ANFORD LIBRAN

KNOX'S ESSAYS.

No. CXVIII.

On the Character of Addison as a Poet.

THE lustre of a great name not only sets off real beauties to the greatest advantage, but adds a grace to deformity, and converts a defect to an excellence. The enthusiastical admirers of a favourite author, like ardent lovers, view those objects with rapture, which cause in others indifference or disgust. Without considering the inequalities of the same genius, and the diversities of subjects, they are led to conclude, from the excellence of one part of an author's works, that all are excellent; and that whatever bears his signature is genuine wit, and just taste.

I know not whether even Mr. Addison, who is so deservedly esteemed the honour of our nation, was not indebted for a small part of his reputation to the blind bigotry of prejudice. On any other supposition, I know not how he could have been admired as a very eminent poet. The dispassionate temperature which constituted a solid judgment, and qualified him for the cool disquisitions of criticism and morality, rendered him incapable of that animated spirit which

is the soul of poetry. But the reader is unwilling to believe, that so accurate a critic, and so correct a writer, is himself faulty; and therefore, when he passes from his prose to his poetry, and observes a manifest inferiority and deficiency of merit in the latter; he rather inclines to distrust his own judgment than the abilities of the author. Reader after reader has toiled through the same dull rhymes, perhaps blind to their faults, or, if sensible to their defects, yet inclined to join in their praise, in opposition to conviction, from a dread of the imputation of a depraved taste. Had not a veneration for his name prevented critics from speaking their real sentiments, though Addison would, as a moral essayist, most justly have been called the Socrates, Plato, or Xenophon of his age; yet he would never have been esteemed the first of poets.

It would be injustice, while we inspect these volumes, to pass over in silence, the elegant poem which is prefixed to the works of Addison, on the death of their author. The melancholy flow of the verse is well adapted to express the tenderness of the sentiments. The beauty of the imagery, and the energy of the expression, entitle this little piece to a very respectable rank among the elegiac compositions of the English writers. It was for a long time little regarded; but the attention lately paid to it, and the commendations bestowed on it, are proofs that literary merit, however unnoticed for a time, through accident, prejudice, or party, is sure to receive the applause it deserves from impartial posterity.

At the end of the verses of Addison to Mr. Dryden, we are told, that the author was but twentytwo years of age when he wrote them. Whether the age was affixed to extenuate the imperfections, or to enhance the merits of the poem, certain it is that

insignificance and futility. The production is unworthy the age of twenty-two. Mr. Pope is known to have written his pastorals, which infinitely exceed the versification of Addison, at sixteen; and Milton acquired an elegance in Latin verse at an earlier period. The thoughts in this piece are not striking, the style is contemptible, and the negligence in the rhyme alone would, in the present refinement of taste, consign the work to oblivion.

That all his pieces are upon a level with this, cannot be asserted. That some of them abound with grand conceptions, and have many good lines, must be confessed. But allowing Addison all the merit in his poetry which candour, or even partiality in his favour, can allow, he never can be justly esteemed one of the first poets of the nation. I never heard that Socrates increased his fame by his poetical version of Esop's Fables, and the best prose-writer in the best age of Rome wrote the line, O fortunatam, natam, me consule, Romam. The truth is, nature usually bestows her gifts with a prudent liberality even to her favourites. One might on this occasion apply Martial's, Hoc Ciceronis habes. This character of a bad poet you have in common with the great Cicero.

To oppose opinions universally received, is to incur the imputation of vanity, ignorance, and want of taste. But as every individual has a right to private judgment, and may offer his sentiments to others, while he does it with modesty, professes a possibility of mistake, and keeps his mind open to conviction, I have ventured to advance an opinion against the poetical merit of Addison; regardless how it may alarm those who submit their judgments to the direction of others,

No. CXIX.

The Folly of bringing up Children to a Learned Profession, without the Probability of providing them with a Competency.

THAT admiration is the effect of ignorance, is a truth universally confessed; and nothing so forcibly excites the wonder of the illiterate Plebian, as the character of profound erudition.

Dazzled by the splendour of literary honours, many an honest parent has prevented his son from acquiring a fortune behind the counter, to see him starve in a pulpit.

These reflections were occasioned by meeting an old friend at a coffeehouse one evening last week. His looks were meagre, his dress shabby, and he sufficiently apologized for the rustiness of his coat, by the following narrative:

My father," said he, after some preliminary conversation, was a shoemaker of tolerable business in London; a very honest man, and very much given to reading godly books, whenever he could steal a moment from the lap-stone and the last. As I was the only child, he took great delight in me, and used frequently to say, that he hoped in time to see me Archbishop of Canterbury, and no such great matters neither; for as to my parentage, I was as good as many a one that had worn a mitre; and he would make me as good a scholard too, or it should go hard with him.

"My destination to the church was thus unalterably fixed before I was five years old; and in consequence of it, I was put to a grammar-school in the

perils of the rod, I went to the University on an exhibition of fifteen pounds a year, which my father obtained from one of the city companies, with no small difficulty. So scanty an allowance would by no means defray the enormous expense of university education; and my father, whose pride would not let me appear meaner than my companions, very readily agreed to pay me forty pounds out of the yearly profits of his trade, and to debar himself many innocent gratifications, in order to accomplish in me the grand object of all his ambition.

"In consequence of my father's desire, that I should complete the full term of academical education, I did not go into orders till I was of seven years standing, and had taken the degree of Master of Arts. I was therefore incapable of receiving any pecuniary emoluments from my studies, till I was six and twenty. Then, however, I was resolved to make a bold push, and to free my father from the burden of supporting me with half the profits of his labours. The old man was eager that I should attempt to get some kind of preferment; not, as he would generously say, that he wanted to withdraw his assistance, but that he thought it was high time to begin to look up at the Bishoprick.

"I hastened to London as the most ample field for the display of my abilities, and the acquisition of money and fame. Soon after my arrival, I heard of a vacant Lectureship; and though I was an entire stranger to every one of the parishioners, I resolved to trust my cause to honest endeavours, and a sedulous canvass. I shall not trouble you with an enumeration of the several indignities I suffered (for I had not lost my university pride), from being under the necessity to address, with the most abject supplication, chandlers, barbers, and greengrocers. Suffice it to acquaint you, that myself, and another