Petrarch. Surrey's fentiments are for the most part natural and unaffected, arifing from his own feelings, and dictated by the prefent circumftances. His poetry is alike unembarraffed by learned allufions or elaborate conceits. If our author copies Petrarch, it is Petrarch's better manner, when he defcends from his Platonic abftractions, his refinements of paffion, his exaggerated compliments, and his play upon oppofite fentiments, into a track of tendernefs, fimplicity, and nature. Petrarch would have been a better poet had he been a worfe fcholar. Yet, upon the whole, I fhould as foon think of preferring Surrey to Petrarch, as of preferring a Gothic country church to a Grecian temple. It is certainly true, that feveral of the poets who have devoted themselves to the defcription of the tender paffion, have fhewn that they really did not always feel it in its greateft ftrength and purity while they wrote. The love which nature infpires does not dictate antithefis, point, conceit, and witticifm. But Ovid, the poet of love, abounds with thefe even in his most impaffioned verfe. Cowley's miftrefs is by no means replete with the language of paffion. I know not that even the gentle Waller expreffes the fentiments which a tender and ardent lover feels and utters. Hammond has written like one who was but little finitten with the tender paffion. Petrarch alfo, has often addreffed his verfes to the understanding, when they fhould have been directed to the feelings; has endeavoured to please the imagination with an oppofition of images, when all his skill should have been exerted in caufing the nerves to vibrate at the touch of fympathy. The mind of the reader is disappointed, when, inftead of the fimple expreffions of nature, he finds the fubtilty of art; nor does he allow ingenuity on the fubject of love to be a compenfation for pathos. It has been faid his diction is obfcure. The want of perfpicuity arifes chiefly from his having adopted a great many terms in the provincial language, which, fince his time, has ceafed to be colloquial in Italy, though it has been preferved by the poets in imitation of their mafter. The admiffion of antiquated' expreffions is allowed by the best judges to be an exquifite exquifite mode of adding a dignity to compofition. It has been prefcribed by the belt critics, and practifed by the best writers. And, with respect to the obfcurity it may occafion, the fault is in the reader. Poetry has a language of its own. For the fake of elevation it is conftrained to feek a diction remote from converfation or familiar profe. He who reads and criticifes poetry, ought to be acquainted with its peculiar and idiomatic language. Homer, Virgil, Milton, wrote in a diction which will not be understood by him who has been folely converfant in the profaic writings of their feveral languages. This, indeed, may be justly faid, that the dignity of the epopea may require this method of contracting a venerable air, much more than the humbler ftrains of the plaintive inamorato. If any part of Petrarch's obfcurity arifes from the confufion of his ideas, or his perplexed method of expreffing them, no veneration for his name muft protect him from cenfure. Indeed several very able critics have complained, that they could not underftand him without an interpreter. Enough of his meaning and of his beauties has been understood by his own countrymen, to give him the title of the Father of the Tufcan poetry. The claffical excellence of his language has contributed to give a name to the century in which he lived; for the Italians call it the good age of their language, and attribute the happy effect in a great measure to Petrarch. Sweet, indeed, are the greater part of his fonnets, sweet their language, and fweet their fentiments. Though criticifm may point out quaintneffes and unnatural conceits, may cenfure one part as metaphyfical, and another as affected, yet the fenfible reader will not judge by parts, but by the whole effect of an entire piece; and if his feelings have been often finely touched, and his imagination delighted, he will give himself up to the magic of the poet, and joining in the general applaufe, leave the cold critic to whifper his detraction difregarded. The love-verfes of many writers cannot be recommended without danger. But the fort of love which Petrarch felt, fuppofing the object a proper one, refines and ennobles humanity. It is a fpecies of paffion which was was never felt in the flighteft degree by the modern debauchee. It partakes fomething of the nature of real devotion, and while it elevates human nature in idea, it contributes fomething to its real exaltation. Chaftity was the virtue of the age in which romantic love prevailed, and one virtue is allied to all. The age was virtuous, in comparison with thofe times in which love is degraded to its loweft fpecies, and even the philofophes endeavour to reduce man to the humiliating condition of a mere animal. But Petrarch is not to be confidered only as an Italian poet. He wrote Latin poetry with great reputation; and, indeed, during his life, feems to have acquired more honour from that, than from his vernacular productions. It was for his Africa that he was crowned with laurel in the capital of Rome. This work was a kind of heroic poem in honour of Scipio Africanus, whose name, fays he, I know not how, was dear to me from the earliest age. His Africa is acknowledged to be an imperfect work. It had not the laft hand of its great author. But it abounds with historical matter, and with the fictions of poetry. The hand of a mafter is vifible. The poetical fire fometimes burns with genuine heat and light. Yet, upon the whole, it is a work more confpicuous for genius than judgment, and wants that polifh which a better age would certainly have bestowed. Petrarch written nothing but Latin poetry, he would have poffeffed but a fubordinate place in the temple of fame. Had The profe works of Petrarch are voluminous. He, indeed, is honoured with the name of the restorer of the Latin language. Great was his merit in recalling a language which had almoft funk into oblivion; yet, think, it had been fortunate enough for the reputation of Petrarch, if he had written all his works in his native language, which he poffeffed in perfection, and which had arrived, under the management of him and his cotemporary, at the ftandard of claffic elegance. Though he writes with spirit, and abounds with ftriking and folid fentiments, and difplays no inconfiderable fhare of learning, yet he cannot be called a good Latin writer. His ftyle is harsh and uncouth; his fentences are rugged and unpolished. There is a fingularity of manner which fets him at a remote diftance froin the claffics, and proves that he infpected their works rather for their matter than their mode of treating it. There is, however, a native force and vivacity, which would have conftituted diftinguished excellence, if the writer had condefcended to have become an imitator of the ancients. An affectation of originality has often fpoiled an ingenious work, by rendering it quaint and difguftful. The greatest beauty of his profaic writings, and a very valuable excellence it must be efteened, is the great and serious regard which he pays to piety and morality, and that fpirit of philofophy, which, though of a melancholy kind, is just and solid. A reader is doubly pleased when he can turn from the works of a diftinguished writer, to his life, with equal complacency. In the life of Petrarch we find a noble and fublime fpirit, which induced him to prefer his mufe, his love, and his independence, to the favour of a papal defpot. It is, indeed, the glorious privilege of genius to feek and to find its happiness from its own refources. Emboldened by the confcioufnefs of its own ftrength, and feeling an indignation at many of the changes and chances of this world, it is apt to fpurn at worthlefs grandeur, and to defpife those whom the multitude adores. Human nature must always have an object suspended in its view. The lovely Laura was the object of Petrarch. The paffion was romantic; the idea of her excellence imaginary; but it had a happy influence on the poet's mind. It called forth the latent fire of his genius, it exercifed his fine fancy; and though the poet pours his plaintive verse in ftrains which affect our fympathy, yet we are by no means to confider him as unhappy. For it is a truth collected from long obfervation on human nature, that the pleasure of the chace confifts in the purfuit, not in the attainment; and that it is often better to expect than to enjoy. VOL. II. E No. No. C. ON THE FOLLY AND WICKEDNESS T HE calamities attendant on a ftate of war, feem to have prevented the mind of man from viewing it in the light of an abfurdity, and an object of ridicule as well as pity. But if we could fuppofe a fuperior Being capable of beholding us miferable mortals without compaffion, there is, I think, very little doubt but the variety of military manoeuvres and formalities, the pride, pomp, and circumftance of war, and all the ingenious contrivances for the glorious purposes of mutual destruction, which feem to conftitute the bufinefs of many whole kingdoms, would furnish him with an entertainment like that which is received from the exhibition of a farce or a puppet-show. But, notwithstanding the ridiculoufnefs of all these folemnities, we, alas, are doomed to feel that they are no farce, but the concomitant circumftances of a most woful tragedy. The caufes of war are for the moft part fuch as muft difgrace an animal pretending to rationality. Two poor mortals, elevated with the diftinction of a golden bauble on their heads, called a crown, take offence at each other, without any reason, or with the very bad one of wishing for an opportunity of aggrandizing themfelves by making reciprocal depredations. The creatures of the court, and the leading men of the nation, who are ufually under the influence of the court, refolve (for it is their intereft) to fupport their royal matter, and are never at a lofs to invent some colourable pretence for engaging the nation in the horrors of war. Taxes the most burthenfome are levied, foldiers are collected, fo as to leave a paucity of hufbandmen, reviews and encampments fucceed, and at laft fifteen or twenty thousand men meet on a plain, and coolly shed each other's blood, without the smallest animofity, or the shadow of a provocation. The kings, |