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more than once with the writings of a prelate; and know a friend of mine, who, for these several years, has converted the essays of a man of quality into a kind of fringe for his candlesticks. I remember, in particular, after having read over a poem of an eminent author on a victory, I met with several fragments of it upon the next rejoicing day, which had been employed in squibs and crackers, and by that means celebrated its subject in a double capacity. I once met with a page of Mr. Baxter under a Christmas pie. Whether or no the pastry cook had made use of it through chance or waggery, for the defence of that superstitious viand, I know not; but upon the perusal of it, I conceived so good an idea of the author's piety, that I bought the whole book. I have often profited by these accidental readings, and have sometimes found very curious pieces, that are either out of print, or not to be met with in the shops of our London booksellers. For this reason, when my friends take a survey of my library, they are very much surprised to find, upon the shelf of folios, two long bandboxes standing upright among my books, till I let them see that they are both of them lined with deep erudition and abstruse literature. I might likewise mention a paper-kite, from which I have received great improvement; and a hat-case, which I would not exchange for all the beavers in Great Britain. This my inquisitive temper, or rather impertinent humour of prying into all sorts of writing, with my natural aversion to loquacity, gives me a good deal of employment when I enter any house in the country; for I cannot for my heart leave a room before I have thoroughly studied the walls of it, and examined the several printed papers which are usually pasted

a The Puritans scrupled eating what are called Christmas pyes. Hence the raillery. But that this raillery might not be construed to extend further than the subject of it, he takes care, at the same time, to speak well of the author's [Mr. Baxter's] general worth and piety. So wise was this excellent writer, even in his mirth !-H.

upon them. The last piece that I met with upon this occasion, gave me a most exquisite pleasure. My reader will think I am not serious, when I acquaint him, that the piece I am going to speak of was the old ballad of the Two Children in the Wood, which is one of the darling songs of the common people, and has been the delight of most Englishmen in some part of their age.1

This song is a plain simple copy of nature, destitute of all the helps and ornaments of art. The tale of it is a pretty tragical story, and pleases for no other reason but because it is a copy of nature. There is even a despicable simplicity in the verse; and yet, because the sentiments appear genuine and unaffected, they are able to move the mind of the most polite reader with inward meltings of humanity and compassion. The incidents grow out of the subject, and are such as are the most proper to excite pity; for which reason the whole narration has something in it very moving, notwithstanding the author of it (whoever he was) has delivered it in such an abject phrase and poorness of expression, that the quoting any part of it would look like a design of turning it into ridicule. But though the language is mean, the thoughts, as I have before said, from one end to the other are natural, and therefore cannot fail to please those who are not judges of language, or those who, notwithstanding they are judges of language, have a true and unprejudiced taste of nature. The condition, speech, and behaviour, of the dying parents, with the age, innocence, and distress of the children, are set forth in such tender circumstances, that it is impossible for a reader of common humanity not to be affected with them. As for the circumstance of the Robin-red-breast, it is indeed a little poetical ornament; and to shew the genius of the author amidst

1

1 V. Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, v. 3, B. ii. No. 18.-G.

all his simplicity, it is just the same kind of fiction which one of the greatest of the Latin poets has made use of upon a parallel occasion; I mean that passage in Horace, where he describes himself when he was a child, fallen asleep in a desert wood, and covered with leaves by the turtles that took pity on him.'

Me fabulosa Vulture in Appulo,
Altricis extra limen Apuliæ,

Ludo fatigatumque somno

Fronde novâ puerum palumbes

Texere

HOR. 1. iii. Od. 4.

In lofty Vulture's rising grounds,

Without my nurse Apulia's bounds,

When young and tir'd with sport and play,
And bound with pleasing sleep I lay,

Doves cover'd me with myrtle boughs.

CREECH.

I have heard that the late Lord Dorset, who had the greatest wit tempered with the greatest candour, and was one of the finest critics, as well as the best poets, of his age, had a numerous collection of old English ballads, and took a particular pleasure in the reading of them. I can affirm the same of Mr. Dryden; and

1 No burial this pretty pair

Of any man receives,
Till Robin-red-breast piously
Did cover them with leaves.

Ut. sup. v. 125, &c.

A stanza which Gray probably had in his mind when he wrote the exquisite lines which in a moment of unpardonable hypercriticism, he rejected from his elegy.

There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unseen are showers of violets found:
The Red-breast loves to build and warble near,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.'

And more directly still, Collins, in his 'Dirge in Cymbeline':

The Red-breast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid,

With hoary moss and gathered flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.'-G.

know several of the most refined writers of our present age who are of the same humour.

I might likewise refer my reader to Moliere's thoughts on this subject, as he has expressed them in the character of the Misanthrope;' but those only who are endowed with a true greatness of soul and genius, can divest themselves of the little images of ridicule, and admire nature in her simplicity and nakedness. As for the little conceited wits of the age, who can only shew their judgment by finding fault, they cannot be supposed to admire these productions which have nothing to recommend them but the beauties of nature, when they do not know how to relish even those compositions that, with all the beauties of nature have also the additional advantages of art."

L.

No. 86. FRIDAY, JUNE 8.

Heu quam difficile est crimen non prodere vultu!

OVID. Met. xi. 447.

How in the looks does conscious guilt appear!

ADDISON.

THERE are several arts which all men are in some measure masters of, without having been at the pains of learning them. Every one that speaks or reasons, is a grammarian and a logician, though he may be wholly unacquainted with the rules of grammar or logic, as they are delivered in books and systems. the same manner, every one is in some degree a master of that

1 'Le méchant goût du siècle en cela me fait peur;
Nos pères tout grossiers, l'avaient beaucoup meilleurs ;
Et je prise bien moins tout ce que l'on admire,

Qu' une vieille chanson que je m'en vais vous dire.'

MIS. Acte 1. sc. 2.-G.

In

2 V. Introduction-Remarks on Addison's signature in the Spec

tator.-G.

art which is generally distinguished by the name of physiog nomy; and naturally forms to himself the character or fortune of a stranger, from the features and lineaments of his face. We are no sooner presented to any one we never saw before, but we are immediately struck with the idea of a proud, a reserved, an affable, or a good-natured man; and upon our first going into a company of strangers, our benevolence or aversion, awe or contempt, rises naturally towards several particular persons, before we have heard them speak a single word, or so much as know who they

are.

Every passion gives a particular cast to the countenance, and is apt to discover itself in some feature or other. I have seen an eye curse for half an hour together, and an eye-brow call a man scoundrel. Nothing is more common than for lovers to complain, resent, languish, despair, and die, in dumb show. For my own part, I am so apt to frame a notion of every man's humour or circumstances by his looks, that I have sometimes employed myself from Charing-Cross to the Royal-Exchange in drawing the characters of those who have passed by me. When I see a man with a sour rivelled face, I cannot forbear pitying his wife; and when I meet with an open ingenuous countenance, think on the happiness of his friends, his family, and relations.

b

I cannot recollect the author of a famous saying to a stranger who stood silent in his company, 'Speak, that I may see thee.'' But, with submission, I think we may be better known by our looks than by our words, and that a man's speech is much more

1 Socrates-Loquere ut te videam. Socratis vox ad adolescentem: Apul. Flor. 1. pr.-C.

a A man cannot be said to "form to himself the character or fortune" of another, but an idea of the character or fortune. He says below, more

properly, "to frame a notion of," &c.—H.

Think. It should either be, "thinking" in reference to "cannot forbear," in the former part of this sentence, or else, "I think.”—H.

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