Thus far I have ventured to conduct you to a "hill-side, whence you may discern the right path of a virtuous and noble education; laborious indeed at the first ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects and melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming."[42]
With my best respects to Mr. Grierson, when you see him,
I remain, dear Sir, your obedient servant,
[42] Milton's Tractate on Education, addressed to Mr. Hartlib.
Critics I read on other men, And Hypers upon them again.--_Prior._
I have in my possession Scott's "Critical Essays on some of the Poems of several English Poets,"--a handsome octavo, bought at the sale of Ritson's books; and enriched (or deformed, as some would think it) with MS. annotations in the handwriting of that redoubted Censor. I shall transcribe a few, which seem most characteristic of both the writers--Scott, feeble, but amiable--Ritson, coarse, caustic, clever; and, I am to suppose, not amiable. But they have proved some amusement to me; and, I hope, will produce some to the reader, this rainy season, which really damps a gentleman's wings for any original flight, and obliges him to ransack his shelves, and miscellaneous reading, to furnish an occasional or make-shift paper. If the sky clears up, and the sun dances this Easter (as they say he is wont to do), the town may be troubled with something more in his own way the ensuing month from its poor servant to command.
----The pilgrim oft At dead of night 'mid his oraison hears Aghast the voice of time disparting towers, Tumbling all precipitate down-dashed, Rattling around, loud-thund'ring to the moon; While murmurs sooth each awful interval Of ever-falling waters.
There is a very bold transposition in this passage. A superficial reader, not attending to the sense of the epithet _ever_, might be ready to suppose that the _intervals_ intended were those between the _falling of the waters_, instead of those between the _falling of the towers_.
----Cheerless towns, far distant, never blest, Save when its annual course the caravan Bends to the golden coast of rich Cathay, With news of human kind.[43] ----Where the broad-bosom'd hills, Swept with perpetual clouds, of Scotland rise, Me fate compels to tarry.