The Cosmopolite.

No. V.THURSDAY, MAY 28, 1812.

ON THE REMOTE CAUSES OF THINGS; EXEMPLIFIED BY AN ENQUIRY INTO THE ORIGIN OF PARADISE LOST.

THERE are few things from which an attentive observer may not, at one time or another, derive many various and useful reflections. The most minute circumstances have often so operated upon the mind, as to lead it insensibly to the most sublime meditations, or the most unexpected discoveries. In fact, the most brilliant efforts of the human intellect, and the deepest researches of the philosopher have originated in something of the kind. It was the falling of an apple that suggested to Newton the idea of gravitation.

It would be a curious and interesting inquiry, if it were likely to be attended with success, to ascertaiu the first and trivial circumstances that determined any great man to any particular object; and how time and long meditation, expanding first principles, occasioned

those pursuits for which he afterwards became eminent. But this would be an inquiry, which would be extremely difficult, if not utterly impossible. Could Milton have been asked, what lucky thought first suggested to him the idea of his Paradise Lost, he might have answered, that he could not exactly fix upon it; or that, if he could, that very thought might appear so improbable, and so unconnected with the subject, that he might be supposed to be either guilty of uttering falsehood, or talking at random.

To continue the illustration from Milton.-It is well known, that he had designed his Paradise Lost for many years, before he sat down in earnest to its composition. During that long period, there can be no doubt that a strange concatenation of thoughts must have arisen in his mind, that his subject was sometimes taken up, sometimes laid aside; his plan sometimes enlarged, and sometimes confined within more narrow bounds; and that he must have long fluctuated in doubt and uncer tainty respecting the practicability of his future undertaking. Whether the first design arose spontaneously in his own mind, or whether it was taken from the conversation of others, or was derived from books, is not material; and indeed if it were, it could not now be ascertained. For the sake of argument then, let us suppose that the first model originated with himself, and that he was neither indebted for it to the suggestion of others, nor to the information of books. Perhaps if the first conception could be known, it might be found to have been excited by the most trifling accident, such as, at any other time, might not have engaged the

slightest degree of attention. Like Newton's gravitation, au apple might have suggested the first perception, which, by a strange and incredible exertion of the reflective power on a vigorous intellect, might have ultimately been the cause of Paradise Lost. How unaccountable then are the operations of the human faculties! Who would not smile, if it were proposed as a riddle, that a golden pippin in a fruiterer's basket, might ultimately be productive of the most stupendous and the most suc cessful effort of human genius? None but a blockhead could propose to trace out the most remote connexion between things of so immensely different a nature.

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I own that appearances are somewhat against my supposition, and I should not be surprised, if my Reader were to frown and accuse me of eccentricity, for advancing such an opinion. He may possibly observe, sneeringly, that it is certainly a new and original conception to connect the flavour of a golden pippin with the labours of the two greatest geniuses, that ever adorned the British nation but that its originality is of that kind which would have struck nobody but myself. Let it be how ever remembered, once for all, that Mr. Abel Cosmo has never felt an inclination to visit the regions of nonsense; and that, though a fondness for originality may sometimes betray him into a little eccentricity, he will never fail to call in the aid of reason, to remove any ap pearance of inconsistency. To keep up, therefore, my character as a Cosmopolite, I will endeavour to make out satisfactorily the connection, that may very possibly have existed between Paradise Lost, and the golden pippin.

I wish not, however, to insinuate that it was indisputably and undeniably the golden pippin which suggested the first idea of that divine poem. It is a circumstance that is now, and must for ever remain, uncertain. But in a paper purporting to investigate the causes of the frequent and extraordinary associations of ideas in the the human mind, many things may be taken as granted, in the way of illustration, provided they are not contradicted by positive facts, and are within the reach of probability.

It is immaterial whether the Poet first saw the pippin in his garden, or on his table, but for the sake of argument let us take the latter case. There is nothing extraordinary in supposing, that he might have then been in a serious mood, and have had a family Bible on the table too. This is the first step, and the Bible in one hand, and the apple in the other, a lucky thought might then have forcibly struck him, and directed his attention to the fall of man. The mind having thus been directed from a most trivial to a most important subject, it is natural, that a person of a serious turn should indulge his own reflections on the awful consequences of that fall.

This is another important step gained; but still at an immeasurable distance from what the Poet afterwards performed. Here different minds would have been differently affected. A Presbyterian divine, of his own times, would have seized this opportunity to sketch a discourse, whose merit might afterwards have stood the test of the hour glass, and lulled his hearers to sleep; and the next morning he might have called in the aid

of his concordance for a long string of quotations, or he might have been delighted with his ingenuity in devising a multiplicity of parts, divisions and subdivisions. But Milton was a Poet: and a genius like his, always on the wing, would naturally suggest some ingenious thought or expression, which he might be unwilling to lose, and therefore, on the spur of the moment, he might possibly weave it into an epigram, a sonuet, an ode, or most probably-" An Elegy on the Fall of Man.”

A poetical composition being thus the consequence, our poet might possibly have shown it to some friend, who would very likely encourage him to write more, or at least his praises might have that effect. The Poet must then have recourse to his own meditations, and endeavour to write something of greater length. He will then sit down in earnest, and think and reason deeply on the subject. A strong and cultivated intellect will feel at this period, something like poetical inspiration. He will find his subject to be copious beyond any thing, that he might at first have expected. A succession of ideas will crowd into his mind, and one thought will so quickly suggest another, and their multiplicity will be so great, that he will feel himself not a little perplexed. He will then endeavour to make a selection of images, and sentiments sufficiently numerous for the intended length of his undertaking. But at last, notwithstanding all his contraction, he may find that the subject cannot be confined within the limits of an elegy, and that exclusive of the tedious prolixity which would result from persisting in that form, the most prominent points