قراءة كتاب An apology for the study of northern antiquities
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An apology for the study of northern antiquities
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Her Chains were Marks of Honour to the Brave,
She made a Prince when e’er she made a Slave.
Again,
By wounding me, she learnt the fatal Art,
And the first Sigh she had, was from my Heart.
My Lord Hallifax’s Muse hath been very indulgent to Monosyllables, and no Son of Apollo will dare to dispute his Authority in this Matter. Speaking of the Death of King Charles the Second, and his Improvement of Navigation, and Shipping; he says,
To ev’ry Coast, with ready Sails are hurl’d,
Fill us with Wealth, and with our Fame the World.
Again,
Us from our Foes, and from our selves did shield.
Again,
As the stout Oak, when round his Trunk the Vine
Does in soft Wreaths, and amorous Foldings twine.
And again,
In Charles, so good a Man and King, we see,
A double Image of the Deity.
Oh! Had he more resembled it! Oh why
Was he not still more like; and cou’d not die?
My Lord Landsdown’s Muse, which may claim her Seat in the highest Point of Parnassus, gives us these Instances of her Sentiments in our Favour;
So own’d by Heaven, less glorious far was he,
Great God of Verse, than I, thus prais’d by thee.
Again on Mira’s singing,
The Slave that from her Wit or Beauty flies,
If she but reach him with her Voice, he dies.
In such noble Company, I imagin Mr. Addison will not be ashamed to appear, thus speaking of Mr. Cowley;
His Turns too closely on the Reader press;
He more had pleas’d us, had he pleas’d us less.
And of Mr. Waller,
Oh had thy Muse not come an Age too soon.
And of Mr. Dryden’s Muse,
Whether in Comick Sounds or Tragick Airs
She forms her Voice, she moves our Smiles or Tears.
And to his Friend Dr. Sacheverell,
I’ve done at length, and now, dear Friend, receive
The last poor Present that my Muse can give.
And so at once, dear Friend and Muse, fare well.
To these let me add the Testimony of that Darling of the Muses, Mr. Prior, with whom all the Poets of ancient and modern Times of other Nations, or our own, might seem to have intrusted the chief Secrets, and greatest Treasures of their Art. I shall speak only concerning our own Island, where his Imitation of Chaucer, of Spencer, and of the old Scotch Poem, inscribed the Nut-Brown Maid, shew how great a Master he is, and how much every thing is to be valued which bears the Stamp of his Approbation. And we shall certainly find a great deal to countenance the use of Monosyllables in his Writings. Take these Examples;
Me all too mean for such a Task I weet.
Again,
Grasps he the Bolt? we ask, when he has hurl’d the Flame.
And,
Nor found they lagg’d too slow, nor flew too fast.
And again,
With Fear and with Desire, with Joy and Pain
She sees and runs to meet him on the Plain.
And,
With all his Rage, and Dread, and Grief, and Care.
In his Poem in answer to Mrs. Eliz. Singer, on her Poem upon Love and Friendship,
And dies in Woe, that thou may’st live in Peace.
The only farther Example of Monosyllabick Verses I shall insert here, and which I cannot well omit, is what I wou’d desire the Author to apply to his own Censure of Monosyllables, they are these which follow;
Then since you now have done your worst,
Pray leave me where you found me first.
Part of the seventh Epistle of the first Book of Horace imitated, and address’d to a noble Peer, p. ult.
After so many Authorities of the Gentlemen, these few Instances from some of our Female Poets, may I hope be permitted to take place. I will begin with Mrs. Philips on the Death of the Queen of Bohemia;
Over all Hearts and her own Griefs she reign’d.
And on the Marriage of the Lord Dungannon,
May the vast Sea for your sake quit his Pride,
And grow so smooth, while on his Breast you ride,
As may not only bring you to your Port,
But shew how all things do your Virtues court.
To Gilbert Lord Archbishop of Canterbury,
That the same Wing may over her be cast,
Where the best Church of all the World is plac’d.
Mrs. Wharton upon the Lamentations of Jeremiah;
Behold those Griefs which no one can repeat,
Her Fall is steep, and all her Foes are great.
And my Lady Winchelsea in her Poem entituled, The Poor Man’s Lamb;
Thus wash’d in Tears, thy Soul as fair does show
As the first Fleece, which on the Lamb does grow.
Sir, from these numerous Instances, out of the Writings of our greatest and noblest Poets, it is apparent, That had the Enmity against Monosyllables, with which there are some who make so great a Clamour, been so great in all Times, we must have been deprived of some of the best Lines, and finest Flowers, that are to be met with in the beautiful Garden of our English Posie. Perhaps this may put our Countreymen upon studying with greater Niceness the use of these kind of Words, as well in the Heroick Compositions, as in the softer and more gentle Strains. I speak not this, upon Confidence of any Judgment I have in Poetry, but according to that Skill, which is natural to the Musick of a Northern Ear, which, if it be deficient, as I shall not be very obstinate in its Defence, I beg leave it may at least be permitted the Benefit of Mr. Dryden’s Apology, for the Musick of old Father Chaucer’s Numbers, “That there is the rude Sweetness of a Scotch Tune in it, which is natural and pleasing, tho’ not perfect.”
Sir, I must beg your Pardon for this long Digression, upon a Subject which many will think does not deserve it: but if I have herein discover’d some of the greatest Beauties of our English Poets, it will be more excusable, at least for the respect that is intended to so noble an Art as theirs. But to suspect the worst, considering that I am now writing a Preface, I am provided with another Apology from Mr. Dryden, who cautions his Reader with this Observation, That the Nature of a Preface is Rambling, never wholly out of the way, nor in it. Yet I cannot end this Preface, without desiring that such as shall be employ’d in refining and ascertaining our English Tongue, may entertain better Thoughts both of the Saxon Tongue, and of the Study of Antiquities. Methinks it is very hard, that those who labour and take so much pains to furnish others with Materials, either for Writing, or for Discourse, who have not Leisure, or Skill, or Industry enough to serve themselves, shou’d be allowed no other Instances of Gratitude, than the reproachful Title of Men of low Genius, of which low Genius’s it may be