first endeavoured to divert by application, and afterwards to relieve by
luxury and indulgence; but finding his strength every day less, he was
at last terrified, and called for help upon the sages of physick; they
filled his apartments with alexipharmicks, restoratives, and essential
virtues; the pearls of the ocean were dissolved, the spices of Arabia
were distilled, and all the powers of nature were employed to give new
spirits to his nerves, and new balsam to his blood. Nouradin was for
some time amused with promises, invigorated with cordials, or soothed
with anodynes; but the disease preyed upon his vitals, and he soon
discovered with indignation, that health was not to be bought. He was
confined to his chamber, deserted by his physicians, and rarely visited
by his friends; but his unwillingness to die flattered him long with
hopes of life.
At length, having passed the night in tedious languor, he called to him
Almamoulin, his only son, and dismissing his attendants, "My son," says
he, "behold here the weakness and fragility of man; look backward a few
days, thy father was great and happy, fresh as the vernal rose, and
strong as the cedar of the mountain; the nations of Asia drank his dews,
and art and commerce delighted in his shade. Malevolence beheld me, and
sighed: 'His root,' she cried, 'is fixed in the depths; it is watered by
the fountains of Oxus; it sends out branches afar, and bids defiance to
the blast; prudence reclines against his trunk, and prosperity dances on
his top.' Now, Almamoulin, look upon me withering and prostrate; look
upon me, and attend. I have trafficked, I have prospered, I have rioted
in gain; my house is splendid, my servants are numerous; yet I displayed
only a small part of my riches; the rest, which I was hindered from
enjoying by the fear of raising envy, or tempting rapacity, I have piled
in towers, I have buried in caverns, I have hidden in secret
repositories, which this scroll will discover. My purpose was, after ten
months more spent in commerce, to have withdrawn my wealth to a safer
country; to have given seven years to delight and festivity, and the
remaining part of my days to solitude and repentance; but the hand of
death is upon me; a frigorifick torpor encroaches upon my veins; I am
now leaving the produce of my toil, which it must be thy business to
enjoy with wisdom." The thought of leaving his wealth filled Nouradin
with such grief, that he fell into convulsions, became delirious, and
expired.
Almamoulin, who loved his father, was touched a while with honest
sorrow, and sat two hours in profound meditation, without perusing the
paper which he held in his hand. He then retired to his own chamber, as
overborne with affliction, and there read the inventory of his new
possessions, which swelled his heart with such transports, that he no
longer lamented his father's death. He was now sufficiently composed to
order a funeral of modest magnificence, suitable at once to the rank of
Nouradin's profession, and the reputation of his wealth. The two next
nights he spent in visiting the tower and the caverns, and found the
treasures greater to his eye than to his imagination.
Almamoulin had been bred to the practice of exact frugality, and had
often looked with envy on the finery and expenses of other young men: he
therefore believed, that happiness was now in his power, since he could
obtain all of which he had hitherto been accustomed to regret the want.
He resolved to give a loose to his desires, to revel in enjoyment, and
feel pain or uneasiness no more.
He immediately procured a splendid equipage, dressed his servants in
rich embroidery, and covered his horses with golden caparisons. He
showered down silver on the populace, and suffered their acclamations to
swell him with insolence. The nobles saw him with anger, the wise men of
the state combined against him, the leaders of armies threatened his
destruction. Almamoulin was informed of his danger: he put on the robe
of mourning in the presence of his enemies, and appeased them with gold,
and gems, and supplication.
He then sought to strengthen himself by an alliance with the princes of
Tartary, and offered the price of kingdoms for a wife of noble birth.
His suit was generally rejected, and his presents refused; but the
princess of Astracan once condescended to admit him to her presence. She
received him, sitting on a throne, attired in the robe of royalty, and
shining with the jewels of Golconda; command sparkled in her eyes, and
dignity towered on her forehead. Almamoulin approached and trembled. She
saw his confusion and disdained him: "How," says she, "dares the wretch
hope my obedience, who thus shrinks at my glance? Retire, and enjoy thy
riches in sordid ostentation; thou wast born to be wealthy, but never
canst be great."
He then contracted his desires to more private and domestick pleasures.
He built palaces, he laid out gardens[d], he changed the face of the
land, he transplanted forests, he levelled mountains, opened prospects
into distant regions, poured fountains from the tops of turrets, and
rolled rivers through new channels.
These amusements pleased him for a time; but languor and weariness soon
invaded him. His bowers lost their fragrance, and the waters murmured
without notice. He purchased large tracts of land in distant provinces,
adorned them with houses of pleasure, and diversified them with
accommodations for different seasons. Change of place at first relieved
his satiety, but all the novelties of situation were soon exhausted; he
found his heart vacant, and his desires, for want of external objects,
ravaging himself.
He therefore returned to Samarcand, and set open his doors to those whom
idleness sends out in search of pleasure. His tables were always covered
with delicacies; wines of every vintage sparkled in his bowls, and his
lamps scattered perfumes. The sound of the lute, and the voice of the
singer, chased away sadness; every hour was crowded with pleasure; and
the day ended and began with feasts and dances, and revelry and
merriment. Almamoulin cried out, "I have at last found the use of
riches; I am surrounded by companions, who view my greatness without
envy; and I enjoy at once the raptures of popularity, and the safety of
an obscure station. What trouble can he feel, whom all are studious to
please, that they may be repaid with pleasure? What danger can he dread,
to whom every man is a friend?"
Such were the thoughts of Almamoulin, as he looked down from a gallery
upon the gay assembly regaling at his expense; but, in the midst of this
soliloquy, an officer of justice entered the house, and in the form of
legal citation, summoned Almamoulin to appear before the emperor. The
guests stood awhile aghast, then stole imperceptibly away, and he was
led off without a single voice to witness his integrity. He now found
one of his most frequent visitants accusing him of treason, in hopes of
sharing his confiscation; yet, unpatronized and unsupported, he cleared
himself by the openness of innocence, and the consistence of truth; he
was dismissed with honour, and his accuser perished in prison.
Almamoulin now perceived with how little reason he had hoped for justice
or fidelity from those who live only to gratify their senses; and, being
now weary with vain experiments upon life and fruitless researches after
felicity, he had recourse to a sage, who, after spending his youth in
travel and observation, had retired from all human cares, to a small
habitation on the banks of Oxus, where he conversed only with such as
solicited his counsel. "Brother," said the philosopher, "thou hast
suffered thy reason to be deluded by idle hopes, and fallacious
appearances. Having long looked with desire upon riches, thou hadst
taught thyself to think them more valuable than nature designed them,
and to expect from them, what experience has now taught thee, that they
cannot give. That they do not confer wisdom, thou mayest be convinced,
by considering at how dear a price they tempted thee, upon thy first
entrance into the world, to purchase the empty sound of vulgar
acclamation. That they cannot bestow fortitude or magnanimity, that man
may be certain, who stood trembling at Astracan, before a being not
naturally superior to himself. That they will not supply unexhausted
pleasure, the recollection of forsaken palaces, and neglected gardens,
will easily inform thee. That they rarely purchase friends, thou didst
soon discover, when thou wert left to stand thy trial uncountenanced and
alone. Yet think not riches useless; there are purposes to which a wise
man may be delighted to apply them; they may, by a rational distribution
to those who want them, ease the pains of helpless disease, still the
throbs of restless anxiety, relieve innocence from oppression, and raise
imbecility to cheerfulness and vigour. This they will enable thee to
perform, and this will afford the only happiness ordained for our
present state, the confidence of Divine favour, and the hope of future
rewards."
[Footnote d: See Vathek.]
No. 121. TUESDAY, MAY 14, 1751.
O imitatores, servum pecus! Hor. Lib. i. Ep. xix. 19.
Away, ye imitators, servile herd! ELPHINSTON.
I have been informed by a letter from one of the universities, that
among the youth from whom the next swarm of reasoners is to learn
philosophy, and the next flight of beauties to hear elegies and sonnets,
there are many, who, instead of endeavouring by books and meditation to
form their own opinions, content themselves with the secondary
knowledge, which a convenient bench in a coffee-house can supply; and
without any examination or distinction, adopt the criticisms and
remarks, which happen to drop from those who have risen, by merit or
fortune, to reputation and authority.
These humble retailers of knowledge my correspondent stigmatises with
the name of Echoes; and seems desirous that they should be made ashamed
of lazy submission, and animated to attempts after new discoveries and
original sentiments.
It is very natural for young men to be vehement, acrimonious, and
severe. For, as they seldom comprehend at once all the consequences of a
position, or perceive the difficulties by which cooler and more
experienced reasoners are restrained from confidence, they form their
conclusions with great precipitance. Seeing nothing that can darken or
embarrass the question, they expect to find their own opinion
universally prevalent, and are inclined to impute uncertainty and
hesitation to want of honesty, rather than of knowledge. I may, perhaps,
therefore, be reproached by my lively correspondent, when it shall be
found, that I have no inclination to persecute these collectors of
fortuitous knowledge with the severity required; yet, as I am now too
old to be much pained by hasty censure, I shall not be afraid of taking
into protection those whom I think condemned without a sufficient
knowledge of their cause.
He that adopts the sentiments of another, whom he has reason to believe
wiser than himself, is only to be blamed when he claims the honours
which are not due but to the author, and endeavours to deceive the world
into praise and veneration; for, to learn, is the proper business of
youth; and whether we increase our knowledge by books or by
conversation, we are equally indebted to foreign assistance.
The greater part of students are not born with abilities to construct
systems, or advance knowledge; nor can have any hope beyond that of
becoming intelligent hearers in the schools of art, of being able to
comprehend what others discover, and to remember what others teach. Even
those to whom Providence hath allotted greater strength of
understanding, can expect only to improve a single science. In every
other part of learning, they must be content to follow opinions, which
they are not able to examine; and, even in that which they claim as
peculiarly their own, can seldom add more than some small particle of
knowledge, to the hereditary stock devolved to them from ancient times,
the collective labour of a thousand intellects.
In science, which, being fixed and limited, admits of no other variety
than such as arises from new methods of distribution, or new arts of
illustration, the necessity of following the traces of our predecessors
is indisputably evident; but there appears no reason, why imagination
should be subject to the same restraint. It might be conceived, that of
those who profess to forsake the narrow paths of truth, every one may
deviate towards a different point, since, though rectitude is uniform
and fixed, obliquity may be infinitely diversified. The roads of science
are narrow, so that they who travel them, must either follow or meet one
another; but in the boundless regions of possibility, which fiction
claims for her dominion, there are surely a thousand recesses
unexplored, a thousand flowers unplucked, a thousand fountains
unexhausted, combinations of imagery yet unobserved, and races of ideal
inhabitants not hitherto described.
Yet, whatever hope may persuade, or reason evince, experience can boast
of very few additions to ancient fable. The wars of Troy, and the
travels of Ulysses, have furnished almost all succeeding poets with
incidents, characters, and sentiments. The Romans are confessed to have
attempted little more than to display in their own tongue the inventions
of the Greeks. There is, in all their writings, such a perpetual
recurrence of allusions to the tales of the fabulous age, that they must
be confessed often to want that power of giving pleasure which novelty
supplies; nor can we wonder that they excelled so much in the graces of
diction, when we consider how rarely they were employed in search of new
thoughts.
The warmest admirers of the great Mantuan poet can extol him for little
more than the skill with which he has, by making his hero both a
traveller and a warrior, united the beauties of the Iliad and the
Odyssey in one composition: yet his judgment was perhaps sometimes
overborne by his avarice of the Homeric treasures; and, for fear of
suffering a sparkling ornament to be lost, he has inserted it where it
cannot shine with its original splendour.
When Ulysses visited the infernal regions, he found among the heroes
that perished at Troy, his competitor, Ajax, who, when the arms of
Achilles were adjudged to Ulysses, died by his own hand in the madness
of disappointment. He still appeared to resent, as on earth, his loss
and disgrace, Ulysses endeavoured to pacify him with praises and
submission; but Ajax walked away without reply. This passage has always
been considered as eminently beautiful; because Ajax, the haughty chief,
the unlettered soldier, of unshaken courage, of immovable constancy, but
without the power of recommending his own virtues by eloquence, or
enforcing his assertions by any other argument than the sword, had no
way of making his anger known, but by gloomy sullenness and dumb
ferocity. His hatred of a man whom he conceived to have defeated him
only by volubility of tongue, was therefore naturally shewn by silence
more contemptuous and piercing than any words that so rude an orator
could have found, and by which he gave his enemy no opportunity of
exerting the only power in which he was superior.
When Æneas is sent by Virgil to the shades, he meets Dido the queen of
Carthage, whom his perfidy had hurried to the grave; he accosts her with
tenderness and excuses; but the lady turns away like Ajax in mute
disdain. She turns away like Ajax; but she resembles him in none of
those qualities which give either dignity or propriety to silence. She
might, without any departure from the tenour of her conduct, have burst
out like other injured women into clamour, reproach, and denunciation;
but Virgil had his imagination full of Ajax, and therefore could not
prevail on himself to teach Dido any other mode of resentment.
If Virgil could be thus seduced by imitation, there will be little hope,
that common wits should escape; and accordingly we find, that besides
the universal and acknowledged practice of copying the ancients, there
has prevailed in every age a particular species of fiction. At one time
all truth was conveyed in allegory; at another, nothing was seen but in
a vision; at one period all the poets followed sheep, and every event
produced a pastoral; at another they busied themselves wholly in giving
directions to a painter.
It is indeed easy to conceive why any fashion should become popular, by
which idleness is favoured, and imbecility assisted; but surely no man
of genius can much applaud himself for repeating a tale with which the
audience is already tired, and which could bring no honour to any but
its inventor.
There are, I think, two schemes of writing, on which the laborious wits
of the present time employ their faculties. One is the adaptation of
sense to all the rhymes which our language can supply to some word, that
makes the burden of the stanza; but this, as it has been only used in a
kind of amorous burlesque, can scarcely be censured with much acrimony.
The other is the imitation of Spenser, which, by the influence of some
men of learning and genius, seems likely to gain upon the age, and
therefore deserves to be more attentively considered.
To imitate the fictions and sentiments of Spenser can incur no reproach,
for allegory is perhaps one of the most pleasing vehicles of
instruction. But I am very far from extending the same respect to his
diction or his stanza. His style was in his own time allowed to be
vicious, so darkened with old words and peculiarities of phrase, and so
remote from common use, that Jonson boldly pronounces him _to have
written no language_. His stanza is at once difficult and unpleasing;
tiresome to the ear by its uniformity, and to the attention by its
length. It was at first formed in imitation of the Italian poets,
without due regard to the genius of our language. The Italians have
little variety of termination, and were forced to contrive such a stanza
as might admit the greatest number of similar rhymes; but our words end
with so much diversity, that it is seldom convenient for us to bring
more than two of the same sound together. If it be justly observed by
Milton, that rhyme obliges poets to express their thoughts in improper
terms, these improprieties must always be multiplied, as the difficulty
of rhyme is increased by long concatenations.
The imitators of Spenser are indeed not very rigid censors of
themselves, for they seem to conclude, that when they have disfigured
their lines with a few obsolete syllables, they have accomplished their
design, without considering that they ought not only to admit old words,
but to avoid new. The laws of imitation are broken by every word
introduced since the time of Spenser, as the character of Hector is
violated by quoting Aristotle in the play. It would, indeed, be
difficult to exclude from a long poem all modern phrases, though it is
easy to sprinkle it with gleanings of antiquity. Perhaps, however, the
style of Spenser might by long labour be justly copied; but life is
surely given us for higher purposes than to gather what our ancestors
have wisely thrown away, and to learn what is of no value, but because
it has been forgotten.
No. 122. SATURDAY, MAY 18, 1751.
Nescio qua natale solum dulcedine captos
Ducit. OVID, Ex Pon. Lib. i. Ep. iii. 35.
By secret charms our native land attracts.
Nothing is more subject to mistake and disappointment than anticipated
judgment concerning the easiness or difficulty of any undertaking,
whether we form our opinion from the performances of others, or from
abstracted contemplation of the thing to be attempted.
Whatever is done skilfully appears to be done with ease; and art, when
it is once matured to habit, vanishes from observation. We are therefore
more powerfully excited to emulation, by those who have attained the
highest degree of excellence, and whom we can therefore with least
reason hope to equal.
In adjusting the probability of success by a previous consideration of
the undertaking, we are equally in danger of deceiving ourselves. It is
never easy, nor often possible, to comprise the series of any process
with all its circumstances, incidents, and variations, in a speculative
scheme. Experience soon shows us the tortuosities of imaginary
rectitude, the complications of simplicity, and the asperities of
smoothness. Sudden difficulties often start up from the ambushes of art,
stop the career of activity, repress the gaiety of confidence, and when
we imagine ourselves almost at the end of our labours, drive us back to
new plans and different measures.
There are many things which we every day see others unable to perform,
and perhaps have even ourselves miscarried in attempting; and yet can
hardly allow to be difficult; nor can we forbear to wonder afresh at
every new failure, or to promise certainty of success to our next essay;
but when we try, the same hindrances recur, the same inability is
perceived, and the vexation of disappointment must again be suffered.
Of the various kinds of speaking or writing, which serve necessity, or
promote pleasure, none appears so artless or easy as simple narration;
for what should make him that knows the whole order and progress of an
affair unable to relate it? Yet we hourly find such as endeavour to
entertain or instruct us by recitals, clouding the facts which they
intend to illustrate, and losing themselves and their auditors in wilds
and mazes, in digression and confusion. When we have congratulated
ourselves upon a new opportunity of inquiry, and new means of
information, it often happens, that without designing either deceit or
concealment, without ignorance of the fact, or unwillingness to disclose
it, the relator fills the ear with empty sounds, harasses the attention
with fruitless impatience, and disturbs the imagination by a tumult of
events, without order of time, or train of consequence.
It is natural to believe, upon the same principle, that no writer has a
more easy task than the historian. The philosopher has the works of
omniscience to examine; and is therefore engaged in disquisitions, to
which finite intellects are utterly unequal. The poet trusts to his
invention, and is not only in danger of those inconsistencies, to which
every one is exposed by departure from truth; but may be censured as
well for deficiencies of matter, as for irregularity of disposition, or
impropriety of ornament. But the happy historian has no other labour
than of gathering what tradition pours down before him, or records
treasure for his use. He has only the actions and designs of men like
himself to conceive and to relate; he is not to form, but copy
characters, and therefore is not blamed for the inconsistency of
statesmen, the injustice of tyrants, or the cowardice of commanders. The
difficulty of making variety consistent, or uniting probability with
surprise, needs not to disturb him; the manners and actions of his
personages are already fixed; his materials are provided and put into
his hands, and he is at leisure to employ all his powers in arranging
and displaying them.
Yet, even with these advantages, very few in any age have been able to
raise themselves to reputation by writing histories; and among the
innumerable authors, who fill every nation with accounts of their
ancestors, or undertake to transmit to futurity the events of their own
time, the greater part, when fashion and novelty have ceased to
recommend them, are of no other use than chronological memorials, which
necessity may sometimes require to be consulted, but which fright away
curiosity, and disgust delicacy.
It is observed, that our nation, which has produced so many authors
eminent for almost every other species of literary excellence, has been
hitherto remarkably barren of historical genius; and so far has this
defect raised prejudices against us, that some have doubted whether an
Englishman can stop at that mediocrity of style, or confine his mind to
that even tenour of imagination, which narrative requires.