With these that never fade, the spirits elect The same comparison that I propose to be made between the fourth and sixth verses of this passage, may be repeated between the last lines of the fol lowing quotations: -Under foot the violet, Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich in-lay Broider'd the ground, more colour'd than with stone Here in close recess With flowers, garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs, Milton, whose ear had been accustomed, not only to the musick of the ancient tongues, which, however vitiated by our pronunciation, excel all that are now in use, but to the softness of the Italian, the most mellifluous of all modern poetry, seems fully convinced of the unfitness of our language for smooth versification, and is therefore pleased with an opportunity of calling in a softer word to his assistance: for this reason, and I believe for this only, he sometimes indulges himself in a long series of proper names, and introduces them where they add little but musick to his poem. The richer seat Of Atabalipa, and yet unspoil'd The moon- -The Tuscan artist views At evening, from the top of Fesole He has indeed been more attentive to his syllables than to his accents, and does not often offend by collisions of consonants, or openings of vowels upon each other, at least not more often than other writers who have had less important or complicated subjects to take off their care from the cadence of their lines. The great peculiarity of Milton's versification, compared with that of later poets, is the elision of one vowel before another, or the suppression of the last syllable of a word ending with a vowel, when a vowel begins the following word. As Knowledge Oppresses else with surfeit, and soon turns This licence, though now disused in English poetry, was practised by our old writers, and is allowed in many other languages ancient and modern, and therefore the criticks on Paradise Lost have, without much deliberation, commended Milton for continuing it*. But one language cannot communicate its rules to another. We have already tried and rejected the hexameter of the ancients, the double close of the Italians, and the alexandrine of the French; and the elision of vowels, however graceful it may seem to other nations, may be very unsuitable to the genius of the English tongue. There is reason to believe that we have negligent. ly lost part of our vowels, and that the silent e, * In the original Rambler, in folio, our author's opinion appears different, and is thus expressed:" This licence, though an innovation in English poetry, is yet allowed in many other languages ancient and modern, and therefore the criticks on Paradise Lost have, without much deliberation, commended Milton for introducing it." C. which our ancestors added to most of our monosyllables, was once vocal. By this detruncation of our syllables, our language is overstocked with consonants, and it is more necessary to add vowels to the beginning of words, than to cut them off from the end. Milton therefore seems to have somewhat mistaken the nature of our language, of which the chief defect is ruggedness and asperity, and has left our harsh cadences yet harsher. But his elisions are not all equally to be censured; in some syllables they may be allowed, and perhaps in a few may be safely imitated. The abscission of a vowel is undoubtedly vicious when it is strongly sounded, and makes, with its associate consonant, a full and audible syllable. -What he gives, Spiritual, may to purest spirits be found, No ingrateful food, and food alike these pure Fruits,- -Hesperian fables true, Evening now approach'd, For we have also our evening and our morn. Of guests he makes them slaves, And vital Virtue infus'd, and vital warmth God made thee of choice his own, and of his own I believe every reader will agree, that in all those passages, though not equally in all, the musick is injured, and in some the meaning obscured. There are other lines in which the vowel is cut off, but it is so faintly pronounced in common speech, that the loss of it in poetry is scarcely perceived; and therefore such compliance with the measure may be allowed. -Nature breeds Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things, Than fables yet have feign'd From the shore They view'd the vast immensurable abyss. Yet even these contractions increase the roughness of a language too rough already; and though in long poems they may be sometimes suffered, it never can be faulty to forbear them. Milton frequently uses in his poems the hypermetrical or redundant line of eleven syllables. Thus it shall befal Him who to worth in woman over-trusting I also err'd in over-much admiring. Verses of this kind occur almost in every page; but, though they are not unpleasing or dissonant, they ought not to be admitted into heroick poetry, since the narrow limits of our language allow us no other distinction of epick and tragick measures, than is afforded by the liberty of changing at will the terminations of the dramatick lines, and bringing them by that relaxation of metrical rigour nearer to prose. N° 89. TUESDAY, JANUARY 22, 1751. Dulce est desipere in loco. Wisdom at proper times is well forgot. Hon. LOCKE, whom there is no reason to suspect of be ing a favourer of idleness or libertinism, has advanced, that whoever hopes to employ any part of his time with efficacy and vigour, must allow some of it to pass in trifles. It is beyond the powers of humanity to spend a whole life in profound study and intense meditation, and the most rigorous exacters of industry and seriousness have appointed hours for relaxation and amusement. It is certain, that, with or without our consent, many of the few moments allotted us will slide imperceptibly away, and that the mind will break, from confinement to its stated task, into sudden excursions. Severe and connected attention is preserved but for a short time; and when a man shuts himself up in his closet, and bends his thoughts to the discussion of any abstruse question, he will find his faculties continually stealing away to more pleasing entertainments. He often perceives himself transported, he knows not how, to distant tracts of thought, and returns to his first object as from a dream, without knowing when he forsook it, or how long he has been abstracted from it. It has been observed that the most studious are not always the most learned. There is, indeed, no |