PHYSIBULUS.' some of it home with me: and cannot endure well voluntaries, a sort of music quite foreign to be at once tricked out of all, though by the to the design of church-services, to the great Those wittiest dexterity in the world. However, I prejudice of well-disposed people. kept my seat the other night, in hopes of find- fingering gentlemen should be informed, that ing my own sentiments of this matter favour- they ought to suit their airs to the place and ed by your friend's; when, to my great sur- business, and that the musician is obliged to prise, I found the knight entering with equal keep to the text as much as the preacher. For pleasure into both parts, and as much satisfied want of this, I have found by experience a with Mrs. Oldfield's gayety as he had been be- great deal of mischief. When the preacher fore with Andromache's greatness. Whether has often, with great piety, and art enough, this were no more than an affect of the knight's handled his subject, and the judicious clerk has peculiar humanity, pleased to find at last, that, with the utmost diligence called out two staves after all the tragical doings, every thing was proper to the discourse, and I have found insafe and well, I do not know; but for my own myself and the rest of the pew, good thoughts part, I must confess I was so dissatisfied, that and dispositions, they have been, all in a moI was sorry the poet had saved Andromache, ment, dissipated by a merry jig from the or One knows not what further ill efand could heartily have wished that he had gan loft. left her stone-dead upon the stage. For you fects the epilogues I have been speaking of cannot imagine, Mr. Spectator, the mischief may in time produce: but this I am credibly she was reserved to do me. I found my soul, informed of, that Paul Lorrain" has resolved during the action, gradually worked up to the upon a very sudden reformation in his tragihighest pitch, and felt the exalted passion cal dramas; and that, at the next monthly which all generous minds conceive at the sight performance, he designs, instead of a peniof virtue in distress. The impression, believe tential psalm, to dismiss his audience with an me, sir, was so strong upon me, that I am per- excellent new ballad of his own composing. suaded, ifI had been let alone in it, I could, at Pray, sir, do what you can to put a stop to an extremity, have ventured to defend your- these growing evils, and you will very much self and Sir Roger against half a score of the oblige Your humble servant, fiercest Mohocks; but the ludicrous epilogue in the close extinguished all my ardour, and made me look upon all such noble achievements as downright silly and romantic. What the rest of the audience felt, I cannot so well tell. For No. 339.] Saturday, March 29, 1712. myself I must declare, that at the end of the play I found my soul uniform, and all of a piece; but at the end of the epilogue it was so jumbled together, and divided between jest and earnest, that, if you will forgive me an extravagant fancy, I will here set it down. I could not but fancy, if my soul had at that moment quitted my body, and descended to the poetical shades in the posture it was then in, what a strange figure it would have made among them. They would not have known what to have made of my motley spectre, half comic and half tragic, all over resembling a ridicu LONGINUS has observed, that there may be lous face that at the same time laughs on one loftiness in sentiments where there is no passide and cries on the other. The only de- sion, and brings instances out of ancient aufence, I think, I ever heard made for this, as thors to support this his opinion. The pait seems to me the most unnatural tack of the thetic, as that great critic observes, may anicomic tail to the tragic head, is this, that the mate and inflame the sublime, but is not esminds of the audience must be refreshed, and sential to it. Accordingly, as he further regentlemen and ladies not sent away to their marks, we very often find that those who exown homes with too dismal and melancholy cel most in stirring up the passions very often thoughts about them: for who knows the con- want the talent of writing in the great and on the contrary. sequence of this? We are much obliged, in- sublime manner, and so deed, to the poets for the great tenderness Milton has shown himself a master in both they express for the safety of our persons, The seventh book, these ways of writing. and heartily thank them for it. But if that which we are now entering upon, is an inbe all, pray, good sir, assure them, that we stance of that sublime which is not mixed and are none of us like to come to any great worked up with passion. The author appears harm; and that, let them do their best, we in a kind of composed and sedate majesty; shall in all probability live out the length of and though the sentiments do not give so great our days, and frequent the theatres more than an emotion as those in the former book, they What makes me more desirous to have abound with as magnificent ideas. The sixth some information of this matter is, because book, like a troubled ocean, represents greatof an ill consequence or two attending it: for ness in confusion; the seventh affects the a great many of our church musicians being related to the theatre, they have, in imitation ever. a Ut his exordia primis Virg. Ecl. v. 33. He sung the secret seeds of nature's frame: Dryden. *The ordinary of Newgate at this time. See the Tat of these epilogues, introduced, in their fare-ler, No. 63. imagination like the ocean in a calm, and behold there came four chariots out from befills the mind of the reader, without produc-tween two mountains, and the mountains were mountains of brass :' ing in it any thing like tumult or agitation. The critic above-mentioned, among the rules which he lays down for succeeding in the sublime way of writing, proposes to his reader, that he should imitate the most celebrated authors who have gone before him, and have been engaged in works of the same nature; as in particular that, if he writes on poetical subjects, he should consider how Homer would have spoken on such an occasion. By this means one great genius often catches the flame from another, and writes in his spirit, without copying servilely after him. There are a thousand shining passages in Virgil, which have been lighted up by Homer. Milton, though his own natural strength of genius was capable of furnishing out a perfect work, has doubtless very much raised and enobled his conceptions by such an imitation as that which Longinus has recommended. In this book which gives us an account of the six days' works, the poet received but very few assistances from heathen writers, who are strangers to the wonders of creation. But as there are many glorious strokes of poetry upon this subject in holy writ, the author has numberless allusions to them through the whole course of this book. The great crític I have before mentioned, though an heathen, has taken notice of the sublime manner in which the lawgiver of the Jews has described the creation in the first chapter of Genesis; and there are many other passages in Scripture which rise up to the same majesty, where the subject is touched upon. Milton has shown his judgment very remarkably, in making use of such of these as were proper for his poem, and in duly qualifying those strains of eastern poetry which were suited to readers whose imaginations were set to an higher pitch than those of colder climates. About his chariot numberless were pour'd I have before taken notice of these chariots of God, and of these gates of heaven; and shail here only add, that Homer gives us the same idea of the latter, as opening of themselves; though he afterwards takes off from it, by telling us, that the Hours first of all removed those prodigious heaps of clouds which lay as a barrier before them. I do not know any thing in the whole poem more sublime than the description which follows, where the Messiah is represented at the head of his angels, as looking down into the chaos, calming its confusion, riding into the midst of it, and drawing the first outline of the creation: On heav'nly ground they stood, and from the shore Adam's speech to the angel, wherein he desires an account of what had passed within the regions of nature before the creation, is very great and solemn. The following lines, in which he tells him, that the day is not too. far spent for him to enter upon such a sub-ceived altogether in Homer's spirit, and is a ject, are exquisite in their kind: And the great light of day yet wants to run The thought of the golden compasses is con very noble incident in this wonderful descrip- Let The angel's encouraging our first parents squadrons, and her helmet that was sufficient in a modest pursuit after knowledge, with to cover an army drawn out of an hundred the causes which he assigns for the creation cities. The golden compasses, in the aboveof the world, are very just and beautiful. mentioned passage, appear a very natural inThe Messiah, by whom, as we are told instrument in the hand of him whom Plato Scripture, the heavens were made, goes forth somewhere calls the Divine Geometrician. As in the power of his Father, surrounded with poetry delights in clothing abstracted ideas in an host of angels, and clothed with such a allegories and sensible images, we find a magmajesty as becomes his entering upon a work nificent description of the creation, formed afwhich, according to our conceptions, appears ter the same manner, in one of the prophets, the utmost exertion of Omnipotence. What wherein he describes the Almighty Architect as a beautiful description has our author raised measuring the waters in the hollow of his hand, upon that hint in one of the prophets! And meting out the heavens with his span, compre hending the dust of the earth in a measure, the fifth and sixth days, in which he has drawn weighing the mountains in scales, and the hills out to our view the whole animal creation, in a balance. Another of them describing the from the reptile to the behemoth. As the lion Supreme Being in this great work of creation, and the leviathan are two of the noblest represents him as laying the foundations of productions in the world of living creatures, the earth, and stretching a line upon it; and, the reader will find a most exquisite spirit in another place, as garnishing the heavens, of poetry in the account which our author stretching out the north over the empty place, gives us of them. The sixth day concludes and hanging the earth upon nothing. This with the formation of man, upon which the last noble thought Milton has expressed in the angel takes occasion, as he did after the following verse: battle in heaven, to remind Adam of his obedience, which was the principal design of this visit. And earth self balanced on her centre hung. The poet afterwards represents the Messiah when the heavens and earth were finished; The beauties of description in this book lie so very thick, that it is impossible to enume-returning into heaven, and taking a survey of his great work. There is something inexpresrate them in this paper. The poet has em- sibly sublime in this part of the poem, where ployed on them the whole energy of our tongue. The several great scenes of the the author describes the great period of time, creation rise up to view one after another, in filled with so many glorious circumstances; such a manner, that the reader seems pre-when the Messiah ascended up in triumph sent at this wonderful work, and to assist among the choirs of angels who are the specta-through the everlasting gates; when he looked down with pleasure upon his new creators of it. How glorious is the conclusion of tion; when every part of nature seemed to rethe first day! joice in its existence, when the morning-stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy. -Thus was the first day even and morn By the celestial choirs, when orient light We have the same elevation of thought in the third day, when the mountains were brought forth, and the deep was made: Immediately the mountains huge appear We have also the rising of the whole vegetable world, described in this day's work, which is filled with all the graces that other poets have lavished on their description of the spring, and leads the reader's imagination into a theatre equally surprising and beautiful. The several glories of the heavens make their appearance on the fourth day: First in his east the glorious lamp was seen, His longitude through heavn's high road; the gray His mirror, with full face borrowing her light One would wonder how the poet could be so concise in his description of the six days' works, as to comprehend them within the bounds of an episode, and, at the same time, so particular, as to give us a lively idea of them. This is still more remarkable in his account of So even and morn accomplish'd the sixth day: Resounded, (thou rememberest, for thou heard'st) 64 I cannot conclude this book upon the creation without mentioning a poem which has lately appeared under that title.* The work was undertaken with so good an intention, and is executed with so great a mastery, that it deserves to be looked upon as one of the most useful and noble productions in our English verse. The reader cannot but be pleased to find the depths of philosophy enlivened with all the charms of poetry, and to see so great a strength of reason, amidst so beautiful a redundancy of the imagination. The author has shown us that design in all the works of nature which necessarily leads us to the knowledge of its first cause. In short, he has illustrated, by numberless and incontestable instances, that divine wisdom which the son of Sirach has so nobly ascribed to the Supreme Being in his formation of the world, when he tells us, that He created her, and saw her. and numbered her, and poured her out upon all his works.' By Sir Richard Blackmore. No. 340.] Monday, March 31, 1712. Quis novus hic nostris successit sedibus hospes? What chief is this that visits us from far, racter. I have waited for his arrival in Holland, before I would let my correspondents know that I have not been so uncurious a Spectator as not to have seen prince Eugene.* It would be very difficult, as I said just now, to answer every expectation of those who have written to me on that head; nor is it possible I TAKE it to be the highest instance of a no- for me to find words to let one know what an ble mind, to bear great qualities without dis- artful glance there is in his countenance who covering in a man's behaviour and conscious- surprised Cremona; how daring he appears ness that he is superior to the rest of the world. who forced the trenches at Turin: but in geOr, to say it otherwise, it is the duty of a great neral I can say, that he who beholds him will person so to demean himself, as that, whatever easily expect from him any thing that is to be endowments he may have, he may appear imagined, or executed, by the wit or force of to value himself upon no qualities but such as man. The prince is of that stature which any man may arrive at. He ought to think makes a man most easily become all parts of exno man valuable but for his public spirit, jus- ercise; has height to be graceful on occasions of tice, and integrity; and all other endowments state and ceremony, and no less adapted for to be esteemed only as they contribute to the agility and despatch: his aspect is erect and exerting those virtues. Such a man, if he is composed; his eye lively and thoughtful, yet wise or valiant, knows it is of no consideration rather vigilant than sparkling; his action and to other men that he is so, but as he employs address the most easy imaginable, and his bethose high talents for their use, and service. haviour in an assembly peculiarly graceful in He who affects the applauses and addresses of a certain art of mixing insensibly with the a multitude, or assumes to himself a pre-emi- rest, and becoming one of the company, innence upon any other consideration, must soon stead of receiving the courtship of it. The turn admiration into contempt. It is certain shape of his person, and composure of his that there can be no merit in any man who is limbs, are remarkably exact and beautiful. not conscious of it; but the sense that it is There is in his looks something sublime, which valuable only according to the application of does not seem to arise from his quality or it, makes that superiority amiable, which would character, but the innate disposition of his otherwise be invidious. In this light it is con- mind. It is apparent that he suffers the presidered as a thing in which every man bears a sence of much company, instead of taking share. It annexes the ideas of dignity, pow- delight in it; and he appeared in public, er, and fame, in an agreeable and familiar while with us, rather to return good-will, or manner, to him who is possessor of it; and satisfy curiosity, than to gratify any taste he all men who are strangers to him are natu- himself had of being popular. As his thoughts rally incited to indulge a curiosity in be- are never tumultuous in danger, they are as holding the person, behaviour, feature, and little discomposed on occasions of pomp and shape of him in whose character, perhaps, magnificence. A great soul is affected, in each man had formed something in common either case, no further than in considering the with himself. properest methods to extricate itself, from Whether such, or any other, are the causes, them. If this hero has the strong incentives all men have a yearning curiosity to behold a to uncommon enterprises that were remarkaman of heroic worth. I have had many letters ble in Alexander, he prosecutes and enjoys the from all parts of this kingdom, that request fame of them with the justness propriety, and I would give them an exact account of the good sense of Cæsar. It is easy to observe stature, the mien, the aspect of the prince in him a mind as capable of being entertainwho lately visited England, and has done such ed with contemplation as enterprise; a mind wonders for the liberty of Europe. It would ready for great exploits, but not impatient puzzle the most curious to form to himself the for occasions to exert itself. The prince has sort of man my several correspondents expect wisdom, and valour in as high perfection as to hear of by the action mentioned, when they man can enjoy it; which noble faculties, in desire a description of him. There is always conjunction, banish all vain-glory, ostentasomething that concerns themselves, and grow- tion, ambition, and all other vices which ing out of their own circumstances, in all their might intrude upon his mind, to make it uninquiries. A friend of mine in Wales beseech- equal. These habits and qualities of soul and es me to be very exact in my account of that body render this personage so extraordinary, wonderful man, who had marched an army and that he appears to have nothing in him but all its baggage over the Alps; and, if possible, what every man should have in him, the exerto learn whether the peasant who showed him tion of his very self, abstracted from the cirthe way, and is drawn in the map, be yet liv- cumstances in which fortune has placed him. ing. A gentleman from the university, who is Thus. were you to see prince Eugene, and deeply intent on the study of humanity, desires were told he was a private gentleman, you me to be as particular, if I had opportunity, would say he is a man of modesty and merit. in observing the whole interview between his Should you be told that was prince Eugene, highness and our late general. Thus do men's he would be diminished no otherwise, than fancies work according to their several educa tions and circumstances; but all pay a respect, *He stood godfather to Steele's second son, who was mixed with admiration, to this illustrious cha-named Eugene after this prince. that part of your distant admiration would at the same time thought a very good epiturn into a familiar good-will. This I thought fit to entertain my reader with, concerning an hero who never was equalled but by one man.* over whom also he has this advantage, that he has had opportunity to manifest an esteem for him in his adversity. T. No. 341.] Tuesday, April 1, 1712. an logue: 'Hold! are you mad you damn'd confounded dog, I am to rise and speak the epilogue.' 'This diverting manner was always prac, tised by Mr. Dryden, who, if he was not the best writer of tragedies in his time, was allowed by every one to have the happiest turn for a prologue, or an epilogue. The epilogues to Cleomenes, Don Sebastian, The duke of Guise, Aurengzebe, and Love Triumphant, are all precedents of this nature. I might further justify this practice by that Dryden. excellent epilogue which was spoken, a few HAVING, to oblige my correspondent Physi-years since, after the tragedy of Phædra and bulus, printed his letter last Friday, in rela-Hippolytus; with a great many others, in tion to the new epilogue, he cannot take it amiss if I now publish another, which I have just received from a gentleman who does not agree with him in his sentiments upon that matter. SIR, which the authors have endeavoured to make the audience inerry. If they have not all suc however shown that it was not for want of ceeded so well as the writer of this, they have good-will. I must further observe, that the gayety of it may be still the more proper, as it is at the 'I am amazed to find an epilogue attacked in end of a Freneh play; since every one knows your last Friday's paper, which has been so that nation, who are generally esteemed to generally applauded by the town, and receiv-have as polite a taste as any in Europe, always ed such honours as were never before given close their tragic entertainment, with what to any in an English theatre. they call a petite piece, which is purposely de'The audience would not permit Mrs. Old-signed to raise mirth, and send away the audifield to go off the stage the first night till she ence well pleased. The same person who has had repeated it twice; the second night the supported the chief character in the tragedy noise of ancora was as loud as before, and she very often plays the principal part in the was obliged again to speak it twice; the third petite piece; so that I have myself seen, at night it was still called for a second time; and, Paris, Orestes and Lubin acted the same night in short, contrary to all other epilogues, which by the same man. are dropped after the third representation of Tragi-comedy, indeed, you have yourself the play, this has already been repeated nine in a former speculation, found fault with very justly, because it breaks the tide of the pas times. I must own, I am the more surprised to sions while they are yet flowing; but this is find this censure in opposition to the whole nothing at all to the present case, where they town, in a paper which has hitherto been fa-have had already their full course. 'As the new epilogue is written conformably mous for the candour of its criticisms. 'I can by no means allow your melancholy to the practice of our best poets, so it is not correspondent, that the new epilogue is unnatu-such a one, which, as the duke of Buckingham ral because it is gay. If I had a mind to be says in his Rehearsal, might serve for any learned, I could tell him that the prologue and other play; but wholly rises out of the occurepilogue were real parts of the ancient trage- rences of the piece it was composed for. dy; but every one knows, that, on the British The only reason your mournful correspon stage, they are distinct performances by them-dent gives against this facetious epilogue, as selves, pieces entirely detached from the play, he calls it, is, that he has a mind to go home and no way essential to it. melancholy. I wish the gentleman may not The moment the play ends, Mrs. Oldfield is be more grave than wise. For my own part, no more Andromache but Mrs Oldfield; and I must confess, I think it very sufficient to have though the poet had left Andromache stone-the anguish of a fictitious piece remain upon dead upon the stage, as your ingenious corre-me while it is representing; but I love to be spondent phrases it, Mrs. Oldfield might still sent home to bed in a good humour. If Phyhave spoken a merry epilogue. We have an sibulus is, however, resolved to be inconsolainstance of this in a tragedy where there is not ble, and not to have his tears dried up, he need only a death, but a martyrdom. St. Catherine only continue his old custom, and, when he was there personated by Nell Gwin; she lies has had his half crown's worth of sorrow, stone-dead upon the stage, but upon those gen- slink out before the epilogue begins. tlemen's offering to remove her body, whose 'It is pleasant enough to hear this tragical business it is to carry off the slain in our Eng-genius complaining of the great mischief Anlish tragedies, she breaks out into that abrupt dromache had done him. What was that? beginning of what was a very ludicrous, but Why, she made him laugh. The poor gentle * Mr. Edmund Neal, alias Smith, 8vo. 1707. Addison *The duke of Marlborough, who was disgraced about wrote a prologue to this play to ridicule the Italian operas. his time. The epilogue was written by Prior. 6 VOL. II. |
