Books afford Consolation to the troubled Mind, by substituting a lighter kind of Distress for its own.—They are productive of other Advantages:—An Author’s hope of being known in distant Times.—— Arrangement of the Library.—Size and Form of the Volumes.—The antient Folio, clasped and chained.—Fashion prevalent even in this Place.—The Mode of publishing in Numbers, Pamphlets, &c.—Subjects of the different Classes.—— Divinity.—Controversy.—The Friends of Religion often more dangerous than her Foes.—Sceptical Authors.—Reason too much rejected by the former Converts; exclusively relied upon by the latter.—— Philosophy ascending through the Scale of Being to Moral Subjects.—— Books of Medicine: Their Variety, Variance, and proneness to System: The Evil of this, and the Difficulty it causes:—Farewell to this Study.—— Law:—The increasing Number of its Volumes.—Supposed happy State of Man without Laws.—Progress of Society.—— Historians; their Subjects.—Dramatic Authors, Tragic and Comic.—Antient Romances.—The Captive Heroine.—Happiness in the perusal of such Books: why.—— Criticism.—Apprehensions of the Author: Removed by the Appearance of the Genius of the Place; whose Reasoning and Admonition conclude the Subject.
THE
LIBRARY.
When the sad Soul, by Care and Grief opprest,
Looks round the World, but looks in vain, for Rest;
When every Object that appears in view,
Partakes her Gloom and seems dejected too;
Where shall Affliction from itself retire?
Where fade away and placidly expire?
Alas! we fly to silent Scenes in vain,
Care blasts the Honours of the flow’ry Plain:
Care veils in Clouds the Sun’s meridian Beam,
Sighs through the Grove and murmurs in the Stream;
For when the Soul is labouring in Despair,
In vain the Body breathes a purer Air:
No storm-tost Sailor sighs for slumbering Seas,
He dreads the Tempest, but invokes the Breeze;
On the smooth Mirror of the Deep resides }
Reflected Woe, and o’er unruffled Tides }
The Ghost of every former Danger glides. }
Thus in the Calms of Life, we only see
A steadier Image of our Misery;
But lively Gales and gently-clouded Skies,
Disperse the sad Reflections as they rise;
And busy Thoughts and little Cares avail
To ease the Mind, when Rest and Reason fail.
When the dull Thought, by no Designs employ’d,
Dwells on the past, or suffer’d or enjoy’d,
We bleed anew in every former Grief,
And Joys departed furnish no Relief.
Not Hope herself, with all her flattering Art,
Can cure this stubborn Sickness of the Heart;
The Soul disdains each Comfort she prepares,
And anxious searches for congenial Cares;
Those lenient Cares, which, with our own combin’d, }
By mixt Sensations ease th’ afflicted Mind, }
And steal our Grief away and leave their own behind;}
A lighter Grief! which feeling Hearts endure
Without regret, nor ev’n demand a Cure.
But what strange Art, what Magic can dispose
The troubled Mind to change its native Woes?
Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see
Others more wretched, more undone than we?
This, Books can do;—nor this alone; they give
New Views to Life and teach us how to live;
They soothe the Griev’d, the Stubborn they chastise,
Fools they admonish and confirm the Wise:
Their aid they yield to all; they never shun
The Man of Sorrow, nor the Wretch undone:
Unlike the Hard, the Selfish, and the Proud,
They fly not sullen from the suppliant Crowd;
Nor tell to various People various Things,
But shew to Subjects, what they shew to Kings.
Come, Child of Care! to make thy Soul serene,
Approach the Treasures of this tranquil Scene!
Survey the Dome and as the Doors unfold,
The Soul’s best Cure in all her Cares, behold!
Where mental Wealth the poor in Thought may find,
And mental Physic the deceas’d in Mind;
See here the Balms that Passion’s Wounds assuage,
See Coolers here, that damp the Fire of Rage;
Here Alt’ratives, by slow degrees controul
The Cronic Habits of the sickly Soul;
And round the Heart and o’er the aching Head,
Mild Opiates here, their sober Influence shed.
Now bid thy Soul, Man’s busy Scenes exclude,
And view compos’d this silent Multitude:—
Silent they are, but, though depriv’d of Sound,
Here all the living Languages abound;
Here all that live no more; preserv’d they lie,
In Tombs that open to the curious Eye.
Blest be the gracious Power, who taught Mankind,
To stamp a lasting Image of the Mind!—
Beasts may convey, and tuneful Birds may sing,
Their mutual Feelings, in the opening Spring;
But Man alone has Skill and Power to send,
The Heart’s warm Dictates to the distant Friend:
’Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise,
Ages remote and Nations yet to rise.
In sweet Repose, when Labour’s Children sleep,
When Joy forgets to smile and Care to weep,
When Passion slumbers in the Lover’s Breast,
And Fear and Guilt partake the Balm of Rest,
Why then denies the studious Man to share
Man’s common Good, who feels his common Care?
Because the Hope is his, that bids him fly
Night’s soft Repose and Sleep’s mild Power defy;
That After-ages may repeat his Praise,
And Fame’s fair Meed be his, for length of days.
Delightful Prospect! when we leave behind,
A worthy Offspring of the fruitful Mind!
Which, born and nurst through many an anxious day,
Shall all our Labour, all our Cares repay.
Yet all are not these Births of noble Kind,
Not all the Children of a vigorous Mind;
But where the Wisest should alone preside,
The Weak would rule us and the Blind would guide;
Nay, Man’s best Efforts taste of Man, and show,
The poor and troubled Source from which they flow;
Where most he triumphs, we his Wants perceive,
And for his Weakness in his Wisdom grieve.
But though imperfect all; yet Wisdom loves
This Seat serene, and Virtue’s self approves:—
Here come the Griev’d, a Change of Thought to find;
The Curious here, to feed a craving Mind;
Here the Devout, their peaceful Temple choose;
And here, the Poet meets his favouring Muse.
With awe, around these silent Walks I tread;
These are the lasting Mansions of the Dead:—
‘The Dead!’, methinks a thousand Tongues reply;
‘These are the Tombs of such as cannot die!
‘Crown’d with eternal Fame, they sit sublime,
‘And laugh at all the little Strife of Time’.
Hail, then, Immortals! ye who shine above,
Each in his Sphere, the literary Jove;
And ye the common People of these Skies,
An humbler crowd of nameless Deities;
Whether ’tis yours to lead the willing Mind
Through History’s Mazes, and the Turnings find;
Or whether, led by Science, ye retire,
Lost and bewilder’d in the vast Desire;
Whether the Muse invites you to her Bowers,
And crowns your placid Brows with living Flowers;
Or godlike Wisdom teaches you to show
The noblest Road to Happiness below;
Or Men and Manners prompt the easy Page
To mark the flying Follies of the Age:
Whatever Good ye boast, that Good impart;
Inform the Head and rectify the Heart.
Lo! all in Silence, all in Order stand,
And mighty Folio’s first, a lordly Band;
Then Quarto’s their well-order’d Ranks maintain,
And light Octavo’s fill a spacious Plain;
See yonder, rang’d in more frequented Rows,
An humbler Band of Duodecimo’s;
While undistinguish’d Trifles swell the Scene,
The last new Play and fritter’d Magazine:
Thus ’tis in Life, where first the Proud, the Great,
In leagu’d Assembly keep their cumbrous State;
Heavy and huge, they fill the World with dread,
Are much admir’d and are but little read:
The Commons next, a middle Rank are found;
Professions fruitful pour their Offspring round;
Reasoners and Wits are next their Place allow’d,
And last, of vulgar Tribes, a countless Crowd.
First let us view the Form, the Size, the Dress;
For, these the Manners, nay the Mind express;
That Weight of Wood, with leathern Coat o’erlaid,
Those ample Clasps, of solid Metal made;
The close-prest Leaves, unclos’d for many an Age,
The dull red Edging of the well-fill’d Page;
On the broad Back the stubborn Ridges roll’d,
Where yet the Title stands in tarnish’d Gold:
These all a sage and labour’d Work proclaim,
A painful Candidate for lasting Fame:
No idle Wit, no trifling Verse can lurk,
In the deep Bosom of that weighty Work;
No playful Thoughts degrade the solemn Style,
Nor one light Sentence claims a transient Smile.
Hence, in these Times, untouch’d the Pages lie,
And slumber out their Immortality;
They had their Day, when, after all his Toil,
His Morning Study, and his Midnight Oil,
At length an Author’s One great Work appear’d,
By patient Hope and Length of Days, endear’d;
Expecting Nations hail’d it from the Press,
Poëtic Friends prefix’d each kind Address;
Princes and Kings receiv’d the pond’rous Gift,
And Ladies read the Work, they could not lift.
Fashion, though Folly’s Child, and Guide of Fools,
Rules e’en the Wisest, and in Learning rules;
From Crowds and Courts to Wisdom’s Seat she goes,
And reigns triumphant o’er her Mother’s Foes.
For lo! these Fav’rites of the ancient Mode
Lie all neglected like the Birth-day Ode;
Ah! needless now this weight of massy Chain[11];
Safe in themselves, the once-lov’d Works remain;
No Readers now invade their still Retreat,
None try to steal them from their Parent-seat;
Like antient Beauties, they may now discard
Chains, Bolts, and Locks, and lie without a Guard.
Our patient Fathers, trifling Themes laid by,
And roll’d, o’er labour’d Works, th’ attentive Eye;
Page after Page, the much-enduring Men
Explor’d, the Deeps and Shallows of the Pen;
Till, every former Note and Comment known,
They mark’d the spacious Margin with their own:
Minute Corrections prov’d their studious Care;
The little Index pointing, told us where;
And many an Emendation show’d, the Age
Look’d far beyond the Rubric Title-page.
Our nicer Palates lighter Labours seek,
Cloy’d with a Folio-Number once a Week;
Bibles with Cuts and Comments, thus go down;
Ev’n light Voltaire is Number’d through the Town:
Thus Physic flies abroad and thus the Law,
From men of Study and from men of Straw;
Abstracts, Abridgements, please the fickle Times,
Pamphlets and Plays and Politics and Rhymes:
But though, to write be now a Task of Ease,
The Task is hard by manly Arts to please;
When all our Weakness is expos’d to view,
And half our Judges are our Rivals too.
Amid these Works, on which the eager Eye
Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by;
When all combin’d, their decent Pomp display,
Where shall we first our early Off’ring pay?
To thee, Divinity! to thee, the Light
And Guide of Mortals, through their mental Night;
By whom we learn, our Hopes and Fears to guide,
To bear with Pain and to contend with Pride;
When griev’d, to pray; when injur’d, to forgive;
And with the World in Charity to live.
Not Truths like these, inspir’d that numerous Race,
Whose pious Labours fill this ample Space;
But Questions nice, where Doubt on Doubt arose,
Awak’d to War the long-contending Foes.
For dubious Meanings, learn’d Polemics strove,
And Wars on Faith prevented Works of Love;
The Brands of Discord far around were hurl’d,
And holy Wrath inflam’d a sinful World.—
Dull though impatient, peevish though devout,
With Wit disgusting and despis’d without;
Saints in Design, in Execution, Men,
Peace in their Looks and Vengeance in their Pen.
Methinks I see, and sicken at the Sight,
Spirits of Spleen from yonder Pile alight;
Spirits who prompted every damning Page,
With Pontiff Pride and still-increasing Rage:
Lo! how they stretch their gloomy Wings around,
And lash with furious strokes the trembling Ground!
They prey, they fight, they murder, and they weep,
Wolves in their Vengeance, in their Manners Sheep.
Too well they act the Prophet’s fatal Part,
Denouncing Evil with a zealous Heart;
And each, like Jonas, is displeas’d if God
Repent His Anger, or withhold His Rod.
But here, the dormant Fury rests unsought,
And Zeal sleeps soundly by the Foes she fought;
Here all the Rage of Controversy ends,
And rival Zealots rest like Bosom-Friends;
An Athanasian here in deep repose,
Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian Foes;
Socinians here with Calvinists abide,
And thin Partitions angry Chiefs divide;
Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet,
And Bellarmine has rest at Luther’s feet.
Great Authors for the Church’s glory fir’d,
Are for the Church’s peace, to rest retir’d;
And close beside, a mystic, maudlin Race,
Lie, “Crumbs of Comfort, for the Babes of Grace.”
Against her Foes, Religion well defends
Her sacred Truths, but often fears her Friends;
If learn’d, their Pride, if weak, their Zeal she dreads,
And their Hearts’ weakness, who have soundest Heads;
But most she fears the controversial Pen,
The holy Strife of disputatious Men;
Who the blest Gospel’s peaceful Page explore,
Only to fight against its Precepts more.
Near to these Seats, behold yon slender Frames,
All closely fill’d and mark’d with modern Names;
Where no fair Science ever shews her Face,
Few sparks of Genius and no spark of Grace;
There Sceptics rest, a still-increasing Throng,
And stretch their widening Wings ten-thousand strong;
Some in close fight their dubious Claims maintain;
Some skirmish lightly, fly and fight again;
Coldly profane and impiously gay,
Their End the same, though various in their Way.
When first Religion came to bless the Land,
Her Friends were then a firm believing Band;
To doubt was, then, to plunge in Guilt extreme,
And all was Gospel that a Monk could dream;
Insulted Reason fled the grov’ling Soul,
For Fear to guide and Visions to controul:
But now, when Reason has assum’d her Throne,
She, in her turn, demands to reign alone;
Rejecting all that lies beyond her View,
And, being Judge, will be a Witness too;
Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful Mind,
To seek for Truth, without a power to find:
Ah! when will both in friendly Beams unite,
And pour on erring Man resistless Light?
Next to the Seats, well stor’d with Works Divine,
An ample Space, Philosophy!, is thine;
Our Reason’s Guide, by whose assisting Light,
We trace the moral Bounds of Wrong and Right;
Our Guide through Nature, from the sterile Clay,
To the bright Orbs of yon Celestial Way!
’Tis thine, the great, the golden Chain to trace,
Which runs through all, connecting Race with Race;
Save where those puzzling, stubborn Links remain,
Which thy inferior Light pursues in vain:—
How Vice and Virtue in the Soul contend;
How widely differ, yet how nearly blend!
What various Passions war on either part,
And now confirm, now melt the yielding Heart;
How Fancy loves around the World to stray,
While Judgment slowly picks his sober way;
The Stores of Memory and the Flights sublime
Of Genius, bound by neither Space nor Time;—
All these, divine Philosophy explores,
Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores.
From these descending to the Earth she turns,
And Matter, in its various Form, discerns;
She parts the beamy Light with skill profound,
Metes the thin Air and weighs the flying Sound;
’Tis her’s, the Lightning from the Clouds to call,
And teach the fiery Mischief where to fall.
Yet more her Volumes teach,—on these we look
As Abstracts drawn from Nature’s larger Book:
Here first describ’d, the torpid Earth appears,
And next, the Vegetable-robe it wears;
Where flow’ry Tribes, in Valleys, Fields and Groves,
Nurse the still Flame, and feed the silent Loves;
Loves, where no Grief, nor Joy, nor Bliss, nor Pain,
Warm the glad Heart or vex the labouring Brain;
But as the green Blood moves along the Blade,
The Bed of Flora on the Branch is made;
Where without Passion, Love instinctive lives,
And gives new Life, unconscious that it gives.
Advancing still in Nature’s maze, we trace,
In Dens and burning Plains, her Savage-race;
With those Tame-tribes who on their Lord attend,
And find, in Man, a Master and a Friend:
Man crowns the Scene, a World of Wonders new,
A Moral World, that well demands our view,
This World is here; for, of more lofty kind,
These neighbouring Volumes reason on the Mind;
They paint the State of Man ere yet endu’d
With Knowledge;—Man, poor, ignorant, and rude;
Then, as his State improves, their Pages swell,
And all its Cares and all its Comforts, tell:
Here we behold how Inexperience buys,
At little price, the Wisdom of the Wise;
Without the Troubles of an active State,
Without the Cares and Dangers of the Great,
Without the Miseries of the Poor, we know
What Wisdom, Wealth, and Poverty bestow;
We see how Reason calms the raging Mind,
And how contending Passions urge Mankind:
Some, won by Virtue, glow with sacred fire;
Some, lur’d by Vice, indulge the low desire;
Whilst others, won by either, now pursue
The guilty Chace, now keep the good in view;
For ever wretched, with themselves at strife,
They lead a puzzled, vext, uncertain Life;
For, transient Vice bequeaths a lingering Pain,
Which transient Virtue seeks to cure in vain.