[] AN ENQUIRY INTO THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING.

CHAP. I. INTRODUCTION.

IT has been ſo long the practice to repre⯑ſent literature as declining, that every renewal of this complaint now comes with diminiſh'd influence. The publick has been often excited by a falſe alarm, ſo that at pre⯑ſent the nearer we approach the threatned period of decay, the more our fatal ſecurity increaſes.

[2] TO deplore the proſtitution of learning, and deſpiſe cotemporary merit, it muſt be owned, have too often been the reſource of the envious or diſappointed, the dictates of reſentment not impartiality. The writer, poſſeſſed of fame, is willing to enjoy it with⯑out a rival, by leſſening every competitor; the unſucceſsful author is deſirous to turn upon others the contempt which is levelled at himſelf, and being convicted at the bar of literary juſtice, vainly hopes for pardon by accuſing every brother of the ſame profeſſion.

SENSIBLE of this; the writer of the fol⯑lowing eſſay is at a loſs where to find an apology for his conduct, in ſtill perſiſting to arraign the merit of the age; for joining in a cry which the judicious have long ſince left to be kept up by the vulgar, and for adopting the ſentiments of the multitude [3] in a performance that at beſt can pleaſe only the Few.

COMPLAINTS of our degeneracy in litera⯑ture as well as in morals, I own have been frequently exhibited of late; but ſeem to be enforced more with the ardour of devious declamation, than the calmneſs of delibe⯑rate enquiry. The dulleſt critic, who ſtrives at a reputation for delicacy, by ſhew⯑ing he cannot be pleaſed, may pathetically aſſure us that our taſte is upon the decline, may conſign every modern performance to oblivion, and bequeath nothing to poſterity except the labours of our anceſtors, and his own. Such general invective, however, con⯑veys no inſtruction; all it teaches is, that the writer diſlikes an age by which he is proba⯑bly diſregarded. The manner of being uſe⯑ful on the ſubject would be to point out the ſymptoms, to inveſtigate the cauſes, and [4] direct to the remedies of the approaching decay. This is a ſubject hitherto unat⯑tempted in criticiſm, perhaps it is the only ſubject in which criticiſm can be uſeful.

TO mark out, therefore, the corruptions that have found way into the republick of letters, to attempt the reſcuing of genius from the ſhackles of pedantry and criticiſm, to diſtinguiſh the decay, naturally conſequent on an age like ours grown old in literature, from every erroneous innovation which admits a remedy, to take a view of thoſe ſocieties which profeſs the advancement of polite learning, and by a mutual oppoſition of their excellencies and defects to attempt the improvement of each, is the deſign of this eſſay.

HOW far the writer is equal to ſuch an undertaking the reader muſt determine; but [5] this may be aſſerted without the imputation of vanity, that he enters the liſts with no diſappointments to biaſs his judgment, nor will he ever reprove but with a deſire to reform. The defects of his execution may be compenſated by the uſefulneſs of his de⯑ſign, his obſervations may be juſt, tho' his manner of expreſſing them ſhould only ſerve as an example of the errors he under⯑takes to reprove.

IF the preſent enquiry were a topick of ſpeculative curioſity, calculated to fill up a few vacant moments in literary indolence, I ſhould think my labour ill beſtowed. To rank in the ſame deſpicable claſs with the diſſertations, aenigma's, problems, and other periodical compilations with which even idleneſs is cloyed at preſent, is by no means my ambition. True learning and true morality are cloſely connected; to im⯑prove [6] the head will inſenſibly influence the heart, a deficiency of taſte and a corrup⯑tion of manners are ſometimes found mutu⯑ally to produce each other.

DISSENTING from received opinions may frequently render this eſſay liable to correc⯑tion, yet the reader may be aſſured that a paſſion for ſingularity never gives riſe to the error. Novelty is not permitted to uſurp the place of reaſon; it may attend, but ſhall not conduct the enquiry. The more original however any performance is, the more it is liable to deviate; for cautious ſtupidity is always in the right. In literature as in commerce the value of the acquiſition is generally proportioned to the hazard of the adventure. I ſhall think therefore with freedom, and bear correction with candour. It is but juſt that he who diſſents from others [7] ſhould not be diſpleaſed if others differ from him. The applauſe of a few, a very few, will ſatisfy ambition, and even ill-nature muſt confeſs that I have been willing to ad⯑vance the reputation of the age at the hazard of my own.

CHAP. II. Of the decline of ancient learning.

IF we conſider the revolutions which have happened in the common wealth of letters, ſurvey the rapid progreſs of learn⯑ing in one period of antiquity, or its amazing decline in another, we ſhall be al⯑moſt induc'd to accuſe nature of partiality, as if ſhe had exhauſted all her efforts in adorning one age, while ſhe left the ſucceed⯑ing entirely neglected. It is not to nature, however, but to ourſelves alone that this partiality muſt be aſcrib'd; the ſeeds of ex⯑cellence are ſown in every age, and it is wholly owing to a wrong direction in the paſſions or purſuits of mankind that they have not received the proper cultivation. It is not nature that is fatigued with pro⯑ducing [9] her wonders ſo much as we that are ſatiated with admiration.

AS in the beſt regulated ſocieties, the very laws which at firſt give the govern⯑ment ſolidity, may in the end contribute to its diſſolution, ſo the efforts which might have promoted learning in its feeble com⯑mencement may, if continued, retard its progreſs. The paths of ſcience which were at firſt intricate becauſe untrodden, may at laſt grow toilſome becauſe too much frequented. As learning advances, the candidates for its honours may become more numerous, and the acquiſition of fame more uncertain; the modeſt may deſpair of attaining it, and the opulent think it too precarious to purſue; thus the taſk of ſupporting the honour of the times may at laſt devolve on indigence and [10] effrontery, and learning partake the con⯑tempt of its profeſſors.

TO illuſtrate theſe aſſertions it may be proper to take a ſlight review of the decline of ancient learning; to conſider how far its depravation was owing to the impoſſibility of ſupporting continued perfection; in what reſpects it proceeded from voluntary cor⯑ruption; and how far it was haſtened on by accidental event. If Modern learning be compared with Ancient in theſe different lights, a parallel between both, which has hi⯑therto produced only vain diſpute, may con⯑tribute to amuſement, perhaps, inſtruction. We ſhall thus be enabled to perceive what period of antiquity the preſent age moſt reſembles, whether we are making advances towards excellence or retiring again to pri⯑meval obſcurity; we ſhall, by their exam⯑ple, [11] be taught to acquieſce in thoſe defects which it is impoſſible to prevent; and reject all faulty innovations tho' offered under the ſpecious titles of improvement.

IN early ages when man was employed in acquiring neceſſary ſubſiſtance, or in defend⯑ing his acquiſitions, when without laws or ſociety he led a precarious life, while even the ſavage rivalled him in the dominion of the foreſt; in ſuch times of fatigue and dark⯑neſs we muſt not look for the origin of arts or learning, which are the offspring of ſecu⯑rity, opulence and eaſe. When experience taught the advantages of ſociety, when na⯑tive freedom was exchanged for ſocial ſecu⯑rity, when man began to feel the benefit of laws, and the mind had leiſure for the con⯑templation of nature and itſelf, then, pro⯑bably, the ſciences might have been culti⯑vated [12] to add ſtrength to the riſing com⯑munity, and the polite arts introduced to promote its enjoyments.

LEARNING, when planted in any coun⯑try, is tranſient and fading, nor does it flouriſh till ſlow gradations of improve⯑ment have naturalized it to the ſoil. It makes feeble advances, begins among the vulgar, and riſes into reputation among the great. It cannot be eſtabliſhed in a ſtate at once, by introducing the learned of other countries; theſe may grace a court, but ſeldom enlighten a kingdom. Ptolemy Philadelphus, Conſtantine Por⯑phyriogeneta, Alfred, or Charlemagne, might have invited learned foreigners in⯑to their dominions, but could not eſtabliſh learning. While in the radiance of royal favour, every art and ſcience ſeemed to [13] flouriſh, but when that was withdrawn, they quickly felt the rigours of a ſtrange climate, and with exotic conſtitutions pe⯑riſhed by neglect.

As the arts and ſciences are ſlow in com⯑ing to maturity, it is requiſite in order to their perfection, that the ſtate ſhould be permanent, which gives them reception. There are numberleſs attempts without ſuc⯑ceſs, and experiments without concluſion, between the firſt rudiments of an art, and its utmoſt perfection, between the outlines of a ſhadow, and the picture of an Apel⯑les. Leiſure is required to go through the tedious interval, to join the experience of predeceſſors to our own, or enlarge our views, by building on the ruined attempts of former adventurers. All this may be performed in a ſociety of long continuance; [14] but if the kingdom be but of ſhort dura⯑tion, as was the caſe of Arabia, learning ſeems coeval, ſympathizes with its politi⯑cal ſtruggles, and is annihilated in its diſ⯑ſolution.

BUT permanence in a ſtate, is not alone ſufficient, it is requiſite alſo for this end that it ſhould be free. Naturaliſts aſſure us, that all animals are ſagacious in propor⯑tion as they are removed from the tyran⯑ny of others; in native liberty, the ele⯑phant is a citizen, and the beaver, an ar⯑chitect; but whenever the tyrant man in⯑trudes upon their community, their ſpirit is broken, they ſeem anxious only for ſafety, and their intellects ſuffer an equal diminu⯑tion with their proſperity. The parallel will hold with regard to mankind; fear na⯑turally repreſſes invention, benevolence, [15] ambition; for in a nation of ſlaves, as in the deſpotic governments of the eaſt, to labour after fame is to be a candidate for danger.

FOR a ſtate to attain literary excellence, beſides, it is requiſite, that the ſoil and cli⯑mate ſhould, as much as poſſible, conduce to happineſs. The earth muſt ſupply man with the neceſſaries of life, before he has leiſure, or inclination, to purſue its more re⯑fined enjoyments. The climate alſo muſt be equally indulgent, for, in too warm a region, the mind is relaxed into languors, and by the oppoſite exceſs, is chilled into torpid inactivity.

Theſe are the principal advantages which tend to the improvement of learning. En⯑couragement from the Great is uſeful in pre⯑venting its decline.

[16] THOSE who behold the phaenomena of na⯑ture, and content themſelves with the view without enquiring into their cauſes, are per⯑haps wiſer than is generally imagined. In this manner our rude anceſtors were acquaint⯑ed with facts, and Poetry, which helped the imagination, and the memory was thought the moſt proper vehicle for conveying their knowledge to poſterity. It was the poet, who harmonized the ungrateful accents of his native dialect, who lifted it above common converſation, and ſhaped its rude combi⯑nations into order. From him the orator formed a ſtile, and though poetry firſt roſe out of proſe, in turn, it gave birth to every proſaic excellence. Muſical period, con⯑ciſe expreſſion, and delicacy of ſentiment, were all excellencies derived from the poet; in ſhort, he not only preceded, but formed the orator, philoſopher, and hiſtorian.

[17] WHEN the obſervations of paſt ages were collected, philoſophy began to examine their cauſes. She had numberleſs facts from which to draw proper inferences, and poetry had taught her the ſtrongeſt expreſ⯑ſion to enforce them. The Greeks, (for we know little of the Egyptian learning) now exerted all their happy talents in the inveſtigation of truth, and the production of beauty. Before this, the works of art were remarkable only for the vaſtneſs of deſign, and ſeemed the productions of giants, not of ordinary men; learning was another name for magic, or to give it its real ap⯑pellation, impoſture. But thoſe improvers ſaw there was more excellence in capti⯑vating the judgment, than in raiſing a momentary aſtoniſhment: in their arts they imitated only ſuch parts of nature, as might pleaſe in the repreſentation; in the ſciences, [18] they cultivated ſuch parts of knowlege, as it was every man's duty to be acquaint⯑ed with. Unity, variety, and proportion, charmed in all their deſigns; liberty, pa⯑triotiſm, and a ſubjection to the laws were, what all their true philoſophers ſtrove to inculcate. Thus learning was encouraged, protected, honoured, and in its turn, it adorned, ſtrengthened and harmonized the community.

FROM being the diſciple of Greece, Rome ſoon became its rival, and was as much eſteemed for its improvements in the arts of peace, as feared for its atchieve⯑ments in thoſe of war. The Romans un⯑derſtood, perhaps, better than their maſters, the manner of blending art and ſcience for their mutual improvement. By this means their philoſophy acquired more grace, and [19] their poetry more ſentiment. They entire⯑ly baniſhed that magical obſcurity, which the Greeks firſt borrowed from other na⯑tions, and ſome part of which, their moſt admired writers thought proper ſtill to re⯑tain. The learning of the Romans might juſtly be ſtiled, the trueſt refinement on common ſenſe, it was therefore, a proper inſtrument in the hands of ambition. Their moſt powerful men, not only encouraged, but became themſelves, the fineſt models of literary perfection. Thus the arts and ſciences went on together, and reaſoning proceeded no farther, than where experi⯑ment pointed out the way.

BUT as the operations of body are ſlow, thoſe of the mind vigorous and active, as experiment is dilatory and painful, ſpecula⯑tion quick and amuſing, the ſpirit of phi⯑loſophy [20] being excited, the reaſoner, when deſ⯑titute of experiment, had recourſe to theory, and gave up what was uſeful for refinement.

CRITICS, ſophiſts, grammarians, rheto⯑ricians, and commentators, now began to figure in the literary commonwealth. In the dawn of ſcience, ſuch are generally mo⯑deſt, and not entirely uſeleſs; their perfor⯑mances ſerve to mark the progreſs of learn⯑ing, tho' they ſeldom contribute to its im⯑provement. But as nothing but labour is required in making proficients, in their re⯑ſpective departments; ſo neither the ſatyr, nor the contempt of the wiſe, though So⯑crates was of the number, nor the laws le⯑velled at them by the ſtate, though Cato was in the legiſlature, could prevent their approaches. Poſſeſſed of all the advanta⯑ges of unfeeling dullneſs, laborious, inſen⯑ſible, [21] ſhameleſs and perſevering, they ſtill proceeded mending, and mending every work of genius, or to ſpeak without irony, undermining all that was polite and uſeful. Libraries were crammed, but not enriched with their labours, while the fatigues of reading their explanatory comments was ten-fold that which might ſuffice for un⯑derſtanding the original. Their works effectually encreaſed our application, by profeſſing to remove it.

AGAINST ſo obſtinate and irrefragable an enemy, what could avail the unſupport⯑ed ſallies of genius, or the oppoſition of tranſitory reſentment? In ſhort, they con⯑quered by perſevering, claimed the right of dictating upon every work of taſte, ſen⯑timent, or genius, and at laſt, when deſti⯑tute of other employment, like the ſuper⯑numerary [22] domeſtics of the great, made work for each other.

THEY now took upon them to teach poetry, to thoſe who wanted genius, and the power of diſputing, to thoſe who knew nothing of the ſubject in debate. It was obſerved, how ſome of the moſt admired poets had copied nature. From theſe, they collected dry rules, dignified with long names, and ſuch were obtruded upon the public for their improvement. Common ſenſe would be apt to ſuggeſt, that the art might be ſtudied to more advantage, rather by imitation than precept. It might ſuggeſt, that thoſe rules were collected, not from nature, but a copy of nature, and would conſequently give us ſtill fainter reſemblances of original beauty. It might ſtill ſuggeſt, that explained wit, makes but a feeble impreſſion, that the obſer⯑vations [23] of others, are ſoon forgotten, thoſe, made by ourſelves, are permanent and uſe⯑ful. But, it ſeems, underſtandings of every ſize were to be mechanically inſtructed in poetry. If the reader was too dull to re⯑liſh the beauties of Virgil, the comment of Servius was ready to brighten his ima⯑gination; if Terence could not raiſe him to a ſmile, Evantius was at hand, with a long-winded ſcholium to encreaſe his titil⯑lation. Such rules are calculated to make blockheads talk, but all the lemmata of the Lyceum are unable to give him feeling.

THEIR logical diſputations ſeemed even to be the apotheoſis of folly. In theſe the opponent had a right to affirm, whatever abſurdity he thought proper. The defen⯑dant, though he ſaw the falſhood almoſt by intuition, was not allowed to uſe his [24] reaſon, but his art, in the debate. It was his buſineſs only to meaſure the aſſertion by one of his artificial inſtruments, and as it happen⯑ed to accord, or diſagree, he found himſelf qualified to ſupport, or obliged to diſconti⯑nue, his defence; which ſeldom, however, happened, till fatigue or anger terminated the enquiry.

But it would be endleſs to recount all the inſect-like abſurdities, which were hatched in the ſchools of thoſe ſpecious idlers; be it ſufficient to ſay, that they encreaſed as learning improved, but ſwarmed on its decline. It was then, that every work of taſte was buried in long comments, every uſeful ſubject in mo⯑rals, was diſtinguiſhed away into caſuiſtry, and doubt and ſubtilty characterized the learning of the age. Metrodorus, Valeri⯑us [25] Probus, Aulus Gellius, Pedianus, Boe⯑thius, and an hundred others, to be ac⯑quainted with whom, might ſhew much reading, and but little judgment; theſe, I ſay, made choice each of an author, and delivered all their load of learning on his back; ſhame to our anceſtors, many of their works have reached our times entire, while Tacitus himſelf has ſuffered mutilation.

In a word, the commonwealth of li⯑terature, was at laſt wholly overrun by theſe ſtudious triflers. Men of real ge⯑nius, were loſt in the multitude, or, as in a world of fools, it were folly to aim at being an only exception, obliged to con⯑form to every prevailing abſurdity of the times. Original productions ſeldom ap⯑peared, and learning, as if grown ſupera⯑nuated, beſtowed all its panegyric upon [26] the vigour of its youth, and turned enco⯑miaſt upon its former atchievements.

IT is to theſe, then, that the depravation of ancient polite learning, is principally to be aſcribed. By them it was ſeparated from common ſenſe, and made the proper employment of ſpeculative idlers. Men bred up among books, and ſeeing nature only by reflection, could do little, except hunt after perplexity and confuſion. The public, therefore, with reaſon rejected learn⯑ing, when thus rendered barren, though voluminous, for we may be aſſured, that the generality of mankind never loſe a paſſion for letters, while they continue to be either amuſing or uſeful.

IT was ſuch writers as theſe, that ren⯑dered learning unfit for uniting and ſtrength⯑ening [27] civil ſociety, or for promoting the views of ambition. True philoſophy had kept the Graecian ſtates cemented into one effective body, more than any law for that purpoſe; and the Etrurian philoſophy, which prevailed in the firſt ages of Rome, inſpired thoſe patriot virtues, which paved the way to univerſal empire. But by the labours of commentators, when philoſo⯑phy became abſtruſe, or triflingly minute, when doubt was preſented inſtead of know⯑ledge, when the orator was taught to charm the multitude with the muſic of his pe⯑riods, and pronounced a declamation, that might be ſung as well as ſpoken, and often upon ſubjects wholly fictitious; in ſuch cir⯑cumſtances, learning was entirely unſuited to all the purpoſes of government, or the deſigns of the ambitious. As long as the ſciences could influence the ſtate, and its [28] politics were ſtrengthened by them, ſo long did the community give them countenance and protection. But the wiſer part of man⯑kind would not be impoſed upon by unin⯑telligible jargon, nor, like the knight in Pantagruel, ſwallow a chimera for a break⯑faſt, though even cooked by Ariſtotle. As the philoſopher grew uſeleſs in the ſtate, he alſo became contemptible. In the times of Lucian, he was chiefly remarkable for his avarice, his impudence, and his beard.

UNDER the auſpicious influence of genius, arts and ſciences grew up to⯑gether, and mutually illuſtrated each other. But when once Pedants became law⯑givers, the ſciences began to want grace, and the polite arts ſolidity; theſe grew crabbed and ſowre, thoſe meretrici⯑ous and gawdy; the philoſopher became [29] diſguſtingly preciſe, and the poet, ever ſtraining after grace, caught only finery.

Theſe men alſo contributed to obſtruct the progreſs of wiſdom, by addicting their readers to one particular ſect, or ſome fa⯑vourite ſcience. They generally carried on a petty traffic in ſome little creek; within that they buſily plied about, and drove an inſignificant trade; but never ventured out into the great ocean of knowlege, nor went beyond the bounds that chance, con⯑ceit, or lazineſs had firſt preſcribed their enquiries. Their diſciples, inſtead of aim⯑ing at being originals themſelves, became imitators of that merit alone, which was conſtantly propoſed for their admiration. In exerciſes of this kind, the moſt ſtupid are generally moſt ſucceſsful; for there is not [30] in nature, a more imitative animal than a dunce.

FROM hence ancient learning may be diſtinguiſhed into three periods. Its com⯑mencement, or the age of poets; its ma⯑turity, or the age of philoſophers; and its decline, or the age of critics. In the com⯑mencement of learning, commentators were very few, but might have, in ſome re⯑ſpects, been uſeful. In its maturity, their aſſiſtance muſt neceſſarily become obnoxi⯑ous, yet, as if the nearer we approached perfection, the more we ſtood in need of their directions, in this period they began to grow numerous. But when polite learn⯑ing was no more, then it was thoſe lite⯑rary lawgivers made the moſt formidable appearance. Corruptiſſima republica, plu⯑rimae leges. TACIT.

CHAP. III. A view of the obſcure ages.

WHATEVER the ſkill of any country may be in the ſciences, it is from its excellence in polite learn⯑ing alone, it muſt expect a character from poſterity. The poet and the hiſtorian, are they who diffuſe a luſtre upon the age, and the philoſopher ſcarce acquires any applauſe, unleſs his character be introduced to the vulgar by their mediation.

THE obſcure ages which ſucceeded the decline of the Roman empire, are a ſtrik⯑ing inſtance of the truth of this aſſertion. Whatever period of thoſe ill-fated times we happen to turn to, we ſhall perceive more ſkill in the ſciences among the pro⯑feſſors [32] of them, more abſtruſe and deeper enquiry into every philoſophical ſubject, and a greater ſhew of ſubtilty and cloſe reaſoning, than in the moſt enlightened ages of all antiquity. But their writings were mere ſpeculative amuſements, and all their reſearches exhauſted upon trifles. Unſkil⯑led in the arts of adorning their knowlege, or adapting it to common ſenſe, their vo⯑luminous productions reſt peacefully in our libraries, or at beſt, are enquired after from motives of curioſity, and not of learn⯑ing, not by the ſcholar, but the virtuoſo.

I AM not inſenſible, that ſeveral late French hiſtorians, have exhibited the ob⯑ſcure ages in a very different light; they have repreſented them, as utterly ignorant both of arts and ſciences, buried in the profoundeſt darkneſs, or only illuminated [33] with a feeble gleam, which, like an expir⯑ing taper, roſe and ſunk by intervals. Such aſſertions, however, though they ſerve to help out the declaimer, ſhould be cauti⯑ouſly admitted by the hiſtorian. The tenth century is particularly diſtinguiſhed by poſ⯑terity, with the appellation of obſcure. Yet even in this, the reader's memory may poſſibly ſuggeſt the names of ſome, whoſe works, ſtill preſerved, diſcover a moſt extenſive erudition, tho' rendered almoſt uſeleſs by affectation and obſcurity. A few of their names and writings may be mention⯑ed, which will ſerve at once to confirm what I aſſert, and give the reader an idea of what kind of learning an age declining into obſcurity chiefly chuſes to cultivate.

ABOUT the tenth century, flouriſhed Leo the philoſopher. We have ſeven volumes [34] folio of his collections of laws, publiſhed at Paris, 1647. He wrote upon the art military, and underſtood alſo aſtronomy, and judicial aſtrology. He was ſeven times more voluminous than Plato.

SOLOMON, the German, wrote a moſt elegant dictionary of the Latin tongue, ſtill preſerved in the univerſity of Louvain; Pantaleon, in the lives of his illuſtrious countrymen, ſpeaks of it in the warmeſt ſtrains of rapture. Dictionary writing was, at that time, much in faſhion.

CONSTANTINE Porphyriogeneta, a man univerſally ſkilled in the ſciences. His tracts on the adminiſtration of an empire, on tactics, on laws, &c. &c. were publiſh⯑ed ſome years ſince at Leyden. His court, for he was emperor of the eaſt, was re⯑ſorted [35] to by the learned from all parts of the world.

LUITPRANDUS, a moſt voluminous hiſ⯑torian, particularly famous for the hiſtory of his own times. In this he ſhews him⯑ſelf a perfect matter of fact man, but, like ſome moderns, who only value themſelves on the ſame qualification, he was a moſt notorious fabuliſt. The compliments paid him as a writer, are ſaid to exceed even his own voluminous productions. I can⯑not paſs over one of a latter date made him by a German divine. Luitprandus nun⯑quam Luitprando diſſimilis. In Engliſh, None but himſelf could be his parallel.

ALFRIC compoſed ſeveral grammars and dictionaries ſtill preſerved among the curious.

[36] POPE Sylveſter the eleventh, wrote a treatiſe on the ſphere, on arithmetic, and geometry, publiſhed ſome years ſince at Paris.

MICHAEL Pſellus lived in this age, whoſe books in the ſciences, I will not ſcruple to aſſert, contain more learning than thoſe of any one of the earlier ages of antiquity: his erudition was indeed amaz⯑ing, and he was as voluminous as he was learned. The character given him by Al⯑latius has, perhaps, more truth in it than will be granted by thoſe who have ſeen none of his productions. There was, ſays he, no ſcience with which he was unac⯑quainted, none which he did not write ſomething upon, and none which he did not leave better than he found it. To mention his works, would be endleſs. [37] His commentaries on Ariſtotle alone a⯑mount to three folios.

BERTHOLDUS Teutonicus, a very volu⯑minous hiſtorian. He was a politician, and wrote againſt the government; but moſt of his writings, though not all, are loſt.

CONSTANTINUS AFER, a philoſopher and phyſician. We have remaining but two volumes folio of his philological perfor⯑mances. However, the hiſtorian, who prefixes the life of the author to his wroks, ſays, that he wrote many more, as he kept on writing during the courſe of a long life; and when he had thus compiled more than any man that ever went before him, he ſell aſleep. In domino obdormivit.

[38] LAMBERTUS publiſhed an univerſal hi⯑ſtory about this time, which has been printed at Francfort in folio. An univer⯑ſal hiſtory in one folio! If he had conſult⯑ed with his bookſeller, he would have ſpun it out to ten at leaſt; but Lambertus might have had too much modeſty.

OLYMPIODORUS publiſhed commenta⯑ries upon Plato. Doctor Foſter, in his late edition of the ſelect dialogues of that philoſopher, has often taken occaſion to quote him, and mentions him with honour.

By this time, the reader perceives the ſpirit of learning, which at that time pre⯑vailed. The ignorance of the age was not owing to a diſlike of knowledge, but a falſe ſtandard of taſte was erected, and a wrong direction given to philoſophical [39] enquiry. It was the faſhion of the day to conſult books, not nature, and to eva⯑porate in a folio, the ſpirit that could ſcarce have ſufficed for an epigram. The moſt barbarous times had men of learning, if commentators, compilers, polemic divines, and intricate metaphyſicians, deſerved the title.

I HAVE mentioned but a very inconſi⯑derable number of the writers in this age of obſcurity. The multiplicity of their publications can, at leaſt, equal thoſe of any ſimilar period of the moſt polite an⯑tiquity. As, therefore, the writers of thoſe times are almoſt entirely forgotten, we may infer, that the number of publica⯑tions alone will never ſecure any age whatſoever from oblivion. Nor can print⯑ing, contrary to what Mr. Baumelle has [40] remarked, prevent literary decline for the future, ſince it only encreaſes the number of books, without advancing their intrin⯑ſic merit.

CHAP. IV. A parallel between the riſe and decline of ancient and modern learning.

FEW ſubjects have been more fre⯑quently and warmly debated, than the comparative ſuperiority of the ancients and moderns. It is unaccountable how a diſpute, ſo trifling, could be conteſted with ſo much virulence. A diſpute of this nature, could have no other conſe⯑quences, if decided, but to teach young writers to deſpiſe the one ſide or the other. A diſpute, therefore, which, if de⯑termined, might tend rather to prejudice our taſte, than improve it, ſhould have been argued with good nature, as it could not with ſucceſs. For mere critics to be guilty of ſuch ſcholaſtic rage, is not un⯑common, [42] but for men of the firſt rank of fame to be delinquent alſo, is, I own, ſurprizing.

THE reflecting reader need ſcarcely be informed, that this conteſted excellence can be decided in favour of neither. They have both copied from different originals, deſcribed the manners of different ages, have exhibited nature as they found her, and both are excellent in ſeparate imita⯑tions. Homer deſcribes his Gods as his countrymen believed them. Virgil, in a more enlightened age, deſcribes his with a greater degree of reſpect; and Milton ſtill riſes infinitely above either. The ma⯑chinery of Homer is beſt adapted to an unenlightened idolator; that of the Roman poet, to a more refined heathen; and that of Milton, to a reader illuminated by re⯑velation. [43] Had Homer wrote like Milton, his countrymen would have deſpiſed him; had Milton adopted the theology of the ancient bard, he had been truly ridicu⯑lous. Again, ſhould I depreciate Plautus for not enlivening his pieces with the characters of a coquet, or a marquis, ſo humourous in modern comedy; or Moliere, for not introducing a legal bawd, or a paraſitical boaſter, ſo highly finiſhed in the Roman poet; my cenſure in either caſe would be as abſurd as his, who ſhould diſlike a geoprapher for not introducing more rivers, or promontories, into a coun⯑try, than nature had given it; or the natural hiſtorian, for not enlivening his deſcription of a dead landſcape with a torrent, a ca⯑taract, or a volcano.

[44] THE parallel between antiquity and our ſelves can thrrefore be managed to advantage only by comparing the riſe and progreſs of ancient and modern learning together, ſo that being appriz'd of the cauſes of cor⯑ruption in one, we may be upon our guard againſt any ſimilar depravations in the other.

CHAP. V. Of the preſent ſtate of polite learning in Italy.

DANTE, who wrote in the 13th cen⯑tury, was the firſt who attempted to bring learning from the cloiſter into the com⯑munity, and paint human nature in a lan⯑guage adapted to modern manners. He ad⯑dreſſed a barbarous people in a method ſuited to their apprehenſions; united purgatory and the river Styx, St. Peter and Virgil, heaven and hell together, and ſhews a ſtrange mix⯑ture of good ſenſe and abſurdity. The truth is, he owes moſt of his reputation to the obſcurity of the times in which he liv'd. As in the land of Benin a man may paſs for a prodigy of parts who can read, ſo in an age of barbarity a ſmall degree of excellence enſures ſucceſs. Be it his greateſt merit [46] therefore to have lifted up the ſtandard of nature, in ſpite of all the oppoſition and the perſecution he received from cotemporary criticiſm. To this ſtandard every ſucceed⯑ing genius reſorted; the germ of every art and ſcience began to unfold, and to imitate nature was found to be the ſureſt way of imitating antiquity. In a century or two after, modern Italy might juſtly boaſt of rivalling ancient Rome; equal in ſome branches of polite learning, and not far ſur⯑paſſed in others.

THEY ſoon however fell from emulating the wonders of antiquity into ſimple admi⯑ration. As if the word had been given when Vida and Taſſo wrote on the arts of poetry, the whole ſwarm of critics was up; the Spe⯑roni's of the age attempted to be awkward⯑ly merry; and the virtuoſi and the Naſcotti [47] ſat upon the merits of every contemporary performance. After the age of Clement VII. the Italians ſeem'd to think that there was more merit in praiſing or cenſuring well, than in writing well; almoſt every ſubſe⯑quent performance being deſigned rather to ſhew the excellence of their taſte than their genius.

BUT while I deſcribe Italy as thus fallen from her former excellence, I cannot reſtrain the pleaſure of mentioning one or two poets who ſeem born to redeem the honour of their country. Metaſtaſio has reſtored na⯑ture in all her beauteous ſimplicity: no poet ever painted more conformably to truth, nor is there any whoſe characters ſpeak a more heart-felt paſſion. His language alſo, if a foreigner may be allowed to determine, ex⯑cells even that of Taſſo, and his ſcenery is [48] infinitely ſuperior. Maffei is the firſt who has introduced a tragedy among his coun⯑try-men without a love-plot. Perhaps the Sampſon of Milton, and the Athalia of Racine, might have been his guides in ſuch an attempt. Yet he ſeems as much inferior to either as a poet, as the ſubject of his Merope is more happily choſen.

TWO poets, however, in an age are not ſufficient to revive the ſplendor of decaying genius; nor ſhould we conſider the few as the national ſtandard, by which to characterize the many. Our meaſures of li⯑terary reputation muſt be taken rather from that numerous claſs of men who, placed above the vulgar, are yet beneath the great, and who confer fame on others with⯑out receiving any portion of it themſelves.

[49] IN Italy, then, we ſhall no where find a ſtronger paſſion for art or ſcience, yet no country making more feeble efforts to pro⯑mote either. The Virtuoſi and Filoſofi ſeem to have divided the Encyclopedia between each other. Both inviolably attach'd to their reſpective purſuits, and from an oppo⯑ſition of character, each holding the other in the moſt ſovereign contempt. The Vir⯑tuoſi profeſſed critics of beauty in the works of art, judge of medals by the ſmell, and the merit of a picture by feeling. In ſtatuary hang over a fragment with the moſt ardent gaze of admiration, tho' wanting the head and the other extremities, if dug from a ruin the Torſe becomes ineſtimable. An unintelligible monument of Etruſcan barba⯑rity cannot be ſufficiently prized; and any thing from Herculanean becomes rapturous. When the intellectual taſte is thus decayed, [50] its reliſhes become falſe, and, like that of ſenſe, nothing will ſatisfy, but what is beſt ſuited to palliate or feed the diſeaſe.

POETRY is no longer among them the imitation of what we ſee, but of what a viſionary might wiſh. The zephyr breathes the moſt exquiſite perfume, the trees wear eternal verdure; fauns, and dryads, and hamadryads, ſtand ready to fan the ſul⯑try ſhepherdeſs, who has forgot indeed the prettineſſes, with which former Italian ſhepherdeſſes have been reproached, but is ſo ſimple and innocent, as often to have no meaning. Happy country, where the paſto⯑ral age begins to revive! Where the wits even of Rome are united into a rural groupe of nymphs and ſwains, under the appellation of modern Arcadians. Where in the midſt of porticos, proceſſions, and cavalcades, [51] abbes turn'd into ſhepherds, and ſhepherd⯑eſſes without ſheep, indulge their inno⯑cent divertimenti. Perhaps, while I am writing, a ſhepherdeſs of threeſcore is liſtening to the paſtoral tale of a French abbe; a warm imagination might paint her in all the ſplendor of ripened beauty, reclin⯑ed on a paſte-board rock; might fancy her lover, with looks inexpreſſibly tender, raviſh⯑ing a kiſs from the ſnowy ſoftneſs of one of her hands, while the other holds a crook according to paſtoral decorum. Amidſt ſuch frippery as this, there was no place for friendleſs Metaſtaſio; he has left Italy, and the genius of nature ſeems to have left it with him.

THE Filoſofi are entirely different from the former. As thoſe pretend to have [52] got their knowlege from converſing with the living and polite, ſo theſe boaſt of hav⯑ing theirs from books and ſtudy. Bred up all their lives in colleges, they have there learned to think in track, ſervilely to follow the leader of their fect, and only to adopt ſuch opinions, as their univer⯑ſities, or the inquiſition, are pleaſed to allow. By this means, they are behind the reſt of Europe, in ſeveral modern improvements. Afraid to think for them⯑ſelves; and univerſities ſeldom admit opi⯑nions as true, till univerſally received a⯑mong the reſt of mankind. In ſhort, were I to perſonize my ideas of learning in this country, I would either repreſent it in the tawdry habits of the ſtage, or elſe in the more homely guiſe of bearded ſchool-philoſophy.

[53] THE Germans early diſcovered a paſſion for polite literature; but unhappily, like conquerors, who invading the dominions of others, leave their own to deſolation, inſtead of ſtudying the German tongue, they wrote in Latin; thus, while they cul⯑tivated an obſolete language, and vainly la⯑boured to apply it to modern cuſtoms, they neglected their own. At the ſame time, they began alſo, by being commentators, and tho' they have given many inſtances of their in⯑duſtry, they have ſcarce afforded any of ge⯑nius. If criticiſm could have improved the taſte of a people, the Germans would have been the moſt polite nation alive. We ſhall no where behold the learned wear a more im⯑portant appearance than here; no where more dignified with profeſſorſhips, or dreſſed out in the fopperies of ſcholaſtic finery. However, they ſeem to earn all the honours of this [54] kind they enjoy. Their aſſiduity is un⯑parallelled; and did the learned of this country employ half thoſe hours on ſtudy, which they beſtow on reading, we might be induced to pity, as well as praiſe, their painful preheminence. But guilty of a fault, too common to great readers, they write through volumes, while they do not think through a page. Never fatigued them⯑ſelves, they think the reader can never be weary; ſo they drone on, ſaying all that can be ſaid on the ſubject, not ſelecting what may be advanced to the purpoſe. Were angels to write books, they would never write folios.

BUT let the Germans have their due; if they are often a little dull, no nation alive aſſumes a more laudable ſolemnity, or better underſtands all the little decorums [55] of ſtupidity. Let the diſcourſe of a pro⯑feſſor run on never ſo heavily, it cannot be irkſome to his doſing pupils, who fre⯑quently lend him their ſympathetic nods of approbation. I have ſometimes at⯑tended their diſputes at gradation. On this occaſion, they often diſpenſe with learned gravity, and ſeem really all alive. The diſputes are managed between the followers of Carteſius, whoſe exploded ſy⯑ſtem they call the new philoſophy, and thoſe of Ariſtotle. Though both parties are wrong, they argue with an obſtinacy worthy the cauſe of truth; Nego, Probo, and Diſtinguo, grow loud. The diſpu⯑tants become warm, the moderator can⯑not be heard, the audience take part in the debate, till at laſt, the whole hall buzzes with erroneous philoſophy.

[56] THERE are, it is true, ſeveral ſocieties in this country, which are chiefly calcu⯑lated to promote natural knowlege. The elector of Hanover has eſtabliſhed one at Gottingen, at an expence of not leſs than an hundred thouſand pound. This uni⯑verſity has already pickled monſters, and diſſected live puppies without number. Their tranſactions of this kind have been publiſhed in the learned world at proper intervals, ſince their inſtitution; and will, it is hoped, one day give them a juſt re⯑putation. Had the fourth part of the im⯑menſe ſum above mentioned, been given in proper rewards to genius, in ſome neigh⯑bouring countries, it would have rendered the name of the donor immortal, and ad⯑ded to the real intereſts of ſociety.

[57] BUT let me ceaſe from cenſure, ſince I have here ſo fine an opportunity of praiſe. Even in the midſt of Germany, true learning has found an aſſylum, and taſte, and genius, have been patronized by a prince, who, in the humbleſt ſtation, had been the firſt of mankind. The ſociety eſtabliſhed by the king of Pruſſia at Ber⯑lin, is one of the fineſt literary inſtitutions that any age or nation has produced. This academy comprehends all the ſciences under four different claſſes; and although the object of each is different, and ad⯑mits of being ſeparately treated, yet theſe claſſes mutually influence the progreſs of each other, and concur in the ſame general de⯑ſign. Experimental philoſophy, mathema⯑tics, metaphyſics, and polite literature, are here carried on together, and mutually il⯑luſtrate, and ſtrengthen, and adorn each [58] other. The members are not collected from among the ſtudents of ſome obſcure ſeminary, or the wits of a metropolis, but choſen from all the literati of Europe, ſupported by the bounty, and ornamented by the productions of their royal founder. We can eaſily diſcern, how much ſuch an inſtitution excells any other now ſub⯑ſiſting. One fundamental error among ſocieties of this kind, is their addicting themſelves to one branch of ſcience, or ſome particular part of polite learning. Thus, in Germany, there are no where ſo many eſtabliſhments of this nature; but as they generally profeſs the promotion of natural or medical knowlege, he who reads their Acta, will only find an obſcure far⯑rago of experiments, moſt frequently ter⯑minated by no reſulting phaenomena. To make experiments is, I own, the only way [59] to promote natural knowlege; but to trea⯑ſure up every unſucceſsful enquiry into nature, or to communicate every experi⯑ment without concluſion, is not to pro⯑mote ſcience, but confuſe it; not to lift learning from obſcurity, but with additio⯑nal weight to oppreſs it. Had the mem⯑bers of theſe ſocieties enlarged their plans, and taken in art as well as ſcience, one part of knowlege would have repreſſed any faulty luxuriance in the other, and all would have mutually aſſiſted each others promotion.

ADD to this, the ſociety which, with a con⯑tempt of all collateral aſſiſtance, admits of members ſkilled in one ſcience only, what⯑ever their diligence, or labour may be, will loſe much time in the diſcovery of ſuch truths as are well known already to the [60] learned in a different line, conſequently their progreſs muſt be ſlow in gaining a proper eminence, from which to view their ſubject, and their ſtrength will be exhauſt⯑ed in attaining the ſtation from whence they ſhould have ſet out. With regard to the Royal Society of London, the greateſt, perhaps, the oldeſt inſtitution of the kind, had it widened the baſis of its inſtitution, though they might not have pro [...]agated more diſcoveries, at leaſt, they would have delivered them in a more plea⯑ſing and compendious form. They would have been hitherto free from the contempt of the ill-natured, and the raillery of the wit, for which, even candour muſt allow, there is but too much foundation.

THE Berlin academy is ſubject to none of the inconveniencies above mentioned, but [61] every one of its individuals is in a capacity of deriving more from the common ſtock than he contributes to it, while each aca⯑demician ſerves as a check upon the reſt of his fellows. Yet, perhaps, even this fine inſtitution will ſoon decay. As it roſe, ſo it will probably decline, with its great encourager. The ſociety, if I may ſo ſpeak, is artificially ſupported; the in⯑troduction of foreigners of learning was right; but in adopting a foreign language alſo, I mean the French, in which all the tranſactions are to be publiſhed, and queſ⯑tions debated; in this there might have been an error. As I have already hinted, the language of the natives of every coun⯑try, ſhould be alſo the language of its polite learning, I may be ſuppoſed to carry the thought too far, when I ſay, that to figure in polite learning, every [62] country ſhould make their own language, from their own manners; nor will they ever ſucceed by introducing that of an⯑other, which has been formed from man⯑ners which are different. Beſides, an aca⯑demy compoſed of foreigners, muſt ſtill be recruited from abroad, unleſs all the natives of the country, to which it be⯑longs, are in a capacity to become can⯑didates for its honours, or rewards. While France continues to ſupply Berlin, polite learning will flouriſh; when royal favour is withdrawn, learning will return to its natural country.

HOLLAND, at firſt view, appears to have ſome pretenſions to polite learning. It may be regarded as the great emporium, not leſs of literature, than of every com⯑modity. Here, though deſtitute of what [63] may be properly called a language of their own, all the languages are under⯑ſtood, cultivated and ſpoken. All uſeful inventions in arts, and new diſcoveries in ſcience, are publiſhed here almoſt as ſoon as at the places which firſt produced them. Its individuals have the ſame faults, how⯑ever, with the Germans, of making more uſe of their memory, than their judg⯑ment. The chief employment of their literati is to criticiſe, or anſwer the new performances which appear elſewhere.

A DEARTH of wit in France or England, naturally produces a ſcarcity in Holland. What Ovid ſays of Eccho, may be ap⯑plied here, Nec loqui prius ipſa didicit nec reticere loquenti. They wait till ſomething new comes out from others, examine its merits, and reject it, or make it rever⯑berate through the reſt of Europe.

[64] AFTER all, I know not whether the [...] ſhould be allowed any national character fo [...] polite learning. All their taſte is derived t [...] them from neighbouring nations, and tha [...] in a language not their own. They ſome⯑what reſemble their brokers, who trade for immenſe ſums, without having any capital.

THE other countries of Europe may be conſidered as immerſed in ignorance, or making but feeble efforts to riſe. Spain has long fallen from amazing Europe with her wit, to amuſing them with the greatneſs of her catholic credulity. Rome conſiders her as the moſt favourite of all her children, and ſchool-divinity ſtill reigns there in triumph. In ſpite of all attempts of the marquis D'enſanada, who [65] ſaw with regret, the barbarity of his country⯑men, and bravely offered to oppoſe it, by introducing new ſyſtems of learning, and ſup⯑preſſing the ſeminaries of monaſtic ignorance, in ſpite of the ingenuity of Padré Frejo, whoſe book of vulgar errors ſo finely expoſes the monkiſh ſtupidity of the times, the religious have prevailed. Enſanada has been baniſhed, and now lives in exile; Frejo has incurred the hatred and contempt of every bigot, whoſe errors he has attempted to op⯑poſe, and feels, no doubt, the unremitting diſpleaſure of the prieſthood. Perſecution is a tribute, the Great muſt ever pay for pre⯑heminence.

IT is a little extraordinary, however, why Spain, whoſe genius is naturally fine, ſhould be ſo much behind the reſt of Europe, in this particular; or why ſchool divinity ſhould [66] hold its ground there, for near 600 years. The reaſon, perhaps, may be, that philoſo⯑phical opinions, tho' in themſelves tran⯑ſient, acquire ſtability in proportion, as they are connected with religion, and philoſo⯑phy and religion have no where been ſo cloſely united as here.

SWEDEN has of late made ſome attempts in polite learning, in its own language. Count Teſſin's inſtructions to the prince his pupil, are no bad beginning. If the muſes can fix their reſidence ſo far north⯑ward, perhaps, no country bids ſo fair for their reception. They have, I am told, a lan⯑guage rude, but energetic; if ſo, it will bear a poliſh; they have alſo a jealous ſenſe of liberty, and that ſtrength of thinking, pecu⯑liar to northern climates, without its atten⯑dant ferocity. They will certainly in time, [67] produce ſomewhat great, if their inteſtine diviſions do not unhappily prevent them.

THE hiſtory of polite learning in Den⯑mark, may be comprized in the life of one ſingle man; it roſe and fell with the late famous baron Holberg. This was, perhaps, one of the moſt extraordi⯑nary perſonages that has done honour to the preſent century. His being the ſon of a private centinel, did not abate the ardour of his ambition, for he learned to read, though without a maſter. Upon the death of his father, being left entirely de⯑ſtitute, he was involved in all that diſtreſs, which is common among the poor, and of which the Great have ſcarce any idea. However, though only a boy of nine years old, he ſtill perſiſted in purſuing his ſtu⯑dies, travelled about from ſchool to ſchool, [68] and begg'd his learning and his bread. When at the age of ſeventeen, inſtead of applying himſelf to any of the lower oc⯑cupations, which ſeem beſt adapted to ſuch circumſtances, he was reſolved to tra⯑vel for improvement, from Norway the place of his birth, to Copenhagen the ca⯑pital city of Denmark. He lived here by teaching French, at the ſame time, avoid⯑ing no opportunity of improvement, that his ſcanty funds could permit. But his ambition was not to be reſtrained, or his thirſt of knowledge ſatisfied, until he had ſeen the world. Without money, recom⯑mendations or friends, he undertook to ſet out upon his travels, and make the tour of Europe on foot. A good voice, and a trifling ſkill in muſick, were the only finances he had to ſupport an undertaking ſo extenſive; ſo he travelled by day, and at night ſung at the [69] doors of peaſants houſes, to get himſelf a lodging. In this manner, young Holberg paſſed thro' France, Germany, and Holland, and coming over to England, took up his reſidence for two years in the univerſity of Oxford. Here, he ſubſiſted by teaching French and muſic, and wrote his univerſal hiſtory, his earlieſt, but worſt performance. Furniſhed with all the learning of Europe, he at laſt thought proper to return to Copen⯑hagen, where his ingenious productions quickly gained him that favour he deſerved. He compoſed not leſs than 18 comedies; thoſe in his own language are ſaid to ex⯑cel, and thoſe which are wrote in French have peculiar merit. He was honoured with nobility, and enriched by the bounty of the king; ſo that a life begun in con⯑tempt and penury, ended in opulence and eſteem.

[70] THUS we ſee, in what a low ſtate po⯑lite learning is in the countries I have mentioned. Though the ſketch I have drawn be general, yet it was, for the moſt part, taken upon the ſpot, nor are the aſſertions hazarded at random. I am ſen⯑ſible, however, of the impropriety of na⯑tional reflection; and did not truth biaſs me more than inclination in this parti⯑cular, I ſhould, inſtead of the account al⯑ready given, have preſented the reader with a panegyric on many of the indivi⯑duals of every country, whoſe merits de⯑ſerve the warmeſt ſtrains of praiſe. Apo⯑ſtol Zeno, Muratori, and Stay, in Italy; Haller, Klopſtock, and Rabner, in Germa⯑ny; Muſchenbrook, and Gaubius, in Hol⯑land; all deſerve the higheſt applauſe. But it was my deſign, rather to give an idea of the ſpirit of learning in theſe [71] countries, than a dry catalogue of authors names and writings.

BUT, let me ceaſe a moment from con⯑ſidering this worthy, however erroneous, part of mankind, on that ſide alone, on which they are expoſed to cenſure, and ſurvey them, as the friends of man.

WHILE the great, and the avaricious of this world, are contriving means to ag⯑gravate national hatred; and, perhaps, fonder of ſatisfying vanity than juſtice, are willing to make the world uneaſy, becauſe themſelves are ſo; theſe harmleſs inſtruments of peace, united by one bond, purſuing one deſign, ſpend their labour, and their lives, in making their fellow-creatures happy, and repairing the breaches cauſed by ambition. In this [72] light the meaneſt philoſopher, though al [...] his poſſeſſions are his lamp or his cell, is more truly valuable than he, whoſe name ecchoes to the ſhout of the million, and who ſtands in all the glare of admi⯑ration. In this light, though poverty and contemptuous neglect are all the wages of his good will from mankind, yet the rectitude of his intention is an ample re⯑compence, and ſelf applauſe for the pre⯑ſent, and the alluring proſpect of fame for futurity reward his labours. The per⯑ſpective of life brightens, when termina⯑ted by an object ſo charming. Every in⯑termediate image of want, baniſhment, or ſorrow, receives a luſtre from its diſtant influence. With this in view, the pa⯑triot, philoſopher, and poet, have often looked with calmneſs on diſgrace and fa⯑mine, and reſted on their ſtraw with chear⯑ful [73] ſerenity. Even the laſt terrors of de⯑parting nature abate of their ſeverity, and look kindly on him, who conſiders his ſufferings as a paſſport to immortality, and lays his ſorrows on the bed of fame.

CHAP. VI. A parallel between the decline of ancient and modern learning.

THE ſimilitude between the riſe and decline of ancient and modern learn⯑ing is ſo obvious, that it ſcarcely requires an illuſtration. We may have ſeen, that wherever the poet was permitted to improve his native language, polite learning flouriſh⯑ed; where the critic undertook the ſame taſk, it never roſe to any degree of perfection. We have ſeen the genius of every country make more feeble advances to excellence in proportion, as the number of critics was great, and learning become more loquacious as it was leſs improving.

AN encreaſe of criticiſm is, however, the natural conſequence of learning's be⯑coming [75] univerſal. There are propor⯑tionably a greater number of learned men without any natural genius in every country, when the love of ſcience is diffuſed among all ranks of people, than in its incipient ſtate, when this paſſion influences only the ambi⯑tious; but it is ten to one, that every man of learning without genius becomes a critic, therefore critics muſt be proportionably more numerous when learning is diffus'd through all the degrees of mankind.

IF critics, therefore, or all ſuch as judge by rule, and not by feelings, muſt neceſſarily become more numerous in the maturity of learning, than in its beginning; and if they have been always found by experience to in⯑jure it; I may be permitted to call criticiſm, the natural decay of politeneſs. A decay which may be deplored, but cannot be prevent⯑ed, [76] ſince it encreaſes as the love of learning is diffuſed. It cannot be remedied by rule, for every preſcription encreaſes the diſeaſe, ſince the man who writes againſt the critics, is o⯑bliged to add himſelf to the number. Other depravations in the republic of letters, ſuch as affectation in ſome popular writer, leading others into vicious imitation; po⯑litical ſtruggles in the ſtate; a depravity of morals among the people; ill directed encouragement, or no encouragement from the Great, theſe have been often found to co⯑operate in the decline of literature; and it has ſometimes declined, as in modern Italy, without them; but an encreaſe of criticiſm has always portended a decay. Of all misfortunes, therefore, in the common⯑wealth of letters, this of judging from rule, and not from feeling, is the moſt ſe⯑vere. At ſuch a tribunal, no work of ori⯑ginal [77] merit can pleaſe. Sublimity, if carried to an exalted height, approaches burleſque, and humour ſinks into vulgarity; the perſon who cannot feel, may ridicule both as ſuch, and bring rules to corroborate his aſſertion. There is, in ſhort, no excellence in writing, that ſuch judges may not place among the neighbouring defects. Rules render the rea⯑der more difficult to be pleaſed, and abridge the author's power of pleaſing.

IF we turn to England and France, we ſhall perceive evident ſymptoms of this natural decay beginning to appear. Up⯑on a moderate calculation, there ſeems to be as many volumes of criticiſm publiſh⯑ed in thoſe countries, as of all other kinds of polite erudition united. Paris ſends forth not leſs than four literary journals every month, the Anné-literaire, and the Fuille [78] by Freron, the Journal Etrangere by the Chevalier D'Arc, and Le Mercure by Marmontel. We have two literary re⯑views in London, with critical news-pa⯑pers and magazines without number. The compilers of theſe reſemble the com⯑moners of Rome, they are all for levelling property, not by encreaſing their own, but by diminiſhing that of others. The man who has any good nature in his diſpoſition muſt, however, be ſomewhat diſpleaſed to ſee diſtinguiſhed reputations often the ſport of ignorance. To ſee by one falſe plea⯑ſantry, the future peace of a worthy man's life diſturbed, and this only becauſe he has unſucceſsfully attempted to inſtruct or a⯑muſe us. Tho' ill nature is far from being wit, yet it is generally laughed at as ſuch. The critic enjoys the triumph, and aſcribes to his parts, what is only due to his effrontery.

[79] IF there be any, however, among theſe writers, who being bred gentlemen and ſcholars, are obliged to have recourſe to ſuch an employment for ſubſiſtence, I wiſh them one more ſuited to their inclinations; but for ſuch who, wholly deſtitute of edu⯑cation and genius, indent to the preſs, and turn mere book-makers, they deſerve the ſevereſt cenſure. Theſe add to the ſin of criticiſm the ſin of ignorance alſo. Their trade is a bad one, and they are bad workmen in the trade.

WHEN I conſider thoſe induſtrious men as indebted to the works of other authors for a precarious ſubſiſtence, when I ſee them coming down at ſtated intervals to rummage the bookſeller's compter for mate⯑rials to work upon; it raiſes a ſmile, tho' mixed with pity. It reminds me of an [80] animal called by naturaliſts the ſoldier. This little creature, ſays the hiſtorian, is paſſionately fond of a ſhell, but not being ſupplied with one by nature, has recourſe to the deſerted ſhell of ſome other. I have ſeen theſe harmleſs reptiles, conti⯑nues he, come down once a-year from the mountains, rank and file, cover the whole ſhoar and ply buſily about, each in queſt of a ſhell to pleaſe it. Nothing can be more amuſing than their induſtry upon this occaſion. One ſhell is too big, another too little, they enter and keep poſ⯑ſeſſion ſometimes for a good while until one is, at laſt, found entirely to pleaſe. When all are thus properly equipped, they march up again to the mountains, and live in their new acquiſition, till under a new neceſſity of changing.

[81] BUT to leave this ſubject, let us pro⯑ceed to conſider thoſe corruptions which admit of correction. Let us examine the merits of modern learning in England and in France; where, though it may be on the decline, yet it is ſtill capable of retrieving much of its former ſplen⯑dor. In other places, a decay has already taken place, here it is only beginning. To attempt the amendment of Italy or Germany, would be only like the applica⯑tion of remedies to a part mortified, but here, ſtill there is life, and there is hope.

CHAP. VII. The polite learning of England and France incapable of compariſon.

WHATEVER preference the vul⯑gar of every nation may think due to their own in particular, the learn⯑ed who look beyond the bounds of na⯑tional prejudice, and are citizens of the world, ſeem unanimous in regarding the Engliſh and French, as the principal literary ſupporters of the preſent age. Their emu⯑lation in learning as well as in power, have divided the wits not leſs than the armies of Europe. A niuno è naſcoſto, ſays a mo⯑dern writer, come la Francia e l'Inghilterra ſono rivali nella politica, nel commercio, nella gloria delle armi e delle lettere.

[83] THIS acknowleged ſuperiority was, how⯑ever, no eaſy conqueſt over that national pride, with which every country is more or leſs tinctured. Every part of Europe was at one time or another candidates for this preheminence, which though they had not the good fortune to obtain, their at⯑tempts ſerved in a ſubordinate degree to aſſiſt and refine the taſte of their cotem⯑poraries. Thus Spain exhibited fine ex⯑amples of humour; Italy of delicacy; and Holland of freedom in enquiry. But to blend theſe excellencies and arrive at perfection, ſeemed reſerved for the poets and philoſophers of England and France in the illuſtrious reigns of Queen Anne and Lewis XIV. The writers of that pe⯑riod, not only did honour to their reſpec⯑tive countries, but even to human nature. Like ſtars loſt in each others brightneſs, tho' [84] no ſingle writer attracts our attention alone, yet their conjunction diffuſes ſuch bright⯑neſs upon the age, as will give the minuteſt actions of thoſe two reigns an importance, which the revolutions of empire will want that were tranſacted in greater obſcurity.

YET that excellence which now excites the admiration of Europe, ſerved at that pe⯑riod of which I am ſpeaking, only to pro⯑mote envy in the reſpective writers of thoſe two countries. They both took every me⯑thod to depreciate the merit of each other; the French ſeldom mentioned the Engliſh but with diſreſpect, put themſelves foremoſt in every literary conteſt, and to leave the Engliſh no colour of competi⯑tion, placed the Italians in the ſecond rank. The Engliſh, on the other hand, regard⯑ed the French as triflers, accuſed the [85] flymſy texture of their ſtile, and the falſe brilliancy of their ſentiments. Yet, while each thus loaded the other with contempt, it ſeemed as if done with a view of hav⯑ing their mutual plagiariſm paſs with leſs ſuſpicion. In works of entertainment, we borrowed from the French unſparingly; and they plundered our ſerious performances with as little compunction. Europe, how⯑ever, regarded the conteſt with impartia⯑lity, and the debate ſeems at laſt determin⯑ed. Their writings are allowed to have more taſte, ours more truth. We are al⯑lowed the honour of ſtriking out ſenti⯑ments, they of dreſſing them in the moſt pleaſing form. If we have produc'd reaſoners who have refin'd mankind, it is by means of French tranſlations and abſtracts that they are generally known in Europe. Their lan⯑guage has prevailed, and our philoſophy.

[86] AND this, indeed, is all the Engliſh had a right to expect in a conteſt of this na⯑ture, nor have they any juſt reaſon to re⯑gret not being choſen ſupreme in taſte as well as truth; for if we only conſi⯑der, how different our manners are from thoſe of every other nation on the con⯑tinent; how little we are viſited by tra⯑vellers of diſcernment; how ignorant our neighbours are of our various abſurdities and humours; if we conſider this, it can⯑not be expected, that our works of taſte, which imitate our peculiar manners, can pleaſe thoſe that are unacquainted with the originals themſelves. Though our deſcrip⯑tions and characters are drawn from na⯑ture, yet they may appear exaggerated, or faintly copied, to thoſe, who, unacquainted with the peculiarities of our iſland, have [87] no ſtandard by which to make the com⯑pariſon.

THE French are much more fortunate than us in this particular. An univerſal ſameneſs of character appears to ſpread it⯑ſelf over the whole continent, particular⯑ly the fools and coxcombs of every coun⯑try abroad ſeem almoſt caſt in the ſame mold. The battered beau, who affects the boy at threeſcore, or the petit maitre, who would be a man at fifteen, are cha⯑racters which may be ſeen in every cof⯑fee-houſe out of England. The French pic⯑tures therefore of life and manners are immediately allowed to be juſt, becauſe foreigners are acquainted with the models from whence they are copied. The Mar⯑quis of Moliere ſtrikes all Europe. Sir [88] John Falſtaff, with all the merry men of Eaſtcheap, are entirely of England, and pleaſe the Engliſh alone.

LET us then be ſatisfied, the world has allowed us ſuperiority in the ſtrength and juſtneſs of our ſentiments, for it hath truth as a ſtandard by which to compare them; we are placed inferior in regard to taſte, for in this there is no ſtandard to judge of our deſert, our manners being unknown. Truth is a poſitive, taſte a relative excel⯑lence. We may juſtly appeal from the the ſentence of our judges; though we muſt do them the juſtice to own that their verdict has been impartial.

BUT it may be objected, that this is ſetting up a particular ſtandard of taſte in [89] every country; this is removing that uni⯑verſal one, which has hitherto united the armies and enforced the commands of criticiſm; by this reaſoning the critics of one country, will not be proper guides to the writers of another; Grecian or Roman rules will not be generally binding in France or England; but the laws deſigned to im⯑prove our taſte, by this reaſoning, muſt be a⯑dapted to the genius of every people, as much as thoſe enacted to promote morality.

WHAT I propoſe as objections, are real⯑ly the ſentiments I mean to prove, not to obviate. I muſt own it as my opinion, that if criticiſm be at all requiſite to pro⯑mote the intereſts of learning, its rules ſhould be taken from among the inha⯑bitants, and adapted to the genius and temper of the country it attempts to re⯑fine. [90] I muſt own it, though, perhaps, by this opinion's prevailing, many a ſcho⯑lium of the ancients, and many a folio of criticiſm tranſlated from the French, now in repute among us, would infallibly ſink into oblivion. Engliſh taſte, like Engliſh liberty, ſhould be reſtrained only by laws of its own promoting.

BUT to uſe argument as well as aſ⯑ſertion, let us take a nearer view of what is called taſte, examine its ſtandard, ſee if foreign critics are juſt in ſetting up theirs as a model to us, or whether we be right in adopting their proffered improvements. As the diſquiſition, however, is dry, I ſhall ſtudy conciſeneſs.

ALL objects affect us with pleaſure one of theſe two ways, either by immediately [91] gratifying the ſenſes with pleaſing ſenſations, or by being thought in a ſecondary manner capable of making other objects contribute to this effect. The pleaſures of immediate ſenſation are coeval with our ſenſes, and, per⯑haps, moſt vivid in infancy; the ſecon⯑dary ſource of pleaſure reſults from ex⯑perience only, from conſidering the ana⯑logy of nature, or the capacity a part has to unite to an whole. The pleaſures of the firſt ſort, are derived from the beau⯑ty of the object, thoſe of the ſecond, from a conſideration of its uſe. The firſt are natural, no art can encreaſe them without mending the organ which was to give them admiſſion. The ſecond are artificial, and continually altering, as whim, climate, or ſeaſons direct. To illuſtrate my meaning. The beauty of a guinea, for inſtance, its re⯑gular figure, and ſhining colour, are equally [92] obvious to the ſenſes in every country and climate, theſe qualities pleaſe the wildeſt ſavage as much as the moſt poliſhed Eu⯑ropean; as far as it affects the ſenſes, the pleaſure a guinea gives is therefore in every country the ſame.

BUT the conſideration of the uſes it can be turned to, are another ſource of pleaſure, which is different in different countries. A native of Madagaſcar prefers to it a glaſs bead; a native of Holland pre⯑fers it to every thing elſe. The pleaſure then of its ſenſible qualities are every where the ſame; thoſe of its ſecondary qualities every where different. He, whom na⯑ture has furniſhed with the moſt vivid perceptions of beauty, and to whom ex⯑perience has ſuggeſted the greateſt num⯑ber of uſes, in the contemplation of any [93] object, may be ſaid to receive the greateſt pleaſure that object is capable of afford⯑ing. Thus the Barbarian finds ſome ſmall pleaſure in the contemplation of a guinea; the enlightened European who is acquainted with its uſes, ſtill more than him; the chymiſt, who beſides this, knows the peculiar fixedneſs and malleability of the metal, moſt of all. This capacity of receiving pleaſure, may be called Taſte in the objects of nature. The polite arts in all their variety are only an imitation of nature. He then muſt excel in them, who is capable of inſpiring us at once with the moſt vivid perceptions of beau⯑ty, and with the greateſt number of ex⯑perimental uſes in any object deſcribed. But as the artiſt, to give vivid percep⯑tions muſt be perſpicuous and conciſe, and yet to exhibit uſefulneſs requires mi⯑nuteneſs; [94] here are two oppoſite qualities required in the writer, in one of which his imagination, in the other his reaſon⯑ing faculty is every moment liable to offend; what has he in this caſe to guide him? Taſte is, perhaps, his only direc⯑tor. Taſte in writing, is the exhibition of the greateſt quantity of beauty and of uſe, that may be admitted into any deſcription without counteracting each other.

THE perfection of taſte therefore pro⯑ceeds from a knowledge of what is beauti⯑ful and uſeful. Criticiſm profeſſes to en⯑creaſe our taſte. But our taſte cannot be encreaſed with regard to beauty, be⯑cauſe, as has been ſhewn, our perceptions of this kind cannot be encreaſed, but are moſt vivid in infancy. Criticiſm then can only improve our taſte in the uſeful. But this, [95] as was obſerved, is different in every cli⯑mate and country; what is uſeful in one climate being often noxious in another; therefore criticiſm muſt underſtand the na⯑ture of the climate and country, &c. be⯑fore it gives rules to direct Taſte. In other words, every country ſhould have a na⯑tional ſyſtem of criticiſm.

IN fact, nothing can be more abſurd than rules to direct the taſte of one coun⯑try drawn from the manners of another. There may be ſome general marks in na⯑ture, by which all writers are to proceed; theſe, however, are obvious and might as well have never been pointed out, but to trace the ſources of our paſſions, to mark the evaneſcent boundaries between ſatiety and diſguſt, and how far elegance differs from finery, requires a thorough know⯑lege [96] of the people to whom the criticiſm is directed.

IF, for inſtance, the Engliſh be a people who look upon death as an incident no way terrible, but ſometimes fly to it for refuge from the calamities of life, why ſhould a Frenchman be diſguſted at our bloody ſtage? there is nothing hideous in the repreſentation to one of us, whatever there might be to him.

WE have long been characteriz'd as a nation of ſpleen, and our rivals on the con⯑tinent as a land of levity. Ought they to be offended at the melancholly air which many of our modern poets aſſume, or ought we to be diſpleaſed with them for all their harmleſs trifling upon pin⯑cuſhions, parrots, and pretty faces. What is rational with us, becomes with them [97] formality; and what is fancy, at Paris, is at London, phantaſtical. Critics ſhould, therefore, imitate phyſicians, and conſider every country as having a peculiar con⯑ſtitution, and conſequently requiring a pe⯑culiar regimen.

CHAP. VIII. The preſent ſtate of polite learning in France.

THAT levity for which we are apt to deſpiſe the French, is probably the principal ſource of their happineſs. An agreeable oblivion of paſt pleaſures, a freedom from ſolicitude about future ones, and a poignant zeſt of every immediate enjoyment, if they be not philoſophy, are at leaſt excellent ſubſtitutes in its room. By this they are taught to regard the pre⯑ſent period with admiration. The preſent manners, and the preſent converſation, ſurpaſs all that preceded; a Frenchman is as little diſpleaſed with every thing about him, as with his own perſon or exiſtence.

[99] THIS agreeable enthuſiaſm, tinctures not only their manners, but their learning, and taſte. While we with a deſpondence characteriſtic of our nation, are for re⯑moving back Britiſh excellence to the reign of Queen Elizabeth, our more hap⯑py rivals of the continent, cry up the writers of the preſent times with rapture, and regard the age of Lewis XV. as the true Auguſtan age of France.

THE truth is, their preſent writers have not fallen ſo far ſhort of the merits of their anceſtors, as ours have done. That ſelf⯑ſufficiency, now mentioned, may have been of ſervice to them in this particular. By fancying themſelves ſuperior to their an⯑ceſtors, they have been encouraged to enter the liſts with confidence, and by not being dazled at the ſplendor of ano⯑ther's [100] reputation, have ſometimes had ſa⯑gacity to mark out an unbeaten path to fame, for themſelves.

OTHER cauſes alſo may be aſſigned, that their ſecond growth of genius is ſtill more vigorous than ours. Their encou⯑ragements to merit are more ſkilfully di⯑rected, the link of patronage and learn⯑ing ſtill continues unbroken. The French nobility have certainly a moſt pleaſing way of ſatisfying the vanity of an author, without indulging his avarice. A man of literary merit, is ſure of being careſſed by the Great, though ſeldom en⯑riched. His penſion from the crown juſt ſupplies half a competence, and the ſale of his labours, makes ſome ſmall addition to his circumſtances; thus the author leads a life of ſplendid poverty, and ſeldom be⯑comes [101] wealthy or indolent enough, to diſ⯑continue an exertion of thoſe abilities, by which he roſe. With the Engliſh, it is different; our writers of riſing me⯑rit are generally neglected; while the few of an eſtabliſhed reputation, are over paid by a luxurious affluence. The firſt encounter every hardſhip which general⯑ly attends upon aſpiring indigence; the latter, enjoy the vulgar, and, perhaps, the more prudent ſatisfaction of putting riches in competition with fame. Thoſe are often ſeen to ſpend their youth in want and obſcurity; theſe are ſometimes found to lead an old age of indolence and avarice. But ſuch treatment muſt naturally be expected from a people, whoſe national character it is, to be ſlow and cau⯑tious in making friends, but violent in friendſhips once contracted. The Engliſh [102] nobility, in ſhort, are often known to give greater rewards to genius than the French, who, however, are much more judicious in the application of their empty favours.

THE fair ſex in France have alſo not a little contributed to prevent the decline of taſte and literature, by expecting ſuch qualifications in their admirers. A man of faſhion at Paris, however contemptible we may think him here, muſt be acquaint⯑ed with the reigning modes of philoſo⯑phy as well as of dreſs, to be able to enter⯑tain his miſtreſs agreeably. The charm⯑ing pedants are not to be caught like ſome damſels to be ſeen in Holland, by dumb ſhew, by a ſqueeze of the hand, or the ogling of a broad eye: but muſt be purſued at once through all the labyrinths of the Newtonian ſyſtem, the mazy me⯑taphyſics [103] of Locke, and ſtill more, the va⯑riations of female inclination. I have ſeen as bright a circle of beauty at the chy⯑mical lectures of Ruelle, as gracing the court at Verſailles. Wiſdom never ap⯑pears ſo charming, as when graced and pro⯑tected by beauty.

TO theſe advantages may be added the reception of their language into the different courts of Europe. An author, who excels, is ſure of having all the po⯑lite for admirers, and is encouraged to write by the pleaſing expectation of univerſal fame. Added to this, thoſe countries who can make nothing good in their own language, have lately begun to write in this, ſome of whoſe produc⯑tions contribute to ſupport the preſent li⯑terary reputation of France.

[104] THE age of Lewis the XIVth, notwith⯑ſtanding theſe advantages, is ſtill ſuperior. It is indeed a misfortune for a fine writer to be born in a period ſo enlightened as ours. The harveſt of wit is gathered in, and little is left for him, except to glean what others have thought unworthy their bring⯑ing away. Yet, there are ſtill ſome among the French, who do honour to the age, and whoſe writings will be tranſmitted to poſterity with an ample, though a ſubor⯑dinate ſhare of fame: ſome of the moſt celebrated, are as follow;

VOLTAIRE, whoſe voluminous, yet ſpi⯑rited productions, are too well known to require an elogy; does he not reſem⯑ble the champion mentioned by Xeno⯑phon, of great reputation in all the gym⯑naſtic exerciſes united, but inferior to each [105] champion ſingly, who excels only in one?

MONTESQUIEU, a name equally deſerv⯑ing fame with the former. The Spirit of Laws is an inſtance, how much genius is able to lead learning. His ſyſtem has been adopted by the literati; and yet is it not poſſible for opinions equally plau⯑ſible to be formed upon oppoſite princi⯑ples, if a genius like his, could be found to attempt ſuch an undertaking? He ſeems more a poet than a philoſopher.

ROUSSEAU of Geneva. A profeſſed man-hater, or more properly ſpeaking, a philoſopher enraged with one half of man⯑kind, becauſe they unavoidably make the other half unhappy. Such ſentiments are generally the reſult of much good nature, and little experience.

[106] PYRON, an author poſſeſſed of as much wit as any man alive, yet with as little prudence, to turn it to his own advantage. A comedy of his, called La Metromanie, is incomparably the beſt theatrical pro⯑duction, that has appeared of late in Eu⯑rope. But I know not, whether I ſhould moſt commend his genius, or cenſure his obſcenity; his ode a Priape, has juſtly ex⯑cluded him from a place in the academy of Belles Lettrês. However, the good-natured Monteſquieu, by his intereſt, pro⯑cured the ſtarving bard a trifling penſion. His own epitaph was all the revenge he took upon the academy for being re⯑pulſed.

[107] CREBILLON, junior. A writer of real merit, but guilty of the ſame indelicate faults with the former. Wit employed in dreſſing up obſcenity, is like the art uſed in painting a corpſe; it may be thus rendered tolerable to one ſenſe, but fails not quickly to offend ſome other.

GRESSET, agreeable and eaſy. His co⯑medy called the Mechant, and an hu⯑mourous poem, entitled Ver-vert, have original merit. He was bred a jeſuit, but his wit procured his diſmiſſion from the ſo⯑ciety. This laſt work particularly, could expect no pardon from the Convent, be⯑ing a ſatyr againſt nunneries!

DALEMBERT, has united an extenſive ſkill in ſcientifical learning, with the moſt [108] refined taſte for the polite arts. His ex⯑cellence in both, have procured him a ſeat in each academy.

DIDEROT, an elegant writer and ſubti [...] reaſoner. He is the ſuppoſed author of the famous Theſis, which the abbé Prade ſuſtained before the doctors of the Sor⯑bonne. It was levelled againſt Chriſtia⯑nity, and the Sorbonne too haſtily gave it their ſanction. They perceived its pur⯑port, however, when it was too late. The college was brought into ſome contempt, and the abbé obliged to take refuge at the court of Berlin.

THE marquis D'Argens attempts to add the character of a philoſopher to the vices of a debauchée.

[109] THE catalogue might be encreaſed with ſeveral other authors of merit, ſuch as Marivaux, Le Franc, Saint Foix, Deſ⯑touches, and Modonville, but let it ſuffice to ſay, that by theſe, the character of the preſent age is tolerably ſupported. Tho' their poets ſeldom riſe to fine enthuſiaſm, they never ſink into abſurdity; though they fail to aſtoniſh, they are generally poſſeſſed of talents to pleaſe.

BUT altho' taſte is ſtill cultivated there with aſſiduity, I muſt not conceal thoſe ſymptoms which ſeem manifeſtly tending to promote its decline. There is a fond⯑neſs for ſcepticiſm, which runs through the works of ſome of their moſt applauded writers, and which the numerous claſs of their imitators have contributed to diffuſe. Nothing can be a more certain ſign, that [110] genius is in the wane, than its being obliged to fly to paradox to ſupport it, and attempt⯑ing to be erroneouſly agreeable. A man, who with all the impotence of wit, and all the eager deſires of infidelity, writes againſt the religion of his country, may raiſe doubts, but will never give convic⯑tion; all he can do is to render ſociety leſs happy than he found it. It was a fine manner, which the father of the late poet Saint Foix, took to reclaim his ſon from this juvenile error. The young poet had ſhut himſelf up for ſome time in his ſtudy, and his father, willing to know what had en⯑gaged his attention ſo cloſely, upon entering, found him buſied in drawing up a new ſyſtem of religion, and endeavouring to ſhew the abſurdity of that already eſta⯑bliſhed. The old man knew by expe⯑rience, that it was uſeleſs to endeavour [111] to convince a vain young man by rea⯑ſon; ſo only deſired his company up ſtairs. When come into the father's apartment, he takes his ſon by the hand, and draw⯑ing back a curtain at one end of the room, diſcovered a crucifix exquiſitely painted. ‘'My ſon, ſays he, you deſire to change the religion of your country, be⯑hold the fate of an innovator.'’ The truth is, vanity is more apt to miſguide men than falſe reaſoning; as ſome had ra⯑ther be conſpicuous in a mob, than unno⯑ticed even in privy council, ſo others chuſe rather to be foremoſt in the reti⯑nue of error, than follow in the train of truth, and prefer the applauſe of pert ſtu⯑pidity, to that approbation which virtue ever pays itſelf. What influence the con⯑duct of ſuch writers may have on the [112] morals of a people, is not my buſineſs to determine. Certain I am, that it has a manifeſt tendency to ſubvert the litera⯑ry merits of the country in view. The change of religion in every nation, has hitherto produced barbariſm and igno⯑rance, and ſuch will be probably its con⯑ſequences in every future period. For when the laws, and the opinions of ſo⯑ciety, are made to claſh, harmony is diſ⯑ſolved, and all the arts of peace unavoid⯑ably cruſhed in the encounter.

THE writers of this country have of late alſo fallen into a method of conſidering every part of art and ſcience, as ariſing from ſimple principles. The ſucceſs of Mon⯑teſquieu, and one or two more, has in⯑duced all the ſubordinate ranks of genius [113] into vicious imitation. To this end they turn to our view that ſide of the ſubject, which contributes to ſupport their hypo⯑theſis, while the objections are generally paſſed over in ſilence. Thus an univer⯑ſal ſyſtem riſes from a partial repreſenta⯑tion of the queſtion, an Whole is concluded from a Part, a book appears entirely new, and the fancy-built fabric is ſtiled for a ſhort time very ingenious. In this manner we have ſeen of late, almoſt every ſubject in morals, natural hiſtory, politics, oeconomy, and commerce treated; ſubjects naturally proceeding on many principles; and ſome even oppoſite to each other, are all taught to proceed along the line of ſyſtematic ſimplicity, and continue like other agree⯑able falſhoods extremely pleaſing, till they are detected.

[114] I MUST ſtill add another fault of a nature ſomewhat ſimilar to the former. As thoſe above mentioned are for con⯑tracting a ſingle ſcience into ſyſtem, ſo thoſe I am going to ſpeak of are for draw⯑ing up a ſyſtem of all the ſciences united. Such undertakings as theſe are carried on by different writers cemented into one body, and concurring in the ſame deſign, by the mediation of a bookſeller. From theſe in⯑auſpicious combinations, proceed thoſe mon⯑ſters of learning, the Trevoux, Encyclo⯑pedie's, and Bibliotheques of the age. In making theſe, men of every rank in lite⯑rature are employed, wits and dunces con⯑tribute their ſhare, and Diderot, as well as Deſmaretz, are candidates for oblivion. The genius of the firſt, ſupplies the gale of favour; and the latter adds, the uſe⯑ful [115] ballaſt of ſtupidity. By ſuch means, the enormous maſs heavily makes its way among the public, and to borrow a book⯑ſeller's phraſe, the whole impreſſion moves off. Theſe great collections of learning, may ſerve to make us inwardly repine at our own ignorance, may ſerve when gilt and lettered, to adorn the lower ſhelves of a regular library; but woe to the reader, who not daunted at the immenſe diſtance between one great paſteboard and the other, opens the volume and explores his way through a region ſo extenſive, but barren of entertainment. No unexpected land⯑ſchape there to delight the imagination; no diverſity of proſpect to cheat the painful journey; he ſees the wide extended deſart lie before him; what is paſt only en⯑creaſes his terror of what is to come. [116] His courſe is not half finiſhed, he looks behind him with affright, and forward with deſpair. Perſeverance is at laſt overcome, and a night of oblivion lends its friendly aid to terminate the per⯑plexity.

CHAP. IX. Of learning in Great Britain.

TO acquire a character for learning among the Engliſh at preſent, it is neceſſary to know much more than is either important or uſeful. The ab⯑ſurd paſſion of being deemed profound, has done more injury to all kinds of ſcience, than is generally imagined. Some thus exhauſt their natural ſagacity in ex⯑ploring the intricacies of another man's thought, and have never found leiſure to think for themſelves; others have carried on learning from that ſtage, where the good ſenſe of our anceſtors thought it too minute or too ſpeculative to inſtruct or a⯑muſe. By the induſtry of ſuch, the ſciences [118] fciences which in themſelves are eaſy of ac⯑ceſs, affright the learner with the ſeverity of their appearance. He ſees them ſurrounded with ſpeculation and ſubtilty, placed there by their profeſſors as if with a view of de⯑terring his approach. From hence it hap⯑pens, that the generality of readers fly from the ſcholar to the compiler, who offers them a more ſafe and ſpeedy con⯑veyance.

FROM this fault alſo ariſes that mu⯑tual contempt between the ſcholar and the man of the world, of which every day's experience furniſheth inſtances.

THE man of taſte, however, ſtands neu⯑ter in this controverſy, he ſeems placed in a middle ſtation, between the world and the cell, between learning and common [119] ſenſe. He teaches the vulgar on what part of a character to lay the emphaſis of praiſe, and the ſcholar where to point his application ſo as to deſerve it. By his means, even the philoſopher, acquires po⯑pular applauſe, and all that are truly great the admiration of poſterity. By means of polite learning alone, the patriot and the hero, the man who praiſeth virtue, and he who practices it, who fights ſucceſsfully for his country, or who dies in its defence, become immortal.

LET none affect to deſpiſe future fame, the actions of even the loweſt part of man⯑kind teſtify a deſire of this kind. Wealth, titles, and ſeveral paltry advantages, are ſecured for poſterity, who can only give their applauſe in return. If all ranks, therefore, are inſpired with this paſſion, [120] how great ſhould his encouragement be, who is capable of conferring it not only upon the moſt deſerving, but even upon the age in which he lives?

YET this honeſt ambition of being ad⯑mired by poſterity, cannot be gratified without continual efforts in the preſent age to deſerve it. For if the rewards of genius are improperly directed; if thoſe who are capable of ſupporting the honour of the times by their writing, preſer opulence to fame; if the ſtage ſhould be ſhut to writers of merit, and open only to intereſt or intrigue. If ſuch ſhould hap⯑pen to be the vile complexion of the times, the very virtues of the age will be forgotten by poſterity; and nothing remembered, ex⯑cept our filling a chaſm in the regiſters of time, or having ſerved to continue the ſpecies.

CHAP. X. Of the encouragement of learning.

THERE is nothing authors are more apt to lament, than want of encouragement from the age. Whatever their differences in other reſpects may be, they are all ready to unite in this com⯑plaint, and each indirectly offers himſelf as an inſtance of the truth of his aſſer⯑tion.

THE beneficed divine, whoſe wants are only imaginary, expoſtulates as bitterly as the pooreſt author, that ever ſnuffed his candle with finger and thumb. Should intereſt or good ſortune, advance the di⯑vine to a biſhopric, or the poor ſon of [122] Parnaſſus into that place which the other has reſign'd; both are authors no longer, the one goes to prayers once a day, kneels upon cuſhions of velvet, and thanks gra⯑cious heaven for having made the circum⯑ſtances of all mankind ſo extremely happy; the other battens on all the delicacies of life, enjoys his wife and his eaſy chair, and ſome⯑times, for the ſake of converſation, deplores the luxury of theſe degenerate days.

ALL encouragements to merit are miſ⯑applied, which make the author too rich to continue his profeſſion. There can be nothing more juſt than the old obſerva⯑tion, that authors, like running horſes, ſhould be fed but not fattened. If we would continue them in our ſervice, we ſhould reward them with a little money and a great deal of praiſe, ſtill keeping [123] their avarice ſubſervient to their ambition. Not that I think a writer incapable of filling an employment with dignity, I would only inſinuate, that when made a biſhop or ſtateſman, he will continue to pleaſe us as a writer no longer. As to reſume a former alluſion, the running horſe, when fattened, will ſtill be fit for very uſeful purpoſes, though unqualified for a courſer.

No nation gives greater encouragements to learning than we do; yet, at the ſame time, none are ſo injudicious in the application. We ſeem to confer them with the ſame view, that ſtateſmen have been known to grant employments at court, rather as bribes to ſilence, than incentives to emulation.

[124] UPON this principle, all our magnifi⯑cent endowments of colleges are errone⯑ous, and at beſt, more frequently enrich the prudent than reward the ingenious. A lad whoſe paſſions are not ſtrong enough in youth to miſlead him from that path of ſcience, which his tutors, and not his inclinations, have chalked out, by four or five years perſeverance, will probably ob⯑tain every advantage and honour his col⯑lege can beſtow. I forget whether the ſimile has been uſed before, but I would compare the man, whoſe youth has been thus paſt in the tranquility of diſpaſſio⯑nate prudence, to liquors which never fer⯑ment, and conſequently, continue always muddy. Paſſions may raiſe a commotion in the youthful breaſt, but they diſturb only to refine it. However this be, mean talents are often rewarded in colleges, with [125] an eaſy ſubſiſtence. The candidates for preferments of this kind, often regard their admiſſion as a patent for future lazi⯑neſs; ſo that a life begun in ſtudious la⯑bour, is often continued in luxurious af⯑fluence.

AMONG the univerſities abroad, I have ever obſerved their riches and their learning in a reciprocal proportion, their ſtupidity and pride encreaſing with their opulence. Happening once in converſation with Gau⯑bius of Leyden, to mention the college of Edinburgh, he began by complaining, that all the Engliſh ſtudents, which formerly came to his univerſity, now went intirely there; and the fact ſurprized him more, as Leyden was now as well as ever furniſh⯑ed with maſters excellent in their reſpec⯑tive profeſſions. He concluded by aſking, [126] if the profeſſors of Edinburgh were rich. I reply'd, that the ſalary of a profeſſor there ſeldom amounted to more than thirty pounds a year. Poor men, ſays he, I heartily wiſh they were better provided for, until they become rich, we can have no ex⯑pectation of Engliſh ſtudents at Leyden.

PREMIUMS alſo, propoſed for literary excellence, when given as encourage⯑ments to boys may be uſeful, but when deſigned as rewards to men, are cer⯑tainly miſapplied. We have ſeldom ſeen a performance of any great merit, in conſe⯑quence of rewards propoſed in this manner. Who has ever obſerved a writer of any eminence, a candidate in ſo precarious a conteſt? The man who knows the real value of his own genius, will no more venture it upon an uncertainty, than he [127] who knows the true uſe of a guinea, will ſtake it with a ſharper by throwing a main.

EVERY encouragement given to ſtupi⯑dity, when known to be ſuch, is alſo a negative inſult upon genius. This appears in nothing more evident, than the undiſ⯑tinguiſhed ſucceſs of thoſe who ſollicit ſub⯑ſcriptions. When firſt brought into fa⯑ſhion, ſubſcriptions were conferred upon the ingenious alone, or thoſe who were re⯑puted ſuch. But at preſent, we ſee them made a reſource of indigence, and re⯑queſted not as rewards of merit, but as a relief of diſtreſs. If tradeſmen hap⯑pen to want ſkill in conducting their own buſineſs, yet they are able to write a book; if mechanics want money, or ladies ſhame, they write books and ſoli⯑cit ſubſcriptions. Scarce a morning paſſes, [128] that propoſals of this nature are not thruſt into the half-opening doors of the rich, with, perhaps, a paltry petition, ſhewing the author's wants, but not his merits. I would not willingly prevent that pity which is due to indigence, but while the ſtreams of liberality are thus diffuſed, they muſt in the end become proportionably ſhallow.

WHAT then are the proper encourage⯑ments of genius? I anſwer, ſubſiſtance and reſpect, for theſe are rewards congenial to its nature. Every animal has an ali⯑ment peculiarly ſuited to its conſtitution. The heavy ox ſeeks nouriſhment from earth; the light cameleon has been ſuppoſed to exiſt on air; a ſparer diet even than this, will ſatisfy the man of true genius, for he makes a luxurious banquet upon empty applauſe. It is this alone, which [129] has inſpired all that ever was truly great and noble among us. It is, as Cicero finely calls it the eccho of virtue. Avarice is the paſſion of inferior natures; money the pay of the common herd. The au⯑thor who draws his quill merely to take a purſe, no more deſerves ſucceſs than he who preſents a piſtol.

WHEN the link between patronage and learning was entire, then all who deſerved fame were in a capacity of attaining it. When the great Somers was at the helm, patronage was faſhionable among our no⯑bility. The middle ranks of mankind, who generally imitate the Great, then followed their example; and applauded from faſhion, if not from feeling. I have heard an old poet of that glorious age ſay, that a dinner with his lordſhip, has [130] procured him invitations for the whole week following: that an airing in his patron's chariot, has ſupplied him with a citizen's coach on every future occaſion. For who would not be proud to enter⯑tain a man who kept ſo much good com⯑pany?

BUT this link now ſeems entirely bro⯑ken. Since the days of a certain prime miniſter of inglorious memory, the learn⯑ed have been kept pretty much at a diſ⯑tance. A jockey, or a laced player, ſup⯑plies the place of the ſcholar, poet, or the man of virtue. Thoſe converſations, once the reſult of wiſdom, wit, and innocence, are now turned to humbler topics, little more being expected from a companion than a laced coat, a pliant bow, and an [131] immoderate friendſhip for—a well-ſerved table.

WIT, when neglected by the great, is generally deſpiſed by the vulgar. Thoſe who are unacquainted with the world, are apt to fancy the man of wit, as leading a very agreeable life. They conclude, per⯑haps, that he is attended to with ſilent ad⯑miration, and dictates to the reſt of man⯑kind, with all the eloquence of conſcious ſuperiority. Very different is his preſent ſituation. He is called an author, and all know that an author is a thing only to be laughed at. His perſon, not his jeſt, be⯑comes the mirth of the company. At his ap⯑proach, the moſt fat unthinking face, bright⯑ens into malicious meaning. Even alder⯑men laugh, and revenge on him, the ridi⯑cule which was laviſh'd on their forefathers.

IT is indeed a reflection ſomewhat mor⯑tifying to the author, who breaks his ranks, and ſingles out for public favour to think that he muſt combat contempt, before he can arrive at glory. That he muſt expect to have all the fools of ſociety united againſt him, before he can hope for the applauſe of the judicious. For this, however, he muſt prepare before⯑hand; as thoſe who have no idea of the difficulty of his employment, will be apt to regard his inactivity as idleneſs, and not having a notion of the pangs of uncom⯑plying thought in themſelves, it is not to be expected they ſhould have any deſire of rewarding by reſpecting them in others.

[133] VOLTAIRE has finely deſcribed the hard⯑ſhips a man muſt encounter, who writes for the public. I need make no apology for the length of the quotation.

YET it were well, if none but the dunces of ſociety, were combined to render the profeſſion of an author ridiculous or unhappy. Men of the firſt eminence are often found to indulge this illiberal vein of raillery. Two contending writers often by the oppoſition of their wit, render their profeſſion contempti⯑ble in the eyes of ignorants, who ſhould have been taught to admire. Whatever the reader may think of himſelf, it is at leaſt two to one, but he is a greater blockhead than the moſt ſcribling dunce he affects to deſpiſe.

THE poet's poverty is a ſtanding to⯑pic of contempt. His writing for bread is an unpardonable offence. Perhaps, of all mankind, an author, in theſe [140] times, is uſed moſt hardly. We keep him poor, and yet revile his poverty. Like angry parents, who correct their children till they cry, and then correct them for crying, we reproach him for living by his wit, and yet allow him no other means to live.

HIS taking refuge in garrets and cellars, and living among vermin, have, of late, been violently objected to him, and that by men, who I dare hope, are more apt to pity than inſult his diſtreſs. Is poverty the writer's fault? No doubt, he knows how to prefer a bottle of champaign, to the nectar of the neighbouring alehouſe, or a veniſon paſty to a plate of potatoes. Want of delicacy is not in him, but in us, who deny him the opportunity of making an elegant choice.

[141] WIT certainly is the property of thoſe who have it, nor ſhould we be diſpleaſed if it is the only property a man ſometimes has. We muſt not under-rate him who uſes it for ſubſiſtence, and flies from the ingratitude of the age, even to a book⯑ſeller for redreſs. If the profeſſion of an author is to be laughed at by ſtupids, it is better ſure to be contemptibly rich, than contemptibly poor. For all the wit that ever adorned the human mind, will at preſent no more ſhield the author's po⯑verty from ridicule, than his high topped gloves conceal the unavoidable omiſſions of his laundreſs.

TO be more ſerious, new faſhions, follies, and vices, make new monitors ne⯑ceſſary in every age. An author may be conſidered as a merciful ſubſtitute to the [142] legiſlature; he acts not by puniſhing crimes, but preventing them; however virtuous the preſent age, there may be ſtill grow⯑ing employment for ridicule, or reproof, for perſuaſion, or ſatire. If the author be, therefore, ſtill ſo neceſſary among us, let us treat him with proper conſidera⯑tion, as a child of the public, not a rent⯑charge on the community. And, indeed, a child of the public he is in all reſpects; for while ſo well able to direct others, how incapable is he frequently found of guiding himſelf. His ſimplicity expoſes him to all the inſidious approaches of cun⯑ning, his ſenſibility to the ſlighteſt inva⯑ſions of contempt. Though poſſeſſed of fortitude to ſtand unmoved the expect⯑ed burſts of an earthquake, yet of feel⯑ings ſo exquiſitely poignant, as to ago⯑nize under the ſlighteſt diſappointment. [143] Broken reſt, taſteleſs meals, and cauſeleſs anxiety, ſhorten his life, or render it unfit for active employment; prolonged vigils, and intenſe application ſtill farther con⯑tract his ſpan, and make his time glide inſenſibly away. Let us not then aggra⯑vate thoſe natural inconveniencies by neg⯑lect; we have had ſufficient inſtances of this kind already. Sale, Savage, Amherſt, More, will ſuffice for one age at leaſt. But they are dead, and their ſorrows are over. The neglected author of the Per⯑ſian eclogues, which, however inaccurate, excel any in our language, is ſtill alive. Happy, if inſenſible of our neglect, not raging at our ingratitude. It is enough, that the age has already yielded inſtances of men preſſing foremoſt in the liſts of fame, and worthy of better times, ſchooled by continued adverſity into an hatred of [144] their kind, flying from thought to drun⯑kenneſs, yielding to the united preſſure of labour, penury, and ſorrow, ſinking un⯑heeded, without one friend to drop a tear on their unattended obſequies, and indebt⯑ed to charity for a grave among the dregs of mankind.

THE author, when unpatronized by the Great, has naturally recourſe to the bookſeller. There cannot be, perhaps, imagined a combination more prejudicial to taſte than this. It is the intereſt of the one to allow as little for writing, and of the other to write as much as poſſible; accordingly, tedious compi⯑lations, and periodical magazines, are the reſult of their joint endeavours. In theſe circumſtances, the author bids adieu to fame, writes for bread, and for that only. [145] Imagination is ſeldom called in; he ſits down to addreſs the venal muſe with the moſt phlegmatic apathy; and, as we are told of the Ruſſian, courts his miſtreſs by falling aſleep in her lap. His repu⯑tation never ſpreads in a wider circle than that of the trade, who generally value him, not for the fineneſs of his compo⯑ſition, but the quantity he works off in a given time.

A LONG habitude of writing for bread, thus turns the ambition of every author at laſt into avarice. He finds, that he has wrote many years, that the public are ſcarcely acquainted even with his name; he deſpairs of applauſe, and turns to pro⯑fit, which invites him. He finds that money procures all thoſe advantages, that reſpect, and that eaſe, which he vainly [146] expected from fame. Thus the man, who under the protection of the Great, might have done honour to humanity, when on⯑ly patronized by the bookſeller, becomes a thing little ſuperior to the fellow who works at the preſs.

CHAP. XI. Upon Criticiſm.

BUT there are ſtill ſome men, whom fortune has bleſſed with affluence, to whom the muſe pays her morning viſit, not like a creditor, but a friend: to this hap⯑py few, who have leiſure to poliſh what they write, and liberty to chuſe their own ſubjects, I would direct my advice, which conſiſts in a few words: Write what you think, regardleſs of the critics. To per⯑ſuade to this, was the chief deſign of this eſſay. To break, or at leaſt to looſen thoſe bonds, firſt put on by caprice, and afterwards drawn hard by faſhion, is my [148] wiſh. I have aſſumed the critic only to diſſuade from criticiſm.

THERE is ſcarce an error of which our preſent writers are guilty, that does not ariſe from this ſource. From this pro⯑ceeds the affected obſcurity of our odes, the tuneleſs flow of our blank verſe, the pom⯑pous epithet, laboured diction, and every other deviation from common ſenſe, which procures the poet the applauſe of the con⯑noiſſeur; he is praiſed by all, read by a few, and ſoon forgotten.

THERE never was an unbeaten path trodden by the poet, that the critic did not endeavour to reclaim him, by calling his attempt innovation. This might be inſtanced in Dante, who firſt followed na⯑ture, [149] and was perſecuted by the critics as long as he lived. Thus novelty, one of the greateſt beauties in poetry, muſt be avoid⯑ed, or the connoiſſeur be diſpleaſed. It is one of the chief privileges, however, of genius, to fly from the herd of imi⯑tators by ſome happy ſingularity; for ſhould he ſtand ſtill, his heavy purſuers will at length certainly come up, and fairly diſpute the victory.

THE ingenious Mr. Hogarth uſed to aſſert, that every one, except the connoiſ⯑ſeur, was a judge of painting. The ſame may be aſſerted of writing; the public in general ſet the whole piece in the pro⯑per point of view; the critic lays his eye cloſe to all its minuteneſſes, and condemns or approves in detail. And this may be [150] the reaſon why ſo many writers at pre⯑ſent, are apt to appeal from the tribunal of criticiſm to that of the people.

FROM a deſire in the critic of grafting the ſpirit of ancient languages upon the Engliſh, has proceeded of late ſeveral diſagreeable in⯑ſtances of pedantry. Among the number, I think we may reckon blank verſe. No⯑thing but the greateſt ſublimity of ſub⯑ject can render ſuch a meaſure pleaſing; however, we now ſee it uſed upon the moſt trivial occaſions; it has particularly found way into our didactic poetry, and is likely to bring that ſpecies of compoſition into diſrepute, for which the Engliſh are de⯑ſervedly famous.

THOSE who are acquainted with writ⯑ing, know that our language runs almoſt [151] naturally into blank verſe. The writers of our novels, romances, and all of this claſs, who have no notion of ſtile, natu⯑rally hobble into this unharmonious mea⯑ſure. If rhymes, therefore, be more dif⯑ficult, for that very reaſon, I would have our poets write in rhyme. Such a reſtric⯑tion upon the thought of a good poet, often lifts and encreaſes the vehemence of every ſentiment; for fancy, like a foun⯑tain, plays higheſt by diminiſhing the aperture. But rhymes, it will be ſaid, are a remnant of monkiſh ſtupidity, an in⯑novation upon the poetry of the ancients. They are but indifferently acquainted with antiquity, who make the aſſertion. Rhymes are probably of older date than either the Greek or Latin dactyl and ſpondé. The Celtic, which is allowed to be the firſt language ſpoken in Europe, has ever [152] preſerved them, as we may find in the Edda of Iceland, and the Iriſh carrols ſtill ſung among the original inhabitants of that iſland. Olaus Wormius gives us ſome of the Teutonic poetry in this way; and Pantoppidan, biſhop of Bergen, ſome of the Norwegian; in ſhort, this jingle of ſounds is almoſt natural to mankind, at leaſt, it is ſo to our language, if we may judge from many unſucceſsful attempts to throw it off.

I SHOULD not have employed ſo much time in oppoſing this erroneous inno⯑vation, if it were not apt to intro⯑duce another in its train: I mean, a diſguſting ſolemnity of manner into our poetry; and as the proſe writer has been ever found to follow the poet, it muſt conſequently baniſh in both, all that agree⯑able [153] trifling, which, if I may ſo ex⯑preſs it, often deceives us into inſtruction. Dry reaſoning, and dull morality, have no force with the wild fantaſtic libertine. He muſt be met with ſmiles, and courted with the allurements of gaiety. He muſt be taught to believe, that he is in pur⯑ſuit of pleaſure, and be ſurprized into re⯑formation. The fineſt ſentiment, and the moſt weighty truth, may put on a pleaſ⯑ing face, and it is even virtuous to jeſt when ſerious advice might be diſguſt⯑ing. But inſtead of this, the moſt tri⯑fling performance among us now, aſſumes all the didactic ſtiffneſs of wiſdom. The moſt diminutive ſon of fame, or of fa⯑mine, has his we and his us, his firſtlys and his ſecondlys as methodical, as if bound in cow-hide, and cloſed with claſps of braſs. Were theſe Monthly Reviews [154] and Magazines frothy, pert, or abſurd, they might find ſome pardon; but to be dull and droniſh, is an encroachment on the prerogative of a folio.

THESE pamphlets ſhould be conſidered as pills to purge melancholly; they ſhould be made up in our ſplenetic climate, to be taken as phyſic, and not ſo as to be uſed when we take it. Some ſuch law ſhould be enacted in the republic of let⯑ters, as we find take place in the houſe of commons. As no man there can ſhew his wiſdom, unleſs firſt qualified by three hundred pounds a year, ſo none here ſhould profeſs gravity, unleſs his work amounted to three hundred pages.

HOWEVER, by the power of one ſingle monoſyllable, our critics have almoſt got the victory over humour amongſt us. [155] Does the poet paint the abſurdities of the vulgar; then he is low: does he exaggerate the features of folly, to render it more thorough⯑ly ridiculous, he is then very low. In ſhort, they have proſcribed the comic or ſatyrical muſe from every walk but high life, which, though abounding in fools as well as the humbleſt ſtation, is by no means ſo fruit⯑ful in abſurdity. Among well-bred fools we may deſpiſe much, but have little to laugh at; nature ſeems to preſent us with an univerſal blank of ſilk, ribbands, ſmiles and whiſpers; abſurdity is the poet's game, and good breeding is the nice concealment of abſurdities. The truth is, the critic generally miſtakes humour for wit, which is a very different excellence. Wit raiſes human na⯑ture above its level; humour acts a contrary part, and equally depreſſes it. To expect ex⯑alted humour, is a contradiction in terms; [156] and the critic, by demanding an impoſſibility from the comic poet, has, in effect, baniſhed new comedy from the ſtage. But to put the ſame thought in a different light:

WHEN an unexpected ſimilitude in two objects ſtrikes the imagination; in other words, when a thing is wittily expreſſed, all our pleaſure turns into admiration of the artiſt, who had fancy enough to draw the picture. When a thing is humour⯑ouſly deſcribed, our burſt of laughter pro⯑ceeds from a very different cauſe; we com⯑pare the abſurdity of the character repre⯑ſented with our own, and triumph in our conſcious ſuperiority. No natural defect can be a cauſe of laughter, becauſe it is a misfortune to which ourſelves are lia⯑ble; a defect of this kind, changes the paſſion into pity or horror; we only laugh at thoſe inſtances of moral abſur⯑dity, [157] to which we are conſcious that we our⯑ſelves are not liable. For inſtance, ſhould I deſcribe a man as wanting his noſe, there is no humour in this, as it is an accident to which human nature is ſubject, and may be any man's caſe: but ſhould I repre⯑ſent this man without his noſe, as extreme⯑ly curious in the choice of his ſnuff-box, we here ſee him guilty of an abſurdity of which we imagine ourſelves can never be guilty, and therefore applaud our own good ſenſe on the compariſon. Thus, then, the pleaſure we receive from wit, turns on the admiration of another; that we feel from humour, centers in the admiration of our⯑ſelves. The poet, therefore, muſt place the object he would have the ſubject of humour in a ſtate of inferiority; in other words, the ſubject of humour muſt be low.

[158] THE ſolemnity worn by many of our modern writers is, I fear, often the maſk of dulneſs; for certain it is, it ſeems to fit every author who pleaſes to put it on. By the complexion of many of our late publications, one might be apt to cry out with Cicero, Civem mehercule non puto eſſe qui his temporibus ridere poſſit. On my conſcience, I believe we have all forgot to laugh in theſe days. Such writers pro⯑bably make no diſtinction between what is praiſed, and what is pleaſing; between thoſe commendations which the reader pays his own diſcernment, and thoſe which are the genuine reſult of his ſenſations.

AS our gentlemen writers have it there⯑fore ſo much in their power to lead the taſte of the times, they may now part with the inflated ſtile that has for ſome [159] years been looked upon as fine writing, and which every young writer is now obliged to adopt, if he chuſes to be read. They may now diſpenſe with loaded epi⯑thet, and dreſſing up of trifles with dig⯑nity. For to uſe an obvious inſtance, it is not thoſe who make the greateſt noiſe with their wares in the ſtreets, that have moſt to ſell. Let us, inſtead of writ⯑ing finely, try to write naturally. Not hunt after lofty expreſſions to deliver mean ideas; nor be for ever gaping, when we only mean to deliver a whiſper.

CHAP. XII. Of the STAGE.

OUR Theatre may be regarded as partaking of the ſhew and decora⯑tion of the Italian opera, with the pro⯑priety and declamation of French perfor⯑mance. Our ſtage is more magnificent than any other in Europe, and the peo⯑ple in general fonder of theatrical enter⯑tainment. But as our pleaſures, as well as more important concerns, are general⯑ly managed by party, the ſtage is ſubject to its influence. The managers, and all who eſpouſe their ſide, are for decoration and ornament; the critic, and all who have ſtudied French decorum, are for re⯑gularity and declamation. Thus it is al⯑moſt [161] impoſſible to pleaſe both parties, and the poet, by attempting it, finds him⯑ſelf often incapable of pleaſing either. If he introduces ſtage pomp, the critic con⯑ſigns his performance to the vulgar; if he indulges in recital, and ſimplicity, he is accuſed of inſipidity or dry af⯑fectation.

FROM the nature therefore of our thea⯑tre, and the genius of our country, it is extremely difficult for a dramatic poet to pleaſe his audience. But happy would he be were theſe the only difficulties he had to encounter; there are many other more dangerous combinations againſt the little wit of the age. Our poet's performance muſt undergo a proceſs truly chymical before it is preſented to the public. It muſt be tried in the manager's fire, ſtrain⯑ed [162] through a licenſer, and purified in the Review, or the news-paper of the day. At this rate, before it can come to a private ta⯑ble, it may probably be a mere caput mor⯑tuum, and only proper entertainment for the licenſer, manager, or critic himſelf. But it may be anſwered, that we have a ſufficient number of plays upon our theatres already, and therefore there is no need of new ones. But are they ſufficiently good? And is the credit of our age nothing? Muſt our preſent times paſs away unnoticed by poſterity? We are deſirous of leaving them liberty, wealth, and titles, and we can have no recom⯑pence but their applauſe. The title of Learned given to an age, is the moſt glori⯑ous applauſe, and ſhall this be diſregarded? Our reputation among foreigners will quick⯑ly be diſcontinued, when we diſcontinue our efforts to deſerve it, and ſhall we deſpiſe their [163] praiſe? Are our new abſurdities, with which no nation more abounds, to be left unno⯑ticed? Is the pleaſure ſuch performances give upon the peruſal, to be entirely given up? If theſe are all matters of indifference, it then ſignifies nothing, whether we are to be entertained with the actor or the poet, with fine ſentiments, or painted canvas, or whether the dancer, or the carpenter, be conſtituted maſter of the ceremonies.

BUT they are not matters of indiffe⯑rence. Every age produces new follies and new vices, and one abſurdity is often diſplaced in order to make room for ano⯑ther. The dramatic poet, however, who ſhould be, and has often been, a firm champion in the cauſe of virtue, detects all the new machinations of vice, levels his ſatire at the riſing ſtructures of folly, [164] or drives her from behind the retrench⯑ments of faſhion. Thus far then, the poet is uſeful; but how far the actor, that dear favourite of the public, may be ſo, is a queſtion, next to be deter⯑mined.

AS the poet's merit is often not ſuf⯑ficient to introduce his performance among the public with proper dignity, he is often obliged to call in the aſſiſtance of decoration and dreſs to contribute to this effect. By this means a performance, which pleaſes on the ſtage, often inſtructs in the cloſet, and for one who has ſeen it acted, hundreds will be readers. The actor then is uſeful, by introducing the works of the poet to the public with becoming ſplen⯑dor; but when theſe have once become po⯑pular, I muſt confeſs myſelf ſo much a ſcep⯑tic, [165] as to think it would be more for the in⯑tereſts of virtue, if ſuch performances were read, not acted; made rather our compa⯑nions in the cloſet, than on the theatre. While we are readers, every moral ſen⯑timent ſtrikes us in all its beauty, but the love ſcenes are frigid, tawdry, and diſguſting. When we are ſpectators, all the perſuaſives to vice receive an additional luſtre. The love ſcene is ag⯑gravated, the obſcenity heightened, the beſt actors figure in the moſt debauched characters, while the parts of dull mora⯑lity, as they are called, are thrown to ſome mouthing machine, who puts even virtue out of countenance, by his wretch⯑ed imitation. The principal performers find their intereſt in chuſing ſuch parts as tend to promote, not the benefit of ſociety, but their own reputation; and in [166] uſing arts which inſpire emotions very dif⯑ferent from thoſe of morality. How many young men go to the playhouſe ſpeculative⯑ly in love with the rule of right, but return home actually enamour'd of an actreſs?

I HAVE often attended to the reflec⯑tions of the company upon leaving the theatre; one actor had the fineſt pipe, but the other the moſt melodious voice; one was a bewitching creature, another a charming devil; and ſuch are generally our acquiſitions at the play-houſe: It brings to my remembrance an old lady, who being paſſionately fond of a famous preacher, went every Sunday to church, but, ſtruck only with his graceful manner of delivery, diſregarded and forgot the truths of his diſcourſe.

[167] BUT it is needleſs to mention the incen⯑tives to vice which are found at the theatre, or the immorality of ſome of the per⯑formers. Such impeachments, though true, would be regarded as cant, while their ex⯑hibitions continue to amuſe. I would only infer from hence, that an actor is chiefly uſeful in introducing new performances upon the ſtage, ſince the reader receives more benefit by peruſing a well written play in his cloſet, than by ſeeing it acted. I would alſo infer, that to the poet is to be aſcribed all the good that attends ſeeing plays, and to the actor all the harm.

BUT how is this rule inverted on our thea⯑tres at preſent? Old pieces are revived, and ſcarce any new ones admitted; the actor is ever in our eye, and the poet ſeldom per⯑mitted to appear; the public are again [168] obliged to ruminate thoſe haſhes of ab⯑ſurdity, which were diſguſting to our an⯑ceſtors, even in an age of ignorance; and the ſtage, inſtead of ſerving the people, is made ſubſervient to the intereſts of an avaricious few. We muſt now tamely ſee the literary honours of our country ſuppreſſed that an actor may dine with elegance; we muſt tamely ſit and ſee the celeſtial muſe made a ſlave to the hiſtrio⯑nic Daemon.

WE ſeem to be pretty much in the ſituation of travellers at a Scotch inn, vile entertainment is ſerved up, complained of and ſent down, up comes worſe, and that alſo is changed, and every change makes our wretched cheer more unſavoury. What muſt be done? only ſit down contented, [169] cry up all that comes before us, and ad⯑mire even the abſurdities of Shakeſpear.

LET the reader ſuſpend his cenſure; I ad⯑mire the beauties of this great father of our ſtage as much as they deſerve, but could wiſh, for the honour of our country, and for his honour too, that many of his ſcenes were forgotten. A man blind of one eye, ſhould always be painted in pro⯑file. Let the ſpectator who aſſiſts at any of theſe new revived pieces, only aſk him⯑ſelf, whether he would approve ſuch a performance if written by a modern poet; if he would not, then his applauſe proceeds merely from the ſound of a name and an empty veneration for antiquity. In fact, the revival of thoſe pieces of forced humour, far fetch'd conceit, and unnatural hyper⯑bole, which have been aſcribed to Shake⯑ſpear, [170] is rather gibbeting than raiſing a ſtatue to his memory; it is rather a trick of the actor, who thinks it ſafeſt acting in exagge⯑rated characters, and who by out-ſtepping nature, chuſes to exhibit the ridiculous outre of an harlequin under the ſanction of this venerable name.

WHAT ſtrange vamp'd comedies, farcical tragedies, or what ſhall I call them, ſpeak⯑ing pantomimes, have we not of late ſeen. No matter what the play may be, it is the actor who draws an audience. He throws life into all; all are in ſpirits and merry, in at one door and out at another; the ſpectator, in a fool's paradiſe, knows not what all this means till the laſt act concludes in matrimo⯑ny. The piece pleaſes our critics, becauſe it talks old Engliſh; and it pleaſes the galle⯑ries, becauſe it has fun. True taſte, or even common ſenſe, are out of the queſtion.

[171] BUT great art muſt be ſometimes uſed be⯑fore they can thus impoſe upon the public. To this purpoſe, a prologue written with ſome ſpirit generally precedes the piece, to inform us that it was compoſed by Shake⯑ſpear, or old Ben, or ſomebody elſe, who took them for his model. A face of iron could not have the aſſurance to avow diſlike; the theatre has its partizans who under⯑ſtand the force of combinations, trained up to vociferation, clapping of hands, and clattering of ſticks; and tho' a man might have ſtrength ſufficient to overcome a lion in ſingle combat, by an army even of mice, he may run the riſk of being eaten up mar⯑row-bones and all.

I AM not inſenſible that third nights are diſagreeable drawbacks upon the annual pro⯑fits of the ſtage; I am confident, it is much [172] more to the manager's advantage to furbiſh up all the lumber, which the good ſenſe of our anceſtors, but for his care, had con⯑ſign'd to oblivion; it is not with him therefore, but with the public I would ex⯑poſtulate; they have a right to demand reſpect, and ſure thoſe new revived plays are no inſtances of the manager's defe⯑rence.

I HAVE been informed, that no new play can be admitted upon our theatre unleſs the author chuſes to wait ſome years, or to uſe the phraſe in faſhion, till it comes to be played in turn. A poet thus can never expect to contract a fami⯑liarity with the ſtage, by which alone he can hope to ſucceed, nor can the moſt ſignal ſucceſs relieve immediate want. Our Saxon anceſtors had but one name for a [173] wit and a witch. I will not diſpute the propriety of uniting thoſe characters then; but the man who under the preſent diſ⯑couragements ventures to write for the ſtage now, whatever claim he may have to the appellation of a wit, at leaſt, he has no right to be called a conjuror.

YET getting a play on even in three or four years, is a privilege reſerved only for the happy few who have the arts of court⯑ing the manager as well as the muſe: who have adulation to pleaſe his vanity, powerful patrons to ſupport their merit, or money to indemnify diſappointment. The poet muſt act like our beggars at Chriſtmas, who lay the firſt ſhilling on the plate for themſelves. Thus all wit is baniſhed from the ſtage, except it be ſupported by friends, or fortune, and poets are ſeldom over-burthen⯑ed with either.

[174] I AM not at preſent writing for a par⯑ty, but above theatrical connections in every ſenſe of the expreſſion; I have no particular ſpleen againſt the fellow who ſweeps the ſtage with the beſom, or the hero who bruſhes it with his train. It were a matter of indifference to me, whether our heroines are in keeping, or our candle-ſnuf⯑fers burn their fingers, did not ſuch make a great part of public care, and polite con⯑verſation. It is not theſe, but the age I would reproach: the vile complexion of the times, when thoſe employ our moſt ſerious thoughts and ſeperate us into parties, whoſe buſineſs is only to amuſe our idleſt hours. I cannot help reproaching our meanneſs in this reſpect; for our ſtupidity, and our folly, will be remembered, when even the atti⯑tudes and eye-brows of a favourite actor ſhall be forgotten.

[175] IN the times of Addiſon and Steele, players were held in greater contempt than, perhaps, they deſerved. Honeſt Eaſtcourt, Verbruggen and Underhill, were extream⯑ly poor, and aſſumed no airs of inſolence. They were contented with being merry at a city feaſt, with promoting the mirth of a ſet of cheerful companions, and gave their jeſt for their reckoning. At that time, it was kind to ſay ſomething in de⯑ſence of the poor good-natured creatures, if it were only to keep them in good hu⯑mour; but at preſent, ſuch encouragements are unneceſſary. Our actors aſſume all that ſtate off the ſtage which they do on it; and to uſe an expreſſion borrow'd from the Green Room, every one is up in his part. I am ſorry to ſay it, they ſeem to forget their real characters; more provoking ſtill, the pub⯑lic ſeems to forget them too.

[176] MACROBIUS has preſerved a prologue, ſpoken and written by the poet Laberius, a Roman knight, whom Caeſar forced upon the ſtage, written with great ele⯑gance and ſpirit, which ſhews what opi⯑nion the Romans in general entertained of the profeſſion of an actor.

FROM all that has been ſaid upon the ſtate of our theatre, we may eaſily fore⯑ſee, whether it is likely to improve or decline; and whether the free-born muſe can bear to ſubmit to thoſe reſtrictions, which avarice or power would impoſe. For the future, it is ſomewhat unlikely, that he, [178] whoſe labours are valuable, or who knows their value, will turn to the ſtage for either fame or ſubſiſtence, when he muſt at once flatter an actor, and pleaſe an au⯑dience.

LET no manager impute this to ſpleen, or diſappointment. I only aſſert the claims of the public, and endeavour to vindicate a profeſſion which has hitherto wanted a de⯑fender. A mean or mercenary conduct may continue for ſome time to triumph over oppoſition, but it is poſſible the public will at laſt be taught to vindicate their pri⯑vileges. Perhaps, there may come a time, when the poet will be at liberty to en⯑creaſe the entertainments of the people; but ſuch a period may poſſibly not ariſe till our diſcouragements have baniſhed poetry from the ſtage.

CHAP. XIII. On UNIVERSITIES.

INSTEAD of loſing myſelf in a ſubject of ſuch extent, I ſhall only offer a few thoughts as they occur, and leave their connection to the reader.

WE ſeem divided, whether an educa⯑tion formed by travelling, or by a ſeden⯑tary life, be preferable. We ſee more of the world by travel, but more of human na⯑ture by remaining at home. As in an infirmary, the ſtudent who only attends to the diſorders of a few patients, is more likely to underſtand his profeſſion, than he who indiſcriminately examines them all.

[180] A YOUTH juſt landed at the Brille re⯑ſembles a clown at a puppet-ſhew; car⯑ries his amazement from one miracle to another; from this cabinet of curioſities, to that collection of pictures: but won⯑dering is not the way to grow wiſe.

WHATEVER reſolutions we ſet our⯑ſelves not to keep company with our countrymen abroad, we ſhall find them broken when once we leave home. A⯑mong ſtrangers, we conſider ourſelves as in a ſolitude, and 'tis but natural to deſire ſociety.

IN all the great towns of Europe, there are to be found Engliſhmen reſiding either from intereſt or choice; theſe generally lead a life of continued debauchery; ſuch are the [181] countrymen a traveller is likely to meet with.

THIS may be the reaſon why Engliſh⯑men are all thought to be mad, or melan⯑cholly, by the vulgar abroad. Their money is giddily and merrily ſpent among ſharpers of their own country, and when that is gone, of all nations, the Engliſh bear worſt that diſorder called the maladie du poche.

COUNTRIES wear very different appear⯑ances to travellers of different circum⯑ſtances. A man who is whirled through Europe in a poſt chaiſe, and the pilgrim who walks the grand tour on foot, will form very different concluſions.

[182] To ſee Europe with advantage, a man ſhould appear in various circumſtances of fortune, but the experiment would be too dangerous for young men.

THERE are many things relative to other countries, which can be learned to more advantage at home; their laws and policies are among the number.

THE greateſt advantages which reſult to youth from travel, is an eaſy addreſs, the wearing off national prejudices, and the finding nothing ridiculous in national pecu⯑liarities. The time ſpent in theſe acqui⯑ſitions, could have been more uſefully em⯑ployed at home. An education in a col⯑lege ſeems, therefore, preferable.

[183] IT has lately been diſputed, whether the arts and ſciences do moſt benefit, or in⯑jury to mankind. Mere ſpeculative tri⯑fling. Aſk the houſe-breaker or highway⯑man, in what univerſity they were bred. They will anſwer, In none.

WE attribute to univerſities either too much or too little. Some aſſert, that they are the only proper places to advance learn⯑ing; while others deny even their utility in forming an education. Both are er⯑roneous.

LEARNING is moſt advanced in popu⯑lous cities, where chance often conſpires with induſtry to promote it; where the members of this larger univerſity, if I may ſo call it, catch manners as they riſe, [184] ſtudy life, not logic, and have the world for correſpondents.

THE greateſt number of univerſities have ever been founded in times of the greateſt ignorance.

NEW improvements in learning, are ſel⯑dom adopted in colleges, until admitted every where elſe. And this is right; we ſhould always be cautious of teaching the riſing generation uncertainties for truth.

THOUGH the profeſſors in univerſities have been too frequently found to op⯑poſe the advancement of learning; yet when once eſtabliſhed, they are the propereſt perſons to diffuſe it.

[185] THE rudiments of learning are beſt im⯑planted in a college, the cultivation of it is beſt promoted in the world.

THERE is more knowlege to be ac⯑quired from one page of the volume of mankind, if the ſcholar only knows how to read, than in volumes of antiquity; we grow learned, not wiſe, by too long a con⯑tinuance at college.

THIS points out the time in which we ſhould leave the univerſity; perhaps, the age of twenty-one, when at our univer⯑ſities the firſt degree is generally taken, is the proper period.

THE univerſities of Europe may be di⯑vided into three claſſes. Thoſe upon the old ſcholaſtic eſtabliſhment, where the pu⯑pils [186] are immured, talk nothing but Latin, and ſupport every day ſyllogiſtical diſpu⯑tations in ſchool philoſophy. Would not one be apt to imagine, this was the proper education to make a man a fool! Such are the univerſities of Prague, Louvain, and Padua. The ſecond is, where the pupils are under few reſtrictions; where all ſcholaſ⯑tic jargon is baniſhed, where they take a de⯑gree when they think proper, and live not in the college but city. Such are Edinburgh, Leyden, Gottingen, Geneva. The third is a mixture of the two former, where the pupils are reſtrained, but not confined; where many, though not all, the abſur⯑dities of ſcholaſtic philoſophy are ſuppreſ⯑ſed, and where the firſt degree is taken after four years matriculation. Such are Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin.

[187] AS for the firſt claſs, their abſurdities are too apparent to admit of a parallel. It is diſputed, which of the two laſt are moſt conducive to national improvement

SKILL in the profeſſions is acquired more by practice than ſtudy, two or three years may be ſufficient for learning their rudiments. The univerſities of Edinburgh, &c. grant a licence for practiſing them, when the ſtudent thinks proper, which our univerſities refuſe till after a reſidence of ſeveral years.

THE dignity of the profeſſions may be ſupported by this dilatory proceeding, but many men of learning are thus too long excluded from the lucrative advantages, which ſuperior ſkill has a right to expect.

[188] THOSE univerſities muſt certainly be moſt frequented, who promiſe to give in two years the advantages, which others will not under twelve.

THE man who has ſtudied a profeſſion for three years, and practiſed it for nine more, will certainly know more of his buſineſs, than he who has only ſtudied it for twelve.

THE univerſities of Edinburgh, &c. muſt certainly be moſt proper for the ſtudy of thoſe profeſſions, in which men chuſe to turn their learning to profit as ſoon as poſſible.

THE univerſities of Oxford, &c. are improper for this, ſince they keep the ſtu⯑dent from the world, which, after a cer⯑tain [189] time, is the only true ſchool of im⯑provement.

WHEN a degree in the profeſſions can be taken only by men of independent for⯑tune, the number of candidates in learn⯑ing is leſſened, and conſequently the ad⯑vancement of learning retarded.

THIS ſlowneſs of conferring degrees is a remnant of ſcholaſtic barbarity. Paris, Louvain, and thoſe univerſities which ſtill retain their ancient inſtitutions, confer the doctor's degree ſlower even than we.

THE ſtatutes of every univerſity ſhould be conſidered as adapted to the laws of its reſpective government. Thoſe ſhould alter as theſe happen to fluctuate.

[190] FOUR years ſpent in the arts (as they are called in colleges) is, perhaps, laying too laborious a foundation. Entering a profeſſion without any previous acquiſi⯑tions of this kind, is building too bold a ſuperſtructure.

TEACHING by lecture, as at Edinburgh, may make men ſcholars, if they think proper; but inſtructing by examination, as at Oxford, will make them ſo, often againſt their inclination.

EDINBURGH only diſpoſes the ſtudent to receive learning; Oxford often makes him actually learned.

IN a word, were I poor, I ſhould ſend my ſon to Leyden, or Edinburgh, tho' the annual expence in either, particular⯑ly [191] in the firſt, is very great. Were I rich, I would ſend him to one of our own univerſities. By an education re⯑ceived in the firſt, he has the beſt like⯑lihood of living; by that received in the latter, he has the beſt chance of becom⯑ing great.

WE have of late heard much of the neceſſity of ſtudying oratory. Veſpaſian was the firſt who paid profeſſors of rhe⯑toric, for publicly inſtructing youth at Rome. However thoſe pedants never made an orator.

THE beſt orations that ever were ſpo⯑ken, were pronounced in the parlia⯑ments of King Charles the firſt. Theſe men never ſtudied the rules of oratory.

[192] MATHEMATICS are, perhaps, too much ſtudied at our univerſities. This ſeems a ſcience, to which the meaneſt intellects are equal. I forget who it is that ſays, ‘'All men might underſtand mathematics, if they would.'’

THE moſt methodical manner of lec⯑turing, whether on morals or nature, is firſt rationally to explain, and then pro⯑duce the experiment. The moſt inſtruc⯑tive method is to ſhew the experiment firſt; curioſity is then excited and atten⯑tion awakened to every ſubſequent de⯑duction. From hence, it is evident, that in a well formed education, a courſe of hiſtory ſhould ever precede a courſe of ethics.

[193] THE ſons of our nobility are permitted to enjoy greater liberties in our univer⯑ſities, than thoſe of private men. I ſhould bluſh to aſk the men of learning and vir⯑tue, who preſide in our ſeminaries, the reaſon of ſuch a prejudicial diſtinction. Our youth ſhould there be inſpired with a love of philoſophy: and the firſt maxim among philoſophers is, that merit only makes diſtinction.

WHENCE has proceeded the vain mag⯑nificence of expenſive architecture in our colleges? Is it, that men ſtudy to more advantage in a palace than in a cell? One ſingle performance of taſte, or genius, confers more real honours on its parent univerſity, than all the labours of the chiſſel.

[194] SURE pride itſelf has dictated to the fellows of our colleges, the abſurd paſſion of being attended at meals, and on other public occaſions, by thoſe poor men, who, willing to be ſcholars, come in upon ſome charitable foundation. It implies a contra⯑diction, for men to be at once learning the liberal arts, and at the ſame time treated as ſlaves, at once ſtudying freedom, and prac⯑tiſing ſervitude.

CHAP. XIV. The CONCLUSION.

EVERY ſubject acquires an adven⯑titious importance to him who con⯑ſiders it with application. He finds it more cloſely connected with human hap⯑pineſs, than the reſt of mankind are apt to allow; he ſees conſequences reſulting from it, which do not ſtrike others with equal conviction, and ſtill purſuing ſpe⯑culation beyond the bounds of reaſon, too frequently becomes ridiculouſly earneſt in trifles, or abſurdity.

IT will, perhaps, be incurring this im⯑putation, to deduce an univerſal degeneracy of manners, from ſo ſlîght an origin as the [196] depravation of taſte; to aſſert, that as a nation grows dull, it ſinks into debauchery. Yet ſuch, probably, may be the conſe⯑quence of literary decay; or, not to ſtretch the thought beyond what it will bear, vice and ſtupidity are always mutually produc⯑tive of each other.

LIFE at the greateſt and beſt, has been compared to a froward child, that muſt be humoured, and play'd with, till it falls aſleep, and then all the care is over. Our few years are laboured away in varying its pleaſures; new amuſements are purſued with ſtudious attention; the moſt childiſh vanities are dignified with titles of impor⯑tance; and the proudeſt boaſt of the moſt aſpiring philoſopher is no more than that he provides his little playfellows the greateſt paſtime with the greateſt innocence.

[197] THUS the mind ever wandering after a⯑muſement, when abridged of happineſs on one part, endeavours to find it on another, when intellectual pleaſures are diſagreeable, thoſe of ſenſe will take the lead. The man, who, in this age, is enamoured of the tranquil joys of ſtudy and retirement, may, in the next, ſhould learning be faſhionable no longer, feel an ambition of being foremoſt at an horſe-courſe; or if ſuch could be the ab⯑ſurdity of the times, of being himſelf a jockey. Reaſon and appetite are there⯑fore maſters of our revels in turn; and as we incline to the one, or purſue the other, we rival angels, or imitate the brutes. In the purſuit of intellectual plea⯑ſure, lies every virtue; of ſenſual, every vice.

IT is this difference of purſuit, which marks the morals and characters of man⯑kind; [198] which lays the line between the enlightened philoſopher, and the half⯑taught citizen; between the civil citizen and the illiterate peaſant; between the law-obeying peaſant, and the wandering ſa⯑vage of Africa, an animal leſs miſchievous indeed, than the tyger, becauſe endued with fewer powers of doing miſchief. The man, the nation, muſt therefore be good, whoſe chiefeſt luxuries conſiſt in the re⯑finement of reaſon; and reaſon can never be univerſally cultivated unleſs guided by Taſte, which may be conſidered as the link between ſcience and common ſenſe, the medium through which learning ſhould ever be ſeen by ſociety.

TASTE will, therefore, often be a pro⯑per ſtandard, when others fail, to judge of a nation's improvement, or degeneracy [199] in morals. We have often no permanent characteriſtics by which to compare the vir⯑tues or the vices of our anceſtors with our own; a generation may riſe and paſs away, without leaving any traces of what it really was, and all complaints of our deterioration, may be only topics of declamation, or the cavillings of diſappointment: but in taſte, we have ſtanding evidence, we can, with preciſion, compare the literary performances of our fathers with our own, and from their excellence, or defects, determine the moral, as well as the literary merits of either.

IF then, there ever comes a time, when taſte is ſo far depraved among us, that critics ſhall load every work of genius with unneceſſary comment, and quarter their empty performances, with the ſub⯑ſtantial merit of an author, both for ſub⯑ſiſtence [200] and applauſe; if there comes a time, when cenſure ſhall ſpeak in ſtorms, but praiſe be whiſpered in the breeze, while real excellence often finds ſhipwreck in either; if there be a time, when the muſe ſhall ſeldom be heard, except in plaintive elegy, as if ſhe wept her own decline, while lazy compilations ſupply the place of original thinking; ſhould there ever be ſuch a time, may ſucceeding critics, both for the honour of our morals as well as our learning, ſay, that ſuch a period bears no reſemblance to the preſent age.