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(which still is breeding) makes her conceited, fantastic, and ridiculous.

And from these she degenerates to be turbulent, clamorous, noisy, nasty, and the devil!..

The great distinguishing difference, which is seen in the world between men and women, is in their education; and this is manifested by comparing it with the difference between one man or woman, and another.

And herein it is that I take upon me to make such a bold assertion, that all the world are mistaken in their practice about women. For I cannot think that God Almighty ever made them so delicate, so glorious creatures, and furnished them with such charms, so agreeable and so delightful to mankind, with souls capable of the same accomplishments with men; and all, to be only stewards of our Louses, cooks, and slaves.

Not that I am for exalting the female government in the least; but, in short, I would have men take women for companions, and educate them to be fit for it. A woman of sense and breeding will scorn as much to encroach upon the prerogative of man, as a man of sense will scorn to oppress the weakness of the woman. But if the women's souls were refined and improved by teaching, that word would be lost. To say the weakness of the sex, as to judgment, would be nonsense; for ignorance and folly would be no more to be found among women than men.

I remember a passage, which I heard from a very fine woman. She had wit and capacity enough, an extraordinary shape and face, and a great fortune, but had been cloistered up all her time, and for fear of being stolen, had not had the liberty of being taught the common necessary knowledge of women's affairs. And when she came to converse in the world her natural wit made her so sensible of the want of education, that she gave this short reflection on herself: "I am ashamed to talk with my very maids," says she, "for I don't know when they do right or wrong. had more need go to school, than be married."

I

I need not enlarge on the loss the defect of education is to the sex, nor argue the benefit of the contrary practice. 'Tis a thing will be more easily granted than remedied. This chapter is but an essay at the thing; and I refer the practice to those

happy days (if ever they shall be) when men shall be wise enough to mend it.

From AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM (1711)
ALEXANDER POPE

First follow Nature, and your judgment frame

By her just standard, which is still the

same;

Unerring Nature, still divinely bright,

One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of Art. Art from that fund each just supply provides,

Works without show, and without pomp presides:

In some fair body thus the informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole, Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains;

Itself unseen, but in the effects, remains. Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse,

Want as much more, to turn it to its use; For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man

and wife.

'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's steed;

Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; The winged courser, like a generous horse, Shows most true mettle when you check his

course.

Those rules of old discovered, not devised, Are Nature still, but Nature methodized; Nature, like liberty, is but restrained

By the same laws which first herself ordained.

Hear how learned Greece her useful rules indites,

When to repress, and when indulge our flights:

High on Parnassus' top her sons she showed,

And pointed out those arduous paths they trod;

Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize, And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. Just precepts thus from great examples given,

She drew from them what they derived from Heaven.

The generous critic fanned the poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire. Then criticism the Muses' handmaid proved,

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Against the poets their own arms they turned,

Sure to hate most the men from whom they learned.

So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art
By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters
fools.

Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey,

Nor time nor moths e'er spoiled so much as they.

Some dryly plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts, how poems may be made.

These leave the sense, their learning to display,

And those explain the meaning quite away. You, then, whose judgment the right course would steer,

Know well each ancient's proper character; His fable, subject, scope in every page; Religion, country, genius of his age: Without all these at once before your eyes, Cavil you may, but never criticize.

Be Homer's works your study and delight,

Read them by day, and meditate by night; Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,

And trace the Muses upward to their spring. Still with itself compared, his text peruse; And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.

When first young Maro in his boundless mind

A work to outlast immortal Rome designed. Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law, And but from nature's fountains scorned to draw:

But when to examine every part he came, Nature and Homer were, he found, the

same.

Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design;

And rules as strict his labored work confine,

As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line. Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;

To copy nature is to copy them.

HOW TO JUDGE A PLAY

JOSEPH ADDISON

[The Tatler, No. 165.-Saturday, April 29, 1710.1

It has always been my endeavor to distinguish between realities and appearances and to separate true merit from the pretense to it. As it shall ever be my study to make discoveries of this nature in human life and to settle the proper distinctions between the virtues and perfections of mankind and those false colors and resemblances of them that shine alike in the eyes of the vulgar, so I shall be more particularly careful to search into the various merits and pretenses of the learned world. This is the more necessary, because there seems to be a general combination among the pedants to extol one another's labors and cry up one another's parts; while men of sense, either through that modesty which is natural to them, or the scorn they have for such trifling commendations, enjoy their stock of knowledge, like a hidden treasure, with satisfaction and silence. Pedantry indeed, in learning, is like hypocrisy in religion, a form of knowledge without the power of it; that attracts the eyes of the common people; breaks out in noise and show; and finds its reward, not from any inward pleasure that attends it, but from the praises and approbations which it receives from men.

Of this shallow species there is not a more importunate, empty, and conceited animal than that which is generally known by the name of a Critic. This, in the common acceptation of the word, is one that, without entering into the sense and soul of an author, has a few general rules, which, like mechanical instruments, he applies to the works of every writer; and as they quadrate with them, pronounces the author perfect or defective. He is master of a certain set of words, as Unity, Style, Fire, Phlegm, Easy, Natural, Turn, Sentiment, and the like; which he varies, compounds, divides, and throws together, in every part of his discourse, without any thought or meaning. The marks you may know him by are an elevated eye and a dogmatical brow, a positive voice and a contempt for everything that comes out, whether he has read it or not. He dwells altogether in generals. He praises or dispraises in the lump. He shakes his head very frequently at the pedantry of universities and bursts into laughter when

you mention an author that is not known at Will's. He hath formed his judgment upon Homer, Horace, and Virgil, not from their own works, but from those of Rapin and Bossu. He knows his own strength so well that he never dares praise any thing in which he has not a French author for his voucher.

With these extraordinary talents and accomplishments, Sir Timothy Tittle puts men in vogue, or condemns them to obscurity, and sits as judge of life and death upon every author that appears in public. It is impossible to represent the pangs, agonies, and convulsions which Sir Timothy expresses in every feature of his face and muscle of his body upon the reading a bad poet.

About a week ago, I was engaged, at a friend's house of mine, in an agreeable conversation with his wife and daughters, when, in the height of our mirth, Sir Timothy, who makes love to my friend's eldest daughter, came in amongst us, puffing and blowing as if he had been very much out of breath. He immediately called for a chair and desired leave to sit down without any further ceremony. I asked him, where he had been? whether he was out of order? He only replied, that he was quite spent, and fell a cursing in soliloquy. I could hear him cry, "A wicked rogue an execrable wretch-was there ever such a monster!" The young ladies upon this began to be affrighted, and asked, whether anyone had hurt him? He answered nothing, but still talked to himself. "To lay the first scene," says he, "in St. James's Park and the last in Northamptonshire!"

"Is that all?" said I. "Then I suppose you have been at the rehearsal of a play this morning."

"Been!" says he; "I have been at Northampton, in the park, in a lady's bed-chamber, in a dining-room, everywhere; the rogue has led me such a dance

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Though I could scarce forbear laughing at his discourse, I told him I was glad it was no worse, and that he was only metaphorically weary.

"In short, sir," says he, "the author has not observed a single unity in his whole play; the scene shifts in every dialogue; the villain has hurried me up and down at such a rate that I am tired off my legs."

I could not but observe with some pleasure that the young lady whom he made love to conceived a very just aversion toward

him, upon seeing him so very passionate in trifles. And as she had that natural sense which makes her a better judge than a thousand critics, she began to rally him upon this foolish humor. "For my part," says she, "I never knew a play take that was written up to your rules, as you call them." "How, Madam!" says he. "Is that your opinion?

taste."

I am sure you have a better

"It is a pretty kind of magic," says she, "the poets have, to transport an audience from place to place without the help of a coach and horses; I could travel round the world at such a rate. It is such an entertainment as an enchantress finds when she fancies herself in a wood, or upon a mountain, at a feast, or a solemnity; though at the same time she has never stirred out of her cottage."

"Your simile, Madam," says Sir Timothy, "is by no means just."

"Pray," says she, "let my similes pass without a criticism. I must confess," continued she (for I found she was resolved to exasperate him), "I laughed very heartily at the last new comedy which you found so much fault with."

"But, Madam," says he, "you ought not to have laughed; and I defy anyone to show me a single rule that you could laugh by."

"Ought not to laugh!" says she; "pray who should hinder me?"

"Madam," says he, "there are such people in the world as Rapin, Dacier, and several others, that ought to have spoiled your mirth."

"I have heard," says the young lady, "that your great critics are always very bad poets: I fancy there is as much difference between the works of the one and the other as there is between the carriage of a dancing-master and a gentleman. I must confess," continued she, "I would not be troubled with so fine a judgment as yours is; for I find you feel more vexation in a bad comedy than I do in a deep tragedy."

"Madam," says Sir Timothy, "that is not my fault; they should learn the art of writing."

"For my part," says the young lady, "I should think the greatest art in your writers of comedies is to please."

"To please!" says Sir Timothy; and immediately fell a-laughing.

"Truly," says she, "that is my opinion.” Upon this he composed his countenance, looked upon his watch, and took his leave.

I hear that Sir Timothy has not been at my friend's house since this notable conference, to the great satisfaction of the young lady, who by this means has got rid of a very impertinent fop.

I must confess, I could not but observe

with a great deal of surprise how this gentleman, by his ill-nature, folly, and affectation, had made himself capable of suffering so many imaginary pains and looking with such a senseless severity upon the common diversions of life.

III. POLITICAL AND SOCIAL IDEALS

THE TRUE BORN ENGLISHMAN (1701)

DANIEL DEFOE

A true born Englishman's a contradiction!
In speech, an irony; in fact, a fiction!
A banter made to be a test of fools!
Which those that use it, justly ridicules;
A metaphor invented to express
A man akin to all the universe!

For as the Scots, as learned men have said, Throughout the world their wandering seed have spread,

So open-handed England, 'tis believed, Has all the gleanings of the world received. Some think, of England 'twas, our Savior meant

The Gospel should to all the world be sent, Since, when the blessed sound did hither reach,

They to all nations might be said to preach.

'Tis well that virtue gives nobility;
How shall we else the want of birth and
blood supply?

Since scarce one family is left alive,
Which does not from some foreigner derive.
Of sixty thousand English gentlemen
Whose names and arms in registers remain,
We challenge all our heralds to declare
Ten families which English Saxons are!

France justly boasts the ancient noble line
Of Bourbon, Montmorency, and Lorraine.
The Germans, too, their House of Austria
show,

And Holland their invincible Nassau

Lines which in heraldry were ancient grown, Before the name of Englishman was known. Even Scotland, too, her elder glory shows! Her Gordons, Hamiltons, and her Monroes; Douglas, Mackays, and Grahams, names well known

Long before ancient England knew her

own.

But England, modern to the last degree, Borrows or makes her own nobility;

And yet she boldly boasts of pedigree! Repines that foreigners are put upon her, And talks of her antiquity and honor! Her S(ackvil) les, S(avi) les, C (eci) ls, Dela(me) res,

M(ohu)ns and M (ontag) ues, D(ura)s, and V (ee) res;

Not one have English names, yet all are English peers!

Your Houblons, Papillons, and Lethuliers Pass now for true born English knights and squires,

And make good senate members, or lord mayors,

Wealth (howsoever got) in England, makes
Lords, of mechanics! gentlemen, of rakes!
Antiquity and birth are needless here.
'Tis impudence and money make a peer!...
Then let us boast of ancestors no more,
Or deeds of heroes done in days of yore,
In latent records of the ages past,
Behind the rear of time, in long oblivion
placed.

For if our virtues must in lines descend,
The merit with the families would end,
And intermixtures would most fatal grow,
For vice would be hereditary too;
The tainted blood would of necessity,
Involuntary wickedness convey!
Vice, like ill-nature, for an age or two,
May seem a generation to pursue:
But virtue seldom does regard the breed,
Fools do the wise, and wise men fools suc-

ceed.

What is it to us, what ancestors we had? If good, what better? or what worse, if bad?

Examples are for imitation set,

Yet all men follow virtue with regret.

Could but our ancestors retrieve their fate, And see their offspring thus degenerate; How we contend for birth and names un

known,

And build on their past actions, not our own;

They'd cancel records, and their tombs deface,

And openly disown the vile degenerate race!

For fame of families is all a cheat; 'Tis personal virtue only makes us great!

THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION

JOSEPH ADDISON

Ὦ φιλτάτη γῆ μῆτερ, ὡς σεμνὸν σφόδρ' εἰ
Τοῖς νοῦν ἔχουσι κτῆμα.1

[The Spectator, No. 287.-January 29,
1712.]

I look upon it as a peculiar happiness. that were I to choose of what religion I would be, and under what government I would live, I should most certainly give the preference to that form of religion and government which is established in my own country. In this point I think I am determined by reason and conviction; but if I shall be told that I am acted by prejudice, I am sure it is an honest prejudice; it is a prejudice that arises from the love of my country, and therefore such an one as I will always indulge. I have in several papers endeavored to express my duty and esteem for the Church of England, and design this as an essay upon the civil part of our con-. stitution, having often entertained myself with reflections on this subject, which I have not met with in other writers.

That form of government appears to me the most reasonable, which is most conformable to the equality that we find in human nature, provided it be consistent with public peace and tranquillity. This is what may properly be called liberty, which exempts one man from subjection to another so far as the order and economy of government will permit.

Liberty should reach every individual of a people, as they all share one common nature; if it only spreads among particular branches, there had better be none at all, since such a liberty only aggravates the misfortune of those who are deprived of it, by setting before them a disagreeable subject of comparison.

This liberty is best preserved, where the legislative power is lodged in several persons, especially if those persons are of different ranks and interests; for where they 1 Dear native land, how do the good and wise Thy happy clime and countless blessings prize!

are of the same rank, and consequently have an interest to manage peculiar to that rank, it differs but little from a despotical government in a single person. But the greatest security a people can have for their liberty, is when the legislative power is in the hands of persons so happily distinguished, that by providing for the particular interests of their several ranks, they are providing for the whole body of the people that has not a common interest with at least one part of the legislators.

If there be but one body of legislators, it is no better than a tyranny; if there are only two, there will want a casting voice, and one of them must at length be swallowed up by disputes and contentions that will necessarily arise between them. Four would have the same inconvenience as two, and a greater number would cause too much confusion. I could never read a passage in Polybius, and another in Cicero, to this purpose, without a secret pleasure in applying it to the English constitution, which it suits much better than the Roman. Both these great authors give the pre-eminence to a mixed government, consisting of three branches, the regal, the noble, and the popular. They had doubtless in their thoughts the constitution of the Roman commonwealth, in which the Consul represented the king, the Senate the nobles, and the Tribunes the people. This division of the three powers in the Roman constitution was by no means so distinct and natural as it is in the English government. Among several objections that might be made to it, I think the Ichief are those that affect the consular power, which had only the ornaments with out the force of the regal authority. Their number had not a casting voice in it; for which reason if one did not chance to be employed abroad, while the other sat at home, the public business was sometimes at a stand, while the consuls pulled two different ways in it. Besides I do not find that the consuls had ever a negative voice in the passing of a law, or decree of the senate, so that indeed they were rather the chief body of the nobility, or the first ministers of state, than a distinct branch of the sovereignty, in which none can be looked upon as a part, who are not a part of the legislature. Had the consuls been invested with the regal authority to as great a degree as our monarchs, there would never have been any occasion for a dictatorship, which had in it the power of all the three

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