered to dwell too long, and waste it self on

any particular Object. It is this, likewise, that improves what is great

or beautiful, and make it afford the Mind a double Entertainment.

Groves, Fields, and Meadows, are at any Season of the Year pleasant to

look upon, but never so much as in the Opening of the Spring, when they

are all new and fresh, with their first Gloss upon them, and not yet too

much accustomed and familiar to the Eye. For this Reason there is

nothing that more enlivens a Prospect than Rivers, Jetteaus, or Falls of

Water, where the Scene is perpetually shifting, and entertaining the

Sight every Moment with something that is new. We are quickly tired with

looking upon Hills and Vallies, where every thing continues fixed and

settled in the same Place and Posture, but find our Thoughts a little

agitated and relieved at the Sight of such Objects as are ever in

Motion, and sliding away from beneath the Eye of the Beholder.

But there is nothing that makes its Way more directly to the Soul than

Beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret Satisfaction and Complacency

through the Imagination, and gives a Finishing to any thing that is

Great or Uncommon. The very first Discovery of it strikes the Mind with

an inward Joy, and spreads a Chearfulness and Delight through all its

Faculties. There is not perhaps any real Beauty or Deformity more in one

Piece of Matter than another, because we might have been so made, that

whatsoever now appears loathsome to us, might have shewn it self

agreeable; but we find by Experience, that there are several

Modifications of Matter which the Mind, without any previous

Consideration, pronounces at first sight Beautiful or Deformed. Thus we

see that every different Species of sensible Creatures has its different

Notions of Beauty, and that each of them is most affected with the

Beauties of its own Kind. This is no where more remarkable than in Birds

of the same Shape and Proportion, where we often see the Male determined

in his Courtship by the single Grain or Tincture of a Feather, and never

discovering any Charms but in the Colour of its Species.

Scit thalamo servare fidem, sanctasque veretur

Connubii leges, non illum in pectore candor

Sollicitat niveus; neque pravum accendit amorem

Splendida Lanugo, vel honesta in vertice crista,

Purpureusve nitor pennarum; ast agmina latè

Foeminea explorat cautus, maculasque requirit

Cognatas, paribusque interlita corpora guttis:

Ni faceret, pictis sylvam circum undique monstris

Confusam aspiceres vulgò, partusque biformes,

Et genus ambiguum, et Veneris monumenta nefandæ.

Hinc merula in nigro se oblectat nigra marito,

Hinc socium lasciva petit Philomela canorum,

Agnoscitque pares sonitus, hinc Noctua tetram

Canitiem alarum, et glaucos miratur ocellos.

Nempe sibi semper constat, crescitque quotannis

Lucida progenies, castos confessa parentes;

Dum virides inter saltus lucosque sonoros

Vere novo exultat, plumasque decora Juventus

Explicat ad solem, patriisque coloribus ardet. [2]

There is a second Kind of Beauty that we find in the several Products of

Art and Nature, which does not work in the Imagination with that Warmth

and Violence as the Beauty that appears in our proper Species, but is

apt however to raise in us a secret Delight, and a kind of Fondness for

the Places or Objects in which we discover it. This consists either in

the Gaiety or Variety of Colours, in the Symmetry and Proportion of

Parts, in the Arrangement and Disposition of Bodies, or in a just

Mixture and Concurrence of all together. Among these several Kinds of

Beauty the Eye takes most Delight in Colours. We no where meet with a

more glorious or pleasing Show in Nature than what appears in the

Heavens at the rising and setting of the Sun, which is wholly made up of

those different Stains of Light that shew themselves in Clouds of a

different Situation. For this Reason we find the Poets, who are always

addressing themselves to the Imagination, borrowing more of their

Epithets from Colours than from any other Topic. As the Fancy delights

in every thing that is Great, Strange, or Beautiful, and is still more

pleased the more it finds of these Perfections in the same Object, so is

it capable of receiving a new Satisfaction by the Assistance of another

Sense. Thus any continued Sound, as the Musick of Birds, or a Fall of

Water, awakens every moment the Mind of the Beholder, and makes him more

attentive to the several Beauties of the Place that lye before him. Thus

if there arises a Fragrancy of Smells or Perfumes, they heighten the

Pleasures of the Imagination, and make even the Colours and Verdure of

the Landskip appear more agreeable; for the Ideas of both Senses

recommend each other, and are pleasanter together than when they enter

the Mind separately: As the different Colours of a Picture, when they

are well disposed, set off one another, and receive an additional Beauty

from the Advantage of their Situation.

O.

[Footnote 1: [to please]]

[Footnote 2: Addison's MS. described in the note to No. 411 shows, by

corrections in his handwriting of four or five lines in this piece of

Latin verse, that he was himself its author. Thus in the last line he

had begun with Scintillat solitis, altered that to Ostentat solitas,

struck out that also, and written, as above, Explicat ad solem.]

* * * * *

No. 413. Tuesday, June 24, 1712. Addison.

'--Causa latet, vis est notissima--'

Ovid.

Though in Yesterday's Paper we considered how every thing that is Great,

New, or Beautiful, is apt to affect the Imagination with Pleasure, we

must own that it is impossible for us to assign the necessary Cause of

this Pleasure, because we know neither the Nature of an Idea, nor the

Substance of a Human Soul, which might help us to discover the

Conformity or Disagreeableness of the one to the other; and therefore,

for want of such a Light, all that we can do in Speculations of this

kind is to reflect on those Operations of the Soul that are most

agreeable, and to range under their proper Heads, what is pleasing or

displeasing to the Mind, without being able to trace out the several

necessary and efficient Causes from whence the Pleasure or Displeasure

arises.

Final Causes lye more bare and open to our Observation, as there are

often a great Variety that belong to the same Effect; and these, tho'

they are not altogether so satisfactory, are generally more useful than

the other, as they give us greater Occasion of admiring the Goodness and

Wisdom of the first Contriver.

One of the Final Causes of our Delight, in any thing that is great, may

be this. The Supreme Author of our Being has so formed the Soul of Man,

that nothing but himself can be its last, adequate, and proper

Happiness. Because, therefore, a great Part of our Happiness must arise

from the Contemplation of his Being, that he might give our Souls a just

Relish of such a Contemplation, he has made them naturally delight in

the Apprehension of what is Great or Unlimited. Our Admiration, which is

a very pleasing Motion of the Mind, immediately rises at the

Consideration of any Object that takes up a great deal of Room in the

Fancy, and by Consequence, will improve into the highest Pitch of

Astonishment and Devotion when we contemplate his Nature, that is

neither circumscribed by Time nor Place, nor to be comprehended by the

largest Capacity of a Created Being.

He has annexed a secret Pleasure to the Idea of any thing that is new or

uncommon, that he might encourage us in the Pursuit after Knowledge, and

engage us to search into the Wonders of his Creation; for every new Idea

brings such a Pleasure along with it, as rewards any Pains we have taken

in its Acquisition, and consequently serves as a Motive to put us upon

fresh Discoveries.

He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own Species pleasant,

that all Creatures might be tempted to multiply their Kind, and fill the

World with Inhabitants; for 'tis very remarkable that where-ever Nature

is crost in the Production of a Monster (the Result of any unnatural

Mixture) the Breed is incapable of propagating its Likeness, and of

founding a new Order of Creatures; so that unless all Animals were

allured by the Beauty of their own Species, Generation would be at an

End, and the Earth unpeopled.

In the last Place, he has made every thing that is beautiful in all

other Objects pleasant, or rather has made so many Objects appear

beautiful, that he might render the whole Creation more gay and

delightful. He has given almost every thing about us the Power of

raising an agreeable Idea in the Imagination: So that it is impossible

for us to behold his Works with Coldness or Indifference, and to survey

so many Beauties without a secret Satisfaction and Complacency. Things

would make but a poor Appearance to the Eye, if we saw them only in

their proper Figures and Motions: And what Reason can we assign for

their exciting in us many of those Ideas which are different from any

thing that exists in the Objects themselves, (for such are Light and

Colours) were it not to add Supernumerary Ornaments to the Universe, and

make it more agreeable to the Imagination? We are every where

entertained with pleasing Shows and Apparitions, we discover Imaginary

Glories in the Heavens, and in the Earth, and see some of this Visionary

Beauty poured out upon the whole Creation; but what a rough unsightly

Sketch of Nature should we be entertained with, did all her Colouring

disappear, and the several Distinctions of Light and Shade vanish? In

short, our Souls are at present delightfully lost and bewildered in a

pleasing Delusion, and we walk about like the enchanted Hero of a

Romance, who sees beautiful Castles, Woods and Meadows; and at the same

time hears the warbling of Birds, and the purling of Streams; but upon

the finishing of some secret Spell, the fantastick Scene breaks up, and

the disconsolate Knight finds himself on a barren Heath, or in a

solitary Desart. It is not improbable that something like this may be

the State of the Soul after its first Separation, in respect of the

Images it will receive from Matter; tho indeed the Ideas of Colours are

so pleasing and beautiful in the Imagination, that it is possible the

Soul will not be deprived of them, but perhaps find them excited by some

other Occasional Cause, as they are at present by the different

Impressions of the subtle Matter on the Organ of Sight.

I have here supposed that my Reader is acquainted with that great Modern

Discovery, which is at present universally acknowledged by all the

Enquirers into Natural Philosophy: Namely, that Light and Colours, as

apprehended by the Imagination, are only Ideas in the Mind, and not

Qualities that have any Existence in Matter. As this is a Truth which

has been proved incontestably by many Modern Philosophers, and is indeed

one of the finest Speculations in that Science, if the English Reader

would see the Notion explained at large, he may find it in the Eighth

Chapter of the second Book of Mr. Lock's Essay on Human Understanding.

O.

[To Addison's short paper there was added in number 413 of the Spectator

the following letter, which was not included in the reprint into volumes:

June 24, 1712.

Mr. SPECTATOR,

I would not divert the Course of your Discourses, when you seem bent

upon obliging the World with a train of Thinking, which, rightly

attended to, may render the Life of every Man who reads it, more easy

and happy for the future. The Pleasures of the Imagination are what

bewilder Life, when Reason and Judgment do not interpose; It is

therefore a worthy Action in you to look carefully into the Powers of

Fancy, that other Men, from the Knowledge of them, may improve their

Joys and allay their Griefs, by a just use of that Faculty: I say,

Sir, I would not interrupt you in the progress of this Discourse; but

if you will do me the Favour of inserting this Letter in your next

Paper, you will do some Service to the Public, though not in so noble

a way of Obliging, as that of improving their Minds. Allow me, Sir, to

acquaint you with a Design (of which I am partly Author), though it

tends to no greater a Good than that of getting Money. I should not

hope for the Favour of a Philosopher in this Matter, if it were not

attempted under all the Restrictions which you Sages put upon private

Acquisitions.

The first Purpose which every good Man is to propose to himself, is

the Service of his Prince and Country; after that is done, he cannot

add to himself, but he must also be beneficial to them. This Scheme of

Gain is not only consistent with that End, but has its very Being in

Subordination to it; for no Man can be a Gainer here but at the same

time he himself, or some other, must succeed in their Dealings with

the Government. It is called the Multiplication Table, and is so far

calculated for the immediate Service of Her Majesty, that the same

Person who is fortunate in the Lottery of the State, may receive yet

further Advantage in this Table. And I am sure nothing can be more

pleasing to Her gracious Temper than to find out additional Methods of

increasing their good Fortune who adventure anything in Her Service,

or laying Occasions for others to become capable of serving their

Country who are at present in too low Circumstances to exert

themselves. The manner of executing the Design is, by giving out

Receipts for half Guineas received, which shall entitle the fortunate

Bearer to certain Sums in the Table, as is set forth at large in the

Proposals Printed the 23rd instant. There is another Circumstance in

this Design, which gives me hopes of your Favour to it, and that is

what Tully advises, to wit, that the Benefit is made as diffusive as

possible. Every one that has half a Guinea is put into a possibility,

from that small Sum, to raise himself an easy Fortune; when these

little parcels of Wealth are, as it were, thus thrown back again into

the Redonation of Providence, we are to expect that some who live

under Hardship or Obscurity, may be produced to the World in the

Figure they deserve by this means. I doubt not but this last Argument

will have Force with you, and I cannot add another to it, but what

your Severity will, I fear, very little regard; which is, that

I am, SIR, Your greatest Admirer,

Richard Steele.

* * * * *

No. 414. Wednesday, June 25, 1712. Addison.

--Alterius sic

Altera poscit opem res et conjurat amicè.

Hor.

If we consider the Works of Nature and Art, as they are qualified to

entertain the Imagination, we shall find the last very defective, in

Comparison of the former; for though they may sometimes appear as

Beautiful or Strange, they can have nothing in them of that Vastness and

Immensity, which afford so great an Entertainment to the Mind of the

Beholder. The one may be as Polite and Delicate as the other, but can

never shew her self so August and Magnificent in the Design. There is

something more bold and masterly in the rough careless Strokes of

Nature, than in the nice Touches and Embellishments of Art. The Beauties

of the most stately Garden or Palace lie in a narrow Compass, the

Imagination immediately runs them over, and requires something else to

gratifie her; but, in the wide Fields of Nature, the Sight wanders up

and down without Confinement, and is fed with an infinite variety of

Images, without any certain Stint or Number. For this Reason we always

find the Poet in Love with a Country-Life, where Nature appears in the

greatest Perfection, and furnishes out all those Scenes that are most

apt to delight the Imagination.

'Scriptorum chorus omnis amat nemus et fugit Urbes.'

Hor.

'Hic Secura quies, et nescia fallere vita,

Dives opum variarum; hic latis otia fundis,

Speluncæ, vivique lacus, hic frigida Tempe,

Mugitusque boum, mollesque sub arbore somni.'

Virg.

But tho' there are several of these wild Scenes, that are more

delightful than any artificial Shows; yet we find the Works of Nature

still more pleasant, the more they resemble those of Art: For in this

case our Pleasure rises from a double Principle; from the Agreeableness

of the Objects to the Eye, and from their Similitude to other Objects:

We are pleased as well with comparing their Beauties, as with surveying

them, and can represent them to our Minds, either as Copies or

Originals. Hence it is that we take Delight in a Prospect which is well

laid out, and diversified with Fields and Meadows, Woods and Rivers; in

those accidental Landskips of Trees, Clouds and Cities, that are

sometimes found in the Veins of Marble; in the curious Fret-work of

Rocks and Grottos; and, in a Word, in any thing that hath such a Variety

or Regularity as may seem the Effect of Design, in what we call the

Works of Chance.

If the Products of Nature rise in Value, according as they more or less

resemble those of Art, we may be sure that artificial Works receive a

greater Advantage from their Resemblance of such as are natural; because

here the Similitude is not only pleasant, but the Pattern more perfect.

The prettiest Landskip I ever saw, was one drawn on the Walls of a dark

Room, which stood opposite on one side to a navigable River, and on the

other to a Park. The Experiment is very common in Opticks. Here you

might discover the Waves and Fluctuations of the Water in strong and

proper Colours, with the Picture of a Ship entering at one end, and

sailing by Degrees through the whole Piece. On another there appeared

the Green Shadows of Trees, waving to and fro with the Wind, and Herds

of Deer among them in Miniature, leaping about upon the Wall. I must

confess, the Novelty of such a Sight may be one occasion of its

Pleasantness to the Imagination, but certainly the chief Reason is its

near Resemblance to Nature, as it does not only, like other Pictures,

give the Colour and Figure, but the Motion of the Things it represents.

We have before observed, that there is generally in Nature something

more Grand and August, than what we meet with in the Curiosities of Art.

When therefore, we see this imitated in any measure, it gives us a

nobler and more exalted kind of Pleasure than what we receive from the

nicer and more accurate Productions of Art. On this Account our English

Gardens are not so entertaining to the Fancy as those in France and

Italy, where we see a large Extent of Ground covered over with an

agreeable mixture of Garden and Forest, which represent every where an

artificial Rudeness, much more charming than that Neatness and Elegancy

which we meet with in those of our own Country. It might, indeed, be of

ill Consequence to the Publick, as well as unprofitable to private

Persons, to alienate so much Ground from Pasturage, and the Plow, in

many Parts of a Country that is so well peopled, and cultivated to a far

greater Advantage. But why may not a whole Estate be thrown into a kind

of Garden by frequent Plantations, that may turn as much to the Profit,

as the Pleasure of the Owner? A Marsh overgrown with Willows, or a

Mountain shaded with Oaks, are not only more beautiful, but more

beneficial, than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields of Corn make a

pleasant Prospect, and if the Walks were a little taken care of that lie

between them, if the natural Embroidery of the Meadows were helpt and

improved by some small Additions of Art, and the several Rows of Hedges

set off by Trees and Flowers, that the Soil was capable of receiving, a

Man might make a pretty Landskip of his own Possessions.

Writers who have given us an Account of China, tell us the Inhabitants

of that Country laugh at the Plantations of our Europeans, which are

laid out by the Rule and Line; because, they say, any one may place

Trees in equal Rows and uniform Figures. They chuse rather to shew a

Genius in Works of this Nature, and therefore always conceal the Art by

which they direct themselves. They have a Word, it seems, in their

Language, by which they express the particular Beauty of a Plantation

that thus strikes the Imagination at first Sight, without discovering

what it is that has so agreeable an Effect. Our British Gardeners, on

the contrary, instead of humouring Nature, love to deviate from it as

much as possible. Our Trees rise in Cones, Globes, and Pyramids. We see

the Marks of the Scissars upon every Plant and Bush. I do not know

whether I am singular in my Opinion, but, for my own part, I would

rather look upon a Tree in all its Luxuriancy and Diffusion of Boughs

and Branches, than when it is thus cut and trimmed into a Mathematical

Figure; and cannot but fancy that an Orchard in Flower looks infinitely

more delightful, than all the little Labyrinths of the [more [1]]

finished Parterre. But as our great Modellers of Gardens have their

Magazines of Plants to dispose of, it is very natural for them to tear

up all the beautiful Plantations of Fruit Trees, and contrive a Plan

that may most turn to their own Profit, in taking off their Evergreens,

and the like Moveable Plants, with which their Shops are plentifully

stocked.

O.

[Footnote 1: [most]]

* * * * *

No. 415. Thursday, June 26, 1712. Addison.

'Adde tot egregias urbes, operumque laborem.'

Virg.

Having already shewn how the Fancy is affected by the Works of Nature,

and afterwards considered in general both the Works of Nature and of

Art, how they mutually assist and compleat each other, in forming such

Scenes and Prospects as are most apt to delight the Mind of the

Beholder, I shall in this Paper throw together some Reflections on that

Particular Art, which has a more immediate Tendency, than any other, to

produce those Primary Pleasures of the Imagination, which have hitherto

been the Subject of this Discourse. The Art I mean is that of

Architecture, which I shall consider only with regard to the Light in

which the foregoing Speculations have placed it, without entring into

those Rules and Maxims which the great Masters of Architecture have laid

down, and explained at large in numberless Treatises upon that Subject.

Greatness, in the Works of Architecture, may be considered as relating

to the Bulk and Body of the Structure, or to the Manner in which it is

built. As for the first, we find the Ancients, especially among the

Eastern Nations of the World, infinitely superior to the Moderns.

Not to mention the Tower of Babel, of which an old Author says, there

were the Foundations to be seen in his time, which looked like a

spacious Mountain; what could be more noble than the Walls of Babylon,

its hanging Gardens, and its Temple to Jupiter Belus, that rose a Mile

high by Eight several Stories, each Story a Furlong in Height, and on

the Top of which was the Babylonian Observatory; I might here, likewise,

take Notice of the huge Rock that was cut into the Figure of Semiramis,

with the smaller Rocks that lay by it in the Shape of Tributary Kings;

the prodigious Basin, or artificial Lake, which took in the whole

Euphrates, till such time as a new Canal was formed for its Reception,

with the several Trenches through which that River was conveyed. I know

there are persons who look upon some of these Wonders of Art as

Fabulous, but I cannot find any [Grand [1]] for such a Suspicion, unless

it be that we have no such Works among us at present. There were indeed

many greater Advantages for Building in those Times, and in that Part of

the World, than have been met with ever since. The Earth was extremely

fruitful, Men lived generally on Pasturage, which requires a much

smaller number of Hands than Agriculture: There were few Trades to

employ the busie Part of Mankind, and fewer Arts and Sciences to give

Work to Men of Speculative Tempers; and what is more than all the rest,

the Prince was absolute; so that when he went to War, he put himself at

the Head of a whole People: As we find Semiramis leading her [three [2]]

Millions to the Field, and yet over-powered by the Number of her

Enemies. 'Tis no wonder, therefore, when she was at Peace, and turned

her Thoughts on Building, that she could accomplish so great Works, with

such a prodigious Multitude of Labourers: Besides that, in her Climate,

there was small Interruption of Frosts and Winters, which make the

Northern Workmen lie half the Year Idle. I might mention too, among the

Benefits of the Climate, what Historians say of the Earth, that it

sweated out a Bitumen or natural kind of Mortar, which is doubtless the

same with that mentioned in Holy Writ, as contributing to the Structure

of Babel. Slime they used instead of Mortar.

In Egypt we still see their Pyramids, which answer to the Descriptions

that have been made of them; and I question not but a traveller might

find out some Remains of the Labyrinth that covered a whole Province,

and had a hundred Temples disposed among its several Quarters and

Divisions.

The Wall of China is one of these Eastern Pieces of Magnificence, which

makes a Figure even in the Map of the World, altho an Account of it

would have been thought Fabulous, were not the Wall it self still

extant.

We are obliged to Devotion for the noblest Buildings that have adornd

the several Countries of the World. It is this which has set Men at work

on Temples and Publick Places of Worship, not only that they might, by

the Magnificence of the Building, invite the Deity to reside within it,

but that such stupendous Works might, at the same time, open the Mind to

vast Conceptions, and fit it to converse with the Divinity of the Place.

For every thing that is Majestick imprints an Awfulness and Reverence on

the Mind of the Beholder, and strikes in with the Natural Greatness of

the Soul.

In the Second place we are to consider Greatness of Manner in

Architecture, which has such Force upon the Imagination, that a small

Building, where it appears, shall give the Mind nobler Ideas than one of

twenty times the Bulk, where the Manner is ordinary or little. Thus,

perhaps, a Man would have been more astonished with the Majestick Air

that appeared in one of [Lysippus's [3]] Statues of Alexander, tho' no

bigger than the Life, than he might have been with Mount Athos, had it

been cut into the Figure of the Hero, according to the Proposal of

Phidias, [4] with a River in one Hand, and a City in the other.

Let any one reflect on the Disposition of Mind he finds in himself, at

his first Entrance into the Pantheon at Rome, and how his Imagination is

filled with something Great and Amazing; and, at the same time, consider

how little, in proportion, he is affected with the Inside of a Gothick

Cathedral, tho' it be five times larger than the other; which can arise

from nothing else, but the Greatness of the Manner in the one, and the

Meanness in the other.

I have seen an Observation upon this Subject in a French Author, which

very much pleased me. It is in Monsieur Freart's Parallel of the Ancient

and Modern Architecture. I shall give it the Reader with the same Terms

of Art which he has made use of. I am observing (says he) a thing which,

in my Opinion, is very curious, whence it proceeds, that in the same

Quantity of Superficies, the one Manner seems great and magnificent, and

the other poor and trifling; the Reason is fine and uncommon. I say

then, that to introduce into Architecture this Grandeur of Manner, we

ought so to proceed, that the Division of the Principal Members of the

Order may consist but of few Parts, that they be all great and of a bold

and ample Relievo, and Swelling; and that the Eye, beholding nothing

little and mean, the Imagination may be more vigorously touched and

affected with the Work that stands before it. For example; In a Cornice,

if the Gola or Cynatium of the Corona, the Coping, the Modillions or

Dentelli, make a noble Show by their graceful Projections, if we see

none of that ordinary Confusion which is the Result of those little

Cavities, Quarter Rounds of the Astragal and I know not how many other

intermingled Particulars, which produce no Effect in great and massy

Works, and which very unprofitably take up place to the Prejudice of the

Principal Member, it is most certain that this Manner will appear Solemn

and Great; as on the contrary, that it will have but a poor and mean

Effect, where there is a Redundancy of those smaller Ornaments, which

divide and scatter the Angles of the Sight into such a Multitude of

Rays, so pressed together that the whole will appear but a Confusion.

Among all the Figures in Architecture, there are none that have a

greater Air than the Concave and the Convex, and we find in all the

Ancient and Modern Architecture, as well in the remote Parts of China,

as in Countries nearer home, that round Pillars and Vaulted Roofs make a

great Part of those Buildings which are designed for Pomp and

Magnificence. The Reason I take to be, because in these Figures we

generally see more of the Body, than in those of other Kinds. There are,

indeed, Figures of Bodies, where the Eye may take in two Thirds of the

Surface; but as in such Bodies the Sight must split upon several Angles,

it does not take in one uniform Idea, but several Ideas of the same

kind. Look upon the Outside of a Dome, your Eye half surrounds it; look

up into the Inside, and at one Glance you have all the Prospect of it;

the entire Concavity falls into your Eye at once, the Sight being as the

Center that collects and gathers into it the Lines of the whole

Circumference: In a Square Pillar, the Sight often takes in but a fourth

Part of the Surface: and in a Square Concave, must move up and down to

the different Sides, before it is Master of all the inward Surface. For

this Reason, the Fancy is infinitely more struck with the View of the

open Air, and Skies, that passes through an Arch, than what comes

through a Square, or any other Figure. The Figure of the Rainbow does

not contribute less to its Magnificence, than the Colours to its Beauty,

as it is very poetically described by the Son of Sirach: Look upon the

Rainbow and praise him that made it; very beautiful it is in its

Brightness; it encompasses the Heavens with a glorious Circle, and the

Hands of the [most High [5]] have bended it.

Having thus spoken of that Greatness which affects the Mind in

Architecture, I might next shew the Pleasure that arises in the

Imagination from what appears new and beautiful in this Art; but as

every Beholder has naturally a greater Taste of these two Perfections in

every Building which offers it self to his View, than of that which I

have hitherto considered, I shall not trouble my Reader with any

Reflections upon it. It is sufficient for my present Purpose, to

observe, that there is nothing in this whole Art which pleases the

Imagination, but as it is Great, Uncommon, or Beautiful.

O.

[Footnote 1: Grounds]

[Footnote 2: two]

[Footnote 3: Protogenes's]

[Footnote 4: Dinocrates.]

[Footnote 5: [Almighty]]

* * * * *

No. 416. Friday, June 27, 1712. Addison.

'Quatenûs hoc simile est oculis, quod mente videmus.'

Lucr.

I at first divided the Pleasures of the Imagination, into such as arise

from Objects that are actually before our Eyes, or that once entered in

at our Eyes, and are afterwards called up into the Mind either barely by

its own Operations, or on occasion of something without us, as Statues,

or Descriptions. We have already considered the first Division, and

shall therefore enter on the other, which for Distinction sake, I have

called the Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination. When I say the Ideas

we receive from Statues, Descriptions, or such like Occasions, are the

same that were once actually in our View, it must not be understood that

we had once see the very Place, Action, or Person which are carved or

described. It is sufficient, that we have seen Places, Persons, or

Actions, in general, which bear a Resemblance, or at least some remote

Analogy with what we find represented. Since it is in the Power of the

Imagination, when it is once Stocked with particular Ideas, to enlarge,

compound, and vary them at her own Pleasure.

Among the different Kinds of Representation, Statuary is the most

natural, and shews us something likest the Object that is represented.

To make use of a common Instance, let one who is born Blind take an

Image in his Hands, and trace out with his Fingers the different Furrows

and Impressions of the Chissel, and he will easily conceive how the

Shape of a Man, or Beast, may be represented by it; but should he draw

his Hand over a Picture, where all is smooth and uniform, he would never

be able to imagine how the several Prominencies and Depressions of a

human Body could be shewn on a plain Piece of Canvas, that has in it no

Unevenness or Irregularity. Description runs yet further from the Things

it represents than Painting; for a Picture bears a real Resemblance to

its Original, which Letters and Syllables are wholly void of. Colours

speak of Languages, but Words are understood only by such a People or

Nation. For this Reason, tho' Men's Necessities quickly put them on

finding out Speech, Writing is probably of a later invention than

Painting; particularly we are told, that in America when the Spaniards

first arrived there Expresses were sent to the Emperor of Mexico in

Paint, and the News of his Country delineated by the Strokes of a

Pencil, which was a more natural Way than that of Writing, tho' at the

same time much more imperfect, because it is impossible to draw the

little Connexions of Speech, or to give the Picture of a Conjunction or

an Adverb. It would be yet more strange, to represent visible Objects by

Sounds that have no Ideas annexed to them, and to make something like

Description in Musick. Yet it is certain, there may be confused,

imperfect Notions of this Nature raised in the Imagination by an

Artificial Composition of Notes; and we find that great Masters in the

Art are able, sometimes, to set their Hearers in the Heat and Hurry of a

Battel, to overcast their Minds with melancholy Scenes and Apprehensions

of Deaths and Funerals, or to lull them into pleasing Dreams of Groves

and Elisiums.

In all these Instances, this Secondary Pleasure of the Imagination

proceeds from that Action of the Mind, which compares the Ideas arising

from the Original Objects, with the Ideas we receive from the Statue,

Picture, Description, or Sound that represents them. It is impossible

for us to give the necessary Reason, why this Operation of the Mind is

attended with so much Pleasure, as I have before observed on the same

Occasion; but we find a great Variety of Entertainments derived from

this single Principle: For it is this that not only gives us a Relish of

Statuary, Painting and Description, but makes us delight in all the

Actions and Arts of Mimickry. It is this that makes the several kinds of

Wit Pleasant, which consists, as I have formerly shewn, in the Affinity

of Ideas: And we may add, it is this also that raises the little

Satisfaction we sometimes find in the different Sorts of false Wit;

whether it consists in the Affinity of Letters, as in Anagram,

Acrostick; or of Syllables, as in Doggerel Rhimes, Ecchos; or of Words,

as in Punns, Quibbles; or of a whole Sentence or Poem, to Wings, and

Altars. The final Cause, probably, of annexing Pleasure to this

Operation of the Mind, was to quicken and encourage us in our Searches

after Truth, since the distinguishing one thing from another, and the

right discerning betwixt our Ideas, depends wholly upon our comparing

them together, and observing the Congruity or Disagreement that appears

among the several Works of Nature.

But I shall here confine my self to those Pleasures of the Imagination,

[which [1]] proceed from Ideas raised by Words, because most of the

Observations that agree with Descriptions, are equally Applicable to

Painting and Statuary.

Words, when well chosen, have so great a Force in them, that a

Description often gives us more lively Ideas than the Sight of Things

themselves. The Reader finds a Scene drawn in stronger Colours, and

painted more to the Life in his Imagination, by the help of Words, than

by an actual Survey of the Scene which they describe. In this case the

Poet seems to get the better of Nature; he takes, indeed, the Landskip

after her, but gives it more vigorous Touches, heightens its Beauty, and

so enlivens the whole Piece, that the Images which flow from the Objects

themselves appear weak and faint, in Comparison of those that come from

the Expressions. The Reason, probably, may be, because in the Survey of

any Object we have only so much of it painted on the Imagination, as

comes in at the Eye; but in its Description, the Poet gives us as free a

View of it as he pleases, and discovers to us several Parts, that either

we did not attend to, or that lay out of our Sight when we first beheld

it. As we look on any Object, our Idea of it is, perhaps, made up of two

or three simple Ideas; but when the Poet represents it, he may either

give us a more complex Idea of it, or only raise in us such Ideas as are

most apt to affect the Imagination.

It may be here worth our while to Examine how it comes to pass that

several Readers, who are all acquainted with the same Language, and know

the Meaning of the Words they read, should nevertheless have a different

Relish of the same Descriptions. We find one transported with a Passage,

which another runs over with Coldness and Indifference, or finding the

Representation extreamly natural, where another can perceive nothing of

Likeness and Conformity. This different Taste must proceed, either from

the Perfection of Imagination in one more than in another, or from the

different Ideas that several Readers affix to the same Words. For, to

have a true Relish, and form a right Judgment of a Description, a Man

should be born with a good Imagination, and must have well weighed the

Force and Energy that lye in the several Words of a Language, so as to

be able to distinguish which are most significant and expressive of

their proper Ideas, and what additional Strength and Beauty they are

capable of receiving from Conjunction with others. The Fancy must be

warm to retain the Print of those Images it hath received from outward

Objects and the Judgment discerning, to know what Expressions are most

proper to cloath and adorn them to the best Advantage. A Man who is

deficient in either of these Respects, tho' he may receive the general

Notion of a Description, can never see distinctly all its particular

Beauties: As a Person, with a weak Sight, may have the confused Prospect

of a Place that lies before him, without entering into its several

Parts, or discerning the variety of its Colours in their full Glory and

Perfection.

O.

[Footnote 1: [that]]

THE SPECTATOR

VOL. III.

A NEW EDITION

REPRODUCING THE ORIGINAL TEXT BOTH AS FIRST ISSUED AND AS CORRECTED BY

ITS AUTHORS

WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND INDEX

BY

HENRY MORLEY

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON

IN THREE VOLUMES

VOL. III.

1891

* * * * *

No. 417. Saturday, June 28, 1712. Addison.

'Quem tu Melpomene semel

Nascentem placido lumine videris,

Non illum labor Isthmius

Clarabit pugilem, non equus impiger, &c.

Sed quæ Tibur aquæ fertile perfluunt,

Et Spissæ nemorum comæ

Fingent Æolio carmine nobilem.'

Hor.

We may observe, that any single Circumstance of what we have formerly

seen often raises up a whole Scene of Imagery, and awakens [numberless

[1]] Ideas that before slept in the Imagination; such a particular Smell

or Colour is able to fill the Mind, on a sudden, with the Picture of the

Fields or Gardens, where we first met with it, and to bring up into View

all the Variety of Images that once attended it. Our Imagination takes

the Hint, and leads us unexpectedly into Cities or Theatres, Plains or

Meadows. We may further observe, when the Fancy thus reflects on the

Scenes that have past in it formerly, those which were at first pleasant

to behold, appear more so upon Reflection, and that the Memory heightens

the Delightfulness of the Original. A _Cartesian_ would account for both

these Instances in the following Manner.

The Sett of Ideas, which we received from such a Prospect or Garden,

having entered the Mind at the same time, have a Sett of Traces

belonging to them in the Brain, bordering very near upon one another;

when, therefore, any one of these Ideas arises in the Imagination, and

consequently dispatches a flow of Animal Spirits to its proper Trace,

these Spirits, in the Violence of their Motion, run not only into the

Trace, to which they were more particularly directed, but into several

of those that lie about it: By this means they awaken other Ideas of the

same Sett, which immediately determine a new Dispatch of Spirits, that

in the same manner open other Neighbouring Traces, till at last the

whole Sett of them is blown up, and the whole Prospect or Garden

flourishes in the Imagination. But because the Pleasure we received from

these Places far surmounted, and overcame the little Disagreeableness we

found in them; for this Reason there was at first a wider Passage worn

in the Pleasure Traces, and, on the contrary, so narrow a one in those

which belonged to the disagreeable Ideas, that they were quickly stopt

up, and rendered incapable of receiving any Animal Spirits, and

consequently of exciting any unpleasant Ideas in the Memory.