POETRY

Fig. 1. PROCELLARIA Pelagica
or Petrel

Plate CCXLIII.

Fig. 2.
PINNA.

Fig. 8.

Fig. 9.

Fig. 20.

Fig. 14.

Fig. 22.

Fig. 21.

Fig. 18.

Fig. 19.

Fig. 16.

Fig. 17.

1881

1 A MIDST those thick clouds which envelope the first ages of the world, reason and history throw some lights on the origin and primitive employment of this divine art. Reason suggests, that before the invention of letters, all the people of the earth had no other method of transmitting to their descendants the principles of their worship, their religious ceremonies, their laws, and the renowned actions of their sages and heroes, than by poetry; which included all these objects in a kind of hymns that fathers sung to their children, in order to engrave them with indelible strokes in their hearts. History not only informs us, that Moses and Miriam, the first authors that are known to mankind, sung, on the borders of the Red Sea, a song of divine praise, to celebrate the deliverance which the Almighty had vouchsafed to the people of Israel, by opening a passage to them through the waters; but it has also transmitted to us the song itself, which is at once the most ancient monument and a master-piece of poetic composition.

2. The Greeks, a people the most ingenious, the most animated, and in every sense the most accomplished, that the world ever produced—strove to ravish from the Hebrews the precious gift of poetry, which was vouchsafed them by the Supreme Author of all nature, that they might ascribe it to their false deities. According to their ingenious fictions, Apollo became the god of poetry, and dwelt on the hills of Phocis, Parnassus, and Helicon, whose feet were washed by the waters of Hypocrene, of which each mortal that ever drank was seized with a sacred delirium. The immortal swans floated on its waves. Apollo was accompanied by the Muses—those nine learned sisters—the daughters of Memory: and he was constantly attended by the Graces. Pegasus, his winged courser, transported him with a rapid flight into all the regions of the universe. Happy emblems! by which we at this day embellish our poetry, as no one has ever yet been able to invent more brilliant images.

3. The literary annals of all nations afford vestiges of poetry, from the remotest ages. They are found among the most savage of the ancient barbarians, and the most desolate of all the Americans. Nature asserts her rights in every country, and every age. Tacitus mentions the verses and the hymns of the Germans, at the time when that rough people yet inhabited the woods, and while their manners were still savage. The first inhabitants of Runnia, and the other northern countries, those of Gaul, Albion, Iberia, Aufonia, and other nations of Europe, had their poetry, as well as the ancient people of Asia, and of the known borders of Africa. But the simple productions of nature have constantly something unformed, rough, and savage. The Divine Wisdom appears to have placed the ingenious and polished part of mankind on the earth, in order to refine that which comes from her bosom rude and imperfect: and thus art has polished poetry, which issued quite naked and savage from the brains of the first of mankind.

4. But what is Poetry? It would be to abridge the
VOL. VIII.

limits of the poetic empire, to contract the sphere of this divine art, should we say, in imitation of all the dictionaries and other treatises on versification, That poetry is the art of making verses, of lines or periods that are in rhyme or metre. This is rather a grammatical explanation of the word, than a real definition of the thing, and it would be to degrade poetry thus to define it. The justest definition seems to be that given by Baron Bielsfeld †, That poetry is the art of expressing our thoughts by fiction. In fact, it is after this manner (if we reflect with attention) that all the metaphors and allegories, all the various kinds of fiction, form the first materials of a poetic edifice: it is thus that all images, all comparisons, illusions, and figures, especially those which personify moral subjects, as virtues and vices, concur to the decorating of such a structure. A work, therefore, that is filled with invention, that incessantly presents images which render the reader attentive and affected, where the author gives interesting sentiments to every thing that he makes speak, and where he makes speak by sensible figures all those objects which would affect the mind but weakly when clothed in a simple prosaic style, such a work is a poem. While that, though it be in verse, which is of a didactic, dogmatic, or moral nature, and where the objects are presented in a manner quite simple, without fiction, without images or ornaments, cannot be called poetry, but merely a work in verse; for the art of reducing thoughts, maxims, and periods, into rhyme or metre, is very different from the art of poetry.

6. An ingenious, a lively and interesting romance, a comedy, the sublime narrative of the actions of a hero, such as the Telemachus of M. Fenelon, though written in prose, but in measured prose, is therefore a work of poetry: because the foundation and the superstructure are the productions of genius, as the whole proceeds from fiction; and truth itself appears to have employed an innocent and agreeable deception to instruct with efficacy. This is so true, that the pencil also, in order to please and affect, has recourse to fiction; and this part of painting is called the poetic composition of a picture. It is therefore by the aid of fiction that poetry, so to speak, paints its expressions, that it gives a body and a mind to its thoughts, that it animates and exalts that which would otherwise have remained arid and insensible. Every work, therefore, where the thoughts are expressed by fictions or images, is poetic; and every work where they are expressed naturally, simply, and without ornament, although it be in verse, is prosaic.

7. Verse, however, is not to be regarded as foreign or superfluous to poetry. To reduce those images, those fictions, into verse, is one of the greatest difficulties in poetry, and one of the greatest merits in a poem: and for these reasons, the cadence, the harmony of sounds, particularly that of rhyme, delight the ear to a high degree, and the mind insensibly repeats them while the eye reads them. There results therefore a
35 F plea-

pleasure to the mind, and a strong attachment to these ornaments: but this pleasure would be frivolous, and even childish, if it were not attended by a real utility. Verses were invented in the first ages of the world, merely to aid and to strengthen the memory: for cadence, harmony, and especially rhyme, afford the greatest assistance to the memory that art can invent; and the images, or poetic fictions, that strike our senses, assist in graving them with such deep traces in our minds, as even time itself frequently cannot efface. How many ex-

cellent apophthegms, sentences, maxims, and precepts, would have been buried in the abyss of oblivion, if poetry had not preserved them by its harmony? To give more efficacy to this lively impression, the first poets sung their verses, and the words and phrases must necessarily have been reduced, at least to cadence, or they could not have been susceptible of musical expression. One of the great excellencies, therefore, though not a necessary constituent, of poetry, consists in its being expressed in verse. See Part III.

PART I. GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF THE ART.

SECT. I. Of the Essence and End of Poetry.

8. UNDER the article Polite Arts, it was observed, that the essence of these in general, and consequently of poetry in particular, consists in expression: and we think, that, to be poetic, the expression must necessarily arise from fiction, or invention *. This invention, which is the fruit of happy genius alone, arises, 1. From the subject itself of which we undertake to treat: 2. From the manner in which we treat that subject, or the species of writing of which we make use: 3. From the plan that we propose to follow in conformity to this manner; and, 4. From the method of executing this plan in its full detail. Our first guides, the ancients, afford us no lights that can elucidate all these objects in general. The precepts which Aristotle lays down, relate to epic and dramatic poetry only: and which, by the way, confirms our idea, that antiquity itself made the essence of poetry to consist in fiction, and not in that species of verse which is destitute of it, or in that which is not capable of it. But since this art has arrived to a great degree of perfection; and as poetry, like electricity, communicates its fire to every thing it touches, and animates and embellishes whatever it treats; there seems to be no subject in the universe to which poetry cannot be applied, and that it cannot render equally brilliant and pleasing. From this universality of poetry, from its peculiar property of expression by fiction, which is applicable to all subjects, have arisen its different species, of which a particular description will be given in the second part.

9. Horace, in a well-known verse, has been supposed to declare the end of poetry to be twofold, to please, or to instruct:

Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poete.

But Dr Beattie † maintains, that the ultimate end of this art is to please; instruction being only one of the means (and not always a necessary one) by which that ultimate end is to be accomplished. The passage, rightly understood, he observes, will not appear to contain any thing inconsistent with this doctrine. The author is there stating a comparison between the Greek and Roman writers, with a view to the poetry of the stage; and, after commending the former for their correctness, and for the liberal spirit wherewith they conducted their literary labours, and blaming his countrymen for their inaccuracy and avarice, he proceeds thus: "The ends proposed by our dramatic poets (or by poets in general) are, to please, to instruct, or to do both. When instruction is your aim,

let your moral sentences be expressed with brevity, that they may be readily understood, and long remembered: where you mean to please, let your fictions be conformable to truth, or probability. The elder part of your audience (or readers) have no relish for poems that give pleasure only without instruction; nor the younger for such writings as give instruction without pleasure. He only can secure the universal suffrage in his favour, who blends the useful with the agreeable, and delights at the same time that he instructs the reader. Such are the works that bring money to the bookseller, that pass into foreign countries, and perpetuate the author's name thro' a long succession of ages ‡."—Now, what is the meaning of all this? What, but that to the perfection of dramatic poetry (or, if you please, of poetry in general) both found morals and beautiful fiction are requisite? But Horace never meant to say, that instruction, as well as pleasure, is necessary to give to any composition the poetical character: or he would not in another place have celebrated, with so much affection and rapture, the melting strains of Sappho, and the playful genius of Anacreon §,—two authors transcendently sweet, but not remarkably instructive. We are sure, that pathos, and harmony, and elevated language, were, in Horace's opinion, essential to poetry ¶; and of these decorations nobody will affirm that instruction is the end, who considers that the most instructive books in the world are written in plain prose.

In short, our author has endeavoured by many ingenious arguments and illustrations to establish it as a truth in criticism, that the end of poetry is to please. Verses, if pleasing, may be poetical, though they convey little or no instruction; but verses, whose sole merit it is that they convey instruction, are not poetical. Instruction, however, he admits, especially in poems of length, is necessary to their perfection, because they would not be perfectly agreeable without it.

SECT. II. Of the Standard of Poetical Invention.

10. HOMER's beautiful description of the heavens and earth, as they appear in a calm evening by the light of the moon and stars, concludes with this circumstance, "And the heart of the shepherd is glad *." Madame Dacier, from the turn she gives to the passage in her version, seems to think, and Pope, in order perhaps to make out his couplet, insinuates, that the gladness of the shepherd is owing to his sense of the utility of those luminaries. And this may in part be

* See ARTS
(Polite),
nº 7.

† Essays on
Poetry and
Music,
Part I.
chap. 1.

‡ Hor. Ar.
Poet. 333.
347.

§ Hor. Carm.
lib. 4 ode 9.

¶ Hor. Sat.
lib. 1. sat. 4.
vers. 49.

* Iliad, b. 8.
v. 555.

be the case: but this is not in Homer; nor is it a necessary consideration. It is true, that, in contemplating the material universe, they who discern the causes and effects of things must be more rapturously entertained, than those who perceive nothing but shape and size, colour and motion. Yet, in the mere outside of nature's works, there is a splendor and a magnificence to which even untutored minds cannot attend, without great delight.

Not that all peasants, or all philosophers, are equally susceptible of these charming impressions. It is strange to observe the callousness of some men, before whom all the glories of heaven and earth pass in daily succession, without touching their hearts, elevating their fancy, or leaving any durable remembrance. Even of those who pretend to sensibility, how many are there to whom the lustre of the rising or setting sun; the sparkling concave of the midnight-sky; the mountain-forest tossing and roaring to the storm, or warbling with all the melodies of a summer evening; the sweet interchange of hill and dale, shade and sunshine, grove, lawn, and water, which an extensive landscape offers to the view; the scenery of the ocean, so lovely, so majestic, and so tremendous; and the many pleasing varieties of the animal and vegetable kingdom, could never afford so much real satisfaction, as the steams and noise of a ball-room, the insipid fiddling and squeaking of an opera, or the vexations and wranglings of a card-table!

But some minds there are of a different make; who, even in the early part of life, receive from the contemplation of Nature a species of delight which they would hardly exchange for any other; and who, as avarice and ambition are not the infirmities of that period, would, with equal sincerity and rapture, exclaim,

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny;
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns by living stream at eve.

Cassie of Indolence.

Such minds have always in them the seeds of true taste, and frequently of imitative genius. At least, tho' their enthusiastic or visionary turn of mind (as the man of the world would call it) should not always incline them to practise poetry or painting, we need not scruple to affirm, that without some portion of this enthusiasm no person ever became a true poet or painter. For he who would imitate the works of Nature, must first accurately observe them; and accurate observation is to be expected from those only who take great pleasure in it.

To a mind thus disposed no part of creation is indifferent. In the crowded city, and howling wilderness; in the cultivated province, and solitary isle; in the flowery lawn, and craggy mountain; in the murmur of the rivulet, and in the uproar of the ocean; in the radiance of summer, and gloom of winter; in the thunder of heaven, and in the whisper of the breeze; he still finds something to rouse or to soothe his imagination, to draw forth his affections, or to employ his understanding. And from every mental energy that is

not attended with pain, and even from some of those that are, as moderate terror and pity, a found mind derives satisfaction; exercise being equally necessary to the body and the soul, and to both equally productive of health and pleasure.

This happy sensibility to the beauties of Nature should be cherished in young persons. It engages them to contemplate the Creator in his wonderful works; it purifies and harmonizes the soul, and prepares it for moral and intellectual discipline; it supplies an endless source of amusement; it contributes even to bodily health: and, as a strict analogy subsists between material and moral beauty, it leads the heart by an easy transition from the one to the other; and thus recommends virtue for its transcendent loveliness, and makes vice appear the object of contempt and abomination. An intimate acquaintance with the best descriptive poets, Spenser, Milton, and Thomson, but above all with the divine Georgic, joined to some practice in the art of drawing, will promote this amiable sensibility in early years: for then the face of Nature has novelty superadded to its other charms, the passions are not pre-engaged, the heart is free from care, and the imagination warm and romantic.

But, not to insist longer on those ardent emotions that are peculiar to the enthusiastic disciple of Nature, may it not be affirmed of all men, without exception, or at least of all the enlightened part of mankind, that they are gratified by the contemplation of things natural, as opposed to unnatural? Monstrous sights please but for a moment, if they please at all; for they derive their charm from the beholder's amazement, which is quickly over. We read indeed of a man of rank in Sicily †, who chooses to adorn his villa with pictures and statues of most unnatural deformity: but it is a singular instance; and one would not be much more surprised to hear of a person living without food, or growing fat by the use of poison. To say of any thing, that it is contrary to nature, denotes censure and disgust on the part of the speaker; as the epithet natural intimates an agreeable quality, and seems for the most part to imply, that a thing is as it ought to be, suitable to our own taste, and congenial with our own constitution. Think, with what sentiments we should peruse a poem, in which Nature was totally misrepresented, and principles of thought and of operation supposed to take place, repugnant to every thing we had seen or heard of:—in which, for example, avarice and coldness were ascribed to youth, and prodigality and passionate attachment to the old; in which men were made to act at random, sometimes according to character, and sometimes contrary to it; in which cruelty and envy were productive of love, and beneficence and kind affection of hatred; in which beauty was invariably the object of dislike, and ugliness of desire; in which society was rendered happy by atheism and the promiscuous perpetration of crimes, and justice and fortitude were held in universal contempt. Or think, how we should relish a painting, where no regard was had to the proportions, colours, or any of the physical laws, of Nature:—where the ears and eyes of animals were placed in their shoulders; where the sky was green, and the grass crimson; where trees grew with their branches in the earth, and their roots in the air; where men

† Brydson's
Tear in Si-
cily, let. ii.

were seen fighting after their heads were cut off, ships sailing on the land, lions entangled in cobwebs, sheep preying on dead carcasses, fishes sporting in the woods, and elephants walking on the sea. Could such figures and combinations give pleasure, or merit the appellation of sublime or beautiful? Should we hesitate to pronounce their author mad? And are the absurdities of madmen proper subjects either of amusement or of imitation to reasonable beings?

Let it be remarked too, that though we distinguish our internal powers by different names, because otherwise we could not speak of them so as to be understood, they are all but so many energies of the same individual mind; and therefore it is not to be supposed, that what contradicts any one leading faculty should yield permanent delight to the rest. That cannot be agreeable to reason, which conscience disapproves; nor can that gratify imagination, which is repugnant to reason. — Besides, belief and acquiescence of mind are pleasant, as distrust and disbelief are painful: and therefore, that only can give solid and general satisfaction, which has something of plausibility in it; something which we conceive it possible for a rational being to believe. But no rational being can acquiesce in what is obviously contrary to nature, or implies palpable absurdity.

Poetry, therefore, and indeed every art whose end is to please, must be natural; and if so, must exhibit real matter of fact, or something like it; that is, in other words, must be, either according to truth, or according to verisimilitude.

And though every part of the material universe abounds in objects of pleasurable contemplation, yet nothing in nature so powerfully touches our hearts, or gives so great variety of exercise to our moral and intellectual faculties, as man. Human affairs and human feelings are universally interesting. There are many who have no great relish for the poetry that delineates only irrational or inanimate beings; but to that which exhibits the fortunes, the characters, and the conduct of men, there is hardly any person who does not listen with sympathy and delight. And hence, to imitate human action, is considered by Aristotle as essential to this art; and must be allowed to be essential to the most pleasing and most instructive part of it, Epic and Dramatic composition. Mere descriptions, however beautiful, and moral reflections, however just, become tiresome, where our passions are not occasionally awakened by some event that concerns our fellow-men. Do not all readers of taste receive peculiar pleasure from those little tales or episodes with which Thomson's descriptive poem on the Seasons is here and there enlivened? and are they not sensible, that the thunder-storm would not have been half so interesting without the tale of the two lovers, (Summ. v. 1171); nor the harvest-scene, without that of Palemon and Lavinia, (Aut. v. 177); nor the driving snows, without that exquisite picture of a man perishing among them, (Winter, v. 276.)? It is much to be regretted, that Young did not employ the same artifice to animate his Night-Thoughts. Sentiments and descriptions may be regarded as the pilasters, carvings, gildings, and other decorations of the poetical fabric; but human actions are the columns and the rafters, that give it stability and elevation. Or,

changing the metaphor, we may consider these as the soul which informs the lovely frame; while those are little more than the ornaments of the body.

Whether the pleasure we take in things natural, and our dislike to what is the reverse, be the effect of habit or of constitution, is not a material inquiry. There is nothing absurd in supposing, that between the soul, in its first formation, and the rest of nature, a mutual harmony and sympathy may have been established, which experience may indeed confirm, but no perverse habits could entirely subdue. As no sort of education could make man believe the contrary of a self-evident axiom, or reconcile him to a life of perfect solitude; so we should imagine, that our love of nature and regularity might still remain with us in some degree, though we had been born and bred in the Sicilian villa above-mentioned, and never heard any thing applauded but what deserved censure, nor censured but what merited applause. Yet habit must be allowed to have a powerful influence over the sentiments and feelings of mankind. Objects to which we have been long accustomed, we are apt to contract a fondness for; we conceive them readily, and contemplate them with pleasure; nor do we quit our old tracts of speculation or practice, without reluctance and pain. Hence in part arises our attachment to our own professions, our old acquaintance, our native soil, our homes, and to the very hills, streams, and rocks in our neighbourhood. It would therefore be strange, if man, accustomed as he is from his earliest days to the regularity of nature, did not contract a liking to her productions, and principles of operation.

Yet we neither expect nor desire, that every human invention, where the end is only to please, should be an exact transcript of real existence. It is enough, that the mind acquiesce in it as probable, or plausible, or such as we think might happen without any direct opposition to the laws of Nature: — Or, to speak more accurately, it is enough, that it be consistent, either, first, with general experience; or, secondly, with popular opinion; or, thirdly, that it be consistent with itself, and connected with probable circumstances.

First: If a human invention be consistent with general experience, we acquiesce in it as sufficiently probable. Particular experiences, however, there may be, so uncommon and so little expected, that we should not admit their probability, if we did not know them to be true. No man of sense believes, that he has any likelihood of being enriched by the discovery of hidden treasure; or thinks it probable, on purchasing a lottery-ticket, that he shall gain the first prize; and yet great wealth has actually been acquired by such good fortune. But we should look upon these as poor expedients in a play or romance for bringing about a happy catastrophe. We expect that fiction should be more consonant to the general tenor of human affairs; in a word, that not possibility, but probability, should be the standard of poetical invention.

Secondly: Fiction is admitted as conformable to this standard, when it accords with received opinions. These may be erroneous, but are not often apparently repugnant to nature. On this account, and because they are familiar to us from our infancy, the mind readily

Of readily acquiesces in them, or at least yields them that degree of credit which is necessary to render them pleasing. Hence the fairies, ghosts, and witches of Shakespeare, are admitted as probable beings; and angels obtain a place in religious pictures, though we know that they do not now appear in the scenery of real life. Even when a popular opinion has long been exploded, and has become repugnant to universal belief, the fictions built upon it are still admitted as natural, because they were accounted such by the people to whom they were first addressed; whose sentiments and views of things we are willing to adopt, when, by the power of pleasing description, we are introduced into their scenes, and made acquainted with their manners. Hence we admit the theology of the ancient poets, their Elysium and Tartarus, Scylla and Charybdis, Cyclops and Circe, and the rest of those "beautiful wonders" (as Horace calls them) which were believed in the heroic ages; as well as the demons and enchantments of Tasso, which may be supposed to have obtained no small degree of credit among the Italians of the 16th century, and are suitable enough to the notions that prevailed universally in Europe not long before (A). In fact, when poetry is in other respects true; when it gives an accurate display of those parts of nature about which we know that men in all ages must have entertained the same opinion, namely, those appearances in the visible creation, and those feelings and workings of the human mind, which are obvious to all mankind;—when poetry is thus far according to nature, we are very willing to be indulgent to what is fictitious in it, and to grant a temporary allowance to any system of fable which the author pleases to adopt; provided that he lay the scene in a distant country, or fix the date to a remote period. This is no unreasonable piece of complaisance: we owe it both to the poet and to ourselves; for without it we should neither form a right estimate of his genius, nor receive from his works that pleasure which they were intended to impart. Let him, however, take care, that his system of fable be such as his countrymen and contemporaries (to whom his work is immediately addressed) might be supposed capable of yielding their assent to; for otherwise we should not believe him to be in earnest: and let him connect it as much as he can with probable circumstances, and make it appear in a series of events consistent with itself.

For (thirdly) if this be the case, we shall admit his story as probable, or at least as natural, and consequently be interested in it, even though it be not warranted by general experience, and derive but slender authority from popular opinion. Calyban, in the Tempest, would have shocked the mind as an improbability, if we had not been made acquainted with his origin, and seen his character displayed in a series of consistent behaviour. But when we are told that he sprung from a witch and a demon, a connection not contrary to the laws of nature, as they were under-

stood in Shakespeare's time, and find his manners conformable to his descent, we are easily reconciled to the fiction. In the same sense, the Lilliputians of Swift may pass for probable beings; not so much because we know that a belief in pygmies was once current in the world, (for the true ancient pygmy was at least thrice as tall as those whom Gulliver visited), but because we find that every circumstance relating to them accords with itself, and with their supposed character. It is not the size of the people only that is diminutive; their country, seas, ships, and towns, are all in exact proportion; their theological and political principles, their passions, manners, customs, and all the parts of their conduct, betray a levity and littleness perfectly suitable: and so simple is the whole narration, and apparently so artless and sincere, that we should not much wonder if it had imposed (as we have been told it has) upon some persons of no contemptible understanding. The same degree of credit may perhaps, for the same reasons, be due to his giants. But when he grounds his narrative upon a contradiction to nature; when he presents us with rational brutes, and irrational men; when he tells us of horses building houses for habitation, milking cows for food, riding in carriages, and holding conversations on the laws and politics of Europe; not all his genius (and he there exerts it to the utmost) is able to reconcile us to so monstrous a fiction: we may smile at some of his absurd exaggerations; we may be pleased with the energy of style, and accuracy of description, in particular places; and a malevolent heart may triumph in the satire; but we can never relish it as a fable, because it is at once unnatural and self-contradictory. Swift's judgment seems to have forsaken him on this occasion: he wallows in nastiness and brutality; and the general run of his satire is downright defamation. Lucian's True History is a heap of extravagancies put together without order or unity, or any other apparent design than to ridicule the language and manner of grave authors. His ravings, which have no better right to the name of Fable, than a hill of rubbish has to that of palace, are destitute of every colour of plausibility. Animal trees, ships sailing in the sky, armies of monstrous things travelling between the sun and moon on a pavement of cobwebs, rival nations of men inhabiting woods and mountains in a whale's belly,—are liker the dreams of a bedlamite than the inventions of a rational being.

If we were to prosecute this subject any further, it would be proper to remark, that in some kinds of poetical invention a stricter probability is required than in others:—that, for instance, Comedy, whether dramatic or narrative (B), must seldom deviate from the ordinary course of human affairs, because it exhibits the manners of real, and even of familiar life:—that the tragic poet, because he imitates characters more exalted, and generally refers to events little known, or long since past, may be allowed a wider range; but must never attempt the marvellous fictions of the epic muse,

(A) In the 14th century, the common people of Italy believed, that the poet Dante went down to hell; that the Inferno was a true account of what he saw there; and that his sallow complexion, and stunted beard, (which seemed by its growth and colour to have been too near the fire), where the consequence of his passing so much of his time in that hot and smoky region. See Vicende della letteratura del Sig. G. Denina, cap. 4.

(B) Fielding's Tom Jones, Amelia, and Joseph Andrews, are examples of what may be called the Epic or Narrative Comedy, or more properly, perhaps, the Comic Epopee.

muse, because he addresses his work, not only to the passions and imagination of mankind, but also to their eyes and ears, which are not easily imposed on, and refuse to be gratified with any representation that does not come very near the truth:—that the epic poem may claim still ampler privileges, because its fictions are not subject to the scrutiny of any outward sense, and because it conveys information in regard both to the highest human characters, and the most important and wonderful events, and also to the affairs of unseen worlds and superior beings. Nor would it be improper to observe, that the several species of comic, of tragic, of epic composition, are not confined to the same degree of probability: for that farce may be allowed to be less probable than the regular comedy; the masque than the regular tragedy; and the mixed epic, such as the Fairy Queen, and Orlando Furioso, than the pure epopee of Homer, Virgil, and Milton. But this part of the subject seems not to require further illustration. Enough has been said to show, that nothing unnatural can please; and that therefore poetry, whose end is to please, must be according to nature.

And if so, it must be, either according to real nature, or according to nature somewhat different from the reality.

SECT. III. Of the System of Nature exhibited by Poetry.

11. To exhibit real nature is the business of the historian; who, if he were strictly to confine himself to his own sphere, would never record even the minutest circumstance of any speech, event, or description, which was not warranted by sufficient authority. It has been the language of critics in every age, that the historian ought to relate nothing as true which is false or dubious, and to conceal nothing material which he knows to be true. But it is to be doubted whether any writer of profane history has ever been so scrupulous. Thucydides himself, who began his history when that war began which he records, and who set down every event soon after it happened, according to the most authentic information, seems, however, to have indulged his fancy not a little in his harangues and descriptions, particularly that of the plague of Athens: and the same thing has been practised, with greater latitude, by Livy and Tacitus, and more or less by all the best historians both ancient and modern. Nor are they to be blamed for it. By these improved or invented speeches, and by the heightenings thus given to their descriptions, their work becomes more interesting, and more useful; nobody is deceived, and historical truth is not materially affected. A medium is, however, to be observed in this, as in other things. When the historian lengthens a description into a detail of fictitious events, as Voltaire has done in his account of the battle of Fontenoy, he loses his credit with us, by raising a suspicion that he is more intent upon a pretty story, than upon the truth. And we are disgusted with his insincerity, when, in defiance even of verisimilitude, he puts long elaborate orations in the mouth of those, of whom we know, either from the circumstances that they could not, or from more authentic records that they did not, make any such orations; as Dionysius of Halicarnassus has done in

the case of Volunia haranguing her son Coriolanus, and Flavius Josephus in that of Judah addressing his brother as viceroy of Egypt. From what these historians relate, one would conjecture, that the Roman matron had studied at Athens under some long-winded rhetorician, and that the Jewish patriarch must have been one of the most flowery orators of antiquity. But the fictitious part of history, or of story-telling, ought never to take up much room; and must be highly blameable when it leads into any mistake either of facts or of characters.

Now, why do historians take the liberty to embellish their works in this manner? One reason, no doubt, is, that they may display their talents in oratory and narration: but the chief reason, as hinted already, is, to render their composition more agreeable. It would seem, then, that something more pleasing than real nature, or something which shall add to the pleasing qualities of real nature, may be devised by human fancy. And this may certainly be done. And this it is the poet's business to do. And when this is in any degree done by the historian, his narrative becomes in that degree poetical.

The possibility of thus improving upon nature must be obvious to every one. When we look at a landscape, we can fancy a thousand additional embellishments. Mountains loftier and more picturesque; rivers more copious, more limpid, and more beautifully winding; smoother and wider lawns; valleys more richly diversified; caverns and rocks more gloomy and more stupendous; ruins more majestic; buildings more magnificent; oceans more varied with islands, more splendid with shipping, or more agitated by storm, than any we have ever seen, it is easy for human imagination to conceive. Many things in art and nature exceed expectation; but nothing sensible transcends, or equals, the capacity of thought:—a striking evidence of the dignity of the human soul! The finest woman in the world appears to every eye susceptible of improvement, except perhaps to that of her lover. No wonder, then, if in poetry events can be exhibited more compact, and of more pleasing variety, than those delineated by the historian, and scenes of inanimate nature more dreadful or more lovely, and human characters more sublime and more exquisite, both in good and evil. Yet still let nature supply the ground-work and materials, as well as the standard, of poetical fiction. The most expert painters use a layman, or other visible figure, to direct their hand and regulate their fancy. Homer himself founds his two poems on authentic tradition; and tragic as well as epic poets have followed the example. The writers of romance, too, are ambitious to interweave true adventures with their fables; and when it can be conveniently done, to take the outlines of their plan from real life. Thus the tale of Robinson Crusoe is founded on an incident that actually befell one Alexander Selkirk, a sea-faring man, who lived several years alone in the island of Juan Fernandez: Smollett is thought to have given us several of his own adventures in the history of Roderic Random; and the chief characters in Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, and Pamela, are said to have been copied from real originals.—Dramatic comedy, indeed, is for the most part purely fictitious: for if it were to exhibit real events

Of Nature in Poetry.

as well as present manners, it would become too personal to be endured by a well-bred audience, and degenerate into downright abuse; which appears to have been the case with the old comedy of the Greeks*. But in general, hints taken from real existence will be found to give no little grace and stability to fiction, even in the most fanciful poems. Those hints, however, may be improved by the poet's imagination, and set off with every probable ornament that can be devised, consistently with the design and genius of the work;—or, in other words, with the sympathies that the poet means to awaken in the mind of his reader. For mere poetical ornament, when it fails to interest the affections, is not only useless but improper; all true poetry being addressed to the heart, and intended to give pleasure by raising or soothing the passions;—the only effectual way of pleasing a rational and moral creature. And therefore we would take Horace's maxim to be universal in poetry: "Non satis est, pulchra esse poemata; dulcia sunt." "It is not enough that poems be beautiful; let them also be affecting."—For that this is the meaning of the word dulcia in this place, is admitted by the best interpreters, and is indeed evident from the context†.

† Hor. Ar. Poet. ver. 95—100.

That the sentiments and feelings of perceptive beings, when expressed in poetry, should call forth our affections, is natural enough; but can descriptions of inanimate things also be made affecting? Certainly they can: and the more they affect, the more they please us, and the more poetical we allow them to be. Virgil's Georgic is a noble specimen (and indeed the noblest in the world) of this sort of poetry. His admiration of external nature gains upon a reader of taste, till it rise to perfect enthusiasm. The following observations will perhaps explain this matter.

Every thing in nature is complex in itself, and bears innumerable relations to other things; and may therefore be viewed in an endless variety of lights, and consequently described in an endless variety of ways. Some descriptions are good, and others bad. An historical description, that enumerates all the qualities of any object, is certainly good, because it is true; but may be as uninteresting as a logical definition. In poetry, no uninteresting description is good, however conformable to truth; for here we expect not a complete enumeration of qualities, (the chief end of the art being to please), but only such an enumeration as may give a lively and interesting idea. It is not memory, or the knowledge of rules, that can qualify a poet for this sort of description; but a peculiar liveliness of fancy and sensibility of heart, the nature whereof we may explain by its effects, but we cannot lay down rules for the attainment of it.

When our mind is occupied by any emotion, we naturally use words and meditate on things that are suitable to it and tend to encourage it. If a man were to write a letter when he is very angry, there would probably be something of vehemence or bitterness in the style, even though the person to whom he wrote were not the object of his anger. The same thing holds true of every other strong passion or emotion:—while it predominates in the mind, it gives a

peculiarity to our thoughts, as well as to our voice, gesture, and countenance: And hence we expect, that every personage introduced in poetry should see things through the medium of his ruling passion, and that his thoughts and language should be tinged accordingly. A melancholy man walking in a grove, attends to those things that suit and encourage his melancholy; the sighing of the wind in the trees, the murmuring of waters, the darkness and solitude of the shades: A cheerful man in the same place, finds many subjects of cheerful meditation, in the singing of birds, the brisk motions of the babling stream, and the liveliness and variety of the verdure. Persons of different characters, contemplating the same thing, a Roman triumph, for instance, feel different emotions, and turn their view to different objects. One is filled with wonder at such a display of wealth and power; another exults in the idea of conquest, and pants for military renown; a third, stunned with clamour, and harassed with confusion, wishes for silence, security, and solitude; one melts with pity to the vanquished, and makes many a

sad reflection upon the insignificance of worldly grandeur, and the uncertainty of human things; while the buffoon, and perhaps the philosopher, considers the whole as a vain piece of pageantry, which, by its solemn procedure, and by the admiration of so many people, is only rendered the more ridiculous:—and each of these persons would describe it in a way suitable to his own feelings, and tending to raise the same in others. We see in Milton's Allegro and Pensoro, how a different cast of mind produces a variety in the manner of conceiving and contemplating the same rural scenery. In the former of these excellent poems, the author personates a cheerful man, and takes notice of those things in external nature that are suitable to cheerful thoughts, and tend to encourage them: in the latter, every object described is serious and solemn, and productive of calm reflection and tender melancholy: and we should not be easily persuaded, that Milton wrote the first under the influence of sorrow, or the second under that of gladness. We often see an author's character in his works; and if every author were in earnest when he writes, we should often see it. Thomson was a man of piety and benevolence, and a warm admirer of the beauties of nature; and every description in his delightful poem on the Seasons tends to raise the same laudable affections in his reader. The parts of nature that attract his notice are those which an impious or hard-hearted man would neither attend to, nor be affected with, at least in the same manner. In Swift we see a turn of mind very different from that of the amiable Thomson; little relish for the sublime or beautiful, and a perpetual succession of violent emotions. All his pictures of human life seem to show, that deformity and meanness were the favourite objects of his attention, and that his soul was a constant prey to indignation (c), disgust, and other gloomy passions, arising from such a view of things. And it is the tendency of almost all his writings, (though it was not always the author's design), to communicate the same passions to his reader: inasmuch, that notwithstanding his erudition and know-

(c) For part of this remark we have his own authority, often in his letters, and very explicitly in the Latin epitaph which he composed for himself:—"ubi fava indignatio ulterius cor lacerare nequit." See his last will and testament.

knowledge of the world, his abilities as a popular orator and man of business, the energy of his style, the elegance of some of his verses, and his extraordinary talents in wit and humour, there is reason to doubt, whether by studying his works any person was ever much improved in piety or benevolence.

And thus we see, how the compositions of an ingenious author may operate upon the heart, whatever be the subject. The affections that prevail in the author himself direct his attention to objects congenial, and give a peculiar bias to his inventive powers, and a peculiar colour to his language. Hence his work, as well as face, if nature is permitted to exert herself freely in it, will exhibit a picture of his mind, and awaken correspondent sympathies in the reader. When these are favourable to virtue, which they always ought to be, the work will have that sweet pathos which Horace alludes in the passage above mentioned; and which we so highly admire, and so warmly approve, even in those parts of the Georgic that describe inanimate nature.

Horace's account of the matter in question differs not from what is here given. "It is not enough (says he*) that poems be beautiful; let them be affecting, and agitate the mind with whatever passions the poet wishes to impart. The human countenance, as it smiles on those who smile, accompanies also with sympathetic tears those who mourn. If you would have me weep, you must first weep yourself; then, and not before, shall I be touched with your misfortunes.—For nature first makes the emotions of our mind correspond with our circumstances, infusing real joy, sorrow, or resentment, according to the occasion; and afterwards gives the true pathetic utterance to the voice and language." This doctrine, which concerns the orator and the player no less than the poet, is strictly philosophical, and equally applicable to dramatic, to descriptive, and indeed to every species of interesting poetry. The poet's sensibility must first of all engage him warmly in his subject, and in every part of it; otherwise he will labour in vain to interest the reader. If he would paint external nature, as Virgil and Thomson have done, so as to make her amiable to others, he must first be enamoured of her himself; if he would have his heroes and heroines speak the language of love or sorrow, devotion or courage, ambition or anger, benevolence or pity, his heart must be susceptible of those emotions, and in some degree feel them, as long at least as he employs himself in framing words for them; being assured, that

He left shall paint them who can feel them most.

POPE'S Essay, v. 366.

The true poet, therefore, must not only study nature, and know the reality of things; but must also possess fancy, to invent additional decorations; judgment, to direct him in the choice of such as accord with verisimilitude; and sensibility, to enter with ardent emotions into every part of his subject, so as to transfuse into every part of his work a pathos and energy sufficient to raise corresponding emotions in the reader.

"The historian and the poet (says Aristotle†) differ in this, that the former exhibits things as they are, the latter as they might be;"—i. e. in that state of perfection which is consistent with probability, and in which, for the sake of our own gratification, we wish to find them. If the poet, after all the liberties he is

allowed to take with the truth, can produce nothing more exquisite than is commonly to be met with in history, his reader will be disappointed and dissatisfied. Poetical representations must therefore be framed after a pattern of the highest probable perfection that the genius of the work will admit:—external nature must in them be more picturesque than in reality; action more animated; sentiments more expressive of the feelings and character, and more suitable to the circumstances of the speaker; personages better accomplished in those qualities that raise admiration, pity, terror, and other ardent emotions; and events, more compact, more clearly connected with causes and consequences, and unfolded in an order more flattering to the fancy, and more interesting to the passions. But where, it may be said, is this pattern of perfection to be found? Not in real nature; otherwise history, which delineates real nature, would also delineate this pattern of perfection. It is to be found only in the mind of the poet; and it is imagination, regulated by knowledge, that enables him to form it.

In the beginning of life, and while experience is confined to a small circle, we admire every thing, and are pleased with very moderate excellence. A peasant thinks the hall of his landlord the finest apartment in the universe, listens with rapture to the strolling ballad-singer, and wonders at the rude wooden cuts that adorn his ruder compositions. A child looks upon his native village as a town; upon the brook that runs by, as a river; and upon the meadows and hills in the neighbourhood, as the most spacious and beautiful that can be. But when, after long absence, he returns in his declining years, to visit, once before he die, the dear spot that gave him birth, and those scenes whereof he remembers rather the original charms than the exact proportions; how is he disappointed to find every thing so debased, and so diminished! The hills seem to have sunk into the ground, the brook to be dried up, and the village to be forsaken of its people; the parish-church, stripped of all its fancied magnificence, is become low, gloomy, and narrow; and the fields are now only the miniature of what they were. Had he never left this spot, his notions might have remained the same as at first; and had he travelled but a little way from it, they would not perhaps have received any material enlargement. It seems then to be from observation of many things of the same or similar kinds, that we acquire the talent of forming ideas more perfect than the real objects that lie immediately around us: and these ideas we may improve gradually more and more, according to the vivacity of our mind, and extent of our experience, till at last we come to raise them to a degree of perfection superior to any thing to be found in real life. There cannot, sure, be any mystery in this doctrine; for we think and speak to the same purpose every day. Thus nothing is more common than to say, that such an artist excels all we have ever known in his profession, and yet that we can still conceive a superior performance. A moralist, by bringing together into one view the separate virtues of many persons, is enabled to lay down a system of duty more perfect than any he has ever seen exemplified in human conduct. Whatever be the emotion the poet intends to raise in his reader, whether admiration or terror, joy or sorrow; and whatever be the object he would exhibit,

Of Nature in Poetry. exhibit, whether Venus or Tisiphone, Achilles or Thersites, a palace or a pile of ruins, a dance or a battle; he generally copies an idea of his own imagination; considering each quality as it is found to exist in several individuals of a species, and thence forming an assemblage more or less perfect in its kind, according to the purpose to which he means to apply it.

Hence it would appear, that the ideas of poetry are rather general than singular; rather collected from the examination of a species or class of things, than copied from an individual. And this, according to Aristotle, is in fact the case, at least for the most part; whence that critic determines, that poetry is something more exquisite and more philosophical than history*. The historian may describe Bucephalus, but the poet delineates a war-horse; the former must have seen the animal he speaks of, or received authentic information concerning it, if he mean to describe it historically; for the latter, it is enough that he has seen several animals of that sort. The former tells us, what Achilles actually did and said; the latter, what such a species of human character as that which bears the name of Achilles would probably do or say in certain given circumstances.

It is indeed true, that the poet may, and often does, copy after individual objects. Homer, no doubt, took his characters from the life; or at least, in forming them, was careful to follow tradition as far as the nature of his plan would allow. But he probably took the freedom to add or heighten some qualities, and take away others; to make Achilles, for example, stronger, perhaps, and more impetuous, and more eminent for filial affection, and Hector more patriotic and more amiable, than he really was. If he had not done this, or something like it, his work would have been rather a history than a poem; would have exhibited men and things as they were, and not as they might have been; and Achilles and Hector would have been the names of individual and real heroes; whereas, according to Aristotle, they are rather to be considered as two distinct modifications or species of the heroic character. Shakespeare's account of the cliffs of Dover comes so near the truth, that we cannot doubt of its having been written by one who had seen them: but he who takes it for an exact historical description, will be surprised when he comes to the place, and finds those cliffs not half so lofty as the poet had made him believe. An historian would be to blame for such amplification; because, being to describe an individual precipice, he ought to tell us just what it is; which if he did, the description would suit that place, and perhaps no other in the whole world. But the poet means only to give an idea of what such a precipice may be; and therefore his description may perhaps be equally applicable to many such chalky precipices on the seashore.

This method of copying after general ideas formed by the artist from observation of many individuals, distinguishes the Italian and all the sublime painters, from the Dutch and their imitators. These give us bare nature, with the imperfections and peculiarities of individual things or persons; but those give nature improved as far as probability and the design of the piece will admit. Teniers and Hogarth draw faces, and figures, and dresses, from real life, and present man-

ners; and therefore their pieces must in some degree lose the effect, and become awkward, when the present fashions become obsolete.—Raphael and Reynolds take their models from general nature; avoiding, as far as possible, (at least in all their great performances), those peculiarities that derive their beauty from mere fashion; and therefore their works must give pleasure, and appear elegant, as long as men are capable of forming general ideas, and of judging from them. The last-mentioned incomparable artist is particularly observant of children, whose looks and attitudes, being less under the control of art and local manners, are more characteristic of the species than those of men and women. This field of observation has supplied him with many fine figures, particularly that most exquisite one of Comedy, struggling for and winning (for who could resist her!) the affections of Garrick:—a figure which could never have occurred to the imagination of a painter who had confined his views to grown persons looking and moving in all the formality of polite life;—a figure which in all ages and countries would be pronounced natural and engaging;—whereas those human forms that we see every day bowing, and courtesying, and strutting, and turning out their toes secundum artem, and dressed in ruffles, and wigs, and flounces, and hoop-petticoats, and full-trimmed suits, would appear elegant no further than the present fashions are propagated, and no longer than they remain unaltered.

There is, in the progress of human society, as well as of human life, a period to which it is of great importance for the higher order of poets to attend, and from which they will do well to take their characters, and manners, and the era of their events; namely, that wherein men are raised above savage life, and considerably improved by arts, government, and conversation; but not advanced so high in the ascent towards politeness, as to have acquired a habit of disigning their thoughts and passions, and of reducing their behaviour to the uniformity of the mode. Such was the period which Homer had the good fortune (as a poet) to live in, and to celebrate. This is the period at which the manners of men are most picturesque, and their adventures most romantic. This is the period when the appetites unperverted by luxury, the powers unenervated by effeminacy, and the thoughts disengaged from artificial restraint, will, in persons of similar dispositions and circumstances, operate in nearly the same way; and when, consequently, the characters of particular men will approach to the nature of poetical or general ideas, and, if well imitated, give pleasure to the whole, or at least to a great majority of mankind. But a character inculcated with the fashions of polite life would not be so generally interesting. Like a human figure adjusted by a modern dancing-master, and dressed by a modern tailor, it may have a good effect in satire, comedy, or farce: but if introduced into the higher poetry, it would be admired by those only who had learned to admire nothing but present fashions, and by them no longer than the present fashions lasted; and to all the rest of the world would appear awkward, unaffectionate, and perhaps ridiculous. But Achilles and Sarpedon, Diomedes and Hector, Nestor and Ulysses, as drawn by Homer, must in all ages, independently on fashion, command the attention and ad-

miration of mankind. These have the qualities that are universally known to belong to human nature; whereas the modern fine gentleman is distinguished by qualities that belong only to a particular age, society, and corner of the world. We speak not of moral or intellectual virtues, which are objects of admiration to every age; but of those outward accomplishments, and that particular temperature of the passions, which form the most perceptible part of a human character.——As, therefore, the politician, in discussing the rights of mankind, must often allude to an imaginary state of nature; so the poet who intends to raise admiration, pity, terror, and other important emotions, in the generality of mankind, especially in those readers whose minds are most improved, must take his pictures of life and manners, rather from the heroic period we now speak of, than from the ages of refinement; and must therefore (to repeat the maxim of Aristotle) "exhibit things, not as they are, but as they might be."

SECT. IV Of Poetical Characters.

12. HORACE seems to think, that a competent knowledge of moral philosophy will fit an author for assigning the suitable qualities and duties to each poetical personage: (Ar. Poet. v. 309.—316.) The maxim may be true, as far as mere morality is the sin of the poet; but cannot be understood to refer to the delineation of poetical characters in general: for a thorough acquaintance with all the moral philosophy in the world would not have enabled Blackmore to paint such a personage as Homer's Achilles, Shakespeare's Othello, or the Satan of Paradise Lost. To a competency of moral science, there must be added an extensive knowledge of mankind, a warm and elevated imagination, and the greatest sensibility of heart, before a genius can be formed equal to so difficult a task. Horace is indeed so sensible of the danger of introducing a new character in poetry, that he even discourages the attempt, and advises the poet rather to take his persons from the ancient authors, or from tradition: (Ibid. v. 119.—130.)

To conceive the idea of a good man, and to invent and support a great poetical character, are two very different things, however they may seem to have been confounded by some late critics. The first is easy to any person sufficiently instructed in the duties of life: the last is perhaps of all the efforts of human genius the most difficult; so very difficult, that, though attempted by many, Homer, Shakespeare, and Milton, are almost the only authors who have succeeded in it. But characters of perfect virtue are not the most proper for poetry. It seems to be agreed, that the Deity should not be introduced in the machinery of a poetical fable. To ascribe to him words and actions of our own invention, seems very unbecoming; nor can a poetical description, that is known to be, and must of necessity be, infinitely inadequate, ever satisfy the human mind. Poetry, according to the best critics, is an imitation of human action; and therefore poetical characters, though elevated, should still partake of the passions and frailties of humanity. If it were not for the vices of some principal personages, the Iliad would not be either so interesting or so moral:—the most moving and most eventful parts of the Aeneid are those that describe the effects of unlawful passion:—

the most instructive tragedy in the world, we mean Of Poetical Macbeth, is founded in crimes of dreadful enormity: Characters.—and if Milton had not taken into his plan the fall of our first parents, as well as their state of innocence, his divine poem must have wanted much of its pathos, and could not have been (what it now is) such a treasure of important knowledge, as no other uninspired writer ever comprehended in so small a compass.——Virtue, like truth, is uniform and unchangeable. We may anticipate the part a good man will act in any given circumstances: and therefore the events that depend on such a man must be less surprising than those which proceed from passion; the vicissitudes whereof it is frequently impossible to foresee. From the violent temper of Achilles in the Iliad, spring many great incidents; which could not have taken place, if he had been calm and prudent like Ulysses, or pious and patriotic like Eneas:—his rejection of Agamemnon's offers, in the ninth book, arises from the violence of his resentment;—his yielding to the request of Patroclus, in the 16th, from the violence of his friendship (if we may so speak) counteracting his resentment; and his restoring to Priam the dead body of Hector, in the 24th, from the violence of his affection to his own aged father, and his regard to the command of Jupiter, counteracting, in some measure, both his sorrow for his friend, and his thirst for vengeance.——Besides, except where there is some degree of vice, it pains us too exquisitely to see misfortune; and therefore poetry would cease to have a pleasurable influence over our tender passions, if it were to exhibit virtuous characters only. And as in life, evil is necessary to our moral probation, and the possibility of error to our intellectual improvement; so bad or mixed characters are useful in poetry, to give to the good such opposition, as puts them upon displaying and exercising their virtue.

All those personages, however, in whose fortune the poet means that we should be interested, must have agreeable and admirable qualities to recommend them to our regard. And perhaps the greatest difficulty in the art lies in suitably blending those faults, which the poet finds it expedient to give to any particular hero, with such moral, intellectual, or corporeal accomplishments, as may engage our esteem, pity, or admiration, without weakening our hatred of vice, or love of virtue. In most of our novels, and in many of our plays, it happens unluckily, that the hero of the piece is so captivating, as to incline us to be indulgent to every part of his character, the bad as well as the good. But a great master knows how to give the proper direction to human sensibility; and, without any perversion of our faculties, or any confusion of right and wrong, to make the same person the object of very different emotions, of pity and hatred, of admiration and horror. Who does not esteem and admire Macbeth for his courage and generosity? who does not pity him when beset with all the terrors of a pregnant imagination, superstitious temper, and awakened conscience? who does not abhor him as a monster of cruelty, treachery, and ingratitude? His good qualities, by drawing us near to him, make us, as it were, eye-witnesses of his crime, and give us a fellow-feeling of his remorse; and therefore, his example cannot fail to have a powerful effect in cherishing our love of virtue,

virtue, and fortifying our minds against criminal impressions: whereas, had he wanted those good qualities, we should have kept aloof from his concerns, or viewed them with a superficial attention; in which case his example would have had little more weight, than that of the robber, of whom we know nothing, but that he was tried, condemned, and executed.—Satan, in Paradise Lost, is a character drawn and supported with the most consummate judgment. The old furies and demons, Hecate, Tisiphone, Aleisto, Megara, are objects of unmixed and unmitigated abhorrence; Tityus, Enceladus, and their brethren, are remarkable for nothing but impiety, deformity, and vastness of size; Pluto is, at best, an insipid personage; Mars, a hairbained ruffian; Tasso's infernal tyrant, an ugly and overgrown monster:—but in the Miltonic Satan, we are forced to admire the majesty of the ruined archangel, at the same time that we detest the unconquerable depravity of the fiend. "But, of all poetical characters, (says the elegant critic from whom we are extracting), the Achilles of Homer (r) seems to me the most exquisite of the invention, and the most highly finished. The utility of this character in a moral view is obvious; for it may be considered as the source of all the morality of the Iliad. Had not the generous and violent temper of Achilles determined him to patronise the augur Calchas in defiance of Agamemnon, and afterwards, on being affronted by that vindictive commander, to abandon for a time the common cause of Greece;—the fatal effects of dissension among confederates, and of capricious and tyrannical behaviour in a sovereign, would not have been the leading moral of Homer's poetry; nor could Hector, Sarpedon, Eneas, Ulysses, and the other amiable heroes, have been brought forward to signalize their virtues, and recommend themselves to the esteem and imitation of mankind.

"They who form their judgment of Achilles from the imperfect sketch given of him by Horace in the Art of Poetry, (v. 121, 122.); and consider him only as a hateful composition of anger, revenge, fierceness, obstinacy, and pride, can never enter into the views of Homer, nor be suitably affected with his narration. All these vices are no doubt, in some degree, combined in Achilles; but they are tempered with qualities of a different sort, which render him a most interesting character, and of course make the Iliad a most interesting poem. Every reader abhors the faults of this hero: and yet, to an attentive reader of Homer, this hero must be the object of esteem, admiration, and pity; for he has many good as well as bad affections, and is equally violent in all:—Nor is he possessed of a single vice or virtue, which the wonderful art of the poet has not made subservient to the design of the poem, and to the progress and catastrophe of the action; so that the hero of the Iliad, considered as a poetical personage, is just what he should be, neither

greater nor less, neither worse nor better.—He is every where distinguished by an abhorrence of oppression, by a liberal and elevated mind, by a passion for glory, and by a love of truth, freedom, and sincerity. He is for the most part attentive to the duties of religion; and, except to those who have injured him, courteous and kind: he is affectionate to his tutor Phœnix; and not only pities the misfortunes of his enemy Priam, but in the most soothing manner administers to him the best consolation that poor Homer's theology could furnish. Though no admirer of the cause in which his evil destiny compels him to engage, he is warmly attached to his native land; and, ardent as he is in vengeance, he is equally so in love to his aged father Peleus, and to his friend Patroclus. He is not luxurious like Paris, nor clownish like Ajax; his accomplishments are princely, and his amusements worthy of a hero. Add to this, as an apology for the vehemence of his anger, that the affront he had received was (according to the manners of that age) of the most atrocious nature; and not only unprovoked, but such as, on the part of Agamemnon, betrayed a brutal insensibility to merit, as well as a proud, selfish, ungrateful, and tyrannical disposition. And though he is often inexcusably furious; yet it is but justice to remark, that he was not naturally cruel (g); and that his wildest outrages were such as in those rude times might be expected from a violent man of invincible strength and valour, when exasperated by injury, and frantic with sorrow.—Our hero's claim to the admiration of mankind is indisputable. Every part of his character is sublime and astonishing. In his person, he is the strongest, the swiftest, and most beautiful of men:—this last circumstance, however, occurs not to his own observation, being too trivial to attract the notice of so great a mind. The Fates had put it in his power, either to return home before the end of the war, or to remain at Troy:—if he chose the former, he would enjoy tranquillity and happiness in his own country to a good old age; if the latter, he must perish in the bloom of his youth:—his affection to his father and native country, and his hatred to Agamemnon, strongly urged him to the first; but a desire to avenge the death of his friend determines him to accept the last, with all its consequences. This at once displays the greatness of his fortitude, the warmth of his friendship, and the violence of his sanguinary passions: and it is this that so often and so powerfully recommends him to the pity, as well as admiration, of the attentive reader."

It is equally a proof of rich invention and exact judgment in Homer, that he mixes some good qualities in all his bad characters, and some degree of imperfection in almost all his good ones.—Agamemnon, notwithstanding his pride, is an able general, and a valiant man, and highly esteemed as such by the greater part of the army.—Paris, though effemi-

(r) "I say the Achilles of Homer. Latter authors have degraded the character of this hero, by supposing every part of his body invulnerable except the heel. I know not how often I have heard this urged as one of Homer's absurdities; and indeed the whole Iliad is one continued absurdity, on this supposition. But Homer all along makes his hero equally liable to wounds and death with other men. Nay, to prevent all mistakes in regard to this matter, (if those who cavil at the poet would but read his work), he actually wounds him in the right arm by the lance of Asteropeus, in the battle near the river Scamander. See Iliad, xxi. ver. 161.—168.

(g) See Iliad xxi. 100. and xxiv. 485.—673.—In the first of these passages, Achilles himself declares, that before Patroclus was slain, he often spared the lives of his enemies, and took pleasure in doing it. It is strange, as Dr Beattie observes, that this should be left out in Pope's Translation.

nate, and vain of his dress and person, is, however, good-natured, patient of reproach, not destitute of courage, and eminently skilled in music and other fine arts.—Ajax is a huge giant; fearless rather from insensibility to danger, and confidence in his massive arms, than from any nobler principle; boastful and rough; regardless of the gods, though not downright impious; yet there is in his manner something of frankness and blunt sincerity, which entitle him to a share in our esteem; and he is ever ready to assist his countrymen, to whom he renders good service on many a perilous emergency.—The character of Helen, in spite of her faults, and of the many calamities whereof she is the guilty cause, Homer has found means to recommend to our pity, and almost to our love; and this he does, without seeking to extenuate the crime of Paris, of which the most respectable personages in the poem are made to speak with becoming abhorrence. She is so full of remorse, so ready on every occasion to condemn her past conduct, so affectionate to her friends, so willing to do justice to every body's merit, and withal so finely accomplished, that she extorts our admiration, as well as that of the Trojan senators.—Menelaus, though sufficiently sensible of the injury he had received, is yet a man of moderation, clemency, and good-nature, a valiant soldier, and a most affectionate brother: but there is a dash of vanity in his composition, and he entertains rather too high an opinion of his own abilities, yet never overlooks nor undervalues the merit of others.—Priam would claim unreserved esteem, as well as pity, if it were not for his inexcusable weakness, in gratifying the humour, and by indulgence abetting the crimes, of the most worthless of all his children, to the utter ruin of his people, family, and kingdom. Madame Dacier supposes, that he had lost his authority, and was obliged to fall in with the politics of the times: but of this there appears no evidence; on the contrary, he and his unworthy favourite Paris, seem to have been the only persons of distinction in Troy who were averse to the restoring of Helen. Priam's foible (if it can be called by so soft a name), however faulty, is not uncommon, and has often produced calamity both in private and public life. The scripture gives a memorable instance, in the history of the good old Eli.—Sarpedon comes nearer a perfect character, than any other of Homer's heroes; but the part he has to act is short. It is a character, which one could hardly have expected in those rude times: a sovereign prince, who considers himself as a magistrate set up by the people for the public good, and therefore bound in honour and gratitude to be himself their example, and study to excel as much in virtue as in rank and authority.—Hector is the favourite of every reader, and with good reason. To the truest valour he joins the most generous patriotism. He abominates the crime of Paris: but, not being able to prevent the war, he thinks it his duty to defend his country, and his father and sovereign, to the last. He too, as well as Achilles, foresees his own death; which heightens our compassion, and raises our idea of his magnanimity. In all the relations of private life, as a son, a father, a husband, a brother, he is amiable in the highest degree; and he is distinguished among all the heroes for tenderness of affection, gentleness of manners, and a pious regard

to the duties of religion. One circumstance of his character, strongly expressive of a great and delicate mind, we learn from Helen's lamentation over his dead body, that he was almost the only person in Troy, who had always treated her with kindness, and never uttered one reproachful word to give her pain, nor heard others reproach her without blaming them for it. Some tendency to ostentation (which, however, may be pardonable in a commander in chief), and temporary fits of timidity, are the only blemishes discoverable in this hero; whose portrait Homer appears to have drawn with an affectionate and peculiar attention.

By ascribing so many amiable qualities to Hector and some others of the Trojans, the poet interests us in the fate of that people, notwithstanding our being continually kept in mind that they are the injurious party. And by thus blending good and evil, virtue and frailty, in the composition of his characters, he makes them the more conformable to the real appearances of human nature, and more useful as examples for our improvement; and at the same time, without hurting verisimilitude, gives every necessary embellishment to particular parts of his poem, and variety, coherence, and animation, to the whole fable. And it may also be observed, that tho' several of his characters are complex, not one of them is made up of incompatible parts: all are natural and probable, and such as we think we have met with, or might have met with, in our intercourse with mankind.

From the same extensive views of good and evil, in all their forms and combinations, Homer has been enabled to make each of his characters perfectly distinct in itself, and different from all the rest; insomuch, that before we come to the end of the Iliad, we are as well acquainted with his heroes, as with the faces and tempers of our most familiar friends. Virgil, by confining himself to a few general ideas of fidelity and fortitude, has made his subordinate heroes a very good sort of people; but they are all the same, and we have no clear knowledge of any one of them. Achates is faithful, and Gyas is brave, and Cloanthus is brave; and this is all we can say of the matter. We see these heroes at a distance, and have some notion of their shape and size; but are not near enough to distinguish their features; and every face seems to exhibit the same faint and ambiguous appearance. But of Homer's heroes we know every particular that can be known. We eat, and drink, and talk, and fight with them: we see them in action, and out of it; in the field, and in their tents and houses:—the very face of the country about Troy, we seem to be as well acquainted with, as if we had been there. Similar characters there are among these heroes, as there are similar faces in every society; but we never mistake one for another. Nestor and Ulysses are both wise, and both eloquent: but the wisdom of the former seems to be the effect of experience; that of the latter, of genius: the eloquence of the one is sweet and copious, but not always to the purpose, and apt to degenerate into story-telling; that of the other is close, emphatical, and persuasive, and accompanied with a peculiar modesty and simplicity of manner. Homer's heroes are all valiant; yet each displays a modification of valour peculiar to himself. One is valiant from principle, another from constitution;

Of Poetical Characters. situation; one is rash, another cautious; one is impetuous and headstrong, another impetuous, but tractable; one is cruel, another merciful; one is insolent and ostentatious, another gentle and unassuming; one is vain of his person, another of his strength, and a third of his family. It would be tedious to give a complete enumeration. Almost every species of the heroic character is to be found in Homer.

or a picture, of the former; but we never call it an imitation. Of Poetical Arrangement, &c.

SECT. V. Of Arrangement, Unity, Digressions.

—Further remarks on Nature in Poetry.

13. I. The origin of nations, and the beginnings of great events, are little known, and seldom interesting; whence the first part of every history, compared with the sequel, is somewhat dry and tedious. But a poet must, even in the beginning of his work, interest the readers, and raise high expectation; not by any affected pomp of style, far less by ample promises or bold professions; but by setting immediately before them some incident, striking enough to raise curiosity, in regard both to its causes and to its consequences. He must therefore take up his story, not at the beginning, but in the middle; or rather, to prevent the work from being too long, as near the end as possible; and afterwards take some proper opportunity to inform us of the preceding events, in the way of narrative, or by conversation of the persons introduced, or by short and natural digressions.

The action of both the Iliad and Odyssey begins about six weeks before its conclusion; although the principal events of the war of Troy are to be found in the former; and the adventures of a ten years voyage, followed by the suppression of a dangerous domestic enemy, in the latter. One of the first things mentioned by Homer in the Iliad, is a plague, which Apollo in anger sent into the Grecian army commanded by Agamemnon and now encamped before Troy. Who this Agamemnon was, and who the Grecians were; for what reason they had come hither; how long the siege had lasted; what memorable actions had been already performed, and in what condition both parties now were:—all this, and much more, we soon learn from occasional hints and conversations interspersed through the poem.

In the Eneid, which, though it comprehends the transactions of seven years, opens within a few months of the concluding event, we are first presented with a view of the Trojan fleet at sea, and no less a person than Juno interesting herself to raise a storm for their destruction. This excites a curiosity to know something further: who these Trojans were; whence they had come, and whither they were bound; why they had left their own country, and what had befallen them since they left it. On all these points, the poet, without quitting the track of his narrative, soon gives the fullest information: The storm rises; the Trojans are driven to Africa, and hospitably received by the queen of the country; at whose desire their commander relates his adventures.

The action of Paradise Lost commences not many days before Adam and Eve are expelled from the garden of Eden, which is the concluding event. This poem, as its plan is incomparably more sublime and more important than that of either the Iliad or Eneid, opens with a far more interesting scene: a multitude of angels and archangels shut up in a region of torment and darkness, and rolling on a lake of unquenchable

The Paradise Lost, though truly Epic, cannot properly be called an heroic poem; for the agents in it are not heroes, but beings of a higher order (1). Of these the poet's plan did not admit the introduction of many; but most of those whom he has introduced, are well characterised. We have already spoken of his Satan, which is the highest imaginable species of the diabolical character. The inferior species are well diversified, and in each variety distinctly marked: one is slothful, another avaricious, a third sophistical, a fourth furious; and though all are impious, some are more outrageously and blasphemously so than others. Adam and Eve, in the state of innocence, are characters well imagined, and well supported; and the different sentiments arising from difference of sex, are traced out with inimitable delicacy, and philosophical propriety. After the fall, he makes them retain the same characters, without any other change than what the transition from innocence to guilt may be supposed to produce: Adam has still that pre-eminence in dignity, and Eve in loveliness, which we should naturally look for in the father and mother of mankind. Of the blessed spirits, Raphael and Michael are well distinguished; the one for affability, and peculiar goodwill to the human race; the other for majesty, but such as commands veneration rather than fear. We are sorry to add, that Milton's attempt to soar still higher, only shows, that he had already soared as high, as, without being "blasted with excess of light," it is possible for the human imagination to rise.

From what has been said, it seems abundantly evident,—That the end of poetry is to please; and therefore that the most perfect poetry must be the most pleasing:—that what is unnatural cannot give pleasure; and therefore that poetry must be according to nature:—that it must be either according to real nature, or according to nature somewhat different from the reality;—that, if according to real nature, it would give no greater pleasure than history, which is a transcript of real nature;—that greater pleasure is, however, to be expected from it, because we grant it superior indulgence, in regard to fiction, and the choice of words;—and, consequently, that poetry must be, not according to real nature, but according to nature improved to that degree which is consistent with probability and suitable to the poet's purpose. And hence it is that we call poetry, An imitation of nature.—For that which is properly termed imitation has always in it something which is not in the original. If the prototype and transcript be exactly alike; if there be nothing in the one which is not in the other; we may call the latter a representation, a copy, a draught,

(1) Samson, in the Agonistes, is a species of the heroic character not to be found in Homer; distinctly marked, and admirably supported. And Delilah, in the same tragedy, is perhaps a more perfect model of an alluring, insinuating, worthless woman, than an other to be met with in ancient or modern poetry.

Of Poetical fire. Who these angels are, and what brought them into this miserable condition, we naturally wish to know; and the poet in due time informs us; partly from the conversation of the fiends themselves; and more particularly by the mouth of a happy spirit, sent from heaven to caution the father and mother of mankind against temptation, and confirm their good resolutions by unfolding the dreadful effects of impiety and disobedience.

This poetical arrangement of events, so different from the historical, has other advantages besides those arising from brevity, and compactness of detail: it is obviously more affecting to the fancy, and more alarming to the passions; and, being more suitable to the order and the manner in which the actions of other men strikes our senses, is a more exact imitation of human affairs. I hear a sudden noise in the street, and run to see what is the matter. An insurrection has happened, a great multitude is brought together, and something very important is going forward. The scene before me is the first thing that engages my attention; and is in itself so interesting, that for a moment or two I look at it in silence and wonder. By and by, when I get time for reflection, I begin to inquire into the cause of all this tumult, and what it is the people would be at; and one who is better informed than I, explains the affair from the beginning; or perhaps I make this out for myself, from the words and actions of the persons principally concerned.—This is a sort of picture of poetical arrangement, both in epic and dramatic composition; and this plan has been followed in narrative odes and ballads both ancient and modern.—The historian pursues a different method. He begins perhaps with an account of the manners of a certain age, and of the political constitution of a certain country; then introduces a particular person, gives the story of his birth, connections, private character, pursuits, disappointments, and of the events that promoted his views, and brought him acquainted with other turbulent spirits like himself; and so proceeds, unfolding, according to the order of time, the causes, principles, and progress of the conspiracy;—if that be the subject which he undertakes to illustrate. It cannot be denied, that this latter method is more favourable to calm information: but the former, compared with it, will be found to have all the advantages already specified, and to be more effectually productive of that mental pleasure which depends on the passions and imagination.

13. II. If a work have no determinate end, it has no meaning; and if it have many ends, it will distract by its multiplicity. Unity of design, therefore, belongs in some measure to all compositions, whether in verse or prose. But to some it is more essential than to others; and to none so much as to the higher poetry. In certain kinds of history, there is unity sufficient, if all the events recorded be referred to one person; in others, if to one period of time, or to one people, or even to the inhabitants of one and the same planet. But it is not enough, that the subject of a poetical fable be the exploits of one person; for these may be of various and even of opposite sorts and tendencies, and take up longer time than the nature of poetry can admit:—far less can a regular poem comprehend the affairs of one period, or of one people:—it must be li-

mited to one great action or event, to the illustration of which all the subordinate events must contribute; and these must be so connected with one another, as well as with the poet's general purpose, that one cannot be changed, transposed, or taken away, without affecting the consistency and stability of the whole. In itself an incident may be interesting, a character well drawn, a description beautiful; and yet, if it disguise the general plan, or if it obstruct or incumber the main action, instead of helping it forward, a correct artist would consider it but as a gaudy superfluity or splendid deformity; like a piece of scarlet cloth sewed upon an garment of a different colour*. Not that all the parts of the fable either are, or can be, equally essential. Many descriptions and thoughts, of little consequence to the plan, may be admitted for the sake of variety; and the poet may, as well as the historian and philosopher, drop his subject for a time, in order to take up an affecting or instructive digression.

14. III. The doctrine of poetical digressions and episodes has been largely treated by the critics. We shall here only remark, that, in estimating their propriety, three things are to be attended to:—their connection with the fable or subject;—their own peculiar excellence;—and their subservience to the poet's design.

(1.) Those digressions, that both arise from and terminate in the subject; like the episode of the angel Raphael in Paradise Lost, and the transition to the death of Cesar and the civil wars in the first book of the Georgic; are the most artful, and, if suitably executed, claim the highest praise:—those that arise from, but do not terminate in, the subject, are perhaps second in the order of merit; like the story of Dido in the Eneid, and the encomium on a country-life in the second book of the Georgic:—those come next, that terminate in, but do not rise from, the fable; of which there are several in the third book of the Eneid, and in the Odyssey:—and those, that neither terminate in the fable, nor rise from it, are the least artful; and if they be long, cannot escape censure, unless their beauty be very great.

But (2.) we are willing to excuse a beautiful episode, at whatever expence to the subject it may be introduced. They who can blame Virgil for obtruding upon them the charming tale of Orpheus and Eurydice in the fourth Georgic, or Milton for the apostrophe to light in the beginning of his third book, ought to forfeit all title to the perusal of good poetry; for of such divine strains one would rather be the author, than of all the books of criticism in the world. Yet still it is better, that an episode possess the beauty of connection, together with its own intrinsic elegance, than this without the other.

Moreover, in judging of the propriety of episodes, and other similar contrivances, it may be expedient to attend, (3.) to the design of the poet, as distinguished from the fable or subject of the poem. The great design, for example, of Virgil, was to interest his countrymen in a poem written with a view to reconcile them to the person and government of Augustus. Whatever, therefore, in the poem tends to promote this design, even though it should, in some degree, hurt the texture of the fable, is really a proof of the poet's judgment; and may be not only allowed, but applauded.—The progress of the action of the Eneid may seem

Of Poetical seem to be too long obfuscated in one place, by the
Arrangement, &c.
Story of Dido, which, though it rises from the preceding part of the poem, has no influence upon the sequel; and, in another, by the episode of Cacus, which, without injury to the fable, might have been omitted altogether. Yet these episodes, interesting as they are to us and all mankind, because of the transcendent merit of the poetry, must have been still more interesting to the Romans, because of their connection with the Roman affairs: for the one accounts poetically for their wars with Carthage; and the other not only explains some of their religious ceremonies, but also gives a most charming rural picture of those hills and valleys in the neighbourhood of the Tiber, on which, in after times, their majestic city was fated to stand.—And if we consider, that the design of Homer's Iliad was, not only to show the fatal effects of dissension among confederates, but also to immortalise his country, and celebrate the most distinguished families in it, we shall be inclined to think more favourably than critics generally do, of some of his long speeches and digressions; which, though to us they may seem trivial, must have been very interesting to his countrymen, on account of the genealogies and private history recorded in them.—Shakespeare's historical plays, considered as dramatic fables, and tried by the laws of tragedy and comedy, appear very rude compositions. But if we attend to the poet's design, (as the elegant critic † has with equal truth and beauty explained it), we shall be forced to admire his judgment in the general conduct of those pieces, as well as unequalled success in the execution of particular parts.

There is yet another point of view in which these digressions may be considered. If they tend to elucidate any important character, or to introduce any interesting event not otherwise within the compass of the poem, or to give an amiable display of any particular virtue, they may be intitled, not to our pardon only, but even to our admiration, however loosely they may hang upon the fable. All these three ends are effected by that most beautiful episode of Hector and Andromache in the sixth book of the Iliad; and the two last, by the no less beautiful one of Euryalus and Nisus, in the ninth of the Eneid.

15. IV. And now, from the position formerly established, that the end of this divine art is to give pleasure, it has been endeavoured to prove, that, whether in displaying the appearances of the material universe, or in imitating the workings of the human mind, and the varieties of human character, or in arranging and combining into one whole the several incidents and parts whereof his fable consists,—the aim of the poet must be, to copy nature, not as it is, but in that state of perfection in which, consistently with the particular genius of the work, and the laws of verisimilitude, it may be supposed to be.

Such, in general, is the nature of that poetry which is intended to raise admiration, pity, and other serious emotions. But in this art, as in all others, there are different degrees of excellence; and we have hitherto directed our view chiefly to the highest. All serious poets are not equally solicitous to improve nature. Euripides is said to have represented men as they were; Sophocles, more poetically, as they should or might

be *. Theocritus in his Idylls, and Spenser in his Shepherd's Calendar, give us language and sentiments more nearly approaching those of the Rus verum et barbarum †, than what we meet with in the Pastorals of Virgil and Pope. In the historical drama, human characters and events must be according to historical truth, or at least not so remote from it as to lead into any important misapprehension of fact. And in the historical epic poem, such as the Pharsalia of Lucan, and the Campaign of Addison, the historical arrangement is preferred to the poetical, as being nearer the truth. Yet nature is a little improved even in these poems. The persons in Shakespeare's historical plays, and the heroes of the Pharsalia, talk in verse, and suitably to their characters, and with a readiness, beauty, and harmony of expression, not to be met with in real life, nor even in history: speeches are invented, and, to heighten the description, circumstances added, with great latitude: real events are rendered more compact and more strictly dependent upon one another; and fictitious ones brought in, to elucidate human characters, and diversify the narration.

The more poetry improves nature, by copying after general ideas collected from extensive observation, the more it partakes (according to Aristotle) of the nature of philosophy; the greater stretch of fancy and of observation it requires in the artist, and the better chance it has to be universally agreeable.

Yet poetry, when it falls short of this perfection, may have great merit as an instrument of both instruction and pleasure. To most men, simple unadorned nature is, at certain times, and in certain compositions, more agreeable than the most elaborate improvements of art; as a plain short period, without modulation, gives a pleasing variety to a discourse. Many such portraits of simple nature there are in the subordinate parts both of Homer's and of Virgil's poetry: and an excellent effect they have in giving probability to the fiction, as well as in gratifying the reader's fancy with images distinct and lively, and easily comprehended. The historical plays of Shakespeare raise not our pity and terror to such a height, as Lear, Macbeth, or Othello; but they interest and instruct us greatly, notwithstanding. The rudest of the eclogues of Theocritus, or even of Spenser, have by some authors been extolled above those of Virgil, because more like real life. Nay, Corneille is known to have preferred the Pharsalia to the Eneid, perhaps from its being nearer the truth, or perhaps from the sublime sentiments of Stoical morality so forcibly and so ostentatiously displayed in it.

Poets may refine upon nature too much as well as too little; for affectation and rusticity are equally remote from true elegance. The style and sentiments of comedy should no doubt be more correct and more pointed than those of the most polite conversation: but to make every footman a wit, and every gentleman and lady an epigrammatist, as Congreve has done, is an excessive and faulty refinement. The proper medium has been hit by Menander and Terence, by Shakespeare in his happier scenes, and by Garrick, Cumberland, and some others of late renown. To describe the passion of love with as little delicacy as some men speak of it, would be unpardonable; but to transform it into mere Platonic adoration, is to run into another extreme, less criminal indeed, but too remote.

mote from universal truth to be universally interesting, To the former extreme Ovid inclines; and Petrarch, and his imitators, to the latter. Virgil has happily avoided both: but Milton has painted this passion, as distinct from all others, with such peculiar truth and beauty, that we cannot think Voltaire's encomium too high, when he says, that love in all other poetry seems a weakness, but in Paradise Lost a virtue. There are many good strokes of nature in Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd; but the author's passion for the ras verus betrays him into some indelicacies: a censure that falls with greater weight upon Theocritus, who is often absolutely indecent. The Italian pastoral of Tasso and Guarini, and the French of Fontenelle, run into the opposite extreme, (though in some parts beautifully simple), and display a system of rural manners so quaint and affected as to outrage all probability. In fine, though mediocrity of execution in poetry be allowed to deserve the doom pronounced upon it by Horace; yet is it true, notwithstanding, that in this art, as in many other good things, the point of excellence lies in a middle between two extremes; and has been reached by those only who sought to improve nature as far as the genius of their work would permit, keeping at an equal distance from rusticity on the one hand, and affected elegance on the other.

SECT. VI. Of Poetical Language.

16. WORDS in poetry are chosen, first, for their sense; and, secondly, for their sound. That the first of these grounds of choice is the more excellent, nobody can deny. He who in literary matters prefers sound to sense, is a fool. Yet sound is to be attended to, even in prose; and in verse demands particular attention. We shall consider poetical language, first, as SIGNIFICANT; and, secondly, as SUSCEPTIBLE OF HARMONY.

§ 1. Of Poetical Language, considered as SIGNIFICANT.

17. IF, as it has been endeavoured to prove, poetry be imitative of nature, poetical fictions of real events, poetical images of real appearances in the visible creation, and poetical personages of real human characters; it would seem to follow, that the language of poetry must be an imitation of the language of nature.

According to Dr Beattie†, that language is natural, when it is suited to the speaker's condition, character, and circumstances. And as, for the most part, the images and sentiments of serious poetry are copied from the images and sentiments, not of real, but of improved, nature; so the language of serious poetry must (as hinted already) be a transcript, not of the real language of nature, which is often dissonant and rude, but of natural language improved as far as may be consistent with probability, and with the supposed character of the speaker. If this be not the case, if the language of poetry be such only as we hear in conversation, or read in history, it will, instead of delight, bring disappointment: because it will fall short of what we expect from an art which is recommended rather by its pleasurable qualities, than by its intrinsic utility; and to which, in order to render it pleasing, we grant higher privileges, than to any other

kind of literary composition, or any other mode of Of Poetical human language. Words.

The next inquiry must therefore be, "What are those improvements that peculiarly belong to the language of poetry?" And these may be comprehended under two heads; poetical words, and tropes and figures.

Art. I. Of Poetical Words.

18. One mode of improvement peculiar to poetical diction results from the use of those words, and phrases, which, because they rarely occur in prose, and frequently in verse, are by the grammarian and lexicographer termed poetical. In these some languages abound more than others: but no language, perhaps, is altogether without them; and perhaps no language can be so, in which any number of good poems have been written. For poetry is better remembered than prose, especially by poetical authors; who will always be apt to imitate the phraseology of those they have been accustomed to read and admire: and thus, in the works of poets, down through successive generations, certain phrases may have been conveyed, which, though originally perhaps in common use, are now confined to poetical composition. Prose-writers are not so apt to imitate one another, at least in words and phrases, both because they do not so well remember one another's phraseology, and also because their language is less artificial, and must not, if they would make it easy and flowing, (without which it cannot be elegant), depart essentially from the style of correct conversation. Poets too, on account of the greater difficulty of their numbers, have, both in the choice and in the arrangement of words, a better claim to indulgence, and stand more in need of a discretionary power.

The language of Homer differs materially from what was written and spoken in Greece in the days of Socrates. It differs in the mode of inflection, it differs in the syntax, it differs even in the words: so that one might read Homer with ease, who could not read Xenophon; or Xenophon, without being able to read Homer. Yet we cannot believe that Homer, or the first Greek poet who wrote in his style, would make choice of a dialect quite different from what was intelligible in his own time: for poets have in all ages written with a view to be read, and to be read with pleasure; which they could not be, if their diction were hard to be understood. It is more reasonable to suppose, that the language of Homer is according to some ancient dialect, which, though not perhaps in familiar use among the Greeks at the time he wrote, was however intelligible. From the Homeric to the Socratic age, a period had elapsed of no less than 400 years; during which the style both of discourse and of writing must have undergone great alterations. Yet the Iliad continued the standard of heroic poetry, and was considered as the very perfection of poetical language; notwithstanding that some words in it were become so antiquated, or so ambiguous, that Aristotle himself seems to have been somewhat doubtful in regard to their meaning. And if Chaucer's merit as a poet had been as great as Homer's, and the English tongue under Edward III. as perfect as the Greek was in the second century after the Trojan war, the style of Chaucer would probably have been our model for

† Essays, Part II. Chap. 1.

* Poetic. cap. 15.

Of Poetical Words. for poetical diction at this day; even as Petrarch, his contemporary, is still imitated by the best poets of Italy.

The rudeness of the style of Ennius has been imputed by the old critics to his having copied too closely the dialect of common life. But this appears to be a mistake. For if we compare the fragments of that author with the comedies of Plautus, who flourished in the same age, and whose language was certainly copied from that of common life, we shall be struck with an air of antiquity in the former that is not in the latter. Ennius, no doubt, like most other sublime poets, affected something of the antique in his expression: and many of his words and phrases, not adopted by any prose-writer now extant, are to be found in Lucretius and Virgil, and were by them transmitted to succeeding poets. These form part of the Roman poetical dialect; which appears from the writings of Virgil, where we have it in perfection, to have been very copious. The style of this charming poet is indeed so different from prose, and is altogether so peculiar, that it is perhaps impossible to analyse it on the common principles of Latin grammar. And yet no author can be more perspicuous or more expressive; notwithstanding the frequency of Grecism in his syntax, and his love of old words, which he, in the judgment of Quintilian, knew better than any other man how to improve into decoration *.

* Instit. viii. 3. § 3.

The poetical dialect of modern Italy is so different from the prosaic, that persons who can read the historians, and even speak with tolerable fluency the language of that country, may yet find it difficult to construe a page of Petrarch or Tasso. Yet it is not probable, that Petrarch, whose works are a standard of the Italian poetical diction †, made any material innovations in his native tongue. It is rather probable that he wrote it nearly as it was spoken in his time, that is, in the 14th century; omitting only harsh combinations, and taking that liberty which Homer probably, and Virgil certainly, took before him, of reviving such old, but not obsolete expressions, as seemed peculiarly significant and melodious; and polishing his style to that degree of elegance which human speech, without becoming unnatural, may admit of, and which the genius of poetry, as an art subservient to pleasure, may be thought to require.

The French poetry in general is distinguished from prose rather by the rhyme and the measure, than by any old or uncommon phraseology. Yet the French, on certain subjects, imitate the style of their old poets, of Marot in particular; and may therefore be said to have something of a poetical dialect, though far less extensive than the Italian, or even than the English. And it may be presumed, that in future ages they will have more of this dialect than they have at present. This may be inferred from the very uncommon merit of some of their late poets, particularly Boileau and La Fontaine, who, in their respective departments, will continue to be imitated, when the present modes of French prose are greatly changed: an event that, for all the pains they take to preserve their language, must inevitably happen, and whereof there are not wanting some presages already.

The English poetical dialect is not characterised by any peculiarities of inflection, nor by any great lati-

tude in the use of foreign idioms. More copious it is, however, than one would at first imagine; as may appear from the following specimens and observations.

(1.) A few Greek and Latin idioms are common in English poetry, which are seldom or never to be met with in prose. QUENCHED OF HOPE. Shakespeare.—SHORN OF HIS BEAMS. Milton.—Created thing NOR VALUED HE NOR SHUN'D. Milton.—This thus we riot, while WHO SOW IT STARVE. Pope.—INTO WHAT PIT THOU SEE'ST FROM WHAT HEIGHT FALLEN. Milton. He deceived The mother of mankind, WHAT TIME HIS PRIDE HAD CAST HIM out of heaven. Milton.—Some of these, with others to be found in Milton, seem to have been adopted for the sake of brevity, which in the poetical tongue is indispensable. For the same reason, perhaps the articles a and the are sometimes omitted by our poets, though less frequently in serious than burlesque composition.—In English, the adjective generally goes before the substantive, the nominative before the verb, and the active verb before (what we call) the accusative. Exceptions, however, to this rule, are not uncommon even in prose. But in poetry they are more frequent. Their homely joys, and DESTINY OBSCURE. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight; and all the air a solemn stillness holds. In general, that verification may be less difficult, and the cadence more uniformly pleasing; and sometimes, too, in order to give energy to expression, or vivacity to an image;—the English poet is permitted to take much greater liberties than the prose-writer, in arranging his words, and modulating his lines and periods. Examples may be seen in every page of Paradise Lost.

(2.) Some of our poetical words take an additional syllable, that they may suit the verse the better; as, dispart, distain, disport, affright, enchain, for part, stain, sport, fright, chain. Others seem to be nothing else than common words made shorter, for the convenience of the versifier. Such are, auxiliary, sub-lunar, trump, vale, part, clime, submiss, frolic, plain, drear, dread, helm, morn, mead, eve and even, gan, illumine and illumine, ope, hoar, bide, swage, scape; for auxiliary, sublunary, trumpet, valley, depart, climate, submissive, frolicsome, complain, dreary, dreadful, helmet, morning, meadow, evening, began or began to, illuminate, open, hoary, abide, assuage, escape.—Of some of these the short form is the more ancient. In Scotland, even, morn, bide, swage, are still in vulgar use; but morn, except when contradicting even, is synonymous, not with morning (as in the English poetical dialect), but with morrow.—The Latin poets, in a way somewhat similar, and perhaps for a similar reason, shortened fundamentum, tutamentum, munimentum, &c. into fundamen, tutamen, munimen.

(3.) Of the following words, which are now almost peculiar to poetry, the greater part are ancient, and were once no doubt in common use in England, as many of them still are in Scotland. Afield, amain, annoy (a noun), anon, aye (ever), behest, blithe, brand (sword), bridal, carol, dame (lady), feathy, fell (an adjective), gaude, gore, host (army), lambkin, late (of late), lay (poem), lea, glade, gleam, hurl, lore, weed, orison, plod (to travel laboriously), ringlet, rus (a

† Vicende della letteratura del Decimina, cap. 4.

Of Poetical Words. (a verb), ruth, ruthless, sojourn (a noun), smite, speed (an active verb), save (except), spray (twig), speed, strain (long), strand, swain, thrall, thrill, trail (a verb), troll, wail, walter, warble, wayward, woe, the while (in the mean time), yon, of yore.

(4.) These that follow are also poetical; but, so far as appears, were never in common use. Appal, arrowy, attune, battailous, breezy, car (chariot), claxon, cates, courser, darkling, flicker, floweret, emblaze, gairish, circlei, impearl, nightly, wiseless, pinion (wing), shadowy, stumberous, streamy, troublous, wilder (a verb), thrill (a verb), shook (shaken), madding, viewless.—The following too derived from the Greek and Latin, seem, peculiar to poetry. Glang, clanger, choral, bland boreal, dire, ensanguined, ice, irreful, lave (to wash), nymph (lady, girl), orient, panoply, philomet, insuriate, jocund, radiant, rapt, redolent, resurgent, verdant, vernal, zephyr, zone (girdle), silvan, suffuse.

(5.) In most languages, the rapidity of pronunciation abbreviates some of the commonest words, or even joins two, or perhaps more, of them, into one; and some of those abbreviated forms find admission into writing. The English language was quite disfigured by them in the end of the last century; but Swift, by his satire and example, brought them into disrepute: and, though some of them be retained in conversation, as don't, shan't, can't, they are now avoided in solemn style; and by elegant writers in general, except where the colloquial dialect is imitated, as in comedy. 'Tis and 'twas, since the time of Shaftesbury, seem to have been daily losing credit, at least in prose; but still have a place in poetry, perhaps because they contribute to conciseness. 'Twas on a lofty vase's side. Gray. 'Tis true, 'tis certain, man though dead, retains Part of himself. Pope. In verse too, over may be shortened into o'er, (which is the Scotch, and probably was the old English, pronunciation); never into ne'er; and from the and to, when they go before a word beginning with a vowel, the final letter is sometimes cut off. O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go. Pope. Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay. And all that beauty, all that wealth o'er gave. Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll. Gray. T' alarm th' eternal midnight of the grave. These abbreviations are now peculiar to the poetical tongue, but not necessary to it. They sometimes promote brevity, and render versification less difficult.

(6.) Those words which are commonly called compound epithets, as rosy-finger'd, rosy-bosom'd, many-twinkling, many-sounding, most-grown, bright-eyed, straw-built, spirit-stirring, incense-breathing, heaven-taught, love-whispering, late-resounding, are also to be considered as part of our poetical dialect. It is true, we have compounded adjectives in familiar use, as high-seasoned, well-natured, ill-bred, and innumerable others. But we speak of those that are less common, that seldom occur except in poetry, and of which in prose the use would appear affected. And that they sometimes promote brevity and vivacity of expression, cannot be denied. But, as they give, when too frequent, a stiff and finical air to a performance; as they are not always explicit in the sense, nor agreeable in

the sound; as they are apt to produce a confusion, or too great a multiplicity, of images; as they tend to disfigure the language, and furnish a pretext for endless innovation; they ought to be used sparingly; and those only used, which the practice of popular authors has rendered familiar to the ear, and which are in themselves peculiar emphatical and harmonious.

(7.) In the transformation of nouns into verbs and participles, our poetical dialect admits of greater latitude than prose. Hymn, pillow, curtain, story, pillar, picture, peal, surge, cavern, honey, career, cincture, bosom, sphere, are common nouns; but to hymn, to pillow, curtained, pillared, pictured, pealing, surging, cavern'd, bonied, careering, cinctured, bosomed, sphered, would appear affected in prose, though in verse they are warranted by the very best authority.

Some late poets, particularly the imitators of Spenser, have introduced a great variety of uncommon words, as certes, eftsoons, ne, whilom, transnew, moil, fone, losel, albe, hight, dight, pight, thews, couthful, affot, muchel, wend, arrear, &c. These were once poetical words, no doubt; but they are now obsolete, and to many readers unintelligible. No man of the present age, however conversant in this dialect, would naturally express himself in it on any interesting emergence; or, supposing this natural to the antiquarian, it would never appear so to the common hearer or reader. A mixture of these words, therefore, must ruin the patios of modern language; and as they are not familiar to our ear, and plainly appear to be sought after and affected, will generally give a stiffness to modern versification. Yet in subjects approaching to the ludicrous they may have a good effect; as in the Schoolmistress of Shenstone, Parnel's Fairy-tale, Thomson's Castle of Indolence, and Pope's lines in the Dunciad upon Wormius. But this effect will be most pleasing to those who have least occasion to recur to the glossary.

Indeed, it is not always easy to fix the boundary between poetical and obsolete expressions. To many readers, lore, meed, behest, blithe, gaude, spray, thrall, may already appear antiquated; and to some the style of Spenser, or even of Chaucer, may be as intelligible as that of Dryden. This however we may venture to affirm, that a word, which the majority of readers cannot understand without a glossary, may with reason be considered as obsolete; and ought not to be used in modern composition, unless revived, and recommended to the public ear, by some very eminent writer. There are but few words in Milton, as nathless, tine, sfore, bosky, &c.; there are but one or two in Dryden, as falsify (v.); and in Pope, there are none at all, which every reader of our poetry may not be supposed to understand: whereas in Shakespeare there are many, and in Spenser many more, for which one who knows English very well may be obliged to consult the dictionary. The practice of Milton, Dryden, or Pope, may therefore, in almost all cases, be admitted as good authority for the use of a poetical word. And in them, all the words above enumerated, as poetical, and in present use, may actually be found. And of such poets as may choose to observe this

(n) Dryden in one place (Enaid ix. vers. 1095.) uses Falsified to denote Pierced through and through. He acknowledges, that this use of the word is an innovation; and has nothing to plead for it but his own authority, and that Falsare in Italian sometimes means the same thing.

Of Poetical Words. this rule, it will not be said, either that they reject the judgment of Quintilian, who recommends the newest of the old words, and the oldest of the new, or that they are unattentive to Pope's precept;

Be not the first by whom the new are tried.
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

Ess. on Crit. v. 335.

We must not suppose, that these poetical words never occur at all except in poetry. Even from conversation they are not excluded: and the ancient critics allow, that they may be admitted into prose; where they occasionally confer dignity upon a sublime subject, or heighten the ludicrous qualities of a mean one. But it is in poetry only, where the frequent use of them does not favour of affectation.

Nor must we suppose them essential to this art. Many passages there are of exquisite poetry, wherein not a single phrase occurs that might not be used in prose. In fact, the influence of these words in adorning English verse is not very extensive. Some influence however they have. They serve to render the poetical style, first, more melodious; and, secondly, more solemn.

First, They render the poetical style more melodious, and more easily reducible into measure. Words of unwieldy size, or difficult pronunciation, are never used by correct poets, where they can be avoided: unless in their sound they have something imitative of the sense. Homer's poetical inflections contribute wonderfully to the sweetness of his numbers: and if the reader is pleased to look back to the specimen above given of the English poetical dialect, he will find that the words are in general well-sounding, and such as may coalesce with other words, without producing harsh combinations. Quintilian observes, that poets, for the sake of their verse, are indulged in many liberties, not granted to the orator, of lengthening, shortening, and dividing their words:—and if the Greek and Roman poets claimed this indulgence from necessity, and obtained it, the English, those of them especially who write in rhyme, may claim it with better reason; as the words of their language are less musical, and far less susceptible of variety in arrangement and syntax.

Secondly, Such poetical words as are known to be ancient have something venerable in their appearance, and impart a solemnity to all around them. This remark is from Quintilian; who adds, that they give to a composition that cast and colour of antiquity, which in painting is so highly valued, but which art can never effectually imitate. Poetical words that are either not ancient, or not known to be such, have, however, a pleasing effect from association. We are accustomed to meet with them in sublime and elegant writing; and hence they come to acquire sublimity and elegance: Even as the words we hear on familiar occasions come to be accounted familiar; and as those that take their rise among pick-pockets, gamblers, and gypsies, are thought too indecent to be used by any person of taste or good-manners. When one hears the following lines, which abound in poetical words,

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed:

—one is as sensible of the dignity of the language; as one would be of the vileness or vulgarity of that man's speech, who should prove his acquaintance with Bridewell, by interlarding his discourse with such terms as mill-doll, queer cull, or nubbing cheat †; or who, in imitation of fops and gamblers, should, on the common occasions of life, talk of being beat hollow, or saving his distance †.—What gives dignity to persons? Language gives dignity to language. A man of this character is one who has borne important employments, been connected with honourable associates, and never degraded himself by levity or immorality of conduct. Dignified phrases are those which have been used to express elevated sentiments, have always made their appearance in elegant composition, and have never been profaned by giving permanency or utterance to the passions of the vile, the giddy, or the worthless. And as by an active old age, the dignity of such men is confirmed and heightened; so the dignity of such words, if they be not suffered to fall into disuse, seldom fails to improve by length of time.

Art 2. Of Tropes and Figures.

19. If it appear, that, by means of figures, language may be made more pleasing, and more natural, than it would be without them; it will follow, that to poetic language, whose end is to please by imitating nature, figures must be not only ornamental, but necessary. It will here be proper, therefore, first to point out the importance and utility of figurative language; secondly, to show, that figures are more necessary to poetry in general, than to any other mode of writing.

I. As to the importance and utility of figurative expression, in making language more pleasing and more natural; it may be remarked,

(1.) That tropes and figures are often necessary to supply the unavoidable defects of language. When proper words are wanting, or not recollected, or when we do not choose to be always repeating them, we must have recourse to tropes and figures.—When philosophers began to explain the operations of the mind, they found, that most of the words in common use, being framed to answer the more obvious exigencies of life, were in their proper signification applicable to matter only and its qualities. What was to be done in this case? Would they think of making a new language to express the qualities of mind? No: that would have been difficult, or impracticable; and granting it both practicable and easy, they must have foreseen, that nobody would read or listen to what was thus spoken or written, in a new, and consequently in an unknown, tongue. They therefore took the language as they found it; and, wherever they thought there was a similarity or analogy between the qualities of the mind and the qualities of matter, scrupled not to use the names of the material qualities tropically, by applying them to the mental qualities. Hence came the phrases, solidity of judgment, warmth of imagination, enlargement of understanding, and many others; which, though figurative, express the meaning just as well as proper words would have done.

* Justit. Orat. lib. 10. cap. 1. § 3.

† Lib. 9. cap. 3. § 3.

† See the Semodres's Dictionary.
Language of New-market.

In fact, numerous as the words in every language are, they must always fall short of the unbounded variety of human thoughts and perceptions. Tastes and smells are almost as numerous as the species of bodies. Sounds admit of perceptible varieties that surpass all computation, and the seven primary colours may be diversified without end. If each variety of external perception were to have a name, language would be insurmountably difficult; nay, if men were to appropriate a class of names to each particular sense, they would multiply words exceedingly, without adding any thing to the clearness of speech. Those words, therefore, that in their proper signification denote the objects of one sense, we often apply tropically to the objects of another, and say, Sweet taste, sweet smell, sweet sound; sharp point, sharp taste, sharp sound; harmony of sounds, harmony of colours, harmony of parts; soft silk, soft colour, soft sound, soft temper; and so in a thousand instances: and yet these words, in their tropical signification, are not less intelligible than in their proper one; for sharp taste and sharp sound, are as expressive as sharp sword; and harmony of tones is not better understood by the musician, than harmony of parts by the architect, and harmony of colours by the painter.

Savages, illiterate persons, and children, have comparatively but few words in proportion to the things they may have occasion to speak of; and must therefore recur to tropes and figures more frequently, than persons of copious elocution. A seaman, or mechanic, even when he talks of that which does not belong to his art, borrows his language from that which does; and this makes his diction figurative to a degree that is sometimes entertaining enough. "Death (says a seaman in one of Smollet's novels) has not yet boarded my comrade; but they have been yard-arm and yard-arm these three glasses. His starbeard eye is open, but fast jammed in his head; and the halyards of his under-jaw have given way." These phrases are exaggerated; but we allow them to be natural, because we know that illiterate people are apt to make use of tropes and figures taken from their own trade, even when they speak of things that are very remote and incongruous. In those poems, therefore, that imitate the conversation of illiterate persons, as in comedy, farce, and pastoral, such figures judiciously applied may render the imitation more pleasing, because more exact and natural.

Words that are untuneable and harsh, the poet is often obliged to avoid, when perhaps he has no other way to express their meaning than by tropes and figures; and sometimes the measure of his verse may oblige him to reject a proper word that is not harsh, merely on account of its being too long, or too short, or in any other way unsuitable to the rhythm, or to the rhyme. And hence another use of figurative language, that it contributes to poetical harmony. Thus, to press the plain is frequently used to signify to be slain in battle; liquid plain is put for ocean, blue serene for sky, and stevan reign for country life.

(2.) Tropes and figures are favourable to delicacy. When the proper name of a thing is in any respect unpleasant, a well-chosen trope will convey the idea in such a way as to give no offence. This is agreeable, and even necessary, in polite conversation, and cannot

be dispensed with in elegant writing of any kind. Many words, from their being often applied to vulgar use, acquire a meanness that disqualifies them for a place in serious poetry; while perhaps, under the influence of a different system of manners, the corresponding words in another language may be elegant, or at least not vulgar. When one reads Homer in the Greek, one takes no offence at his calling Eumeus by a name which, literally rendered, signifies swine-herd; first, because the Greek word is well-sounding in itself; secondly, because we have never heard it pronounced in conversation, nor consequently debased by vulgar use; and, thirdly, because we know, that the office denoted by it was, in the age of Eumeus, both important and honourable. But Pope would have been blamed, if a name so indelicate as swine-herd, had in his translation been applied to so eminent a personage; and therefore he judiciously makes use of the trope synecdoche, and calls him swain; † Off. b. 14. v. 41. a word both elegant and poetical, and not likely to lead the reader into any mistake about the person spoken of, as his employment had been described in a preceding passage. The same Eumeus is said, in the simple but melodious language of the original, to have been making his own shoes when Ulysses came to his door; a work which in those days the greatest heroes would often find necessary. This too the translator softens by a tropical expression?

Here sat Eumeus, and his cares applied.
To form strong buskins of well-feason'd hide.

A hundred other examples might be quoted from this translation; but these will explain our meaning.

There are other occasions, on which the delicacy of figurative language is still more needful: as in Virgil's account of the effects of animal-love, and of the plague among the beasts, in the third Georgic; where Dryden's style, by being less figurative than the original, is in one place exceedingly filthy, and in another shockingly obscene.

Hobbes could construe a Greek author; but his skill in words must have been all derived from the dictionary: for he seems not to have known, that any one articulate sound could be more agreeable, or any one phrase more dignified, than any other. In his Iliad and Odyssey, even when he hits the author's sense (which is not always the case), he proves, by his choice of words, that of harmony, elegance, or energy of style, he had no manner of conception. And hence that work, though called a Translation of Homer, does not even deserve the name of poem; because it is in every respect unpleasant, being nothing more than a fictitious narrative delivered in a mean prose, with the additional meanness of harsh rhyme, and untuneable measure. — Trapp understood Virgil well enough as a grammarian, and had a taste for his beauties: yet his translation bears no resemblance to Virgil; which is owing to the same cause, an imprudent choice of words and figures, and a total want of harmony.

The delicacy we here contend for, may indeed, both in conversation and in writing, be carried too far. To call killing an innocent man in a duel an affair of honour, and a violation of the rights of wedlock an affair of gallantry, is a prostitution of figurative language.

Nor is it any credit to us, that we are said to have upwards of 40 figurative phrases to denote excessive drinking. Language of this sort generally implies, that the public abhorrence of such crimes is not so strong as it ought to be; and it is a question, whether even our morals might not be improved, if we were to call these and such like crimes by their proper names, murder, adultery, drunkenness, gluttony; names, that not only express our meaning, but also betoken our disapprobation.—As to writing, it cannot be denied, that even Pope himself, in the excellent version just now quoted, has sometimes, for the sake of his numbers, or for fear of giving offence by too close an imitation of Homer's simplicity, employed tropes and figures too quaint or too solemn for the occasion. And the finical style is in part characterised by the writer's dislike to literal expressions, and affectedly substituting in their stead unnecessary tropes and figures. With these authors, a man's only child must always be his only hope; a country-maid becomes a rural beauty, or perhaps a nymph of the groves; if flattery sing at all, it must be a lyric song; the shepherd's flute dwindles into an eaten reed, and his crook is exalted into a sceptre; the silver lilies rise from their golden beds, and languish to the complaining gale. A young woman, though a good Christian, cannot make herself agreeable without sacrificing to the Graces; nor hope to do any execution among the gentle swains, till a whole legion of Cupids, armed with flames and darts, and other weapons, begin to discharge from her eyes their formidable artillery. For the sake of variety, or of the verse, some of these figures may now and then find a place in a poem; but in prose, unless very sparingly used, they favour of affectation.

(3.) Tropes and figures promote brevity; and brevity, united with perspicuity, is always agreeable. An example or two will be given in the next paragraph. Sentiments thus delivered, and imagery thus painted, are readily apprehended by the mind, make a strong impression upon the fancy, and remain long in the memory; whereas too many words, even when the meaning is good, never fail to bring disgust and weariness. They argue a debility of mind which hinders the author from seeing his thoughts in one distinct point of view; and they also encourage a suspicion, that there is something faulty or defective in the matter. In the poetic style, therefore, which is addressed to the fancy and passions, and intended to make a vivid, a pleasing, and a permanent impression, brevity, and consequently tropes and figures are indispensable. And a language will always be the better suited to poetical purposes, the more it admits of this brevity;—a character which is more conspicuous in the Greek and Latin than in any modern tongue, and much less in the French than in the Italian or English.

(4.) Tropes and figures contribute to strength or energy of language, not only by their conciseness, but also by conveying to the fancy ideas that are easily comprehended, and make a strong impression. We are powerfully affected with what we see, or feel, or hear. When a sentiment comes enforced or illustrated by figures taken from objects of sight, or touch, or hearing, one thinks, as it were, that one sees, or feels, or hears, the thing spoken of; and thus, what in itself would perhaps be obscure, or is merely intel-

lectual, may be made to seize our attention and interest our passions almost as effectually as if it were an object of outward sense. When Virgil calls the Scipios thunderbolts of war, he very strongly expresses in one word, and by one image, the rapidity of their victories, the noise their achievements made in the world, and the ruin and consternation that attended their irresistible career.—When Homer calls Ajax the bulwark of the Greeks, he paints with equal brevity his vast size and strength, the difficulty of prevailing against him, and the confidence wherewith his countrymen reposed on his valour.—When Solomon says of the strange woman, or harlot, that "her feet go down to death," he lets us know, not only that her path ends in destruction, but also, that they who accompany her will find it easy to go forwards to ruin, and difficult to return to their duty.—Satan's enormous magnitude, and resurgent appearance, his perpendicular ascent thro' a region of darkoefs, and the inconceivable rapidity of his motion, are all painted out to our fancy by Milton, in one very short similitude,

Sprung upward, like—a pyramid of fire.

Par. Lost, b. 4. v. 1013.

To take in the full meaning of which figure, we must imagine ourselves in chaos, and a vast luminous body rising upward, near the place where we are, so swiftly as to appear a continued track of light, and lessening to the view according to the increase of distance, till it end in a point, and then disappear; and all this must be supposed to strike our eye at one instant.—Equal to this in propriety, tho' not in magnificence, is that allegory of Gray,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave:

Which presents to the imagination a wide plain, where several roads appear, crowded with glittering multitudes, and issuing from different quarters, but drawing nearer and nearer as they advance, till they terminate in the dark and narrow house, where all their glories enter in succession, and disappear for ever.—When it is said in Scripture, of a good man who died, that he fell asleep, what a number of ideas are at once conveyed to our imagination, by this beautiful and expressive figure! As a labourer, at the close of day, goes to sleep, with the satisfaction of having performed his work, and with the agreeable hope of awakening in the morning of a new day, refreshed and cheerful; so a good man, at the end of life, resigns himself calm and contented to the will of his Maker, with the sweet reflection of having endeavoured to do his duty, and with the transporting hope of soon awakening in the regions of light, to life and happiness eternal. The figure also suggests, that to a good man the transition from life to death is, even in the sensation, no more painful, than when our faculties melt away into the pleasing insensibility of sleep.—Satan, flying among the stars, is said by Milton to "fail between worlds and worlds," which has an elegance and force far superior to the proper word fly. For by this allusion to a ship, we are made to form a lively idea of his great size, and to conceive of his motion, that it was equable and majestic.—Virgil uses a happy figure to express the size of the great wooden horse, by means of which the Greeks were conveyed into Troy: "Equum divina

Of Tropes and Figures Palladis arte edificant?"—Milton is still bolder when he says,

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhime.

The phrase, however, though bold, is emphatical; and gives a noble idea of the durability of poetry, as well as of the art and attention requisite to form a good poem.—There are hundreds of tropical expressions in common use, incomparably more energetic than any proper words of equal brevity that could be put in their place. A cheek burning with blushes, is a trope which at once describes the colour as it appears to the beholder, and the glowing heat as it is felt by the person blushing. Chilled with despondence, petrefied with astonishment, thunderstruck with disagreeable and unexpected intelligence, melted with love or pity, dissolved in luxury, hardened in wickedness, softening into remorse, inflamed with desire, tossed with uncertainty, &c.—every one is sensible of the force of these and the like phrases, and that they must contribute to the energy of composition.

(5.) Tropes and figures promote strength of expression; and are in poetry peculiarly requisite, because they are often more natural, and more imitative, than proper words. In fact, this is so much the case, that it would be impossible to imitate the language of passion without them. It is true, that when the mind is agitated, one does not run out into allegories, or long-winded similitudes, or any of the figures that require much attention and many words, or that tend to withdraw the fancy from the object of the passion. Yet the language of many passions must be figurative, notwithstanding; because they rouse the fancy, and direct it to objects congenial to their own nature, which diversify the language of the speaker with a multitude of allusions. The fancy of a very angry man, for example, presents to his view a train of disagreeable ideas connected with the passion of anger, and tending to encourage it; and if he speak without restraint during the paroxysm of his rage, those ideas will force themselves upon him, and compel him to give them utterance. "Infernal monster! (he will say),—my blood boils at him; he has used me like a dog; never was man so injured as I have been by this barbarian. He has no more sense of propriety than a stone. His countenance is diabolical, and his soul as ugly as his countenance. His heart is cold and hard, and his resolutions dark and bloody," &c. This speech is wholly figurative. It is made up of metaphors and hyperboles, which, with the prosopopeia and apostrophe, are the most passionate of all the figures. Lear, driven out of doors by his unnatural daughters, in the midst of darkness, thunder, and tempest, naturally breaks forth (for his indignation is just now raised to the very highest pitch) into the following violent exclamation against the crimes of mankind, in which almost every word is figurative.

Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes
Unwhipt of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand,
Thou perjur'd, and thou simular of virtue,
That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake,
That under covert, and convenient seeming,

Hast practis'd on man's life. Close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and cry
These dreadful summoners grace. King Lear.

—The vehemence of maternal love, and sorrow from the apprehension of losing her child, make the Lady Constance utter a language that is strongly figurative, though quite suitable to the condition and character of the speaker. The passage is too long for a quotation, but concludes thus:

O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son,
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world,
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure. King John.

—Similar to this, and equally expressive of conjugal love, is that beautiful hyperbole in Homer; where Andromache, to dissuade her husband from going out to the battle, tells him, that she had now no mother, father, or brethren, all her kindred being dead, and her native country desolate; and then tenderly adds,

But while my Hector yet survives, I see
My father, mother, brethren, all in thee. Iliad, b. 6.

As the passions that agitate the soul, and rouse the fancy, are apt to vent themselves in tropes and figures, so those that depress the mind adopt for the most part a plain diction without any ornament. For to a dejected mind, wherein the imagination is generally inactive, it is not probable that any great variety of ideas will present themselves; and when these are few and familiar, the words that express them must be simple. As no author equals Shakespeare in boldness or variety of figures, when he copies the style of those violent passions that stimulate the fancy; so, when he would exhibit the human mind in a dejected state, no uninspired writer excels him in simplicity. The same Lear whose resentment had impaired his understanding, while it broke out in the most boisterous language, when, after some medical applications, he recovers his reason, his rage being now exhausted, his pride humbled, and his spirits totally depressed, speaks in a style than which nothing can be imagined more simple, or more affecting:

Pray, do not mock me;
I am a very foolish, fond old man,
Four-score and upward, and, to deal plainly with you,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks I should know you, and know this man;
Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments: nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night.— LEAR, act 4. sc. 7.

—Desdemona, ever gentle, artless, and sincere, shocked at the unkindness of her husband, and overcome with melancholy, speaks in a style so beautifully simple, and so perfectly natural, that one knows not what to say in commendation of it:

My mother had a maid call'd Barbara;
She was in love, and he she lov'd prov'd mad,
And did forsake her. She had a song of willow;
An old thing it was, but it express'd her fortune,
And she died singing it. That song to-night
Will not go from my mind; I have much to do,
But to go hang my head all at one side,
And

Of Tropes And Figures And sing it like poor Barbara. OTHELLO, act 4. sc. 3.

Sometimes the imagination, even when exerted to the utmost, takes in but few ideas. This happens when the attention is totally engrossed by some very great object; admiration being one of those emotions that rather suspend the exercise of the faculties, than push them into action. And here, too, the simplest language is the most natural; as when Milton says of the Deity, that he sits "high-thron'd above all height." And as this simplicity is more suitable to that one great exertion which occupies the speaker's mind, than a more elaborate imagery or language would have been; so has it also a more powerful effect in fixing and elevating the imagination of the hearer: for, to introduce other thoughts for the sake of illustrating what cannot be illustrated, could answer no other purpose than to draw off the attention from the principal idea. In these and the like cases, the fancy left to itself will have more satisfaction in pursuing at leisure its own speculations, than in attending to those of others; as they who see for the first time some admirable object, would choose rather to feast upon it in silence, than to have their thoughts interrupted by a long description from another person, informing them of nothing but what they see before them, are already acquainted with, or may easily conceive.

It was remarked above, that the hyperbole, prosopopeia, and apostrophe, are among the most passionate figures. This deserves illustration.

1^st, A very angry man is apt to think the injury he has just received, greater than it really is; and, if he proceed immediately to retaliate by word or deed, seldom fails to exceed the due bounds, and to become injurious in his turn. The fond parent looks upon his child as a prodigy of genius and beauty; and the romantic lover will not be persuaded that his mistress has nothing supernatural either in her mind or person. Fear, in like manner, not only magnifies its object when real, but even forms an object out of nothing, and mistakes the fictions of fancy for the intimations of sense.—No wonder then, that they who speak according to the impulse of passion, should speak hyperbolically; that the angry man should exaggerate the injury he has received, and the vengeance he is going to inflict; that the sorrowful should magnify what they have lost, and the joyful what they have obtained; that the lover should speak extravagantly of the beauty of his mistress, the coward of the dangers he has encountered, and the credulous clown of the miracles performed by the juggler. In fact, these people would not do justice to what they feel, if they did not say more than the truth. The valiant man, on the other hand, as naturally adopts the diminishing hyperbole when he speaks of danger; and the man of sense, when he is obliged to mention his own virtue or ability; because it appears to him, or he is willing to consider it, as less than the truth, or at best as inconsiderable. Contempt uses the same figure; and therefore Petruchio, affecting that passion, affects also the language of it:

Thou liest, thou thread, thou thimble,
Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail,
Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket, thou!
Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of thread!

Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant!
Taming of the Shrew, act 4. sc. 1.

For some passions consider their objects as important, and others as unimportant. Of the former sort are anger, love, fear, admiration, joy, sorrow, pride; of the latter are contempt and courage. Those may be said to subdue the mind to the object; and these, to subdue the object to the mind. And the former, when violent, always magnify their objects; whence the hyperbole called amplification, or auxesis; and the latter as constantly diminish their, and give rise to the hyperbole called minution, or diminution.—Even when the mind cannot be said to be under the influence of any violent passion, we naturally employ the same figure, when we would express another very strongly with any idea. He is a walking shadow; he is worn to skin and bone; he has one foot in the grave, and the other following;—these, and the like phrases, are proved to be natural by their frequency. By introducing great ideas, the hyperbole is further useful in poetry, as a source of the sublime; but when employed injudiciously, is very apt to become ridiculous. Cowley makes Goliath as big as the hill down which he was marching; and tells us, that when he came into the valley, he seemed to fill it, and to overtop the neighbouring mountains, (which, by the by, seems rather to lessen the mountains and valleys, than to magnify the giant); nay, he adds, that the sun started back when he saw the splendour of his arms. This poet seems to have thought, that the figure in question could never be sufficiently enormous; but Quintilian would have taught him, "Quamvis omnis hyperbole ultra fidem, non tamen esse debet ultra modum." The reason is, that this figure, when excessive, betokens rather absolute infatuation, than intense emotion; and resembles the efforts of a ranting tragedian, or the ravings of an enthusiastic declaimer, who, by putting on the gestures and looks of a lunatic, satisfy the discerning part of their audience, that, instead of feeling strongly, they have no rational feelings at all. In the wildest energies of nature, there is a modesty, which the imitative artist will be careful never to overstep.

2^dly, That figure, by which things are spoken of as if they were persons, is called prosopopeia, or personification. It is a bold figure, and yet is often natural. Long acquaintance recommends to some share in our affection even things inanimate, as a house, a tree, a rock, a mountain, a country; and were we to leave such a thing, without hope of return, we should be inclined to address it with a farewell, as if it were a perceptive creature. Nay, we find that ignorant nations have actually worshipped such things, or considered them as the haunt of certain powerful beings. Dryads and Hamadryads were by the Greeks and Romans supposed to preside over trees and groves; river-gods and nymphs, over streams and fountains; little deities, called Lares and Penates, were believed to be the guardians of hearths and houses. In Scotland there is hardly a hill remarkable for the beauty of its shape, that was not in former times thought to be the habitation of fairies. Nay, modern as well as ancient superstition has appropriated the waters to a peculiar sort of demon or goblin, and peopled the very regions of death,

Of Tropes and Figures death, the tombs and charnel-houses, with multitudes of ghosts and phantoms.—Besides, when things inanimate make a strong impression upon us, whether agreeable or otherwise, we are apt to address them in terms of affection or dislike. The sailor blesses the plank that brought him ashore from the shipwreck; and the passionate man, and sometimes even the philosopher, will say bitter words to the stumbling-block that gave him a fall.—Moreover, a man agitated with any interesting passion, especially of long continuance, is apt to fancy that all nature sympathises with him. If he has lost a beloved friend, he thinks the sun less bright than at other times; and in the sighing of the winds and groves, in the lowings of the herd, and in the murmurs of the stream, he seems to hear the voice of lamentation. But when joy or hope predominate, the whole world assumes a gay appearance. In the contemplation of every part of nature, of every condition of mankind, of every form of human society, the benevolent and the pious man, the morose and the cheerful, the miser and the misanthrope, finds occasion to indulge his favourite passion, and sees, or thinks he sees, his own temper reflected back in the actions, sympathies, and tendencies of other things and persons. Our affections are indeed the medium through which we may be said to survey ourselves, and every thing else; and whatever be our inward frame, we are apt to perceive a wonderful congeniality in the world without us. And hence, the fancy, when roused by real emotions, or by the pathos of composition, is easily reconciled to those figures of speech that ascribe sympathy, perception, and the other attributes of animal life, to things inanimate, or even to notions merely intellectual.—Motion, too, bears a close affinity to action, and affects our imagination nearly in the same manner; and we see a great part of nature in motion, and by their sensible effects are led to contemplate energies innumerable. These conduct the rational mind to the Great First Cause; and these, in times of ignorance, disposed the vulgar to believe in a variety of subordinate agents employed in producing those appearances that could not otherwise be accounted for. Hence an endless train of fabulous deities, and of witches, demons, fairies, genii; which, if they prove our reason weak and our fancy strong, prove also, that personification is natural to the human mind; and that a right use of this figure may have a powerful effect, in fabulous writing especially, to engage our sympathy in behalf of things as well as persons: for nothing can give lasting delight to a moral being, but that which awakens sympathy, and touches the heart; and though it be true, that we sympathise in some degree even with inanimate things, yet what has, or is supposed to have, life, calls forth a more sincere and more permanent fellow-feeling.—Let it be observed further, that to awaken our sympathetic feelings, a lively conception of their object is necessary. This indeed is true of almost all our emotions; their keenness is in proportion to the vivacity of the perceptions that excite them. Distress that we see, is more affecting than what we only hear of*; a perusal of the gayest scenes in a comedy does not rouse the mind so effectually, as the presence of a cheerful companion; and the death of a friend is of greater energy in producing seriousness, and the consideration of our latter end, than all the pathos of Young. Of descriptions ad-

dressed to the fancy, those that are most vivid and picturesque will generally be found to have the most powerful influence over our affections; and those that exhibit persons engaged in action, and adorned with visible insignia, give a brisker impulse to the faculties, that such as convey intellectual ideas only, or images taken from still life. No abstract notion of time, or of love, can be so striking to the fancy, as the image of an old man accoutred with a scythe, or of a beautiful boy with wings and a bow and arrows: and no physiological account of frenzy could suggest so vivid an idea, as the poet has given us in that exquisite portrait,

And moody madness laughing wild, amid severest woe

And for this reason partly it is, that the epic poet, in order to work the more effectually upon our passions and imagination, refers the secret springs of human conduct, and the vicissitudes of human affairs, to the agency of personified causes; that is, to the machinery of gods and goddesses, angels, demons, magicians, and other powerful beings. And hence, in all sublime poetry, life and motion, with their several modes and attributes, are liberally bestowed on those objects where-with the author intends that we should be strongly impressed: scenes perfectly inanimate, and still, tending rather to diffuse a languor over the mind, than to communicate to our internal powers those lively energies, without which a being essentially active can never receive complete gratification.—Lastly, some violent passions are peculiarly inclined to change things into persons. The horrors of his mind haunted Orestes in the shape of furies. Conscience, in the form of the murdered person, stares the murderer in the face, and often terrifies him to distraction. The superstitious man, travelling alone in the dark, mistakes a white stone for a ghost, a bush for a demon, a tree waving with the wind for an enormous giant brandishing a hundred arms. The lunatic and enthusiast converse with persons who exist only in their own disordered fancy: and the glutton, and the miser, if they were to give utterance to all their thoughts, would often, it is presumable, speak, the one of his gold, the other of his belly, not only as a person, but as a god,—the object of his warmest love and most devout regard.—More need not be said to prove, that personification is natural, and may frequently contribute to the pathos, energy, and beauty of poetic language.

3dly, Apostrophe, or a sudden diversion of speech from one person to another person or thing, is a figure nearly related to the former. Poets sometimes make use of it, in order to help out their verse, or merely to give variety to their style: but on those occasions it is to be considered as rather a trick of art, than an effort of nature. It is most natural, and most pathetic, when the person or thing to whom the apostrophe is made, and for whose sake we give a new direction to our speech, is in our eyes eminently distinguished for good or evil, or raises within us some sudden and powerful emotion, such as the hearer would acquiesce in, or at least acknowledge to be reasonable. But this, like the other pathetic figures, must be used with great prudence. For if, instead of calling forth the hearer's sympathy, it should only betray the levity of the speaker, or such wanderings of his mind as neither the subject nor the occasion would lead one to expect, it will then

* Hor. Ar.
Poet. v. 180.

Of Tropes and Figures. then create disgust, instead of approbation.—The orator, therefore, must not attempt the passionate apostrophe, till the minds of the hearers be prepared to join in it. And every audience is not equally obsequious in this respect. In the forum of ancient Rome that would have passed for sublime and pathetic, which in the most respectable British auditories would appear ridiculous. For our style of public speaking is cool and argumentative; and partakes less of enthusiasm than the Roman did, and much less than the modern French or Italian. Of British eloquence, particularly that of the pulpit, the chief recommendations are gravity and simplicity. And it is vain to say, that our oratory ought to be more vehement: for that matter depends on causes, which it is not only inexpedient, but impossible to alter; namely, on the character and spirit of the people, and their rational notions in regard to religion, policy, and literature. The exclamations of Cicero would weigh but little in our parliament; and many of those which we meet with in French sermons would not be more effectual if attempted in our pulpit. To see one of our preachers, who the moment before was a cool reasoner, a temperate speaker, an humble Christian, and an orthodox divine, break out into a sudden apostrophe to the immortal powers, or to the walls of the church, tends to force a smile, rather than a tear, from those among us who reflect, that there is nothing in the subject, and should be nothing in the orator, to warrant such wanderings of fancy, or vehemence of emotion. If he be careful to cultivate a pure style, and a grave and graceful utterance, a British clergyman, who speaks from conviction the plain unaffected words of truth and soberness, of benevolence and piety, will, it is believed, convey more pathetic, as well as more permanent, impressions to the heart, and be more useful as a Christian teacher, than if he were to put in practice all the attitudes of Roscius, and all the topes and figures of Cicero.

But where the language of passion and enthusiasm is permitted to display itself, whatever raises any strong emotion, whether it be animated or inanimate, absent or present, sensible or intellectual, may give rise to the apostrophe. A man in a distant country, speaking of the place of his birth, might naturally exclaim, "O my dear native land, shall I never see thee more?" Or, when some great misfortune befalls him, "Happy are ye, O my parents, that ye are not alive to see this."—We have a beautiful apostrophe in the third book of the Eneid, where Eneas, who is telling his story to Dido, happening to mention the death of his father, makes a sudden address to him as follows:

—————hic, pelagi tot tempestatibus actus,
Heu, genitorem, omnis curæ casusque levamen,
Amitto Anchisen:—hic me, pater optime, fessum
Deseris, heu, tantis nequicquam erepte periculis!

This apostrophe has a pleasing effect. It seems to intimate, that the love which the hero bore his father was so great, that when he mentioned him, he forgot every thing else; and, without minding his company, one of whom was a queen, suddenly addressed himself to that which, though present only in idea, was still a principal object of his affection. An emotion so warm and so reasonable cannot fail to command the sympathy of the reader.—When Michael, in the eleventh book of Paradise Lost, announ-

ces to Adam and Eve the necessity of their immediate departure from the garden of Eden, the poet's art in preserving the decorum of the two characters is very remarkable. Pierced to the heart at the thought of leaving that happy place, Eve, in all the violence of ungovernable sorrow, breaks forth into a pathetic apostrophe to Paradise, to the flowers she had reared, and to the nuptial bower she had adorned. Adam makes no address to the walks, the trees, or the flowers of the garden, the loss whereof did not so much afflict him; but, in his reply to the Archangel, expresses, without a figure, his regret for being banished from a place where he had been so oft honoured with a sensible manifestation of the Divine presence. The use of the apostrophe in the one case, and the omission of it in the other, not only gives a beautiful variety to the style, but also marks that superior elevation and composure of mind, by which the poet had all along distinguished the character of Adam.—One of the finest applications of this figure that is anywhere to be seen, is in the fourth book of the same poem; where the author, catching by sympathy the devotion of our first parents, suddenly drops his narrative, and joins his voice to theirs in adoring the Father of the universe.

Thus at their shady lodge arriv'd, both flood,
Both turn'd, and under open sky ador'd
The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav'n,
Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe,
And starry pole:—Thou also mad'st the night,
Maker Omnipotent! and thou the day,
Which we in our appointed work employ'd
Have finish'd.—————

Milton took the hint of this fine contrivance from a well-known passage of Virgil:

Hic juvenum chorus, ille senum; qui carmine laudes
Herculeas et facta ferant;—————
—————ut duros mille labores
Rege sub Eurytheo, satis Junonis iniquæ
Pertulerit:—Tu nubigenas, invicte, bimembres
Hylæum Pholoumque manu; tu Crefia maestas
Prodigia.—————

The beauty arising from diversified composition is the same in both, and very great in each. But every reader must feel, that the figure is incomparably more affecting to the mind in the imitation, than in the original. So true it is, that the most rational emotions raise the most intense fellow-feeling; and that the apostrophe is then the most emphatical, when it displays those workings of human affection which are at once ardent and well-founded.

To conclude this head: Tropes and figures, particularly the metaphor, similitude, and allegory, are further useful in beautifying language, by suggesting, together with the thoughts essential to the subject, an endless variety of agreeable images, for which there would be no place, if writers were always to confine themselves to the proper names of things. And this beauty and variety, judiciously applied, is so far from distracting, that it tends rather to fix, the attention, and captivate the heart of the readers, by giving light, and life, and pathos to the whole composition.

II. That tropes and figures are more necessary to poetry, than to any other mode of writing, was the second point proposed to be illustrated in this section.

Language, as already observed, is then natural, when it is suitable to the supposed condition of the speaker. Figurative language is peculiarly suitable to the supposed condition of the poet; because figures are suggested by the fancy; and the fancy of him who composes poetry is more employed, than that of any other author. Of all historical, philosophical, and theological researches, the object is real truth, which is fixed and permanent. The aim of rhetorical declamation (according to Cicero) is apparent truth; which, being less determinate, leaves the fancy of the speaker more free, gives greater scope to the inventive powers, and supplies the materials of a more figurative phraseology. But the poet is subject to no restraints, but those of verisimilitude; which is still less determinate than rhetorical truth. He seeks not to convince the judgment of his reader by arguments of either real or apparent cogency; he means only to please and interest him, by an appeal to his sensibility and imagination. His own imagination is therefore continually at work, ranging through the whole of real and probable existence, "glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven," in quest of images and ideas suited to the emotions he himself feels, and to the sympathies he would communicate to others. And, consequently, figures of speech, the offspring of excessive fancy, must (if he speak according to what he is supposed to think and feel, that is, according to his supposed condition) tincture the language of the poet more than that of any other composer. So that, if figurative diction be unnatural in geometry, because all wanderings of fancy are unsuitable, and even impossible, to the geometrician, while intent upon his argument; it is, upon the same principle, perfectly natural, and even unavoidable, in poetry; because the more a poet attends to his subject, and the better qualified he is to do it justice, the more active will his imagination be, and the more diversified the ideas that present themselves to his mind.—Besides, the true poet addresses himself to the passions and sympathies of mankind; which, till his own be raised, he cannot hope to do with success. And it is the nature of many passions, though not of all, to increase the activity of imagination: and an active imagination naturally vents itself in figurative language; nay, unless restrained by a correct taste, has a tendency to exceed in it;—of which bishop Taylor, and lord Verulam, two geniuses different in kind, but of the highest order, are memorable examples.

We said, that "the poet seeks not to convince the judgment of his reader by arguments of either real or apparent cogency."—We do not mean, that in poetry argument has no place. The most legitimate reasoning, the soundest philosophy, and narratives purely historical, may appear in a poem, and contribute greatly to the honour of the author, and to the importance of his work. All this we have in Paradise Lost.—We mean, that what distinguishes pure poetry from other writing, is its aptitude, not to sway the judgment by reasoning, but to please the fancy, and move the passions, by a lively imitation of nature. Nor would we exclude poetical embellishment from history, or even from philosophy. Plato's Dialogues and Addison's Moral Essays abound in poetic imagery; and Livy and Tacitus often amuse their readers with poetical description. In like manner, though geometry and physics be different sciences;—though abstract ideas be the subject, and pure demonstration or intuition the evidence, of the former; and though the material universe, and the informations of sense, be the subject and the evidence of the latter;—yet have these sciences been united by the best philosophers, and very happy effects resulted from the union.—In one and the same work, poetry, history, philosophy, and oratory, may doubtless be blended; nay, these arts have all been actually blended in one and the same work, not by Milton only, but also by Homer, Virgil, Lucan, and Shakespeare. Yet still these arts are different;—different in their ends and principles, and in the faculties of the mind to which they are respectively addressed: and it is easy to perceive, when a writer employs one, and when another.

§ 2. Of the SOUND of Poetical Language.

20. As the ear, like every other perceptive faculty, is capable of gratification, regard is to be had to the sound of words, even in prose. But to the harmony of language, it behoves the poet, more than any other writer, to attend; as it is more especially his concern to render his work pleasurable. In fact, we find, that no poet was ever popular who did not possess the art of harmonious composition.

What belongs to the subject of Poetical Harmony may be referred to one or other of these heads: Sweetness, Measure, and Imitation.

I. In order to give sweetness to language, either in verse or prose, all words of harsh sound, difficult pronunciation, or unwieldy magnitude, are to be avoided as much as possible, unless when they have in the sound something peculiarly emphatical; and words are to be so placed in respect of one another, as that discordant combinations may not result from their union. But in poetry this is more necessary than in prose; poetical language being understood to be an imitation of natural language improved to that perfection which is consistent with probability. To poetry, therefore, a greater latitude must be allowed than to prose, in expressing, by tropes and figures of pleasing sound, those ideas whereof the proper names are in any respect offensive, either to the ear or to the fancy.

II. How far versification, or regular measure, may be essential to this art, has been disputed by critical writers; some holding it to be indispensably necessary, and some not necessary at all.

The fact seems to be, as already hinted, that to poetry verse is not essential. In a prose work, we may have the fable, the arrangement, and a great deal of the pathos and language, of poetry; and such a work is certainly a poem, though perhaps not a perfect one. For how absurd would it be to say, that by changing the position only of a word or two in each line, one might divest Homer's Iliad of the poetical character! At this rate, the arts of poetry and versification would be the same; and the rules in Despaux's Grammar, and the moral dictums ascribed to Cato, would be as real poetry as any part of Virgil. In fact, some very ancient poems, when translated into a modern tongue, are far less poetical in verse than in prose; the alterations necessary to adapt them to our numbers being detrimental to their sublime simplicity; of which any person of taste will be sensible, who compares our common prose-versions of Job, the

Of Poetical Harmony. the Psalms, and the Song of Solomon, with the best metrical paraphrase of those books that has yet appeared. Nay, in many cases, Comedy will be more poetical, because more pleasing and natural, in prose, than in verse. By verifying Tom Jones and The Merry Wives of Windsor, we should spoil the two finest Comic poems, the one Epic, the other Dramatical, now in the world.

But, secondly, Though verse be not essential to poetry, it is necessary to the perfection of all poetry that admits of it. Verse is to poetry, what colours are to painting (x). A painter might display great genius, and draw masterly figures with chalk or ink; but if he intend a perfect picture, he must employ in his work as many colours as are seen in the object he imitates. Or, to adopt a beautiful comparison of Demolthenes, quoted by Aristotle †, "Verfification is to poetry what bloom is to the human countenance." A good face is agreeable when the bloom is gone, and good poetry may please without verification; harmonious numbers may set off an indifferent poem, and a fine bloom indifferent features; but, without verse, poetry is complete; and beauty is not perfect, unless to sweetness and regularity of feature there be super-added.

The bloom of young desire, and purple light of love.

If numbers are necessary to the perfection of the higher poetry, they are no less so to that of the lower kinds, to Pastoral, Song, and Satire, which have little besides the language and verification to distinguish them from prose; and which some ancient authors are unwilling to admit to the rank of poems:—though it seems too nice a scruple, both because such writings are commonly termed poetical; and also because there is, even in them, something that may not improperly be considered as an imitation of nature.

That the rhythm and measures of verse are naturally agreeable, and therefore that by these poetry may be made more pleasing than it would be without them, is evident from this, that children and illiterate people, whose admiration we cannot suppose to be the effect of habit or prejudice, are exceedingly delighted with them. In many proverbial sayings, where there is neither rhyme nor alliteration, rhythm is obviously studied. Nay, the use of rhythm in poetry is universal; whereas alliteration and rhyme, though relished by some nations, are not much sought after by others. And we need not be at a loss to account for the agreeableness of proportion and order, if we reflect, that they suggest the agreeable ideas of contrivance and skill, at the same time that they render the connection of things obvious to the understanding, and imprint it deeply on the memory. Verse, by promoting distinct and easy remembrance, conveys ideas to the mind with energy, and enlivens every emotion the poet intends to raise in the reader or hearer. Besides, when we attend to verses, after hearing one or two, we become acquainted with the measure, which therefore we always look for in the sequel. This perpetual interchange of hope and gratification is a

source of delight; and to this in part is owing the pleasure we take in the rhymes of modern poetry. And hence we see, that though an incorrect rhyme, or untuneable verse, be in itself, and compared with an important sentiment, a very trifling matter; yet it is no trifle in regard to its effects on the hearer; because it brings disappointment, and so gives a temporary shock to the mind, and interrupts the current of the affections; and because it suggests the disagreeable ideas of negligence or want of skill on the part of the author. And therefore, as the public ear becomes more delicate, the negligence will be more glaring, and the disappointment more intensely felt; and correctness of rhyme and of measure will of course be the more indispensable. In our tongue, rhyme is more necessary to Lyric than to Heroic poetry. The reason seems to be, that in the latter the ear can of itself perceive the boundary of the measure, because the lines are all of equal length nearly, and every good reader makes a short pause at the end of each; whereas, in the former, the lines vary in length: and therefore the rhyme is requisite to make the measure and rhythm sufficiently perceptible. Custom too may have some influence. English Odes without rhyme are uncommon; and therefore have something awkward about them, or something at least to which the public ear is not yet thoroughly reconciled.

Moreover, in poetry, as in music, rhythm is the source of much pleasing variety; of variety tempered with uniformity, and regulated by art: inasmuch, that, notwithstanding the likeness of one hexameter verse to another, it is not common, either in Virgil or in Homer, to meet with two contiguous hexameters whose rhythm is exactly the same. And though all English heroic verses consist of five feet, among which the iambic predominates; yet this measure, in respect of rhythm alone, is susceptible of more than 30 varieties. And let it be remarked further, that different kinds of verse, by being adapted to different subjects and modes of writing, give variety to the poetic language, and multiply the charms of this pleasing art.

What has formerly been shown to be true in regard to style, will also in many cases hold true of verification, "that it is then natural, when it is adapted to the supposed condition of the speaker."—In the epopee, the poet assumes the character of calm inspiration; and therefore his language must be elevated, and his numbers majestic and uniform. A peasant speaking in heroic or hexameter verse is no improbability here; because his words are supposed to be transmitted by one who will of his own accord give them every ornament necessary to reduce them into dignified measure; as an eloquent man, in a solemn assembly, recapitulating the speech of a clown, would naturally express it in pure and perspicuous language. The uniform heroic measure will suit any subject of dignity, whether narrative or didactic, that admits or requires uniformity of style. In tragedy, where the imitation of real life is more perfect than in epic poetry, the uniform magnificence of epic numbers might be improper; because the heroes and heroines are supposed to speak in their own

(x) Horace seems to hint at the same comparison, when, after specifying the several sorts of verse suitable to Epic, Elegiac, Lyric, and Dramatic Poetry, he adds,

Descriptas fervare vices, operumque colores.
Cur ego, si nequeo ignaroque, Poeta salutor? Ar. Poet. vers. 86.

† Rector.
lib. 3. cap. 4.

Of Poetical Harmony. of passion and sentiment. Yet, even in tragedy, the versification may be both harmonious and dignified; because the characters are taken chiefly from high life, and the events from a remote period; and because the higher poetry is permitted to imitate nature, not as it is, but in that state of perfection in which it might be. The Greeks and Romans considered their hexameter as too artificial for dramatic poetry; and therefore in tragedy, and even in comedy, made use of the iambic, and some other measures that came near the cadence of conversation: we use the iambic both in the epic and dramatic poem; but for the most part it is, or ought to be, much more elaborate in the former than in the latter. In dramatic comedy, where the manners and concerns of familiar life are exhibited, verse would seem to be unnatural, except it be so like the sound of common discourse, as to be hardly distinguishable from it. Custom, however, may in some countries determine otherwise; and against custom, in these matters, it is vain to argue. The professed enthusiasm of the dithyrambic poet renders wildness, variety, and a sonorous harmony of numbers, peculiarly suitable to his odes. The love-song, and Anacreontic song, will be less various, more regular, and of a softer harmony; because the state of mind expressed in it has more composure. Philosophy can scarce go further in this investigation, without deviating into whim and hypothesis. The particular sorts of verse to be adopted in the lower species of poetry, are determined by fashion chiefly, and the practice of approved authors.

III. The origin and principles of imitative harmony, or of that artifice by which the sound is made, as Pope says, "an echo to the sense," may be explained in the following manner.

It is pleasing to observe the uniformity of nature in all her operations. Between moral and material beauty and harmony, between moral and material deformity and dissonance, there obtains a very striking analogy. The visible and audible expressions of almost every virtuous emotion are agreeable to the eye and the ear, and those of almost every criminal passion disagreeable. The looks, the attitudes, and the vocal sounds, natural to benevolence, to gratitude, to compassion, to piety, are in themselves graceful and pleasing; while anger, discontent, despair, and cruelty, bring discord to the voice, deformity to the features, and distortion to the limbs. That flowing curve, which painters know to be essential to the beauty of animal shape, gives place to a multiplicity of right lines and sharp angles in the countenance and gesture of him who knits his brows, stretches his nostrils, grinds his teeth, and clenches his fist; whereas devotion, magnanimity, benevolence, contentment, and good-humour, soften the attitude, and give a more graceful swell to the outline of every feature. Certain vocal tones accompany certain mental emotions. The voice of sorrow is feeble and broken, that of despair boisterous and incoherent; joy assumes a sweet and sprightly note, fear a weak and tremulous cadence; the tones of love and benevolence are musical and uniform, those of rage loud and dissonant; the voice of the sedate reasoner is equable and grave, but not unpleasant; and he who declaims with energy, employs many varieties of modulation suited to the various emo-

tions that predominate in his discourse.

But it is not in the language of passion only, that the human voice varies its tone, or the human face its features. Every striking sentiment, and every interesting idea, has an effect upon it. One would esteem that person no adept in narrative eloquence, who should describe with the very same accent, swift and slow motion, extreme labour and easy performance, agreeable sensation and excruciating pain; who should talk of the tumult of a tempestuous ocean, the roar of thunder, the devastations of an earthquake, or an Egyptian pyramid tumbling into ruins, in the same tone of voice wherewith he describes the murmur of a rill, the warbling of the harp of Eolus, the swinging of a cradle, or the descent of an angel. Elevation of mind gives dignity to the voice. From Achilles, Sarpedon, and Othello, we should as naturally expect a manly and sonorous accent, as a nervous style and majestic attitude. Coxcombs and bullies, while they assume airs of importance and valour, affect also a dignified articulation.

Since the tones of natural language are so various, poetry, which imitates the language of nature, must also vary its tones; and, in respect of sound as well as of meaning, be framed after that model of ideal perfection, which the variety and energy of the human articulate voice render probable. This is the more easily accomplished, because, in every language, there is between the sound and sense of certain words a perceptible analogy; which, though not so accurate as to lead a foreigner from the sound to the signification, is yet accurate enough to show, that, in forming such words, regard has been had to the imitative qualities of vocal sound. Such, in English, are the words yell, crash, crack, hiss, roar, murmur, and many others.

All the particular laws that regulate this sort of imitation, as far as they are founded in nature, and liable to the cognizance of philosophy, depend on the general law of style above-mentioned. Together with the other circumstances of the supposed speaker, the poet takes into consideration the tone of voice suitable to the ideas that occupy his mind, and thereto adapts the sound of his language, if it can be done consistently with ease and elegance of expression. But when this imitative harmony is too much sought after, or words appear to be chosen for sound rather than sense, the verse becomes finical and ridiculous. Such is Ronsard's affected imitation of the song of the sky-lark:

Elle quindée du zephire
Sublime en l'air vire et revire,
Et y declique un joli cris,
Qui rit, guérit, et tire l'ire
Des esprit mieux que je n'écris.

This is as ridiculous as that line of Ennius,

Tum tuba terribili sonitu tarantara dixit:

Or as the following verses of Swift;

The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate,
Dub dub a dub dub: the trumpeters follow,
Tantara tantara; while all the boys hollow.

Words by their sound may imitate sound; and quick or slow articulation may imitate quick or slow motion. Hence, by a proper choice and arrangement of words,

Of Poetical Harmony. the poet may imitate, Sounds that are sweet with dignity (F),—sweet and tender (G),—loud (H),—and harsh (I);—and Motions that are, flow in consequence of dignity (K),—flow in consequence of difficulty (L), swift and noisy (M),—swift and smooth (N),—uneven and abrupt (O),—quick and joyous (P). An unexpected pause in the verse may also imitate a sudden failure of strength (Q), or interruption of motion (R), or give vivacity to an image or thought, by fixing our

attention longer than usual upon the word that precedes it (S).—Moreover, when we describe great bulk, it is natural for us to articulate slowly even in common discourse; and therefore a line of poetry that requires a slow pronunciation, or seems longer than it should be, may be used with good effect in describing vastness of size (T).—Sweet and smooth numbers are most proper, when the poet paints agreeable objects, or gentle energy (U); and harsher sounds when he speaks of

(F) No sooner had th' Almighty ceas'd, than all
The multitude of angels, with a shout
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
As from blest voices uttering joy; heav'n rung
With jubilee, and loud hosannas fill'd
The eternal regions.— Par. Lost, b. 3.

See also the night-form of thunder, lightning, wind, and rain, in Virg. Georg. lib. 1. vers. 328.—334.

(G) Et longum, formose, vale, vale, inquit, Iola.
Virg. Ecl. 1.
Formosam resonare doces Amarillida silvas.
Virg. Ecl. 1.

See also the simile of the nightingale, Geor. lib. 4. vers. 511. And see that wonderful couplet describing the wailings of the owl, Aneid. IV. 462.

(H) ——— vibratus ab æthere fulgor
Cum sonitu venit, et ruere omnia via repente,
Tyrrenusque tubæ mugire per æthera clangor;
Suspiciunt: iterum atque iterum fragor intonat ingens.
Aneid. 8.

See also the storm in the first book of the Aneid, and in the fifth of the Odyssey.

(I) The hoarse rough verse shall like the torrent roar.
Pope.

——— On a sudden open fly,
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,
Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder.— Par. Lost, II. 379.

See also Homer's Iliad, lib. 2. vers. 363. and Clarke's annotation.

(K) See an exquisite example in Gray's Progress of Poesy; the conclusion of the third stanza.

(L) And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your
thighs, Pope.
Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could
fir. Pope.

——— The huge leviathan
Wallowing unwieldy, enormous in their gait,
Tempest the ocean. Par. Lost, VII. 411.

See the famous description of Sisyphus rolling the stone, Odys. lib. 11. vers. 592. See Quintil. Inst. Orat. lib. 9. cap. 4. § 4. compared with Paradise Lost, book 2. vers. 2022.

(M) Quadrupe dante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum.
Aneid.

Αυταρ ιπποτα πεδοντι κυκλιδεο λαας αιχιδες. Odys. 11.

See also Virg. Aneid. lib. 1. vers. 83.—87.

(N) See wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies.
Pope.

Ille volat, simul arva fuga, simul æquora verrens.
Virg.

Ραίδεν τ' εἰπὼν πλοῦ, χαλκὸν περ ἴσσε, Hesiod.

(O) Πάλιν δ' ἀνὰ ταχύντα παρὰ ταχύντα τὸ δόχμᾳ τ' ἔδωκε.
Hom.

The last shriek'd, started up, and shriek'd again.
Anonymous.

(P) Let the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks found,
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the chequer'd shade. Milton's Allegro.

See also Gray's Progress of Poesy, stanza 3.

(Q) Ac velut in somnis oculos ubi languida prestit
Nocte quies, nequicquam avidos extendere cursus
Velle videmur:—et in mediis conatibus ægri
Succidimus.— Aneid.

See also Virg. Georg. lib. 3. vers. 515. 516.

(R) For this, be sure to-night thou shalt have cramps,
Side-fitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urbino.
Shall exercise upon thee.—
Prospero to Calyban in the Tempest.

See Pope's Iliad, XIII. 199.

(S) ——— How often from the sleep
Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard
Celestial voices, to the midnight air,
Sole, — or responsive to each other's note,
Singing their great Creator?— Par. Lost, b. 4.
And over them triumphant Death his dart
Shook, — but delay'd to strike. Id.

See also Hom. Odys. 1. 9. v. 190.

(T) Thus stretch'd out, huge in length, the arch fiend lay.
Par. Lost.
Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen
ademptum. Aneid. 3.

Et magnos membrorum artus, magna ossa, lacertofque
Exuit, atque ingens media confisit arena.
Aneid. v. 422.

(U) Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori,
Hic nemus, hic ipso tecum consumeret ævo.
Virg. Ecl. 10.

The dumb shall sing; the lame his crutch forego,
And leap, exulting, like the bounding roe.
Pope's Messiah.

See Milton's description of the evening, Par. Lost, book 4. vers. 398.—609.

Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow,
And softly lay me on the waves below.
Pope's Sappho.

of what is ugly, violent, or disagreeable (x). This too is according to the nature of common language; for we generally employ harsher tones of voice to express what we dislike, and more melodious notes to describe the objects of love, complacency, or admiration. Harsh numbers, however, should not be frequent in poetry. For in this art, as in music, concord and melody ought always to predominate. And we find in fact, that good poets can occasionally express themselves somewhat harshly, when the subject requires it, and yet preserve the sweetness and majesty of poetical diction.—Further, the voice of complaint, pity, love, and all the gentler affections, is mild and musical, and should therefore be imitated in musical numbers; while despair, defiance, revenge, and turbulent emotions in general, assume an abrupt and sonorous cadence. Dignity of description (y), solemn vows (z), and all sentiments that proceed from a mind elevated with great ideas (A), require a correspondent pomp of language and versification.—Lastly, an irregular or uncommon movement in the verse, may some-

times be of use, to make the reader conceive an image in a particular manner. Virgil, describing horses running over rocky heights at full speed, begins the line with two dactyls, to imitate rapidity, and concludes it with eight long syllables:

Saxa per, et scopulos, et depressas convalles.
Geor. III. 276.

which is a very unusual measure, but seems well adapted to the thing expressed, namely, to the descent of the animal from the hills to the low ground. At any rate, this extraordinary change of the rhythm may be allowed to bear some resemblance to the animal's change of motion, as it would be felt by a rider, and as we may suppose it is felt by the animal itself.

Other forms of imitative harmony, and many other examples, besides those referred to in the margin, will readily occur to all who are conversant in the writings of the best versifiers, particularly Homer, Virgil, Milton, Lucretius, Spenser, Dryden, Shakespeare, Pope, and Gray.

PART II. OF THE DIFFERENT SPECIES OF POETRY, with their PARTICULAR PRINCIPLES.

SECT. I. Of Epic and Dramatic Compositions.

§ 1. The Epopæe and Drama compared.

21. TRAGEDY and the epic differ not in substantials: in both the same ends are proposed, viz. instruction and amusement; and in both the same mean is employed, viz. imitation of human actions. They differ only in the manner of imitating: epic poetry employs narration; tragedy represents its facts as passing in our sight: in the former, the poet introduces himself as an historian; in the latter, he presents his actors, and never himself.

This difference, regarding form only, may be thought slight: but the effects it occasions, are by no means so; for what we see makes a deeper impression than what we learn from others. A narrative poem is a story told by another: facts and incidents passing upon the stage, come under our own observation; and are beside much enlivened by action and gesture, expressive of many sentiments beyond the reach of language.

A dramatic composition has another property, independent altogether of action; which is, that it makes a deeper impression than narration: in the former, persons express their own sentiments; in the latter, sentiments are related at second-hand. For that reason, Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule*, That in an epic poem the author ought to take every opportunity of introducing his actors, and of confining

the narrative part within the narrowest bounds. Homer understood perfectly the advantage of this method; and his poems are both of them in a great measure dramatic. Lucan runs to the opposite extreme: and is guilty of a still greater fault, in stuffing his Pharsalia with cold and languid reflections, the merit of which he assumes to himself, and deigns not to share with his actors. Nothing can be more injudiciously timed, than a chain of such reflections, which suspend the battle of Pharsalia after the leaders had made their speeches, and the two armies are ready to engage†.

Aristotle, from the nature of the fable, divides tragedy into simple and complex: but it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic as well as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends attained by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, that has nothing in view but to move the passions and to exhibit pictures of virtue and vice, may be distinguished by the name of pathetic: but where a story is purposely contrived to illustrate some moral truth, by showing that disorderly passions naturally lead to external misfortunes, such composition may be denominated moral. Beside making a deeper impression than can be done by cool reasoning, a moral poem does not fall short of reasoning in affording conviction: the natural connection of vice with misery, and of virtue with happiness, may be illustrated by stating a fact as well as by urging an argument. Let us assume, for example, the following moral truths: That discord among

(x) Stridenti stipula miserum disperdere carmen.
Virg. Ecl. 3.

Immo ego Sardois videri tibi amarior herbis,
Horridior rufco, projecta vilius alga. Virg. Ecl. 7.

Neu patrie validas in viscera vertite vires.
Virg. Æneid. 6.

See also Milton's description of the Lazar-house in Paradise Lost, b. 11. v. 477.—492.

(y) See Virg. Geor. I. 328. and Homer, Virgil, and Milton, passim. See also Dryden's Alexander's Feast, and Gray's Odes.

(z) See Virg. Æneid. IV. 24.

(A) Examples are frequent in the great authors. See Othello's exclamation:

— O now for ever
Farewell the tranquil mind! &c: All 3. sc. 3.

* Poet chap.
25. sect. 6.

† Lib. 7.
385 to line
460.

Of the
Epopoe and
Drama.

among the chiefs renders ineffectual all common measures; and that the consequences of a slightly-founded quarrel, fostered by pride and arrogance, are not less fatal than those of the grossest injury: these truths may be inculcated, by the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles at the siege of Troy. If facts or circumstances be wanting, such as tend to rouse the turbulent passions, they must be invented; but no accidental nor unaccountable event ought to be admitted; for the necessary or probable connection between vice and misery is not learned from any events but what are naturally occasioned by the characters and passions of the persons represented, acting in such circumstances. A real event of which we see not the cause, may afford a lesson, upon the presumption that what hath happened may again happen: but this cannot be inferred from a story that is known to be a fiction.

Many are the good effects of such compositions. A pathetic composition, whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by exciting us to do what is right, and restraining us from what is wrong. Its frequent pictures of human woes, produce, beside, two effects extremely salutary: they improve our sympathy, and fortify us to bear our own misfortunes. A moral composition must obviously produce the same good effects, because by being moral it ceaseth not to be pathetic: it enjoys beside an excellence peculiar to itself; for it not only improves the heart, as above-mentioned, but instructs the head by the moral it contains. It seems impossible to imagine any entertainment more suited to a rational being, than a work thus happily illustrating some moral truth; where a number of persons of different characters are engaged in an important action, some retarding, others promoting, the great catastrophe; and where there is dignity of style as well as of matter. A work of this kind has our sympathy at command, and can put in motion the whole train of the social affections: our curiosity in some scenes is excited, in others gratified; and our delight is consummated at the close, upon finding, from the characters and situations exhibited at the commencement, that every incident down to the final catastrophe is natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of causes and effects.

Considering that an epic and a dramatic poem are the same in substance, and have the same aim or end, one will readily imagine, that subjects proper for the one must be equally proper for the other. But considering their difference as to form, there will be found reason to correct that conjecture, at least in some degree. Many subjects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in either form: but the subjects are still more numerous for which they are not equally qualified; and there are subjects proper for the one, and not at all for the other. To give some slight notion of the difference, as there is no room here for enlarging upon every article, we observe, that dialogue is better qualified for expressing sentiments, and narrative for displaying facts. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted courage, and other elevated virtues, figure best in action: tender passions, and the whole tribe of sympathetic affections, figure best in sentiment. It clearly follows, that tender passions are more peculiarly the province of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry.

22. We have no occasion to say more upon the epic, considered as peculiarly adapted to certain subjects. But as dramatic subjects are more complex, it is necessary to take a narrower view of them; which we do the more willingly, in order to clear a point thrown into great obscurity by critics.

The subject best fitted for tragedy is where a man has himself been the cause of his misfortune; not so as to be deeply guilty, nor altogether innocent: the misfortune must be occasioned by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore in some degree venial. Such misfortunes call forth the social affections, and warmly interest the spectator. An accidental misfortune, if not extremely singular, doth not greatly move our pity: the person who suffers, being innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, that anguish of mind which is occasioned by remorse. An atrocious criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself, excites little pity, for a different reason: his remorse, it is true, aggravates his distress, and swells the first emotions of pity; but then our hatred of him as a criminal blending with pity, blunts its edge considerably. Misfortunes that are not innocent, nor highly criminal, partake the advantages of each extreme: they are attended with remorse to embitter the distress, which raises our pity to a great height; and the slight indignation we have at a venial fault, detracts not sensibly from our pity. The happiest of all subjects accordingly for raising pity, is where a man of integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an action that is innocent, but which, by some singular means, is conceived by him to be criminal: his remorse aggravates his distress; and our compassion, unrestrained by indignation, knows no bounds. Pity comes thus to be the ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy; and, by proper representation, may be raised to a height scarce exceeded by any thing felt in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field; as it not only exercises our pity, but raises another passion, which, though selfish, deserves to be cherished equally with the social affection. The passion we have in view is fear or terror; for when a misfortune is the natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, every spectator who is conscious of such a bias in himself, takes the alarm, and dreads his falling into the same misfortune: and by the emotion of fear or terror, frequently reiterated in a variety of moral tragedies, the spectators are put upon their guard against the disorders of passion.

The commentators upon Aristotle, and other critics, have been much graveled about the account given of tragedy by that author: "That by means of pity and terror, it refines or purifies in us all sorts of passion." But no one who has a clear conception of the end and effects of a good tragedy, can have any difficulty about Aristotle's meaning: Our pity is engaged for the persons represented; and our terror is upon our own account. Pity indeed is here made to stand for all the sympathetic emotions, because of these it is the capital. There can be no doubt, that our sympathetic emotions are refined or improved by daily exercise; and in what manner our other passions are refined by terror, has been just now said. One thing is certain, that no other meaning can justly be given to the foregoing doctrine than that now mentioned; and that it was really

Aristotle's

Aristotle's meaning, appears from his 13th chapter, where he delivers several propositions conformable to the doctrine as here explained. These, at the same time, we take liberty to mention; because, so far as authority can go, they confirm the forgoing reasoning about subjects proper for tragedy. The first proposition is, That it being the province of tragedy to excite pity and terror, an innocent person falling into adversity ought never to be the subject. This proposition is a necessary consequence of his doctrine as explained: a subject of that nature may indeed excite pity and terror; but the former in an inferior degree, and the latter in no degree for moral instruction. The second proposition is, That the history of a wicked person in a change from misery to happiness, ought not to be represented; which excites neither terror nor compassion, nor is agreeable in any respect. The third is, That the misfortunes of a wicked person ought not to be represented: such representation may be agreeable in some measure upon a principle of justice; but it will not move our pity; nor any degree of terror, except in those of the same vicious disposition with the person represented. The last proposition is, That the only character fit for representation lies in the middle, neither eminently good nor eminently bad; where the misfortune is not the effect of deliberate vice, but of some involuntary fault, as our author expresses it. The only objection we find to Aristotle's account of tragedy, is, that he confines it within too narrow bounds, by refusing admittance to the pathetic kind: for if terror be essential to tragedy, no representation deserves that name but the moral kind, where the misfortunes exhibited are caused by a wrong balance of mind, or some disorder in the internal constitution: such misfortunes always suggest moral instruction; and by such misfortunes only, can terror be excited for our improvement.

Thus Aristotle's four propositions above-mentioned, relates solely to tragedies of the moral kind. Those of the pathetic kind, are not confined within so narrow limits: subjects fitted for the theatre, are not in such plenty as to make us reject innocent misfortunes which rouse our sympathy, though they inculcate no moral. With respect indeed to the subjects of that kind, it may be doubted, whether the conclusion ought not always to be fortunate. Where a person of integrity is represented as suffering to the end under misfortunes purely accidental, we depart discontented, and with some obscure sense of injustice: for seldom is man so submissive to Providence, as not to revolt against the tyranny and vexations of blind chance; he will be tempted to say, This ought not to be. We give for an example the Romeo and Juliet of Shakespeare, where the fatal catastrophe is occasioned by Friar Laurence's coming to the monument a minute too late: we are vexed at the unlucky chance, and go away dissatisfied. Such impressions, which ought not to be cherished, are a sufficient reason for excluding stories of this kind from the theatre. The misfortunes of a virtuous person, arising from necessary causes, or from a chain of unavoidable circumstances, will be considered in a different light. Chance, giving an impression of anarchy and misrule, produces always a gloomy prospect: on the contrary, a regular chain of causes and effects directed by the general laws of nature, never fails to

suggest the hand of Providence; to which we submit without resentment, being conscious that submission is our duty. For that reason, we are not disgusted with the distresses of Voltaire's Marianne, though redoubled on her till her death, without the least fault or failing on her part: her misfortunes are owing to a cause extremely natural, and not unfrequent, the jealousy of a barbarous husband. The fate of Desdemona in the Moor of Venice, affects us in the same manner. We are not so easily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in King Lear: the causes of her misfortune are by no means so evident, as to exclude the gloomy notion of chance. In short, a perfect character suffering under misfortunes, is qualified for being the subject of a pathetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is a perfect character altogether inconsistent with a moral tragedy: it may successfully be introduced as an under-part, if the chief place be filled with an imperfect character from which a moral can be drawn. This is the case of Desdemona and Marianne just mentioned; and it is the case of Monimia and Belvidera, in Otway's two tragedies, The Orphan and Venice preferred.

According to our author *, fable operates on our passions, by representing its events as passing in our Elem. of sight, and by deluding us into a conviction of reality. Crit. ch. ii. Hence, in epic and dramatic compositions, every circum- Part 1. § 7. stance ought to be employed that may promote the delusion; such as the borrowing from history some noted event, with the addition of circumstances that may answer the author's purpose: the principal facts are known to be true; and we are disposed to extend our belief to every circumstance. But in choosing a subject that makes a figure in history, greater precaution is necessary than where the whole is a fiction. In the latter case there is full scope for invention: the author is under no restraint other than that the characters and incidents be just copies of nature. But where the story is founded on truth, no circumstances must be added, but such as connect naturally with what are known to be true; history may be supplied, but must not be contradicted. Further, the subject chosen must be distant in time, or at least in place; for the familiarity of recent persons and events ought to be avoided. Familiarity ought more especially to be avoided in an epic poem, the peculiar character of which is dignity and elevation: modern manners make but a poor figure in such a poem. Their familiarity unqualifies them for a lofty subject. The dignity of them will be better understood in future ages, when they are no longer familiar.

After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of rearing an epic poem upon a recent event in the history of his own country. But an event of that kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for tragedy: it was admitted in Greece; and Shakespeare has employed it successfully in several of his pieces. One advantage it possesses above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tends above any other particular to raise our sympathy. The scene of comedy is generally laid at home: familiarity is no objection; and we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our own manners.

After a proper subject is chosen, the dividing it into parts requires some art. The conclusion of a book

in an epic poem, or of an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be intended for so slight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. The supposed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the end of every act, ought always to coincide with some pause in the action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem ought to resemble a sentence or period in language, divided into members that are distinguished from each other by proper pauses; or it ought to resemble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded by imperfect closes that contribute to the melody. Every act in a dramatic poem ought therefore to close with some incident that makes a pause in the action; for otherwise there can be no pretext for interrupting the representation. It would be absurd to break off in the very heat of action; against which every one would exclaim: the absurdity still remains where the action relents, if it be not actually suspended for some time. This rule is also applicable to an epic poem: though in it a deviation from the rule is less remarkable; because it is in the reader's power to hide the absurdity, by proceeding instantly to another book. The first book of Paradise Lost ends without any close, perfect or imperfect: it breaks off abruptly, where Satan, seated on his throne, is prepared to harangue the convoked host of the fallen angels; and the second book begins with the speech. Milton seems to have copied the Æneid, of which the two first books are divided much in the same manner. Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the seventh book of Paradise Lost, nor at the end of the eleventh. In the Iliad little attention is given to this rule.

This branch of the subject shall be closed with a general rule. That action being the fundamental part of every composition, whether epic or dramatic, the sentiments and tone of language ought to be subservient to the action, so as to appear natural, and proper for the occasion. The application of this rule to our modern plays, would reduce the bulk of them to a skeleton.

§ 2. Respective peculiarities of the Epopæe and Drama.

23. In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both the eye and the ear, it would be a gross absurdity to introduce upon the stage superior beings in a visible shape. There is no place for such objection in an epic poem; and Boileau, with many other critics, declares strongly for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. But waving authority, which is apt to impose upon the judgment, let us draw what light we can from reason. We may in the first place observe, that this matter is but indistinctly handled by critics: the poetical privilege of animating insensible objects for enlivening a description, is very different from what is termed machinery, where deities, angels, devils, or other supernatural powers, are introduced as real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the catastrophe; and yet these two things are constantly jumbled together in reasoning. The former is founded on a natural principle: but nothing is more unnatural than the latter. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First, it gives an air of fiction to the whole; and prevents that impression of reality which is requisite to interest our affections, and to move our

passions: which of itself is sufficient to explode machinery, whatever entertainment it may afford to readers of a fantastic taste or irregular imagination. And, next, were it possible, by disguising the fiction, to delude us into a notion of reality, an insuperable objection would still remain, which is, that the aim or end of an epic poem can never be attained in any perfection where machinery is introduced; for an evident reason, that virtuous emotions cannot be raised successfully but by the actions of those who are endowed with passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions: and as for moral instruction, it is clear, that none can be drawn from beings who act not upon the same principles with us. A fable in Æsop's manner is no objection to this reasoning: his lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men under disguise; they act and feel in every respect as human beings; and the moral we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it is true, introduces the gods into his fable: but the religion of his country authorized that liberty; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and bodily in human affairs. It must however be observed, that Homer's deities do no honour to his poems: fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have a good effect; they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will not be relished by any person of a correct taste. They may be of some use to the lower rank of writers; but an author of genius has much finer materials of Nature's production, for elevating his subject, and making it interesting.

One would be apt to think, that Boileau, declaring for the Heathen deities, intended them only for embellishing the diction: but unluckily he banishes angels and devils, who undoubtedly make a figure in poetic language, equal to the Heathen deities. Boileau, therefore, by pleading for the latter in opposition to the former, certainly meant, if he had any distinct meaning, that the Heathen deities may be introduced as actors. And, in fact, he himself is guilty of that glaring absurdity, where it is not so pardonable as in an epic poem: In his ode upon the taking of Namur, he demands with a most serious countenance, whether the walls were built by Apollo or Neptune: and in relating the passage of the Rhine, anno 1672, he describes the god of that river as fighting with all his might to oppose the French monarch; which is confounding fiction with reality at a strange rate. The French writers in general run into this error: wonderful the effect of custom, entirely to hide from them how ridiculous such fictions are!

That this is a capital error in Gierusalemme liberata, Tasso's greatest admirers must acknowledge: a situation can never be intricate, nor the reader ever in pain about the catastrophe, so long as there is an angel, devil, or magician, to lead a helping hand. Voltaire, in his essay upon epic poetry, talking of the Pharsalia, observes judiciously, "That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the solidity of Lucan's subject, deprived him of poetical fiction." Is it not amazing, that a critic who reasons so justly with respect to others, can be so blind with respect to himself? Voltaire, not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisible and super-

rior beings, introduces them into the action: in the sixth canto of the Henriade, St Louis appears in person, and terrifies the soldiers; in the seventh canto, St Louis sends the god of Sleep to Henry; and, in the tenth, the demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War, &c. assist Aumale in a single combat with Turenne, and are driven away by a good angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend such fictitious personages in the same action with mortals, makes a bad figure at any rate; and is intolerable in a history so recent as that of Henry IV. But perfection is not the lot of man.

But perhaps the most successful weapon that can be employed upon this subject is ridicule. Addison has applied this in an elegant manner: "Whereas the time of a general peace is, in all appearance, drawing near; being informed that there are several ingenious persons who intend to shew their talents on so happy an occasion, and being willing, as much as in melies, to prevent that effusion of nonsense which we have good cause to apprehend; I do hereby strictly require every person who shall write on this subject, to remember that he is a Christian, and not to sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of him, in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending upon Phœbus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any of the Muses by name. I do likewise positively forbid the sending of Mercury with any particular message or dispatch relating to the peace; and shall by no means suffer Minerva to take upon her the shape of any plenipotentiary concerned in this great work. I do further declare, that I shall not allow the Destinies to have had a hand in the deaths of the several thousands who have been slain in the late war; being of opinion that all such deaths may be well accounted for by the Christian system of powder and ball. I do therefore strictly forbid the Fates to cut the thread of man's life upon any pretence whatsoever, unless it be for the sake of rhyme. And whereas I have good reason to fear, that Neptune will have a great deal of business on his hands in several poems which we may now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his appearance, unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short allusion; and that even here he may not be permitted to enter, but with great caution and circumspection. I desire that the same rule may be extended to his whole fraternity of Heathen gods; it being my design to condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or exercises any other act of authority which does not belong to him. In short, I expect that no Pagan agent shall be introduced, or any fact related which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience. Provided always, that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be construed to extend, to several of the female poets in this nation, who shall still be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in the same manner as if this paper had never been written." Spec. n.º 523.

The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by machinery, that it is not wonderful to find it embraced by the bulk of writers, and perhaps of readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged to excess. Homer introduceth his deities with no greater ceremony than his mortals; and Virgil has still less modera-

tion: a pilot spent with watching cannot fall asleep and drop into the sea by natural means: one bed cannot receive the two lovers Aeneas and Dido, without the immediate interposition of superior powers. The ridiculous in such fictions, must appear even thro' the thickest veil of gravity and solemnity.

Angels and devils serve equally with Heathen deities as materials for figurative language; perhaps better among Christians, because we believe in them, and not in Heathen deities. But every one is sensible, as well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in our creed make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem, than the invisible powers in the Heathen creed did in ancient poems; the cause of which is not far to seek. The Heathen deities, in the opinion of their votaries, were beings elevated one step only above mankind, subject to the same passions, and directed by the same motives; therefore not altogether improper to mix with men in an important action. In our creed, superior beings are placed at such a mighty distance from us, and are of a nature so different, that with no propriety can we appear with them upon the same stage: man, a creature much inferior, loses all dignity in the comparison.

There can be no doubt, that an historical poem admits the embellishment of allegory, as well as of metaphor, simile, or other figure. Moral truth, in particular, is finely illustrated in the allegorical manner: it amuses the fancy to find abstract terms, by a sort of magic, metamorphosed into active beings; and it is delightful to trace a general proposition in a pictured event. But allegorical beings should be confined within their own sphere, and never be admitted to mix in the principal action, nor to co-operate in retarding or advancing the catastrophe; which would have a still worse effect than invisible powers. For the impression of real existence, essential to an epic poem, is inconsistent with that figurative existence which is essential to an allegory; and therefore no method can more effectually prevent the impression of reality, than the introduction of allegorical beings co-operating with those whom we conceive to be really existing. The love-episode in the Henriade (canto 9.) insufferable by the discordant mixture of allegory with real life, is copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida, in the Gierusalemme liberata, which hath no merit to entitle it to be copied. An allegorical object, such as Fame in the Aeneid, and the temple of Love in the Henriade, may find place in a description: but to introduce Discord as a real personage, imploring the assistance of Love as another real personage, to enervate the courage of the hero, is making these figurative beings act beyond their sphere, and creating a strange jumble of truth and fiction. The allegory of Sin and Death in the Paradise Lost, is possibly not generally relished, though it is not entirely of the same nature with what we have been condemning: in a work comprehending the achievements of superior beings, there is more room for fancy than where it is confined to human actions.

What is the true notion of an episode? or how is it to be distinguished from the principal action? Every incident that promotes or retards the catastrophe, must be part of the principal action. This clears the nature of an episode; which may be defined, "An incident con-

connected with the principal action, but contributing neither to advance nor retard it." The descent of Æneas into hell doth not advance nor retard the catastrophe, and therefore is an episode. The story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal action. The family-scene in the sixth book of the Iliad is of the same nature; for by Hector's retiring from the field of battle to visit his wife, the Grecians had opportunity to breathe, and even to turn upon the Trojans. The unavoidable effect of an episode according to this definition must be, to break the unity of action; and therefore it ought never to be indulged unless to unbend the mind after the fatigue of a long narration. An episode, when such is its purpose, requires the following conditions: it ought to be well connected with the principal action; it ought to be lively and interesting; it ought to be short; and a time ought to be chosen when the principal action relents (x).

In the following beautiful episode, which closes the second book of Fingal, all these conditions are united.

"Comal was a son of Albion; the chief of an hundred hills. His deer drunk of a thousand streams; and a thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. His face was the mildness of youth; but his hand the death of heroes. One was his love, and fair was she! the daughter of mighty Conloch. She appeared like a sun-beam among women, and her hair was like the wing of the raven. Her soul was fixed on Comal, and she was his companion in the chase. Often met their eyes of love, and happy were their words in secret. But Gormal loved the maid, the chief of gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps on the heath, the foe of unhappy Comal.

"One day tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Ronan. It was the wonted haunt of Comal. Its sides were hung with his arms; a hundred shields of thongs were there, a hundred helms of sounding steel. Rest here, said he, my love Galvina, thou light of the cave of Ronan: a deer appears on Maro's brow; I go, but soon will return. I fear, said she, dark Gormal my foe: I will rest here; but soon return, my love.

"He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch, to try his love, clothed her white side with his armour, and strode from the cave of Ronan. Thinking her his foe, his heart beat high, and his colour changed. He drew the bow: the arrow flew: Galvina fell in blood. He ran to the cave with hasty steps, and called the daughter of Conloch. Where art thou, my love? but no answer—He marked, at length, her heaving heart beating against the mortal arrow. O Conloch's daughter, is it thou! he sunk upon her breast.

"The hunters found the hapless pair. Many and silent were his steps round the dark dwellings of his love. The fleet of the ocean came: he fought, and the strangers fell: he searched for death over the

field; but who could kill the mighty Comal? Throwing away his shield, an arrow found his manly breast. He sleeps with his Galvina: their green tombs are seen by the mariner, when he bounds on the waves of the north."

24. Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic form. And the first we shall mention is a double plot: one of which most resemble an episode in an epic poem; for it would distract the spectator, instead of entertaining him, if he were forced to attend, at the same time, to two capital plots equally interesting. And even supposing it an under-plot like an episode, it seldom hath a good effect in tragedy, of which simplicity is a chief property; for an interesting subject that engages our affections, occupies our whole attention, and leaves no room for any separate concern. Variety is more tolerable in comedy; which pretends only to amuse, without totally occupying the mind. But even there, to make a double plot agreeable, is no slight effort of art: the under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone from the principal; for discordant emotions are unpleasant when jumbled together; which, by the way, is an insuperable objection to tragi-comedy. Upon that account, the Proved Husband deserves censure: all the scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads into action, being ludicrous and farcical, are in a very different tone from the principal scenes, displaying severe and bitter expostulations between Lord Townley and his lady. The same objection touches not the double plot of the Careless Husband; the different subjects being sweetly connected, and having only so much variety as to resemble shades of colours harmoniously mixed. But this is not all. The under-plot ought to be connected with that which is principal, so much at least as to employ the same persons: the under-plot ought to occupy the intervals or pauses of the principal action; and both ought to be concluded together. This is the case of the Merry Wives of Windsor.

Violent action ought never to be represented on the stage. While the dialogue goes on, a thousand particulars concur to delude us into an impression of reality; genuine sentiments, passionate language, and persuasive gesture: the spectator once engaged, is willing to be deceived, loses sight of himself, and without scruple enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From this absent state, he is roused by violent action: he wakes as from a pleasing dream, and, gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a fiction. Horace delivers the same rule; and founds it upon the same reason:

Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet;
Aut humana palam coquat extra nefarius Atreus;
Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem:
Quodcumque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi.

The French critics join with Horace in excluding blood from the stage; but, overlooking the most substantial objection, they urge only, that it is barbarous and shocking to a polite audience. The Greeks had

(x) Homer's description of the shield of Achilles is properly introduced at a time when the action relents, and the reader can bear an interruption. But the author of Telemachus describes the shield of that young hero in the heat of battle; a very improper time for an interruption.

no notion of such delicacy, or rather effeminacy; witness the murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, passing behind the scene, as represented by Sophocles: her voice is heard calling out for mercy, bitter expostulations on his part, loud shrieks upon her being stabbed, and then a deep silence. An appeal may be made to every person of feeling, whether this scene be not more horrible, than if the deed had been committed in sight of the spectators upon a sudden gust of passion. If Corneille, in representing the affair between Horatius and his sister, upon which the murder ensues behind the scene, had no other view but to remove from the spectators a shocking action, he was guilty of a capital mistake: for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was the case as represented, is more shocking to a polite audience, even where the conclusive stab is not seen, than the same act performed in their presence by violent and unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repented of as committed. Addison's observation is just*, That no part of this incident ought to have been represented, but reserved for a narrative, with every alleviating circumstance in favour of the hero.

25. A few words upon the dialogue, which ought to be so conducted as to be a true representation of nature. We talk not here of the sentiments, nor of the language, (which are treated elsewhere): but of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing; where every single speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is said by the former speaker, and furnish matter for what comes after, till the end of the scene. In this view, all the speeches, from first to last, represent so many links of one regular chain. No author, ancient or modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to Shakespeare. Dryden, in that particular, may justly be placed as his opposite. He frequently introduces three or four persons speaking upon the same subject, each throwing out his own notions separately, without regarding what is said by the rest: take for an example the first scene of Aureliane. Sometimes he makes a number club in relating an event, not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it, but to one another, for the sake merely of speaking: of which notable sort of dialogue, we have a specimen in the first scene of the first part of the Conquest of Granada. In the second part of the same tragedy, scene second, the King, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their separate observations, like so many soliloquies, upon the fluctuating temper of the mob: a dialogue so uncouth, puts one in mind of two shepherds in a pastoral, excited by a prize to pronounce verses alternately, each in praise of his own mistress.

This manner of dialogue-writing, beside an unnatural air, has another bad effect: it stays the course of the action, because it is not productive of any consequence. In Congreve's comedies, the action is often suspended to make way for a play of wit.

No fault is more common among writers, than to prolong a speech after the impatience of the person to whom it is addressed ought to prompt him or her to break in. Consider only how the impatient actor is to behave in the mean time. To express his impatience in violent action without interrupting, would be unnatural; and yet to dissemble his impatience by appearing cool where he ought to be highly inflamed,

would be no less so.

Rhyme being unnatural and disgusting in dialogue, is happily banished from our theatre: the only wonder is that it ever found admittance, especially among a people accustomed to the more manly freedom of Shakespeare's dialogue. By banishing rhyme, we have gained so much as never once to dream that there can be any further improvement. And yet, however suitable blank verse may be to elevated characters and warm passions, it must appear improper and affected in the mouths of the lower sort. Why then should it be a rule, That every scene in tragedy must be in blank verse? Sakespear, with great judgment, has followed a different rule; which is, to intermix prose with verse, and only to employ the latter where it is required by the importance or dignity of the subject. Familiar thoughts and ordinary facts ought to be expressed in plain language: to hear, for example, a footman deliver a simple message in blank verse, must appear ridiculous to every one who is not biased by custom. In short, that variety of characters and of situations, which is the life of a play, requires not only a suitable variety in the sentiments, but also in the diction.

§ 3. The Three Unities.

26. WHEN we consider the chain of causes and effects in the material world, independent of purpose, design, or thought, we find a number of incidents in succession, without beginning, middle, or end: every thing that happens is both a cause and an effect; being the effect of what goes before, and the cause of what follows: one incident may affect us more, another less; but all of them are links in the universal chain: the mind, in viewing these incidents, cannot rest or settle ultimately upon any one; but is carried along in the train without any close.

But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in conjunction with the material, the scene is varied. Man acts with deliberation, will, and choice: he aims at some end; glory, for example, or riches, or conquest, the procuring happiness to individuals, or to his country in general: he proposes means, and lays plans to attain the end proposed. Here are a number of facts or incidents leading to the end in view, the whole composing one chain by the relation of cause and effect. In running over a series of such facts or incidents, we cannot rest upon any one; because they are presented to us as means only, leading to some end: but we rest with satisfaction upon the end or ultimate event; because there the purpose or aim of the chief person or persons is accomplished. This indicates the beginning, the middle, and the end, of what Aristotle calls an entire action*. The story naturally begins with describing those circumstances which move the person who acts the principal part to form a plan, in order to compass some desired event; the prosecution of that plan and the obstructions, carry the reader into the heat of action: the middle is properly where the action is the most involved; and the end is where the event is brought about, and the plan accomplished.

We have given the foregoing example of a plan crowned with success, because it affords the clearest conception of a beginning, a middle, and an end, in which consists unity of action; and indeed stricter unity cannot be imagined than in that case. But an action may have

* Spectator,
No 44.

* Poet. c. 6.

The three Unities. have unity, or a beginning, middle, and end, without so intimate a relation of parts; as where the catastrophe is different from what it is intended or desired, which frequently happens in our best tragedies. In the Eneid, the hero, after many obstructions, makes his plan effectual. The Iliad is formed upon a different model: it begins with the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon; goes on to describe the several effects produced by that cause; and ends in a reconciliation. Here is unity of action, no doubt, a beginning, a middle, and an end; but inferior to that of the Eneid: which will thus appear. The mind hath a propensity to go forward in the chain of history; it keeps always in view the expected event; and when the incidents or under-parts are connected by their relation to the event, the mind runs sweetly and easily along them. This pleasure we have in the Eneid. It is not altogether so pleasant to connect, as in the Iliad, effects by their common cause; for such connection forces the mind to a continual retrospect: looking backward is like walking backward.

If unity of action be a capital beauty in fable imitative of human affairs, a plurality of unconnected fables must be a capital deformity. For the sake of variety, we indulge an under-plot that is connected with the principal: but two unconnected events are extremely unpleasant, even where the same actors are engaged in both. Ariosto is quite licentious in that particular: he carries on at the same time a plurality of unconnected stories. His only excuse is, that his plan is perfectly well adjusted to his subject; for every thing in the Orlando Furioso is wild and extravagant.

Though to state facts in the order of time is natural, yet that order may be varied for the sake of conspicuous beauties. If, for example, a noted story, cold and simple in its first movements, be made the subject of an epic poem, the reader may be hurried into the heat of action; reserving the preliminaries for a conversation-piece, if thought necessary; and that method, at the same time, hath a peculiar beauty from being dramatic. But a privilege that deviates from nature ought to be sparingly indulged; and yet romance-writers make no difficulty of presenting to the reader, without the least preparation, unknown persons engaged in some arduous adventure equally unknown. In Cassandra, two personages, who afterward are discovered to be the heroes of the fable, start up completely armed upon the banks of the Euphrates, and engage in a single combat.

A play analysed, is a chain of connected facts, of which each scene makes a link. Each scene, accordingly, ought to produce some incident relative to the catastrophe or ultimate event, by advancing or retarding it. A scene that produceth no incident, and for that reason may be termed barren, ought not to be indulged, because it breaks the unity of action: a barren scene can never be entitled to a place, because the chain is complete without it. In the Old Bachelor, the 3d scene of act 2. and all that follow to the end of that act, are mere conversation-pieces, productive of no consequence. The 10th and 11th scenes, act 3. Double Dealer, and the 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, and 14th scenes, act 1. Love for Love, are of the same kind. Neither is The Way of the World entirely guiltless of such scenes. It will be no justification, that they help to display

characters: it were better, like Dryden in his dramatis persona, to describe characters beforehand, which would not break the chain of action. But a writer of genius has no occasion for such artifice: he can display the characters of his personages much more to the life in sentiment and action. How successfully is this done by Shakespeare! in whose works there is not to be found a single barren scene.

Upon the whole, it appears, that all the facts in an historical fable, ought to have a mutual connection, by their common relation to the grand event or catastrophe. And this relation, in which the unity of action consists, is equally essential to epic and dramatic compositions.

In handling unity of action, it ought not to escape observation, that the mind is satisfied with lighter unity in a picture than in a poem; because the perceptions of the former are more lively than the ideas of the latter. In Hogarth's Enraged Musician, we have a collection of every grating found in nature, without any mutual connection except that of place. But the horror they give to the delicate ear of an Italian fiddler, who is represented almost in convulsions, bestows unity upon the piece, with which the mind is satisfied.

How far the unities of time and of place are essential, is a question of greater intricacy. These unities were strictly observed in the Greek and Roman theatres; and they are inculcated by the French and English critics, as essential to every dramatic composition. In theory, these unities are also acknowledged by our best poets, though their practice seldom corresponds: they are often forced to take liberties, which they pretend not to justify, against the practice of the Greeks and Romans, and against the solemn decision of their own countrymen. But in the course of this inquiry it will be made evident, that in this article we are under no necessity to copy the ancients; and that our critics are guilty of a mistake, in admitting no greater latitude of place and time than was admitted in Greece and Rome.

Indeed the unities of place and time, are not, by the most rigid critics, required in a narrative poem. In such composition, if it pretend to copy nature, these unities would be absurd; because real events are seldom confined within narrow limits either of place or of time: and yet we can follow history, or an historical fable, through all its changes, with the greatest facility: we never once think of measuring the real time by what is taken in reading; nor of forming any connection between the place of action and that which we occupy.

We are aware, that the drama differs so far from the epic, as to admit different rules. It will be observed, "That an historical fable, intended for reading solely, is under no limitation of time nor of place, more than a genuine history; but that a dramatic composition cannot be accurately represented, unless it be limited, as its representation is, to one place and to a few hours; and therefore that no fable can be admitted but what has these properties, because it would be absurd to compose a piece for representation that cannot be justly represented." This argument has at least a plausible appearance; and yet one is apt to suspect some fallacy, considering that no critic, however strict, has ventured to confine the unities of place and of time within so narrow

The three
Unities.

narrow bounds.

A view of the Grecian drama, compared with our own, may perhaps relieve us from this dilemma: if they be differently constructed, as shall be made evident, it is possible that the foregoing reasoning may not be equally applicable to both. This is an article, that, with relation to the present subject, has not been examined by any writer.

All authors agree, that tragedy in Greece was derived from the hymns in praise of Bacchus, which were sung in parts by a chorus. Thespis, to relieve the singers, and for the sake of variety, introduced one actor; whose province it was to explain historically the subject of the song, and who occasionally represented one or other personage. Eschylus, introducing a second actor, formed the dialogue; by which the performance became dramatic; and the actors were multiplied when the subject represented made it necessary. But still, the chorus, which gave a beginning to tragedy, was considered as an essential part. The first scene, generally, unfolds the preliminary circumstances that lead to the grand event; and this scene is by Aristotle termed the prologus. In the second scene, where the action properly begins, the chorus is introduced, which, as originally, continues upon the stage during the whole performance: the chorus frequently makes one in the dialogue; and when the dialogue happens to be suspended, the chorus, during the interval, is employed in singing. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiously. Euripides is not altogether so correct. In some of his pieces it becomes necessary to remove the chorus for a little time: but when that unusual step is risked, matters are so ordered as not to interrupt the representation: the chorus never leave the stage of their own accord, but at the command of some principal personage, who constantly waits their return.

Thus the Grecian drama is a continued representation without any interruption; a circumstance that merits attention. A continued representation without a pause, affords not opportunity to vary the place of action, nor to prolong the time of the action beyond that of the representation. To a representation so confined in place and time, the foregoing reasoning is strictly applicable: a real or feigned action that is brought to a conclusion after considerable intervals of time and frequent changes of place, cannot accurately be copied in a representation that admits no latitude in either. Hence it is, that the unities of place and of time, were, or ought to have been, strictly observed in the Greek tragedies; which is made necessary by the very constitution of their drama, for it is absurd to compose a tragedy that cannot be justly represented.

Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to establish rules founded on the practice of the Greeks, are guilty of an egregious blunder. The unities of place and of time were in Greece, as we see, a matter of necessity, not of choice; and it is easy to show, that if we submit to such fetters, it must be from choice, not necessity. This will be evident upon taking a view of the constitution of our drama, which differs widely from that of Greece; whether more or less perfect, is a different point, to be handled afterward. By dropping the chorus, opportunity is afforded to divide the representation by intervals of time, during which the stage is evacuated and the spectacle suspended. This

qualifies our drama for subjects spread through a wide space both of time and of place: the time supposed to pass during the suspension of the representation, is not measured by the time of the suspension; and any place may be supposed, as it is not in sight: by which means, many subjects can justly be represented in our theatres, that were excluded from those of ancient Greece. This doctrine may be illustrated, by comparing a modern play to a set of historical pictures; let us suppose them five in number, and the resemblance will be complete: each of the pictures resembles an act in one of our plays: there must necessarily be the strictest unity of place and of time in each picture; and the same necessity requires these two unities during each act of a play, because during an act there is no interruption in the spectacle. Now, when we view in succession a number of such historical pictures, let it be, for example, the history of Alexander by Le Brun, we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years have passed between the events exhibited in two different pictures, though the interruption is imperceptible in passing our eye from the one to the other; and we have as little difficulty to conceive a change of place, however great: in which view, there is truly no difference between five acts of a modern play, and five such pictures. Where the representation is suspended, we can with the greatest facility suppose any length of time or any change of place: the spectator, it is true, may be conscious, that the real time and place are not the same with what are employed in the representation; but this is a work of reflection; and by the same reflection he may also be conscious, that Garrick is not king Lear, that the playhouse is not Dover cliffs, nor the noise he hears thunder and lightning. In a word, after an interruption of the representation, it is not more difficult for a spectator to imagine a new place, or a different time, than, at the commencement of the play, to imagine himself at Rome, or in a period of time two thousand years back. And indeed, it is abundantly ridiculous, that a critic, who is willing to hold candle-light for sun-shine, and some painted canvasses for a palace or a prison, should affect so much difficulty in imagining a latitude of place or of time in the fable, beyond what is necessary in the representation.

There are, it must be acknowledged, some effects of great latitude in time that ought never to be indulged in a composition for the theatre: nothing can be more absurd, than at the close to exhibit a full-grown person who appears a child at the beginning: the mind rejects, as contrary to all probability, such latitude of time as is requisite for a change so remarkable. The greatest change from place to place hath not altogether the same bad effect: in the bulk of human affairs place is not material; and the mind, when occupied with an interesting event, is little regardless of minute circumstances: these may be varied at will, because they scarce make any impression.

At the same time, it is not here meant to justify liberty without any reserve. An unbounded licence with relation to place and time, is faulty for a reason that seems to have been overlooked, which is, that it seldom fails to break the unity of action: in the ordinary course of human affairs, single events, such as are fit to be represented on the stage, are confined to a narrow spot, and generally employ no great extent of

The three Unities. of time: we accordingly seldom find strict unity of action in a dramatic composition, where any remarkable latitude is indulged in these particulars. It may even be admitted, that a composition which employs but one place, and requires not a greater length of time than is necessary for the representation, is so much the more perfect; because the confining an event within so narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of action, and also prevents that labour, however slight, which the mind must undergo in imagining frequent changes of place, and many intervals of time. But still we must insist, that such limitation of place and time as was necessary in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us; and therefore, that though such limitation adds one beauty more to the composition, it is at best but a refinement, which may justly give place to a thousand beauties more substantial. And we may add, that it is extremely difficult, if not impracticable, to contract within the Grecian limits, any fable so fruitful of incidents in number and variety as to give full scope to the fluctuation of passion.

It may now appear, that critics who put the unities of place and of time upon the same footing with the unity of action, making them all equally essential, have not attended to the nature and constitution of the modern drama. If they admit an interrupted representation, with which no writer finds fault, it is absurd to reject its greatest advantage, that of representing many interesting subjects excluded from the Grecian stage. If there needs must be a reformation, why not restore the ancient chorus and the ancient continuity of action? There is certainly no medium; for to admit an interruption without relaxing from the strict unities of place and of time, is in effect to load us with all the inconveniences of the ancient drama, and at the same time to withhold from us its advantages.

And therefore the only proper question is, Whether our model be or be not a real improvement? This indeed may fairly be called in question; and in order to a comparative trial, some particulars must be premised. When a play begins, we have no difficulty to adjust our imagination to the scene of action, however distant it be in time or in place; because we know that the play is a representation only. The case is very different after we are engaged: it is the perfection of representation to hide itself, to impose on the spectator, and to produce in him an impression of reality, as if he were spectator of a real event; but any interruption annihilates that impression, by rousing him out of his waking dream, and unhappily restoring him to his senses. So difficult it is to support the impression of reality, that much slighter interruptions than the interval between two acts are sufficient to dissolve the charm: in the 5th act of the Mourning Bride, the three first scenes are in a room of state, the fourth in a prison; and the change is operated by shifting the scene, which is done in a trice: but however quick the transition may be, it is impracticable to impose upon the spectators so as to make them conceive that they are actually carried from the palace to the prison; they immediately reflect, that the palace and prison are imaginary, and that the whole is a fiction.

From these premises, one will naturally be led, at first view, to pronounce the frequent interruptions in

the modern drama to be an imperfection. It will occur, "That every interruption must have the effect to banish the dream of reality, and with it to banish our concern, which cannot subsist while we are conscious that all is a fiction; and therefore, that in the modern drama, sufficient time is not afforded for fluctuation and swelling of passion, like what is afforded in that of Greece, where there is no interruption." This reasoning, it must be owned, has a specious appearance: but we must not become faint-hearted upon the first repulse; let us rally our troops for a second engagement.

Considering attentively the ancient drama, we find, that though the representation is never interrupted, the principal action is suspended not less frequently than in the modern drama: there are five acts in each; and the only difference is, that in the former, when the action is suspended as it is at the end of every act, opportunity is taken of the interval to employ the chorus in singing. Hence it appears, that the Grecian continuity of representation cannot have the effect to prolong the impression of reality: to banish that impression, a pause in the action while the chorus is employed in singing, is no less effectual than a total suspension of the representation.

But to open a larger view, it may be shown, that a representation with proper pauses, is better qualified for making a deep impression, than a continued representation without a pause. This will be evident from the following considerations. Representation cannot very long support an impression of reality; for when the spirits are exhausted by close attention and, by the agitation of passion, an uneasiness ensues, which never fails to banish the waking dream. Now supposing the time that a man can employ with strict attention without wandering, to be no greater than is requisite for a single act, a supposition that cannot be far from truth; it follows, that a continued representation of longer endurance than an act, instead of giving scope to fluctuation and swelling of passion, would overstrain the attention, and produce a total absence of mind. In this respect, the four pauses have a fine effect; for by affording to the audience a reasonable respite when the impression of reality is gone, and while nothing material is in agitation, they relieve the mind from its fatigue; and consequently prevent a wandering of thought at the very time possibly of the most interesting scenes.

In one article, indeed, the Grecian model has greatly the advantage: its chorus, during an interval, not only preserves alive the impressions made upon the audience, but also prepares their hearts finely for new impressions. In our theatres, on the contrary, the audience, at the end of every act, being left to trifle time away, lose every warm impression; and they begin the next act cool and unconcerned, as at the commencement of the representation. This is a gross malady in our theatrical representations; but a malady that luckily is not incurable: to revive the Grecian chorus, would be to revive the Grecian slavery of place and time; but we can figure a detached chorus coinciding with a pause in the representation, as the ancient chorus did with a pause in the principal action. What objection, for example, can there lie against music between the acts, vocal and instrumental, adapted

ed to the subject? Such detached chorus, without putting us under any limitation of time or place, would recruit the spirits, and would preserve entire the tone, if not the tide, of passion: the music, after an act, should commence in the tone of the preceding passion, and be gradually varied till it accord with the tone of the passion that is to succeed in the next act. The music and the representation would both of them be gainers by their conjunction; which will thus appear. Music that accords with the present tone of mind, is, on that account, doubly agreeable; and accordingly, though music singly hath not power to raise a passion, it tends greatly to support a passion already raised. Further, music prepares us for the passion that follows, by making cheerful, tender, melancholy, or animated impressions, as the subject requires. Take for an example the first scene of the Mourning Bride, where soft music, in a melancholy strain, prepares us for Almeria's deep distress. In this manner, music and representation support each other delightfully: the impression made upon the audience by the representation, is a fine preparation for the music that succeeds; and the impression made by the music, is a fine preparation for the representation that succeeds. It appears evident, that by some such contrivance, the modern drama may be improved, so as to enjoy the advantage of the ancient chorus without its slavish limitation of place and time. But to return to the comparison between the ancient and the modern drama.

The numberless improprieties forced upon the Greek dramatic poets by the constitution of their drama, may be sufficient, one should think, to make us prefer the modern drama, even abstracting from the improvement proposed. To prepare the reader for this article, it must be premised, that as in the ancient drama the place of action never varies, a place necessarily must be chosen, to which every person may have access without any improbability. This confines the scene to some open place, generally the court or area before a palace; which excludes from the Grecian theatre transactions within doors, though these commonly are the most important. Such cruel restraint is of itself sufficient to cramp the most pregnant invention; and accordingly the Greek writers, in order to preserve unity of place, are reduced to woful improprieties. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, (act 1. sc. 6.) Phedra, distressed in mind and body, is carried without any pretext from her palace to the place of action; is there laid upon a couch, unable to support herself upon her limbs; and made to utter many things improper to be heard by a number of women who form the chorus: and what is still more improper, her female attendant uses the strongest intreaties to make her reveal the secret cause of her anguish; which at last Phedra, contrary to decency and probability, is prevailed upon to do in presence of that very chorus, (act 2. sc. 2.) Alcestes, in Euripides, at the point of death, is brought from the palace to the place of action, groaning, and lamenting her untimely fate (act 2. sc. 1.) In the Trachinians of Sophocles, (act 2.), a secret is imparted to Dejanira, the wife of Hercules, in presence of the chorus. In the tragedy of Iphigenia, the messenger employed to inform Clytemnestra that Iphigenia was sacrificed, stops short at the place of action, and with a loud voice calls the

queen from her palace to hear the news. Again, in the Iphigenia in Tauris (act 4.), the necessary presence of the chorus forces Euripides into a gross absurdity, which is to form a secret in their hearing; and, to disguise the absurdity, much court is paid to the chorus, not one woman but a number, to engage them to secrecy. In the Medea of Euripides, that princess makes no difficulty, in presence of the chorus, to plot the death of her husband, of his mistress, and of her father the king of Corinth, all by poison: it was necessary to bring Medea upon the stage; and there is but one place of action, which is always occupied by the chorus. This scene closes the second act; and in the end of the third, she frankly makes the chorus her confidants in plotting the murder of her own children. Terence, by identity of place, is often forced to make a conversation within doors be heard on the open street: the cries of a woman in labour are there heard distinctly.

The Greek poets are not less hampered by unity of time than by that of place. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, that prince is banished at the end of the 4th act; and in the first scene of the following act, a messenger relates to Theseus the whole particulars of the death of Hippolytus by the sea-monster: that remarkable event must have occupied many hours; and yet in the representation it is confined to the time employed by the chorus upon the song at the end of the 4th act. The inconsistency is still greater in the Iphigenia in Tauris (act 5. sc. 4.): the song could not exhaust half an hour; and yet the incidents supposed to have happened during that time, could not naturally have been transacted in less than half a day.

The Greek artists are forced, not less frequently, to transgress another rule, derived also from a continued representation. The rule is, that as a vacancy, however momentary, interrupts the representation, it is necessary that the place of action be constantly occupied. Sophocles, with regard to that rule as well as to others, is generally correct: but Euripides cannot bear such restraint; he often evacuates the stage, and leaves it empty for others. Iphigenia in Tauris, after pronouncing a soliloquy in the first scene, leaves the place of action, and is succeeded by Orestes and Pylades: they, after some conversation, walk off; and Iphigenia re-enters, accompanied with the chorus. In the Alcestes, which is of the same author, the place of action is void at the end of the 3d act. It is true, that to cover the irregularity, and to preserve the representation in motion, Euripides is careful to fill the stage without loss of time: but this still is an interruption, and a link of the chain broken; for during the change of the actors, there must be a space of time, during which the stage is occupied by neither set. It makes indeed a more remarkable interruption, to change the place of action as well as the actors; but that was not practicable upon the Grecian stage.

It is hard to say upon what model Terence has formed his plays. Having no chorus, there is a pause in the representation at the end of every act: but advantage is not taken of the cessation, even to vary the place of action; for the street is always chosen, where every thing passing may be seen by every person; and by that choice, the most sprightly and interesting parts of the action, which commonly pass within doors, are

are excluded; witness the last act of the Eunuch. He hath submitted to the like slavery with respect to time. In a word, a play with a regular chorus, is not more confined in place and time than his plays are. Thus a zealous sectary follows implicitly ancient forms and ceremonies, without once considering whether their introductory cause be still subsisting. Plautus, of a bolder genius than Terence, makes good use of the liberty afforded by an interrupted representation: he varies the place of action upon all occasions, when the variation suits his purpose.

The intelligent reader will by this time understand, that we plead for no change of place in our plays but after an interval, nor for any latitude in point of time but what falls in with an interval. The unities of place and time ought to be strictly observed during each act; for during the representation, there is no opportunity for the smallest deviation from either. Hence it is an essential requisite, that during an act the stage be always occupied; for even a momentary vacancy makes an interval or interruption. Another rule is no less essential: it would be a gross breach of the unity of action, to exhibit upon the stage two separate actions at the same time; and therefore, to preserve that unity, it is necessary that each personage introduced during an act, be linked to those in possession of the stage, so as to join all in one action. These things follow from the very conception of an act, which admits not the slightest interruption: the moment the representation is intermitted, there is an end of that act; and we have no other notion of a new act, but where, after a pause or interval, the representation is again put in motion. French writers, generally speaking, are correct in this particular. The English, on the contrary, are so irregular as scarce to deserve a criticism: actors not only succeed each other in the same place without connection, but, what is still less excusable, they frequently succeed each other in different places. This change of place in the same act, ought never to be indulged; for, beside breaking the unity of the act, it has a disagreeable effect: after an interval, the imagination adapts itself to any place that is necessary, as readily as at the commencement of the play; but during the representation, we reject change of place. From the foregoing censure must be excepted the Mourning Bride of Congreve, where regularity concurs with the beauty of sentiment and of language, to make it one of the most complete pieces England has to boast of. It is to be acknowledged, however, that, in point of regularity, this elegant performance is not altogether unexceptionable. In the four first acts, the unities of place and time are strictly observed: but in the last act, there is a capital error with respect to unity of place; for in the three first scenes of that act, the place of action is a room of state, which is changed to a prison in the fourth scene: the chain also of the actors is broken; as the persons introduced in the prison, are different from those who made their appearance in the room of state. This remarkable interruption of the representation, makes in effect two acts instead of one: and therefore, if it be a rule that a play ought not to consist of more acts than five, this performance is so far defective in point of regularity. It may be added, that, even admitting six acts, the irregularity

would not be altogether removed, without a longer pause in the representation than is allowed in the acting; for more than a momentary interruption is requisite for enabling the imagination readily to fall in with a new place, or with a wide space of time. In The Way of the World, of the same author, unity of place is preserved during every act, and a stricter unity of time during the whole play than is necessary.

51. AN opera is a drama represented by music. This entertainment was invented at Venice. An exhibition of this sort requires a most brilliant magnificence, and an expence truly royal. The drama must necessarily be composed in verse; for as operas are sung and accompanied with symphonies, they must be in verse to be properly applicable to music. To render this entertainment still more brilliant, it is ornamented with daunces and ballettes, with superb decorations, and surprising machinery. The dresses of the actors, of those who assist in the chorus, and of the dauncers, being all in the most splendid and elegant taste, contribute to render the exhibition highly sumptuous. But notwithstanding this union of arts and pleasures at an immense expence, and notwithstanding a most dazzling pageantry, an opera appears, in the eyes of many people of taste, but as a magnificent absurdity, seeing that nature is never there from the beginning to the end. It is not our business here, however, to determine between the different tastes of mankind.

The method of expressing our thoughts by singing and music is so little natural, and has something in it so forced and affected, that it is not easy to conceive how it could come into the minds of men of genius to represent any human action; and, what is more, a serious or tragic action, any otherwise than by speech. We have, it is true, operas in English by Addison, &c. in Italian by Metastasio, in French by M. Quinault, Fontenelle, &c. the subjects of which are so grave and tragic, that one might call them musical tragedies, and real chefs-d'œuvres in their kind. But though we are highly satisfied and greatly affected on reading them, and are much pleased with seeing them represented, yet the spectator is, perhaps, more charmed with the magnificence of the light and the beauty of the music, then moved with the action and the tragical part of the performance. We are not, however, of that order of critics who strive to prove, that mankind act wrong in finding pleasure in an object with which they are really pleased; who blame a lover for thinking his mistress charming, when her features are by no means regular; and who are perpetually applying the rules of logic to the works of genius: we make these observations merely in order to examine if it be not possible to augment the pleasures of a polite people, by making the opera something more natural, more probable, and more consonant to reason.

We think, therefore, that the poet should never, or at least very rarely, choose a subject from history, but from fable or mythology, or from the regions of enchantment. Every rational mind is constantly shocked to hear a mutilated hero trill out, from the slender pipe of a chaffinch, To arms! To arms! and in the

same tone animate his soldiers, and lead them to the assault; or harangue an assembly of grave senators, and sometimes a whole body of people. Nothing can be more burlesque than such exhibitions; and a man must be possessed of a very uncommon sensibility to be affected by them. But as we know not what was the language of the gods, and their manner of expressing themselves, we are at liberty in that case to form what illusions we please, and to suppose that they sung to distinguish themselves from mortals. Besides, all the magic of decorations and machinery become natural, and even necessary, in these kinds of subjects; and therefore readily afford opportunity for all the pomp of these performances. The chorus, the dances, the ballettes, the symphonies and dresses, may likewise be all made to correspond with such subjects: nothing is here affected, absurd, or unnatural. Whoever is possessed of genius, and is well acquainted with mythology, will there find an inexhaustible source of subjects highly diversified, and quite proper for the drama of an opera.

We shall not speak here of that sort of music which appears to us the most proper for such a drama, and of the several alterations of which we think it susceptible, in order to make it more complete, and to adapt it to a more pathetic, more noble, and more natural expression, as well in the recitatives, as in the airs and chorus. We have only here to consider the business of the poet. He should never lose sight of nature, even in the midst of the greatest fiction. A god, a demi-god, a renowned hero, such for example as Renaud in Armida, a fairy, a genie, a nymph, or fury, &c. should constantly be represented according to the characters we give them, and never be made to talk the language of a fop or a petite maîtresse. The recitative, which is the ground-work of the dialogue, requires verses that are free and not regular, such as with a simple cadence approach the nearest to common language. The airs should not be forced into the piece, nor improperly placed for the sake of terminating a scene, or to display the voice of a performer: they should express some sentiment, or some precept, short and striking, or tender and affecting; or some simile lively and natural; and they should arise of themselves from a monologue, or from a scene between two persons: prolixity should here be particularly avoided, especially when such an air makes part of a dialogue; for nothing is more insipid or disgusting than the countenances of the other actors who appear at the same time, whose silence is quite unmeaning, and who know not what to do with their hands and feet while the singer is straining his throat. The verse of all the airs should be of the lyric kind, and should contain some poetic image, or paint some noble passion, which may furnish the composer with an opportunity of displaying his talents, and of giving a lively and affecting expression to the music. A phrase that is inanimate can never have a good effect in the performance, but must become insipid and horribly tedious in the air. The trite similes of the Italians of a stream that flows, or a bird that flies, &c. are no longer sufferable. The same thing may be said with regard to the chorus, which should be equally natural and well adapted: it is here sometimes a whole people, sometimes the inhabitants of a peculiar country,

and sometimes warriors, nymphs, or priests, &c. who raise their voice to demand justice, to implore favour, or render a general homage. The action itself will furnish the poet of genius with ideas, words, and the manner of disposing them.

Lastly, the opera being a performance calculated less to satisfy the understanding, than to charm the ear and affect the heart, and especially to strike the sight, the poet should have a particular attention to that object, should be skilled in the arts of a theatre, should know how to introduce combats, ballettes, feasts, games, pompous entries, solemn processions, and such marvellous incidents as occur in the heavens, upon earth, in the sea, and even in the infernal regions: but all these matters demand a strong character, and the utmost precision in the execution; for otherwise, the comic being a near neighbour to the sublime, they will easily become ridiculous. The unity of action must certainly be observed in such a poem, and all the incidental episodes must concur to the principal design; otherwise it would be a monstrous chaos. It is impossible, however, scrupulously to observe the unity of time and place: though the liberty, which reason allows the poet in this respect, is not without bounds; and the less use he makes of it, the more perfect his poem will be. It is not perhaps impossible so to arrange the objects, that, in changing the decorations, the painter may constantly make appear some part of the principal decoration which characterises the situation of the scene, as the corner of a palace at the end of a garden, or some avenue that leads to it, &c. But all this is liable to difficulties, and even to exceptions; and the art of the painter must concur in such case with that of the poet. For the rest, all the operas of Europe are at least one third too long; especially the Italian. The unity of action requires brevity; and satiety is inseparable from a diversion that lasts full four hours, and sometimes longer. They have indeed endeavoured to obviate this inconvenience by dividing an opera into three, and even into five acts; but experience proves, that this division, though judicious, is still not sufficient to relieve the wearied attention.

SECT. II. Of Lyric Poetry.

52. THE ode is very ancient, and was probably the first species of poetry. It had its source, we may suppose, from the heart, and was employed to express, with becoming fervour and dignity, the grateful sense man entertained of the blessings which daily flowed from God the fountain of all goodness: Hence their harvest hymns, and other devotional compositions of that kind.

But in process of time it was employed, not only to praise the Almighty for bounties received, but to solicit his aid in time of trouble; as is plain from the odes written by king David and others, and collected by the Jewish Sanhedrim into the book of Psalms, to be sung at their fasts, festivals, and on other solemn occasions. Nor was this practice confined to the Israelites only: Other nations had their songs of praise and petitions of this sort, which they preferred to their deities in time of public prosperity and public distress, as well as to those heroes who distinguished themselves in arms. Even the American Indians, whose notions of

Of Lyric Poetry. of religion are extremely confined, have their war-songs, which they sing to this day.

It is reasonable to suppose that the awful purpose to which the ode was applied, gave rise among the ancients to the custom of invoking the muses; and that the poets, in order to raise their sentiments and language, so as to be acceptable to their deities, thought it expedient to solicit some divine assistance. Hence poets are said to have been inspired, and hence an unbounded liberty has been given to the ode; for the lyric poet, fired, as it were, with his subject, and borne away on the wings of gratitude, disdains grammatical niceties and common modes of speech, and often soars above rule, though not above reason. This freedom, however, consists chiefly in sudden transitions, bold digressions, and lofty excursions. For the ancient poets, and even Pindar, the most daring and lofty of them all, has in his sublimest flights, and amidst all his rapture, preserved harmony, and often uniformity in his versification: but so great is the variety of his measures, that the traces of lameness are in a manner lost; and this is one of the excellencies for which that poet is admired, and which, though seemingly devoid of art, requires so much that he has seldom been imitated with success.

The ancients in their odes indulged such a liberty of fancy, that some of their best poets not only make bold excursions and digressions, but, having in their flights started some new and noble thought, they frequently pursue it, and never more return to their subject. But this loose kind of ode, which seems to reject all method, and in which the poet, having just touched upon his subject, immediately diverts to another, we should think blameable, were it lawful to call in question the authority of those great men who were our preceptors in this art. We may venture to affirm, however, that these compositions stand in no degree of comparison with other odes of theirs; in which, after wandering from the subject in pursuit of new ideas arising from some of its adjuncts, and ranging wantonly, as it were, through a variety of matter, the poet is, from some other circumstance, led naturally to his subject again; and, like a bee, having collected the essence of many different flowers, returns home and unites them all in one uniform pleasing sweet.

The ode among the ancients signified no more than a song: but with the moderns, the ode and the song are considered as different compositions; the ode being usually employed in grave and lofty subjects, and seldom sung but on solemn occasions.

The subjects most proper for the ode and song, Horace has pointed out in a few elegant lines.

Gods, heroes, conquerors, Olympic crowns,
Love's pleasing cares, and the free joys of wine,
Are proper subjects for the lyric song.

To which we may add, that happiness, the pleasures of a rural life, and such parts of morality as afford lessons for the promotion of our felicity, and reflections on the conduct of life, are equally suitable to the ode. This both Pindar and Horace were so sensible of, that many of their odes are seasoned with these moral sentences and reflections.

But who can number ev'ry sandy grain
Wash'd by Sicilia's hoarse-resonding main?
Or who can Theron's gen'rous works express,
And tell how many hearts his bounteous virtues bless?
Ode to THERON.

And in another Olympic ode, inscribed by the same poet to Diagoras of Rhodes (and in such esteem, that it was deposited in the temple of Minerva, written in letters of gold), Pindar, after exalting them to the skies, concludes with this lesson in life:

Yet as the gales of fortune various blow,
To day tempestuous, and to-morrow fair,
Due bounds, ye Rhodians, let your transports know;
Perhaps to-morrow comes a storm of care.

WEST'S PINDAR.

The man resolv'd and steady to his trust,
Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just,
May the rude rabble's insolence despise,
Their senseless clamours and tumultuous cries;
The tyrant's fierceness he beguiles,
And the stern brow and the harsh voice defies,
And with superior greatness smiles.

Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms
Adria's black gulf, and vexes it with storms,
The stubborn virtue of his soul can move;
Nor the red arm of angry Jove,
That flings the thunder from the sky,
And gives it rage to roar and strength fly.
Should the whole frame of nature round him break,
In ruin and confusion hurl'd,
He unconcern'd would hear the mighty crack,
And stand secure amidst a falling world.

HORACE.

M. Despreaux has given us a very beautiful and just description of the ode in these lines.

L'Ode avec plus d'éclat, & non moins d'énergie
Élevant jusqu'au ciel son vol ambitieux,
Entretient dans vers commerce avec les Dieux.
Aux Athlètes dans Pise elle ouvre la barrière,
Chante un vainqueur poudreux au bout de la carrière;
Mene Achille sanglant au bord du Simois
Ou fait flechir l'Escaut sous le joug de Louis.
Tantôt comme une abeille ardente à son ouvrage
Elle s'en va de fleurs dépouiller le rivage:
Elle peint les festins, les danses & les ris,
Vante un baïser cueilli sur les lèvres d'Iris,
Qui mollement résiste & par un doux caprice
Quelquesfois le refuse, afin qu'on le ravisse.
Son style impétueux souvent marche au hasard.
Chez elle un beau désordre est un effet de l'art,
Loin ces rimeurs craintifs, dont l'esprit pégmatique
Garde dans ses fureurs un ordre didactique:
Qui chantant d'un héros les progrès éclatans,
Maigres historiens, suivront l'ordre des temps.
Apollon de son feu leur fut toujours avare, &c.

The lofty ode demands the strongest fire,
For there the muse all Phœbus must inspire:
Mounting to heav'n in her ambitious flight,
Amongst the Gods and heroes takes delight;
Of Pise's wrestlers tells the sinewy force,
And sings the dusty conqueror's glorious course;

To Simois' banks now fierce Achilles sends,
Beneath the Gallic yoke now Escaut bends:
Sometimes she flies, like an industrious bee,
And robs the flow'rs by nature's chemistry;
Describes the shepherds dances, feasts, and bliss,
And boasts from Phillis to surprise a kiss,
When gently she resists with feign'd remorse,
That what she grants may seem to be by force.
Her generous style will oft at random start
And by a brave disorder show her art;
Unlike those fearful poets whose cold rhyme
In all their raptures keeps exactest time,
Who sing the illustrious hero's mighty praise,
Dry journalists, by terms of weeks and days;
To these, Apollo, thrifty of his fire,
Denies a place in the Pierian choir, &c.

The variety of subjects, which are allowed the lyric poet, makes it necessary to consider this species of poetry under the following heads, viz. the sublime ode, the lesser ode, and the song. We shall begin with the lowest, and proceed to that which is more eminent.

54. I. Songs are little poetical compositions, usually set to a tune, and frequently sung in company by way of entertainment and diversion. Of these we have in our language a great number; but, considering that number, not many which are excellent; for, as the duke of Buckingham observes,

Tho' nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art.

The song admits of almost any subject; but the greatest part of them turn either upon love, contentment, or the pleasures of a country life, and drinking. Be the subject, however, what it will, the verses should be easy, natural, and flowing, and contain a certain harmony, so that poetry and music may be agreeably united. In these compositions, as in all others, obscene and profane expressions should be carefully avoided, and indeed every thing that tends to take off that respect which is due to religion and virtue, and to encourage vice and immorality. As the best songs in our language are already in every hand, it would seem superfluous to insert examples. For further precepts, however, as well as select examples, in this species of composition, we may refer the reader to the elegant Essay on Song writing, by Mr Aikin.

55. II. The lesser ode. The distinguishing character of this is sweetness; and as the pleasure we receive from this sort of poem, arises principally from its soothing and affecting the passions, great regard should be paid to the language, as well as to the thoughts and numbers.

The expression should be easy, fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly:
No words transpos'd, but in such order all,
As, tho' hard wrought, may seem by chance to fall.
D. Buckingham's Essay.

The style, indeed, should be easy: but it may be also florid and figurative. It solicits delicacy, but disdains affectation. The thoughts should be natural, chaste, and elegant; and the numbers various, smooth, and harmonious. A few examples will sufficiently explain what we mean.

Longinus has preserved a fragment of Sappho, an ancient Greek poetess, which is in great reputation amongst the critics, and has been so happily translated by Mr Philips, as to give the English reader a just idea of the spirit, ease, and elegance of that admired author; and show how exactly she copied nature. To enter into the beauties of this ode, we must suppose a lover sitting by his mistress, and thus expressing his passion:

Blest as th' immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And sees and hears thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.
'Twas this depriv'd my soul of rest,
And rais'd such tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glow'd, the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame:
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd;
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;
I fainted, sunk, and dy'd away.

After this instance of the Sapphic ode, it may not be improper to speak of that sort of ode which is called Anacreontic; being written in the manner and taste of Anacreon, a Greek poet, famous for the delicacy of his wit, and the exquisite, yet easy and natural turn of his poetry. We have several of his odes still extant, and many modern ones in imitation of him, which are mostly composed in verses of seven syllables, or three feet and a half.

We shall give the young student one or two examples of his manner from Mr Fawkes's excellent translation.

The following ode on the power of gold, which had been often attempted with but little success, this gentleman has translated very happily.

Love's a pain that works our wo;
Not to love, is painful too:
But, alas! the greatest pain
Waits the love that meets disdain.
What avails ingenuous worth,
Sprightly wit, or noble birth?
All these virtues useless prove;
Gold alone engages love.
May he be completely curs'd,
Who the sleeping mischief first
Wak'd to life, and, vile before,
Stamp'd with worth the fordid ore.
Gold creates in brethren strife;
Gold destroys the parent's life;
Gold produces civil jars,
Murders, massacres, and wars;
But, the worst effect of gold,
Love, alas! is bought and sold.

His ode on the vanity of riches, is of a piece with the above, and conveys a good lesson to those who are over anxious for wealth.

If the treasur'd gold could give
Man a longer term to live,

I'd employ my utmost care
Still to keep, and still to spare;
And, when death approach'd, would say,
"Take thy fee, and walk away."

But since riches cannot save
Mortals from the gloomy grave,
Why should I myself deceive,
Vainly sigh, and vainly grieve?
Death will surely be my lot,
Whether I am rich or not.
Give me freely while I live
Generous wines, in plenty give
Soothing joys my life to cheer,
Beauty kind, and friends sincere;
Happy! could I ever find
Friends sincere, and beauty kind.

But two of the most admired, and perhaps the most imitated, of Anacreon's odes, are that of Mars wounded by one of the darts of Love, and Cupid stung by a Bee; both which are wrought up with fancy and delicacy, and are translated with elegance and spirit.— Take that of Cupid stung by a bee.

Once as Cupid, tir'd with play,
On a bed of roses lay,
A rude bee, that slept unseen,
The sweet-breathing buds between,
Stung his finger, cruel chance!
With its little pointed lance.
Strait he fills the air with cries,
Weeps, and sobs, and runs, and flies;
'Till the god to Venus came,
Lovely, laughter-loving dame:
Then he thus began to plain;
"Oh! undone,——I die with pain——"
"Dear mamma, a serpent small,
Which a Bee the ploughmen call,
Imp'd with wings, and arm'd with dart,
Oh!——has stung me to the heart."
Venus thus reply'd, and smile'd:
"Dry those tears for shame! my child;
If a bee can wound so deep,
Causing Cupid thus to weep,
Think, O think! what cruel pains
He that's stung by thee sustains."

Mr Prior, whose poetical works will be ever admired for the natural ease and elegance of his style, as well as for the delicacy of his wit, has in several of his odes the very spirit and air of Anacreon. The following ode, in which he describes the effects of love, and insinuates that the eyes are the best interpreters of the heart, is written exactly in his manner.

The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Chloe noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
I fung and gaz'd; I play'd and trembled:
And Venus, to the Loves around,
Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

This ingenious author has given us several odes in the spirit and manner of Horace, as well as of Anacreon; and the following Answer to Chloe jealous, which was written when he was sick, has much of the elegant tenderness of Sappho.

Yes, fairest proof of beauty's pow'r,
Dear idol of my panting heart,
Nature points this my fatal hour:
And I have liv'd; and we must part.
While now I take my last adieu,
Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear;
Left yet my half-clos'd eye may view
On earth an object worth its care.
From jealousy's tormenting strife
For ever be thy bosom freed;
That nothing may disturb thy life,
Content I hasten to the dead.
Yet when some better-fated youth
Shall with his am'rous parly move thee,
Reflect one moment on his truth
Who, dying, thus persists to love thee.

And in the piece which immediately follows, intitled, 't better Answer to Chloe jealous, he has, together with the gaiety and wit of Anacreon and Horace, blended some strokes of humour.

Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face?
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:
Prathee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:
More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vex'd at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong:
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:
O'd's life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The difference there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose;
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the Sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest;
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run,
At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am weary'd with wand'ring all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come;
No matter what beauties I saw in my way,
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war,
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree;
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.

There is much of the softness of Sappho, and the sweetness of Anacreon and Prior, in the following ode; which is ascribed to the late unfortunate Dr Dodd, and was written in compliment to a lady, who, being sick, had sent the author a moss rose-bud, instead of

Of Lyric Poetry. of making his family a visit. This piece is particularly to be esteemed for the just and striking moral with which it is pointed.

The flightest of favours bestow'd by the fair,
With rapture we take, and with triumph we wear:
But a moss-woven rose bud, Eliza, from thee,
A well-pleasing gift to a monarch would be.
—Ah! that illness, too cruel, forbidding thou'd stand,
And refuse me the gift from thy own lovely hand!
With joy I receive it, with pleasure will view,
Reminded of thee, by its odour and hue:
"Sweet rose, let me tell thee, tho' charming thy bloom,
Tho' thy fragrance excels Seba's richest perfume;
Thy breath to Eliza's no fragrance hath in't,
And but dull is thy bloom to her cheek's blushing tint.
Yet, alas! my fair flow'r, that bloom will decay,
And all thy lov'd beauties soon wither away;
Tho' pluck'd by her hand, to whose touch, we must own,
Harsh and rough is the cygnet's most delicate down?"
Thou too, snowy hand;—nay, I mean not to preach;
But the rose, lovely moralist, suffer to teach.
"Extol not, fair maiden, thy beauties o'er mine;
They too are short-liv'd, and they too must decline;
And small, in conclusion, the difference appears,
In the bloom of few days, or the bloom of few years!
But remember a virtue the rose hath to boast,
—Its fragrance remains when its beauties are lost!"

56. We come now to those odes of the more florid and figurative kind, of which we have many in our language that deserve particular commendation. Mr Warton's Ode to Fancy has been justly admired by the best judges; for though it has a distant resemblance of Milton's L'Allegro and Il Pensiero, yet the work is original; the thoughts are mostly new and various, and the language and numbers elegant, expressive, and harmonious.

O parent of each lovely muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse!
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide!
To offer at thy turf-built shrine
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flow'rs and honey from the rock.
O nymph, with loosely flowing hair,
With bushin'd leg, and bosom bare;
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd;
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow;
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey,
Thro' air, and over earth and sea;
While the vast various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.
O lover of the desart, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
Midst falls of water, you reside;
Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between;

'Midst forests dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke;
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cott was rear'd;
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.
Tell me the path, sweet wanderer! tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor;
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each ev'ning warbling thee to rest.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream;
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser thro' a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear;
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly-soothing sound!
Me, goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead;
Where Joy and white rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court;
Where Mirth and Youth each ev'ning meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Lift'ning to the shepherd's song.
Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy,
Can long my pensive mind employ;
Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of Folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy!
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and sigh.
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnel, and the house of wo;
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek:
Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tot'ring wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows shrieks I hear:
Give me another hoarse, I cry;
Lo, the base Gallic squadrons fly!
Whence is this rage?—what spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war;
There whirls me o'er the hills of ruin,
Where tumult and destruction reign;

Where,

Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed,
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With fullen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield!
O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks, and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervors of the mid-day sun.
The pangs of absence, O remove,
For thou can't place me near my love;
Can't fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss;
While her ruby lips dispense
Luscious nectar's quintessence!
When young ey'd Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale;
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And rains with wine his jolly cheeks;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold;
At ev'ry season, let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm enthusiastic maid!
Without thy pow'rful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to ev'ry line,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane,
To utter an unhallow'd strain;
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.
O hear our pray'r, O hither come
From thy lamented Shakespeare's tomb,
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling's grave.
O queen of numbers, once again,
Animate some chosen swain,
Who, fill'd with unexhausted fire,
May boldly smite the sounding lyre,
Who with some new, unequal'd song,
May rise above the rhyming throng;
O'er all our list'ning passions reign,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain;
With terror shake, with pity move,
Rouse with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign t'attend his evening walk,
With him in groves and grottoes talk;
Teach him to scorn, with frigid art,
Feebly to touch th' enraptur'd heart;
Like light'ning, let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;
With native beauties win applause,
Beyond cold critics studied laws:
O let each muse's fame increase,
O bid Britannia rival Greece!

The following ode, written by Mr. Smart on the 5th of December, (being the birth-day of a beautiful young lady), is much to be admired for the variety and harmony of the numbers, as well as for the beauty of the thoughts, and the elegance and delicacy of the compliment. It has great fire, and yet great

sweetness, and is the happy issue of genius and judgement united.

Hail, eldest of the monthly train,
Sire of the winter drear,
December! in whose iron reign
Expires the chequer'd year.
Hush all the blust'ring blasts that blow,
And proudly plum'd in silver snow,
Smile gladly on this blest of days;
The livery'd clouds shall on thee wait,
And Phœbus shine in all his state
With more than summer rays.
Tho' jocund June may justly boast
Long days and happy hours;
Tho' August be Pomona's host,
And May be crown'd with flow'rs:
Tell June, his fire and crimson dies,
By Harriot's blush, and Harriot's eyes,
Eclips'd and vanquish'd, fade away;
Tell August, thou canst let him see
A richer, riper fruit than he,
A sweeter flow'r than May.

The ensuing ode, written by Mr. Collins on the death of Mr. Thompson, is of the pastoral and elegiac kind, and both picturesque and pathetic. To perceive all the beauties of this little piece, which are indeed many, we must suppose them to have been deliver'd on the river Thames near Richmond.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave;
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its poet's sylvan grave!
In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds
His airy harp * shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love thro' life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in pity's ear
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest!
And oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whiten'ng spire †,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.
But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will ev'ry dirge avail?
Or tears, which love and pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?
Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye,
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near?
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.
But thou, lorn stream, whose fullen tide
No sedge-crown'd litters now attend,
Now wast me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend.
And see, the fairy valleys fade,
Dim night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek nature's child, again adieu!

The

The genial meads, assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom;
Their hinds, and shepherd girls, shall dress,
With simple hands thy rural tomb.
Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes;
O vales and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies!

57. Under this species of the ode, notice ought to be taken of those written on divine subjects, and which are usually called hymns. Of these we have many in our language, but none perhaps that are so much admired as Mr Addison's. The beauties of the following hymn are too well known, and too obvious, to need any commendation; we shall only observe, therefore, that in this hymn (intended to display the power of the Almighty) he seems to have had a psalm of David in his view, which says, that "the heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handy-work."

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heav'n, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim:
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's pow'r display,
And publishes to ev'ry land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the lift'ning earth
Repeats the story of her birth:
While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What tho' in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What tho' no real voice or sound
Amid their radiant orb be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."

The following pastoral hymn is a version of the 23d Psalm by Mr Addison; the peculiar beauties of which have occasioned many translations; but we have seen none that is so poetical and perfect as this. And in justice to Dr Boyce, we must observe, that the music he has adapted to it is so sweet and expressive, that we know not which is to be most admired, the poet or the musician.

The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant,
To fertile vales and dewy meads,
My weary wand'ring steps he leads;
Where peaceful rivers soft and slow,

Amid the verdant landscape flow.
Tho' in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill:
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
Tho' in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile:
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd;
And streams shall murmur all around.

58. III. We are now to speak of those odes which are of the sublime and noble kind, and distinguished from others by their elevation of thought and diction, as well as by the variety or irregularity of their numbers, as the frequent transitions and bold excursions with which they are enriched.

To give the young student an idea of the sudden and frequent transitions, digressions, and excursions, which are admitted into the odes of the ancients, we cannot do better than refer him to the celebrated song, or ode, of Moses; which is the oldest that we know of, and was penned by that divine author immediately after the children of Israel crossed the Red-Sea.

At the end of this song, we are told, that "Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances. And Miriam answered them, Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea."

From this last passage it is plain, that the ancients, very early, called in music to the aid of poetry; and that their odes were usually sung, and accompanied with their lutes, harps, lyres, timbrels, and other instruments: nay, so essential, and in such reputation, was music held by the ancients, that we often find in their lyric poets, addresses or invocations to the harp, the lute, or the lyre; and it was probably owing to the frequent use made of the last-mentioned instrument with the ode, that this species of writing obtained the name of Lyric poetry.

This ode, or hymn, which some believe was composed by Moses in Hebrew verse, is incomparably better than any thing the heathen poets have produced of the kind, and is by all good judges considered as a master-piece of ancient eloquence. The thoughts are noble and sublime: the style is magnificent and expressive: the figures are bold and animated: the transitions and excursions are sudden and frequent; but they are short, and the poet, having digressed for a moment, returns immediately to the great object that excited his wonder, and elevated his soul with joy and gratitude. The images fill the mind with their greatness, and strike the imagination in a manner not to be expressed. It has not indeed the measure, cadence, and harmony, which we meet with in some of the Greek and Latin poets; but these, perhaps, may, in some measure, have been lost in the translation.

59. We come now to the Pindaric ode, which is (if we except the hymns in the Old Testament, and the Psalms of king David) the most exalted part of Lyric poetry;

Of Lyric Poetry. poetry; and was so called from Pindar, an ancient Greek poet, who is celebrated for the boldness of his flights, the impetuosity of his style, and the seeming wildness and irregularity that runs through his compositions, and which are said to be the effect of the greatest art. (See PINDAR.)

The odes of Pindar were held in such high estimation by the ancients, that it was fabled, in honour of their sweetness, that the bees, while he was in the cradle, brought honey to his lips: nor did the victors at the Olympic and other games think the crown a sufficient reward for their merit, unless their achievements were celebrated in Pindar's songs; most wisely presaging, that the first would decay, but the other endure for ever.

This poet did not always write his odes in the same measure, or with the same intention with regard to their being sung. For the ode inscribed to Diagoras, (the concluding stanza of which we inserted at the beginning of this section) is in heroic measure, and all the stanzas are equal: there are others also, as Mr West observes, made up of strophes and antistrophes, without any epode; and some composed of strophes only, of different lengths and measures: but the greatest part of his odes are divided into strophe, antistrophe, and epode; in order, as Mr Congreve conjectures, to their being sung, and addressed by the performers to different parts of the audience. "They were sung, says he, by a chorus, and adapted to the lyre, and sometimes to the lyre and pipe. They consisted oftentimes of three stanzas. The first was called the strophe, from the version or circular motion of the fingers in that stanza from the right hand to the left. The second stanza was called the antistrophe, from the contraversion of the chorus; the fingers in performing that, turning from the left hand to the right, contrary always to their motion in the strophe. The third stanza was called the epode, (it may be as being the after-song), which they sung in the middle, neither turning to one hand nor the other." But Dr West's friend is of opinion, that the performers also danced one way while they were singing the strophe, and danced back as they sung the antistrophe, till they came to the same place again, and then standing still they sung the epode. He has translated a passage from the Scholia on Hephæstion, in proof of his opinion; and observes, that the dancing the strophe and antistrophe in the same space of ground, and we may suppose the same space of time also, shows why those two parts consisted of the same length and measure.

As the various measures of Pindar's odes have been the means of so far misleading some of our modern poets, as to induce them to call compositions Pindaric odes, that were not written in the method of Pindar, it is necessary to be a little more particular on this head, and to give an example from that poet, the more effectually to explain his manner; which we shall take from the translation of Dr West.

The eleventh NEMEAN ODE.

This ode is inscribed to Ariflagoras, upon occasion of his entering on his office of president or governor of the island of Tenedos; so that, although it is placed among the Nemean odes, it has no sort of relation to those games, and is indeed properly an inauguration ode, composed to be sung by a chorus at

the sacrifices and the feasts made by Ariflagoras and his colleagues, in the town-hall, at the time of their being invested with the magistracy, as is evident from many expressions in the first strophe and antistrophe.

ARGUMENT.

Pindar opens this ode with an invocation to Vesta (the goddess who presided over the courts of justice, and whose statue and altar were for that reason placed in the town-halls, or Prytanaums, as the Greeks called them), beseeching her to receive favourably Ariflagoras and his colleagues, who were then coming to offer sacrifices to her, upon their entering on their office of Prytans or magistrates of Tenedos; which office continuing for a year, he begs the goddess to take Ariflagoras under her protection during that time, and to conduct him to the end of it without trouble or disgrace. From Ariflagoras, Pindar turns himself in the next place to his father Arcefilas, whom he pronounces happy, as well upon account of his son's merit and honour, as upon his own great endowments and good fortune; such as beauty, strength, courage, riches, and glory resulting from his many victories in the games. But lest he should be too much puffed up with these praises, he reminds him at the same time of his mortality, and tells him that his cloathing of flesh is perishable, that he must e'er long be clothed with earth, the end of all things: and yet, continues he, it is but justice to praise and celebrate the worthy and deserving, who from good citizens ought to receive all kinds of honour and commendation; as Ariflagoras, for instance, who hath rendered both himself and his country illustrious by the many victories he hath obtained, to the number of sixteen, over the neighbouring youth, in the games exhibited in and about his own country. From whence, says the poet, I conclude he would have come off victorious even in the Pythian and Olympic games, had he not been restrained from engaging in those famous lists by the too timid and cautious love of his parents. Upon which he falls into a moral reflection upon the vanity of man's hopes and fears; by the former of which they are oftentimes excited to attempts beyond their strength, which accordingly issue in their disgrace; as, on the other hand, they are frequently restrained, by unreasonable and ill-grounded fears, from enterprizes, in which they would in all probability have come off with honour. This reflection he applies to Ariflagoras, by saying it was very easy to foresee what success he was like to meet with, who both by father and mother was descended from a long train of great and valiant men. But here again, with a very artful turn of flattery to his father Arcefilas, whom he had before represented as strong and valiant, and famous for his victories in the games, he observes that every generation, even of a great and glorious family, is not equally illustrious, any more than the fields and trees are every year equally fruitful; that the gods had not given mortals any certain tokens, by which they might foreknow when the rich years of virtue should succeed; whence it comes to pass, that men out of self-conceit and presumption, are perpetually laying schemes, and forming enterprizes, without previously consulting prudence or wisdom, whose strenas, says he, lie remote and out of the common road. From all which he infers, that it is

Of Lyric Poetry. better to moderate our desires, and set bounds to our avarice and ambition; with which moral precept he concludes the ode.

Daughter of Rhea! thou, whose holy fire
Before the awful feat of justice flames!
Sister of heav'n's almighty fire!
Sister of Juno, who co-equal claims
With Jove to share the empire of the Gods!
O virgin Vesta! to thy dread abodes,
Lo! Aristagoras directs his pace!
Receive and near thy sacred sceptre place
Him, and his colleagues, who, with honest zeal,
O'er Tenedos preside, and guard the public weal.

And lo! with frequent off-rings, they adore
Thee *, first invok'd in ev'ry solemn pray'r!
To thee unmix'd libations pour,
And fill with od'rous fumes the fragrant air.
Around in festive songs the hymning choir
Mix the melodious voice and sounding lyre,
While still, prolong'd with hospitable love,
Are solemniz'd the rites of genial Jove:
Then guard him, Vesta, through his long career,
And let him close in joy his ministerial year.

But hail, Arcefilas! all hail
To thee, bless'd father of a son so great!
Thou whom on fortune's highest scale
The favourable hand of heav'n hath set,
Thy manly form with beauty hath refin'd,
And match'd that beauty with a valiant mind.
Yet let not man too much presume,
Tho' grac'd with beauty's fairest bloom;
Tho' for superior strength renowned;
Tho' with triumphal chaplets crown'd:
Let him remember, that, in flesh array'd,
Soon shall he see that mortal vestment fade;
Till lost, imprison'd in the mould'ring urn,
To earth, the end of all things, he return.

Yet should the worthy from the public tongue
Receive their recompence of virtuous praise;
By ev'ry zealous patriot sung,
And deck'd with ev'ry flow'r of heav'nly lays.
Such retribution in return for fame,
Such, Aristagoras, thy virtues claim,
Claim from thy country; on whose glorious brows
The wrestler's chaplet still unfaded blows;
Mix'd with the great Paneratiatic crown,
Which from the neighb'ring youth thy early valour won.

And (but his timid parents' cautious love,
Disturbing ever his too forward hand,
Forbad their tender son to prove
The toils of Pythia* or Olympia's sands),
Now by the Gods I swear, his valorous might
Had 'scap'd victorious in each bloody fight;
And from * Castalia, or where dark with shade
The mount † of Saturn rears its olive head,

Great and illustrious home had he return'd;
While, by his fame eclips'd, his vanquish'd foes had
lourn'd.

Then, his triumphal tresses bound
With the dark verdure of th' Olympic grove,
With joyous banquets had he crown'd
The great quinquennial festival of Jove;
And cheer'd the solemn pomp with choral lays,
Sweet tribute, which the muse to virtue pays.
But, such is man's prepossess'd fate!
Now, with o'er-weening pride elate,
Too far he aims his shaft to throw,
And straining bursts his feeble bow:
Now pusillanimous depress'd with fear,
He checks his virtue in the mid-career;
And of his strength distrustful, coward flies
The contest, tho' empower'd to gain the prize.

But who could err in prophesying good
Of him, whose undegenerating breath
Swell with a tide of Spartan blood,
From fire to fire in long succession trac'd
Up to Pisander; who in days of yore
From old Amyclæ to the Lesbian shore
And Tenedos, collegu'd in high command
With great Orestes, led th' Æolian band?
Nor was his mother's race less strong and brave,
Sprung from a stock that grew on fair † Ismenus' wave.

Tho' for long intervals obscur'd, again
Of times the seeds of lineal worth appear.
For neither can the furrow'd plain
Full harvests yield with each returning year;
Nor in each period will the pregnant bloom
Invest the smiling tree with rich perfume.
So, barren often and inglorious pais
The generations of a noble race;
While nature's vigour, working at the root,
In after-ages swells, and blossoms into fruit.

Nor hath Jove giv'n us to foreknow
When the rich years of virtue shall succeed:
Yet bold and daring on we go,
Contriving schemes of many a mighty deed;
While hope, fond inmate of the human mind,
And self-opinion, active, rash, and blind,
Hold up a false illusive ray,
That leads our dazzled feet astray
Far from the springs, where, calm and slow,
The secret streams of wisdom flow.
Hence should we learn our ardour to restrain:
And limit to due bounds the thirst of gain.
To rage and madness oft that passion turns,
Which with forbidden flames despairing burns.

60. From the above specimen, and from what we have already said on this subject, the reader will perceive, that odes of this sort are distinguished by the happy transitions and digressions which they admit, and the surprising yet natural returns to the subject. This requires great judgment and genius; and the poet

Of Lyric Poet who would excel in this kind of writing, should
Poetry. draw the plan of his poem, in manner of the argument
we have above inserted, and mark out the places where
those elegant and beautiful fallies and wanderings may
be made, and where the returns will be easy and pro-
per.

Pindar, it is universally allowed, had a poetical and
fertile imagination, a warm and enthusiastic genius, a
bold and figurative expression, and a concise and sen-
tentious style: but it is generally supposed that many
of those pieces which procured him such extravagant
praises and extraordinary testimonies of esteem from
the ancients, are lost, and if they were not, it would
be perhaps impossible to convey them into our language;
for beauties of this kind, like plants of an odoriferous
and delicate nature, are not to be transplanted into
another clime without losing much of their fragrance,
or essential quality.

61. With regard to those compositions which are
usually called Pindaric odes, (but which ought rather
to be distinguished by the name of irregular odes), we
have many in our language that deserve particular
commendation: and the criticism Mr Congreve has
given us on that subject, has too much asperity, and
too great latitude; for if other writers have, by mis-
taking Pindar's measures, given their odes an impro-
per title, it is a crime, one would think, not so dan-
gerous to the commonwealth of letters, as to deserve
such severe reproof. Beside which, we may suppose
that some of these writers did not deviate from Pindar's
method through ignorance, but by choice; and that
as their odes were not to be performed with both
singing and dancing, in the manner of Pindar's, it
seemed unnecessary to confine the first and second stan-
zas to the same exact numbers as was done in his strophes
and antistrophes. The poet therefore had a right to
indulge himself with more liberty; and we cannot help
thinking, that the ode which Mr Dryden has given
us, intitled, Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music,
is altogether as valuable in his loose and wild num-
bers, as it could have been if the stanzas were more
regular, and written in the manner of Pindar. In
this ode there is a wonderful sublimity of thought,
a loftiness and sweetness of expression, and a most plea-
sing variety of numbers.

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son,
Aloft, in awful state,
The god-like hero fate
On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,
(So should desert in arms be crown'd:)
The lovely Thais by his side
Sat like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserve the fair.

Chor. Happy, happy, &c.

Timotheus, plac'd on high
Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love!)
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the God:
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fair Olympia pres'd;
And while he fought her snowy breast:
Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of
the world.

The lifting crowd admire the lofty found.
A present deity, they shout around;
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the God,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

Chor. With ravish'd ears, &c.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung;
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
The jolly God in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums:
Flush'd with a purple grace,
He shows his honest face:

Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain:
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure:
Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Chor. Bacchus' blessings, &c.

Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain,
Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he
flew the slain.

The master saw the madness rise;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heav'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse
Soft pity to infuse:

He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And waltzing in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.

With down-cast looks the joyless victor sat,
Revolving in his alter'd soul
The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.

Chor. Revolving, &c.

The mighty master smil'd, to see
That love was in the next degree:
'Twas but a kindred found to move;

For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures:
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble,
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying.
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think, it worth enjoying.
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So love was crown'd, but music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair,
Who caus'd his care,
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
At length with love and wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Chor. The prince, &c.

Now strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep afunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has rais'd up his head,
As awak'd from the dead,
And amaz'd he stares round.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the furies arise:
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes;
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
Those are Grecian, that in battle were slain,
And unbury'd remain,
Inglorious on the plain.
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes.
And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
The princes applaud, with a furious joy;
And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way
To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.

Chor. And the king seiz'd, &c.

Thus long ago,
While organs yet were mute;
Timotheus, to his breathing flute,
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He rais'd a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.

Grand chor. At last, &c.

As Mr Pope has employ'd his masterly pen upon the same subject, it would be doing him a sort of injustice not to let him appear with Mr Dryden. Each of these odes, we may venture to say, is written with a spirit of poetry peculiar to the great genius of their respective authors; but which of them has succeeded best, let the critics determine.

Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;
The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly-pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around
The shrill echoes rebound:
While, in more lengthen'd notes and flow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies:
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
Till, by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
And melt away
In a dying, dying fall.
By music minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Music her soft assuasive voice applies;
Or when the soul is press'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors she fires with animated sounds,
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds:
Melanaholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouses from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
Lifting Envy drops her snakes;
Intense war no more our passions wage,
And giddy factions hear away their rage.
But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music ev'ry bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported Demi-gods flood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,
Enflam'd with glory's charms:
Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade;
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound,
To arms, to arms, to arms!
But when through all th' infernal bounds
Which flaming Phlegeton surrounds,
Love, strong as death the poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear'd
O'er all the dreary coasts!
Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,

Shrieks

Shrieks of wo,
Sullen moans,
Hollow groans,
And cries of tortur'd ghosts!
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre,
And see, the tortur'd ghosts respire!
See shady forms advance!
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,
And the pale spectres dance!
The Furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncur'd hang list'ning round their heads.
By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow—
O'er the Elysian flow'rs;
By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,
Or amaranthine bow'rs;
By the heroes armed shades,
Glittering thro' the gloomy glades;
By the youths who died for love,
Wand'ring in the myrtle grove;
Restore, restore, Euridice to life:
Oh take the husband, or return the wife!
He sung, and hell consented
To hear the poet's pray'r;
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
Thus song could prevail
O'er death and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious!
Tho' fate had fast bound her
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet music and love were victorious.
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love,
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the fall of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,
All alone
Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan;
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever lost!
Now with furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows
Amidst Rhodope's snows:
See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies!
Hark! Hæmons resounds with the Bacchanals' cries:
Ah see, he dies!
Yet even in death Euridice he sung,
Euridice still trembled on his tongue;
Euridice the woods,
Euridice the floods,
Euridice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And fate's severest rage disarm:
Music can soften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please:
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss above.

This the divine CECILIA found,
And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
And angels lean from heav'n to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n:
His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,
Her's lift the soul to heav'n.

The following imitation of the 6th ode of the first book of Horace, by Mr Congreve, is of the irregular kind; and has been much admir'd, as well for the beautiful description of the winter, as for his moral reflections.

Bless me, 'tis cold! how chill the air!
How naked does the world appear!
But see (big with the offspring of the north)
The teaming clouds bring forth:
A show'r of soft and fleecy rain
Falls to new-clothe the earth again.
Behold the mountain-tops, around,
As if with fur of ermins crown'd:
And lo! how by degrees
The universal mantle hides the trees
In hoary flakes, which downward fly,
As if it were the autumn of the sky;
Trembling the groves sustain the weight, and bow
Like aged Limbs, which feebly go
Beneath a venerable head of snow.
Diffusive cold does the whole earth invade;
Like a disease, thro' all its veins 'tis spread,
And each late living stream is numb'd and dead.
Let's melt the frozen hours, make warm the air;
Let cheerful fires Sol's feeble beams repair:
Fill the large bowl with sparkling wine;
Let's drink, 'till our own faces shine,
'Till we like suns appear,
To light and warm the hemisphere.
Wine can dispense to all both light and heat,
They are with wine incorporate:
That pow'rful juice, with which no cold dares mix,
Which still is fluid, and no frost can fix;
Let that but in abundance flow,
And let it storm and thunder, hail and snow,
'Tis heav'n's concern; and let it be
The care of heaven still, for me.
Those winds, which rend the oaks and plough the sea,
Great Jove can, if he please,
With one commanding nod appease.
Seek not to know to-morrow's doom;
That is not ours, which is to come.
The present moment's all our store;
The next should heav'n allow,
Then this will be no more:
So all our Life is but one instant now.
Look on each day you've past
To be a mighty treasure won:
And lay each moment out in haste;
We're sure to live too fast,
And cannot live too soon.
Youth does a thousand pleasures bring
Which from decrepid age will fly;

The flowers that flourish in the spring,
In winter's cold embraces die.
Now Love, that everlasting Bay, invites
To revel, while you may, in soft delights.
Now the kind nymph yields all her charms,
Nor yields in vain to youthful arms:
Slowly she promises at night to meet;
But eagerly prevents the hour with swifter feet;
To gloomy groves and shades obscure she flies,
There veils the bright confession of her eyes.

Unwilling she stays,
Would more unwillingly depart,
And in soft sighs conveys
The whispers of her heart.
Still she invites, and still denies,
And vows she'll leave you if y'are rude;
Then from her ravisher she flies,
But flies to be pursued:
If from his sight she does herself convey,
With a feign'd laugh she will herself betray,
And cunningly instruct him in the way.

Mr Mason's ode on Constancy, which is also of the irregular kind, shows that these sort of odes are well adapted to subjects of an elevated and sublime nature, where much imagery is introduced.

Whence does this sudden lustre rise,
That gilds the grove? Not like the noon-tide beam
Which sparkling dances on the trembling stream,
Nor the blue lightning's flash swift-flying thro' the
But such a solemn steady light, [skies;
As o'er the cloudless azure steals,
When CYNTHIA, riding on the brow of night,
Stops in their mid career her silver wheels.
Whence can it rise, but from the sober pow'r
OF CONSTANCY? she, heaven-born queen,
Descends, and in this (A) woobine-vested bower
Fixes her steadfast reign:
Stedfast as when her high command
Gives to the starry band
Their radiant stations in heav'n's ample plain:
Stedfast, as when around this nether sphere
She winds the purple year:
Tells what time the snow-drop cold
Its maiden whiteness may unfold,
When the golden harvest bend;
Then bids pale Winter wake to pour
The pearly hail's translucent show'r,
When the ruddy fruits descend,
To cast his silv'ry mantle o'er the woods,
And bind in crystal chains the slumbering floods:
The soul, which she inspires, has pow'r to climb
To all the heights sublime
Of virtue's tow'ring hill.
That hill, at whose low foot weak warbling strays
The scanty stream of human praise,
A shallow trickling rill.
While on the summits how'ring angels shed
From their blest pinions the nectarious dews
Of rich immortal fame: from these the muse

Oft steals some precious drops, and blends with art
With those the lower streams impart;
Then show's it all on some high-favour'd head.
But thou, ELFRIDA, claim'st the genuine dew;
Thy worth demands it all,
Pure and unmixt on thee the sacred drops shall fall.

We shall conclude this section, and these examples, with Dr Akenfide's ode on the subject we have been treating of. In this piece, which is an original of the kind, the measures are varied in imitation of those ancients who have excelled in lyric poetry.

Once more I join the Thespian quire,
And take th' inspiring fount again,
O parent of the Grecian lyre,
Admit me to thy sacred strain—
And lo! with ease my step invades
The pathless vale and opening shades,
'Till now I spy her verdant feat;
And now at large I drink the sound,
While these her offspring, lift'ning round,
By turns her melody repeat.
I see Anacreon smile and sing,
His silver tresses breathe perfume;
His cheek displays a second spring
Of roses, taught by wine to bloom.
Away, deceitful cares, away!
And let me listen to his lay,
While flow'ry dreams my soul employ;
While turtle-wing'd the laughing Hours,
Lead hand in hand the festal pow'rs,
Lead Youth and Love, and harmless Joy.
Broke from the fetters of his native land,
Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords,
With louder impulse, and a threatening hand,
The Lesbian (B) patriot smites the sounding
Ye wretches, ye peridious train, (chords:
Ye curst of gods and free-born men,
Ye murderers of the laws,
Though now you glory in your lust,
Though now you tread the feeble neck in dust,
Yet time and righteous Yove will judge your dreadful
cause.
But lo, to Sappho's mournful airs
Descends the radiant queen of love;
She smiles, and asks what fonder cares
Her suppliant's plaintive measures move:
Why is my faithful maid distressed?
Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast?
Say, flies he?—soon he shall pursue:
Shuns he thy gifts?—he too shall give:
Slight is thy sorrows?—he shall grieve,
And bend him to thy haughty vow.
But, O Melpomene, for whom
Awakes thy golden shell again?
What mortal breath shall e'er presume
To echo that unbounded strain?
Majestic in the frown of years,
Behold the man† of Thebes appears:
For some there are, whose mighty frame

(A) In which Ethelwold and Elfrida had been just exchanging professions of their mutual fidelity.
(B) Alceus of Mitylene, the capital of Lesbos, who fled from his native city to escape the operation of those who had invaded it, and wrote against them in his exile those noble invectives which are much applauded by the ancient critics.

The hand of Jove at birth endow'd
With hopes that mock the gazing crowd;
As eagles drink the noontide flame,
While the dim raven beats his weary wings,
And clamours far below.—Propitious muse,
While I so late unlock thy hallow'd springs,
And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse,
To polish Albion's warlike ear,
This long-lost melody to hear,
Thy sweetest arts employ;
As when the winds from shore to shore,
Thro' Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore,
Till towns, and isles, and seas return'd the vocal joy.
But oft amid the Grecian throng,
The loose-rob'd forms of wild desire
With lawless notes intun'd thy song,
To shameful steps dissolv'd thy quire.
O fair, O chaste, be still with me,
From such profaner discord free:
While I frequent thy tuneful shade,
No frantic shouts of Thracian dames,
No satyrs fierce with savage flames,
Thy pleasing accents shall invade.
Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat,
The fairest flow'rs of Pindus glow;
The vine aspires to crown thy feat,
And myrtles round thy laurel grow.
Thy strings attune their varied strain,
To every pleasure, every pain,
Which mortal tribes were born to prove;
And strait our passions rise or fall,
As, at the winds imperious call,
The ocean swells, the billows move.
When midnight listens o'er the slumbering earth,
Let me, O muse, thy solemn whispers hear:
When morning sends her fragrant breezes forth,
With airy murmurs touch my opening ear.
And ever watchful at thy side,
Let wisdom's awful suffrage guide
The tenor of thy lay:
To her of old by Jove was giv'n
To judge the various deeds of earth and heav'n;
'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway.
Oft as from stricter hours resign'd,
I quit the maze where science toils,
Do thou refresh my yielding mind
With all thy gay, delusive spoils.
But, O indulgent, come not nigh
The busy steps, the jealous eye,
Of gainful Care and wealthy Age,
Whose barren souls thy joys disdain,
And hold as foes to reason's reign
Whome'er thy lovely haunts engage.
With me, when Mirth's contenting band,
Around fair Friendship's genial board,
Invite the heart-awakening hand,
With me salute the Teian chord.
Or if invok'd at softer hours,
O seek with me the happy bow'rs
That hear Dione's gentle tongue;
To beauty link'd with virtue's train,
To love devoid of jealous pain,
There let the sapphic lute be strung.
But when from envy, and from death, to claim
A hero bleeding for his native land;

Or, when to nourish freedom's vespal flame,
I hear my genius utter his command;
Nor Theban voice, nor Lesbian lyre
From thee, O muse, do I require,
While my prophetic mind,
Conscious of pow'r's she never knew,
Astonish'd, grasps at things beyond her view,
Nor by another's fate hath felt herself confin'd.

62. THE Elegy is a mournful and plaintive, but yet sweet and engaging kind of poem. It was first invented to bewail the death of a friend; and afterwards used to express the complaints of lovers, or any other melancholy subject. In process of time, not only matters of grief, but joy, wishes, prayers, expostulations, reproaches, admonitions, and almost every other subject, were admitted into elegy; however, funeral lamentations and affairs of love seem most agreeable to its character.

The plaintive elegy, in mournful state,
Dishevell'd weeps the stern decrees of fate:
Now paints the lover's torments and delights;
Now the nymph flatters, threatens, or invites.
But he, who would these passions well express,
Must more of love than poetry possess.
I hate those lifeless writers whose forc'd fire
In a cold style describes a hot desire;
Who sigh by rule, and, raging in cold blood,
Their sluggish muse spur to an am'rous mood.
Their ecstasies insipidly they feign;
And always pine, and fondly hug their chain;
Adore their prison, and their sufferings bless;
Make sense and reason quarrel as they please.
'Twas not of old in this affected tone,
That smooth Tibullus made his am'rous moan;
Or tender Ovid, in melodious strains,
Of love's dear art the pleasing rules explains.
You, who in elegy would justly write,
Consult your heart; let that alone endite.

[From the French of Despreux.] SOAMES.

The plan of an elegy, as indeed of all other poems, ought to be made before a line is written; or else the author will ramble in the dark, and his verses have no dependance on each other. No epigrammatic points or conceits, none of those fine things which most people are fond of in every sort of poem, can be allowed in this, but must give place to nobler beauties, those of nature and the passions. Elegy rejects whatever is facetious, satirical, or majestic, and is content to be plain, decent, and unaffected; yet in this humble state is she sweet and engaging, elegant and attractive. This poem is adorned with frequent commiserations, complaints, exclamations, addresses to things or persons, short and proper digressions, allusions, comparisons, prosopopoeias or feigned persons, and sometimes with short descriptions. The diction ought to be free from any harshness; neat, easy, perspicuous, expressive of the manners, tender, and pathetic; and the numbers should be smooth and flowing, and captivate the ear with their uniform sweetness and delicacy.

Of elegies on the subject of death, that by Mr Gray, written in a country church-yard, is one of the best that has appeared in our language, and may be justly esteemed

Elegy. esteemed a masterpiece. But being so generally known, it would be superfluous to insert it here.

On the subject of love, we shall give an example from the elegies lately published by Mr Hammond.

Let others boast their heaps of shining gold,
And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd,
Whom neigh'ring foes in constant terror hold,
And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound:
While, calmly poor, I trifle life away,
Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,
But cheaply bless'd I'll scorn each vain desire.
With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand;
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range the sheaves along the sunny land.
If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.
What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast?
Or lulld to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy sink at last to rest.
Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And, with my DELIA walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur, as they glide away.
What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on DELIA as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!
Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for DELIA and myself alone.
Ah foolish man! who, thus of her possess'd,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And, if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind.
With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
Nor trust to happiness that's not our own;
The smile of fortune might suspicion raise,
But here I know that I am lov'd alone.
STANHOPE, in wisdom as in wit divine,
May rise and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With steady reign his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep attention draws.
Let STANHOPE speak his lifting country's wrong,
My humble voice shall please one partial maid;
For her alone I pen my tender song,
Securely sitting in his friendly shade.
STANHOPE shall come, and grace his rural friend;
DELIA shall wonder at her noble guest,
With blushing awe the riper fruit commend,
And for her husband's patron cull the best.
Her's be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.
For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock,
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock.
Ah! what avails to press the flatly bed,

Pastoral.
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By warbling fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!
DELIA alone can please and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight;
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows thro' every night.
Beauty and worth, alone in her, contend,
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.
On her I'll gaze when others loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand—
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill:
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair;
Thou I am dead, my soul shall love thee still.
Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart!
Oh leave me, DELIA! ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.
Let them, extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corpse in melancholy state,
Thro' all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

SECT. IV. Of the Pastoral.

63. THIS poem takes its name from the Latin word pastor, a "shepherd;" the subject of it being something in the pastoral or rural life; and the persons, or interlocutors, introduced in it, either shepherds or other rustics.

These poems are frequently called eclogues, which signifies "selected or choice pieces;" though some account for this name in a different manner. They are also called bucolics, from ΒΟΥΚΟΣ, a "herdsman."

This kind of poem, when happily executed, gives great delight; nor is it a wonder, since innocence and simplicity generally please: to which let us add, that the scenes of pastorals are generally laid in the country, where both poet and painter have abundant matter for the exercise of genius, such as enchanting prospects, purling streams, shady groves, enamelled meads, flowery lawns, rural amusements, the bleating of flocks, and the music of birds; which is of all melody the most sweet and pleasing, and calls to our mind the wisdom and taste of Alexander, who, on being importuned to hear a man that imitated the notes of the nightingale, and was thought a great curiosity, replied, that he had had the happiness of hearing the nightingale herself.

The character of the pastoral consists in simplicity, brevity, and delicacy; the two first render an eclogue natural, and the last delightful. With respect to nature, indeed, we are to consider, that as a pastoral is an image of the ancient times of innocence and undistinguishing plainness, we are not to describe shepherds as they really are at this day, but as they may be conceived then to have been, when the best of men, and even princes, followed the employment. For this reason, an air of piety should run through the whole poem; which is visible in the writings of antiquity.

To make it natural with respect to the present age, some

Pastoral. some knowledge in rural affairs should be discovered, and that in such a manner as if it was done by chance rather than by design; left by too much pains to seem natural, that simplicity be destroyed from whence arises the delight; for what is so engaging in this kind of poetry proceeds not so much from the idea of a country life itself, as in exposing only the best part of a shepherd's life, and concealing the misfortunes and miseries which sometimes attend it. Besides, the subject must contain some particular beauty in itself, and each eclogue present a scene or prospect to our view enriched with variety: which variety is in a great measure obtained by frequent comparisons drawn from the most agreeable objects of the country; by interrogations to things inanimate; by short and beautiful digressions; and by elegant turns on the words, which render the numbers more sweet and pleasing. To this let us add, that the connections must be negligent, the narrations and descriptions short, and the periods concise.

Riddles, parables, proverbs, antique phrases, and superstitious fables, are fit materials to be intermixed with this kind of poem. They are here, when properly applied, very ornamental; and the more so, as they give our modern compositions the air of the ancient manner of writing.

The style of the pastoral ought to be humble, yet pure; neat, but not florid; easy, and yet lively: and the numbers should be smooth and flowing.

This poem in general should be short, and ought never much to exceed 100 lines; for we are to consider that the ancients made these sort of compositions their amusement, and not their business: but however short they are, every eclogue must contain a plot or fable, which must be simple and one; but yet so managed as to admit of short digressions. Virgil has always observed this—We shall give the plot or argument of his first pastoral as an example. Meliboeus, an unfortunate shepherd, is introduced with Tityrus, one in more fortunate circumstances; the former addresses the complaint of his sufferings and banishment to the latter, who enjoys his flocks and folds in the midst of the public calamity, and therefore expresses his gratitude to the benefactor from whom this favour flowed: but Meliboeus accuses fortune, civil wars, and bids adieu to his native country. This is therefore a dialogue.

But we are to observe, that the poet is not always obliged to make his eclogue allegorical, and to have real persons represented by the fictitious characters introduced; but is in this respect entirely at his own liberty.

Nor does the nature of the poem require it to be always carried on by way of dialogue; for a shepherd may with propriety sing the praises of his love, complain of her inconstancy, lament her absence, her death, &c. and address himself to groves, hills, rivers, and such like rural objects, even when alone.

We shall now give an example from each of those authors who have eminently distinguished themselves by this manner of writing, and introduce them in the order of time in which they were written.

64. Theocritus, who was the father or inventor of this kind of poetry, has been deservedly esteemed by the best critics; and by some, whose judgment we can-

not dispute, preferred to all other pastoral writers. We shall insert his third idyllium, not because it is the best, but because it is within our compass.

To Amaryllis, lovely nymph, I speed,
Mean while my goats upon the mountains feed:
O Tityrus, tend them with assiduous care,
Lead them to crystal springs and pastures fair,
And of the ridgling's butting horns beware.
Sweet Amaryllis, have you then forgot,
Our secret pleasures in the conscious grotto,
Where in my folding arms you lay reclin'd?
Blest was the shepherd, for the nymph was kind.
I whom you call'd your Dear, your Love, so late,
Say, am I now the object of your hate?
Say, is my form displeasing to your sight?
This cruel love will surely kill me quite.
Lo! ten large apples, tempting to the view,
Pluck'd from your favourite tree, where late they grew.
Accept this boon, 'tis all my present store;
To-morrow will produce as many more.
Mean while these heart-consuming pains remove,
And give me gentle pity for my love.
Oh was I made by some transforming power
A bee to buzz in your sequestr'd bow'r!
To pierce your ivy shade with murmuring sound,
And the light leaves that compass you around.
I know thee, Love, and to my sorrow find,
A god thou art, but of the savage kind;
A lioness sure suckled the fell child,
And with his brothers nurs'd him in the wild;
On me his scorching flames incessant prey,
Glow in my bones, and melt my soul away.
Ah, nymph, whose eyes destructive glances dart,
Fair is your face, but flinty is your heart:
With kisses kind this rage of love appease;
For me, fond swain! ev'n empty kisses please.
Your scorn distracts me, and will make me tear
The flow'ry crown I wove for you to wear,
Where roses mingle with the ivy-wreath,
And fragrant herbs ambrosial odours breathe.
Ah me! what pangs I feel; and yet the fair
Nor feels my sorrows, nor will hear my pray'r.
I'll doff my garments, since I needs must die,
And from you rock, that points its summit high,
Where patient Alpis snares the finny fry,
I'll leap, and, though perchance I rise again,
You'll laugh to see me plunging in the main.
By a prophetic poppy-leaf I found
Your chang'd affection, for it gave no sound
Though in my hand struck hollow as it lay,
But quickly wither'd like your love away.
An old witch brought sad tidings to my ears,
She who tells fortunes with the sieve and sheers;
For leasing barley in my fields of late,
She told me, I should love, and you should hate!
For you my care a milk-white goat supply'd,
Two wanton kids run frisking at her side;
Which oft the nut brown maid, Erithacis,
Has begg'd, and paid before-hand with a kiss;
And since you thus my ardent passion slight,
Her's they shall be before to-morrow night.
My right eye itches; may it lucky prove,
Perhaps I soon shall see the nymph I love;

Beneath yon pine I'll sing distinct and clear,
Perhaps the fair my tender notes shall hear;
Perhaps may pity my melodious moan;
She is not metamorphos'd into stone.

Hippomenes, provok'd by noble strife,
To win a mistress, or to lose his life,
Threw golden fruit in Atalanta's way:
The bright temptation caus'd the nymph to stay;
She look'd, she languish'd, all her soul took fire,
She plung'd into the gulph of deep desire,

To Pyle from Othrys lage Melampus came,
He drove the lowing herd, yet won the dame;
Fair Pero bless'd his brother Bias' arms,
And in a virtuous race diffus'd unfading charms.

Adonis fed his cattle on the plain,
And sea-born Venus lov'd the rural swain;
She mourn'd him wounded in the fatal chace,
Nor dead dismiss'd him from her warm embrace.
Though young Endymion was by Cynthia bless'd,
I envy nothing but his lasting rest.

Jasion flum'ring on the Cretan plain
Ceres once saw, and bless'd the happy swain
With pleasures too divine for ears profane.

My head grows giddy, love affects me sore;
Yet you regard not; so I'll sing no more—
Here will I put a period to my care—
Adieu, false nymph, adieu, ungrateful fair:
Stretch'd near the grotto, when I've breath'd my last,
My corpse will give the wolves a rich repast,
As sweet to them as honey to your tale.

65. Virgil succeeds Theocritus, from whom he has in some places copied, and always imitated with success. As a specimen of his manner, we shall introduce his first pastoral, which is generally allowed to be the most perfect.

Mel. Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse,
You, Tityrus, entertain yourylvan muse.
Round the wide world in banishment we roam,
Fore'd from our pleasing fields and native home;
While stretch'd at ease you sing your happy loves,
And Amaryllis fills the shady groves.

Tit. These blessings, friend, a deity bestow'd;
For never can I deem him less than god.
The tender firlings of my woolly breed
Shall on his holy altar often bleed.
He gave me kine to graze the flow'ry plain,
And so my pipe renew'd the rural strain.

Mel. I envy not your fortune; but admire,
That while the raging sword and wasteful fire
Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around,
No hostile arms approach your happy ground.
Far different is my fate; my feeble goats
With pains I drive from their forsaken cotes:
And this you see I scarcely drag along,
Who yearning on the rocks has left her young,
The hope and promise of my falling fold,
My loss by dire portents the gods foretold;
For, had I not been blind, I might have seen
Yon riven oak, the fairest on the green,
And the hoarse raven on the blasted bough
By croaking from the left presag'd the coming blow.

But tell me, Tityrus, what heav'nly pow'r
Preserv'd your fortunes in that fatal hour?

Tit. Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome
Like Mantua, where on market-days we come,
And thither drive our tender lambs from home.
So kids and whelps their fires and dams express;
And so the great I measur'd by the less:
But country-towns, compar'd with her, appear
Like shrubs when lofty cypresses are near.

Mel. What great occasion call'd you hence to Rome?

Tit. Freedom, which came at length, tho' slow to come:
Nor did my search of liberty begin

Till my black hairs were chang'd upon my chin.
Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look,
Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke.

Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely swain,
I fought not freedom, nor aspir'd to gain:
Tho' many a victim from my folds was bought,
And many a cheese to country markets brought,
Yet all the little that I got I spent,
And still return'd as empty as I went.

Mel. We stood amaz'd to see your mistress mourn,
Unknowing that she pin'd for your return;
We wonder'd why she kept her fruit so long,
For whom so late th' ungather'd apples hung:
But now the wonder ceases, since I see
She kept them only, Tityrus, for thee:
For thee the bubbling springs appear'd to mourn,
And whisp'ring pines made vows for thy return.

Tit. What should I do? while here I was enchain'd,
No glimpse of godlike liberty remain'd;
Nor could I hope in any place but there
To find a god so present to my pray'r.
There first the youth of heav'nly birth I view'd,
For whom our monthly victims are renew'd.
He heard my vows, and graciously decreed
My grounds to be restor'd, my former flocks to feed.

Mel. O fortunate old man! whose farm remains
For you sufficient, and requires your pains,
Though rushes overspread the neighb'ring plains,
Tho' here the marshy grounds approach your fields
And there the soil a stony harvest yields.
Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try,
Nor fear a rot from tainted company.

Behold yon bord'ring fence of fallow trees
Is fraught with flowers, the flowers are fraught with
The busy bees, with a soft mur'm'ring strain,
Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain:
While from the neighb'ring rock with rural songs
The pruner's voice the pleasing dream prolongs;
Stock-doves and turtles tell their am'rous pain,
And, from the lofty elms, of love complain.

Tit. Th' inhabitants of seas and skies shall change,
And fish on shore and flags in air shall range,
The banish'd Parthian dwell on Arar's brink,
And the blue German shall the Tigris drink;
Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth,
Forget the figure of that godlike youth.

Mel. But we must beg our bread in climes unknown,
Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone;
And some to fair Oasis shall be fold,
Or try the Libyan heat, or Scythian cold;
The rest among the Britons be confin'd,
A race of men from all the world disjoin'd.

Pastoral. O! must the wretched exiles ever mourn?
Nor after length of rolling years return?
Are we condemn'd by fate's unjust decree,
No more our houses and our homes to see?
Or shall we mount again the rural throne,
And rule the country, kingdoms once our own?
Did we for these barbarians plant and sow,
On these, on these, our happy fields bestow?
Good heav'n, what dire effects from civil discord flow!
Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine;
The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine.
Farewell my pastures, my paternal flock,
My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock!
No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb
The steepy cliffs, or crop the flow'ry thyme;
No more extended in the grot below,
Shall see you browning on the mountain's brow
The prickly shrubs, and after on the bare
Lean down the deep abyss and hang in air!
No more my sheep shall sip the morning dew;
No more my song shall please the rural crew:
Adieu, my tuneful pipe! and all the world, adieu!
}
Ti. This night, at least, with me forget your care;
Chestnuts and curds and cream shall be your fare:
The carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'er-spread,
And boughs shall weave a covering for your head:
For see you sunny hill the shade extends,
And curling smoke from cottages ascends.

66. Spenser was the first of our countrymen, who acquired any considerable reputation by this method of writing. We shall insert his sixth eclogue, or that for June, which is allegorical, as will be seen by the

ARGUMENT. "Hobbinol, from a description of the pleasures of the place, excites Colin to the enjoyment of them. Colin declares himself incapable of delight, by reason of his ill success in love, and his loss of Rosalind, who had treacherously forsaken him for Menalcas, another shepherd. By Tityrus (mentioned before in Spenser's second eclogue, and again in the twelfth) is plainly meant Chaucer, whom the author sometimes professed to imitate. In the person of Colin, is represented the author himself; and Hobbinol's inviting him to leave the hill country, seems to allude to his leaving the North, where, as is mentioned in his life, he had for some time resided."

Hob. Lo! Colin, here the place, whose pleasant sight
From other shades hath wean'd my wand'ring mind:
Tell me, what wants me here, to work delight?
The simple air, the gentle warbling wind,
So calm, so cool, as nowhere else I find:
The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight,
The bramble-bush, where birds of every kind
To th' water's fall their tunes attemper right.
Col. O! happy Hobbinol, I bless thy state,
That paradise hast found which Adam lost.
Here wander may thy flock early or late,
Withouten dread of wolves to been ylost;
Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boast?
But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate,
And angry Gods, pursue from coast to coast,
Can nowhere find to shroud my luckless pate.
Hob. Then if by me thou list advised be,

Forsake the soil that so doth thee bewitch:
Leave me those hills, where harbroughinis to see,
Nor holly-bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch;
And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich,
And fruitful flocks been every where to see:
Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch,
Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee.
But friendly fairies met with many graces,
And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night,
With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces;
Whilst sisters nine, which dwell on Parnass' height,
Do make them music, for their more delight;
And Pan himself to kiss their crystal faces,
Will pipe and dance, when Phœbe shineth bright:
Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.
Col. And I, whilst youth, and course of carelefs years,
Did let me walk withouten links of love,
In such delights did joy amongst my peers:
But riper age such pleasures doth reprove,
My fancy eke from former follies move
To stray'd steps: for time in passing wears
(As garments doen, which waxen old above)
And draweth new delights with hoary hairs.
Though couth I sing of love, and tune my pipe
Unto my plaintive pleas in verses made:
Though would I seek for queen-apples unripe
To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade
Dight gawdy girloids was my common trade,
To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe,
And loss of her, whose love as life I wayde,
Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.
Hob. Colin, to hear thy rhymes and roundelayes,
Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to sing,
I more delight, than lark in sommer days:
Whole echo made the neighbour groves to ring,
And taught the birds, which in the lower spring
Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays,
Frame to thy song their cheerful chirping,
Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays.
I saw Calliope with mutes moe,
Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound,
Their ivory lutes and tamburins forego,
And from the fountain, where they fete around,
Ren after hastily thy silver sound.
But when they came, where thou thy skill didst show,
They drew aback, as half with shame confound,
Shepherd to see, them in their art out-go.
Col. Of mutes, Hobbinol, I can no skill,
For they been daughters of the highest Jove,
And holden scorn of homely shepherds quill:
For sith I heard that Pan with Phœbus strove
Which him to much rebuke and danger drove,
I never list presume to Parnass' hill,
But piping low, in shade of lowly grove,
I play to please myself, albeit ill.
Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame,
Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest:
With shepherds fits not follow flying fame,
But feed his flocks in fields, where falls him best.
I wot my rimes been rough, and rudely drest;
The fitter they, my careful case to frame:
Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
And pour my piteous plaints out in the same.
The God of shepherds, Tityrus, is dead,
Who taught me homely, as I can, to make:

He, whilst he lived, was the sovereign head
Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake.
Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake
The flames which love within his heart had bred,
And tell us merry tales, to keep us wake,
The while our sheep about us safely fed.
Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead,
(O why should death on him such outrage show!)
And all his passing skill with him is fled,
The fame whereof doth daily greater grow.
But if on me some little drops would flow
Of that the spring was in his learned head,
I soon would learn these woods to wail my woe,
And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed.
Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourteise,
As messengers of this my painful flight,
Fly to my love, wherever that she be,
And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight;
As she deserves, that wrought so deadly spight.
And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery
Didst underfong my lads to wax so light,
Should'st well be known for such thy villany.
But since I am not, as I wish I were,
Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do feed,
Whether on hills or dales, or other where,
Bear witness all of this so wicked deed:
And tell the lads, whose flower is woxen a weed,
And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless seere,
That she the truest shepherd's heart made bleed,
That lives on earth, and loved her most dear.
Hob. O! careful Colin, I lament thy case,
Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow!
Ah! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace,
That art the root of all this rueful woe!
But now is time, I guess, homeward to go;
Then rise, ye blessed flocks, and home apace,
Left night with stealing steps do you foreclo,
And wet your tender lambs that by you trace.

67. By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr Philips has, in imitation of Spencer, preserved in his pastorals many antiquated words, which, though they are discarded from polite conversation, may naturally be supposed still to have place among the shepherds and other rusticks in the country. We have made choice of his second eclogue, because it is brought home to his own business, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings.

Th. Is it not Colinet I lonefome see
Laning with folded arms against the tree?
Or is it age of late bedims my sight?
'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woful plight.
Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears,
Unfeemly, now the sky so bright appears?
Why in this mournful manner art thou found,
Unthankful lad, when all things smile around?
Or hear'st not lark and linnet jointly sing,
Their notes blithe-warbling to salute the spring?
Co. Tho' blithe their notes, not so my wayfard fate;
Nor lark would sing, nor linnet, in my state.
Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born;
As they to mirth and music, I to mourn.

Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.
Th. Small cause, I ween, has lily youth to plain;
Or who may then the weight of old sustain,
When every slackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load presseth as our days prevail?
Yet, though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit in autumn bend,
Spite of my snowy head and icy veins,
My mind a cheerful temper still retains:
And why should man, mishap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine?
But tell me then; it may relieve thy woe,
To let a friend thine inward ailment know.
Co. Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day,
Should'st thou give ear to all my grief can say.
Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs,
In loud complaints, require their absent dams.
Th. See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: and I,
'Tween whiles, a-cross the plain will glance mine eye.
Co. Where to begin I know not, where to end.
Does there one smiling hour my youth attend?
Though few my days, as well my follies show,
Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe:
No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear,
My low'ring sky and wint'ry months to cheer.
My piteous plight in yonder naked tree,
Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I see:
Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind,
The mark of storms, and sport of every wind:
The riven trunk feels not th' approach of spring;
Nor birds among the leafless branches sing:
No more, beneath thy shade, shall shepherds throng,
With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song.
Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.
Th. Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born,
When blighting mildews spoil the rising corn,
Or blasting winds o'er blossom'd hedge-rows pass,
To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grass;
Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows,
Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes.
Untimely born, ill luck betides thee still.
Co. And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?
Th. Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep:
From these good shepherd's care his flock may keep:
Against ill-luck, alas! all forecast fails;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.
Co. Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy silv'ry flood.
Ah, silly I! more silly than my sheep,
Which on thy flow'ry banks I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks; oh, when shall I once more,
With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd shore?
When, in the crystal of thy waters, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When shall I see my hut, the small abode
Myself did raise and cover o'er with sod?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace, and me, to dwell.
Th. And what enticement charm'd thee, far away,
From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray?

Co. A lewd desire strange lands, and swains, to know.

Ah me! that ever I should covet woe.
With wand'ring feet unblest, and fond of fame,
I sought I know not what besides a name.

Th. Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither come
In search of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling stone is, ever, bare of moss;
And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.

Co. Small need there was, in random search of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,
To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!
My sheep quite spent through travel and ill fare,
And like their keeper ragged grown and bare,
The damp cold green tward for my nightly bed,
And some scant willow's trunk to rest my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain;
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blasting storms of calumny compar'd:
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting show'r
Destroys the tender herb and budding flow'r.

Th. Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong:
And what wounds forer than an evil tongue?

Co. Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite,
Make mock of all the ditties I endite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, so shrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill:
In vain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove,
In the cool shade to sing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail;
And every elf hath skill enough to rail.
But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Menaleas seems to like my simple strain:
And, while that he delighteth in my song,
Which to the good Menaleas doth belong,
Nor night, nor day, shall my rude music cease;
I ask no more, so I Menaleas please.

Th. Menaleas, lord of these fair fertile plains,
Preserves the sheep, and o'er the shepherds reigns:
For him our yearly wakes and feasts we hold,
And choose the fairest fillings from the fold:
He, good to all, who good deserves, shall give
Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live,
Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues,
And bounteously reward thy rural songs.

Co. First, then, shall lightsome birds forget to fly,
The briny ocean turn to pastures dry,
And every rapid river cease to flow,
Ere I unmindful of Menaleas grow.

Th. This night thy care with me forget, and fold
Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold.
New milk, and clouted cream; mild cheese and curd,
With some remaining fruit of last year's hoard,
Shall be our ev'ning fare; and, for the night,
Sweet herbs and moss, which gentle sleep invite:
And now behold the sun's departing ray,
O'er yonder hill, the sign of ebbing day:
With songs the jovial hands return from plow;
And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.

68. Mr Pope's Pastorals next appeared, but in a different dress from those of Spenser and Phillips; for he has discarded all antiquated words, drawn his swains more modern and polite, and made his numbers

exquisitely harmonious: his eclogues therefore may be called better poems, but not better pastorals. We shall insert the eclogue he has inscribed to Mr Wycherly the beginning of which is in imitation of Virgil's first pastoral.

Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Ægon sung their rural lays:
This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love,
And Delia's name and Doris fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring;
Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I sing.

Thou, whom the nine with Plautus' wit inspire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire:
Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms!
Oh, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.

Now setting Phœbus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some sad turtle his lost love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, un pity'd, and forlorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their song;
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
For her, the lilies hang their head and die.
Ye flow'rs, that droop, forsaken by the spring,
Ye birds, that left by summer cease to sing,
Ye trees, that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love?

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay:
Fade ev'ry blossom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all but she.
What I have said? where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flow'rs arise;
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their evening song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to lab'ers faint with pain,
Not show'rs to larks, or sunshine to bee,
Are half so charming as thy sighs to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?
Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds;
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy sooths my mind!
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes!—now cease, my lay;
And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!

Next Ægon sung, while Windsor groves admir'd;
Rehear'd, ye muses, what yourselves inspir'd.

Resound ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Of perjur's Doris, dying I complain:

Pastoral. Here where the mountains, less'ning as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat;
While curling smokes from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Beneath you poplar oft we pass'd the day:
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain;
Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blooming berries paint the yellow grove:
Just Gods! shall all things yield returns but love?

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
The shepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey."—
Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
Who lost my heart, while I preserv'd my sheep?
Pan came, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?
What eyes but here, alas! have pow'r to move?
And is there magic but what dwells in love?

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains!
I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains.—
From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
For sake mankind, and all the world—but love!
I know thee, love! wild as the raging main,
More fell than tygers on the Libyan plain:
Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Farewel, ye woods, adieu the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains.
No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains!

Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of night,
The skies yet blushing with departing light,
When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade,
And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To these pastorals, which are written agreeably to the taste of antiquity, and the rules above prescribed, we shall beg leave to subjoin another that may be called burlesque pastoral, wherein the ingenious author, Mr Gay, has ventured to deviate from the beaten road, and described the shepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, instead of those of the Golden Age, to which the modern critics confine the pastoral. His six pastorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautiful and lively representation of the manners, customs, and notions of our rustics. We shall insert the first of them, entitled, The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to out-do each other in singing the praises of their sweet-hearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controversy. The persons named are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.

Lob. Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No thro'le shrill the bramble-bush forsake;
No chirping lark the welkin screen * invokes;
No damfel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant † the dawn appear;
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear ‡?

Cud. Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween † my plight is guest; Pastoral.
For be that loves, a stranger is to rest. † Conceive.
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart,
And Blouzalinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind;
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzalind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree;
Thee Blouzalinda smites, Buxoma me.

Lob. Ah Blouzalind! I love thee more by half,
Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf.
Woe worth the tongue, may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma Blouzalind withal!

Cud. Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Let blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithsome swain,
The wifell lout of all the neighb'ring plain!
From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.
He taught us erst * the heifer's tail to view,
When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue:
He first that useful secret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweet-heart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

Lob. See this tobacco-pouch, that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the skin of fleckt fallow-deer:
This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

Cud. Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting flout;
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.

Lob. My Blouzalinda is the blithest lass,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daily that beside her grows;
Fair is the gilly-flow'r of gardens sweet,
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet:
But Blouzalind's than gilly-flow'r more fair,
Than daisy, marygold, or king-cup rare.

Cud. My brown Buxoma is the featest maid
That e'er at wake delightful gambol play'd;
Clean as young lambkins, or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,
The friking kid delight the gaping swain;
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play defeit † feats around:
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

Lob. Sweet is my toil when Blouzalind is near;
Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year.
With her no sultry summer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouzalinda, ease thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow, and my winter's fire!

Cud. As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay,
E'en noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply she were gone,
Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.
Eftsoons †, O sweet-heart kind, my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.

Lob.

* Shining
or bright
sky.

† Scarce.

‡ Early.

* Formerly

† Nimblest.

‡ Very soon.

Pastoral. Lab. As Blouzalinda, in a gamesome mood,
Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing stood,
I silly ran and snatch'd a hasty kiss;
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.

Cud. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger strook'd her milky care,
I quaintly * stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cow's.

Lab. Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish swains potatoes are the cheer;
Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzalind:
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.

Cud. In good roast-beef my landlord ticks his knife,
The capon fat delights his dainty wife;
Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves here;
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.
While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be,
Nor here, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

Lab. As once I play'd at blind-man's buff, it hapt
About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt:
I miss'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouzalind;
True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.

Cud. As at hot-cockles once I laid me down,
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown;
Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.

Lab. On two near elms, the slacken'd cord I hung;
Now high, now low, my Blouzalinda swung:
With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose,
And show'd her taper leg and scarlet hose.

Cud. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And myself pois'd against the tottering maid:
High leapt the plank, and down Buxoma fell;
I spy'd—but faithful sweethearts never tell.

Lab. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst, explain,
This wily riddle puzzles ev'ry swain:

What frow'r is that which bears the virgin's name,
The richest metal joined with the same?

Cud. Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right,
I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight:

What frow'r is that which royal honour craves,
Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis frown on graves?

Cud. Forbear, contending glouts, give o'er your strains;
An oaken staff each merits for his pains.
But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn.
Your herds for want of water stand a-dry;
They're weary of your songe—and so am I.

We have given the rules usually laid down for pastoral writing, and exhibited some examples which were written on this plan; but we have to observe, that this poem may sometimes partake of more dignity, and aspire even to the sublime, without deviating from nature and right reason. The sublime which arises from tumults, wars, and what are too often falsely called great actions, the pastoral abhors; but that which is blended with the tender and pathetic may be introduced with propriety and elegance. And indeed

if we consider that the first shepherds were many of them princes, (for that Abraham, Moses, and David, were such, we have the testimony of the Scriptures), it will seem somewhat extraordinary that such pains should have been taken to exclude the sublime from pastoral writing; and we shall be inclined to admit Virgil's Pollio, the Song of Solomon, and Pope's Messiah, as pastorals, till better reasons are offered to the contrary than have yet appeared: for the true characteristic of pastoral, and what distinguishes it from other writings, is its sole confinement to rural affairs; and if this be observed, it can lose nothing of its nature by any elevation of sentiment or diction.

SECT. V. Of Didactic or Preceptive Poetry.

69. THE method of writing precepts in verse, and embellishing them with the graces of poetry, had its rise, we may suppose, from a due consideration of the frailties and perverseness of human nature; and was intended to engage the affections, in order to improve the mind and amend the heart.

Didactic or preceptive poetry, has been usually employed either to illustrate and explain our moral duties, our philosophical inquiries, our business and pleasures; or in teaching the art of criticism or poetry itself. It may be adapted, however, to any other subject; and may in all cases, where instruction is designed, be employed to good purpose. Some subjects, indeed, are more proper than others, as they admit of more poetical ornaments, and give a greater latitude to genius: but whatever the subject is, those precepts are to be laid down that are the most useful; and they should follow each other in a natural easy method, and be delivered in the most agreeable engaging manner. What the prose writer tells you ought to be done, the poet often conveys under the form of a narration, or shows the necessity of in a description; and by representing the action as done, or doing, conceals the precept that should enforce it. The poet likewise, instead of telling the whole truth, or laying down all the rules that are requisite, selects such parts only as are the most pleasing, and communicates the rest indirectly, without giving us an open view of them; yet takes care that nothing shall escape the reader's notice with which he ought to be acquainted. He discloses just enough to lead the imagination into the parts that are concealed; and the mind, ever gratified with its own discoveries, is complimented with exploring and finding them out; which, though done with ease, seems so considerable, as not to be obtained but in consequence of its own adroitness and sagacity.

But this is not sufficient to render didactic poetry always pleasing: for where precepts are laid down one after another, and the poem is of considerable length, the mind will require some recreation and refreshment by the way; which is to be procured by seasonable moral reflections, pertinent remarks, familiar similes, and descriptions naturally introduced, by allusions to ancient histories or fables, and by short and pleasant digressions and excursions into more noble subjects, so aptly brought in, that they may seem to have a remote relation, and be of a piece with the poem. By thus varying the form of instruction, the poet gives life to his precepts, and awakens and secures our attention, without permitting us to see by what means we

Didactic. are thus captivated: and his art is the more to be admired, because it is so concealed as to escape the reader's observation.

The style, too, must maintain a dignity suitable to the subject, and every part be drawn in such lively colours, that the things described may seem as if presented to the reader's view.

But all this will appear more evident from example; and though entire poems of this kind are not within the compass of our design, we shall endeavour to select such passages as will be sufficient to illustrate the rules we have here laid down.

We have already observed, that, according to the usual divisions, there are four kinds of didactic poems, viz. those that respect our moral duties, our philosophical speculations, our business and pleasures, or that give precepts for poetry and criticism.

70. On the first subject, indeed, we have scarce any thing that deserves the name of poetry, except Mr Pope's Essay on Man, and his Ethic Epistles; to which therefore we refer as examples.

71. II. Those preceptive poems that concern philosophical speculations, though the subject is so pregnant with matter, affords such a field for fancy, and is so capable of every decoration, are but few. Lucretius is the most considerable among the ancients who has written in this manner; and among the moderns we know of none but small detached pieces, except the poem called Anti-Lucretius, which has not yet received an English dress, and Dr Akenfide's Pleasures of the Imagination; both which are worthy of our admiration. Some of the small pieces are also well executed; and there is one entitled the Universe, written by Mr Baker, from which we shall borrow an example.

The author's scheme is in some measure coincident with Mr Pope's, so far especially as it tends to restrain the pride of man, with which design it was professedly written.

The passage we have selected is that respecting the planetary system.

Unwise! and thoughtless! impotent! and blind!
Can wealth, or grandeur, satisfy the mind?
Of all those pleasures mortals most admire,
Is there one joy sincere, that will not tire?
Can love itself endure? or beauty's charms
Afford that bliss we fancy in its arms?—
Then, let thy soul more glorious aims pursue:
Have thy CREATOR and his works in view.
Be these thy study: hence thy pleasures bring;
And drink large draughts of wisdom from its spring;
That spring, whence perfect joy, and calm repose,
And blest content, and peace eternal, flows.

Observe how regular the Planets run,
In stated times, their courses round the Sun.
Different their bulk, their distance, their career,
And different much the compass of their year:
Yet all the same eternal laws obey,
While God's unerring finger points the way.

First Mercury, amidst full tides of light,
Rolls next the sun, through his small circle bright.
All that dwell here must be refin'd and pure:
Bodies like ours such ardour can't endure:
Our Earth would blaze beneath so fierce a ray,
And all its marble mountains melt away.

Fair Venus, next, fulfils her larger round,
With softer beams, and milder glory crown'd.
Friend to mankind, she glitters from afar,
Now the bright evening, now the morning star.

More distant still, our Earth comes rolling on,
And forms a wider circle round the sun:
With her the Moon, companion ever dear!
Her course attending through the shining year.

See, Mars, alone, runs his appointed race,
And measures out, exact, the destined space:
Nor nearer does he wind, nor farther stray,
But finds the point whence first he roll'd away.

More yet remote from day's all-cheering source,
Vast Jupiter performs his constant course:
Four friendly moons, with borrow'd lustre, rise,
Bestow their beams benign, and light his skies.

Farthest and last, scarce warm'd by Phœbus' ray,
Through his vast orbit Saturn wheels away.
How great the change could we be wast'd there!
How flow the seasons! and how long the year!
One moon, on us, reflects its cheerful light:
There, five attendants brighten up the night.
Here, the blue firmament bedeck'd with stars,
There, over-head, a lucid arch appears,
From hence how large, how strong, the sun's bright ball!
But seen from thence, how languid and how small!—
When the keen north with all its fury blows,
Congeals the floods, and forms the fleecy snows,
'Tis heat intense to what can there be known:
Warmer our poles than is its burning zone.

Who there inhabit must have other pow'rs,
Juices, and veins, and sense, and life, than ours.
One moment's cold, like theirs, would pierce the bone,
Freeze the heart-blood, and turn us all to stone.

Strange and amazing must the difference be,
Twixt this dull Planet and bright Mercury:
Yet reason says, nor can we doubt at all,
Millions of beings dwell on either ball,
With constitutions fitted for that spot,
Where Providence, all-wise, has fix'd their lot.

Wondrous art thou, O God, in all thy ways!
Their eyes to thee let all thy creatures raise;
Adore thy grandeur, and thy goodness praise.

Ye sons of men! with satisfaction know,
God's own right hand dispenses all below:
Nor good nor evil does by chance befall;
He reigns supreme, and he directs it all.

At his command, affrighting human-kind,
Comets drag on their blazing lengths behind:
Nor, as we think, do they at random rove,
But, in determin'd times, through long ellipses move.
And tho' sometimes they near approach the sun,
Sometimes beyond our system's orbit run:
Throughout their race they act their Maker's will,
His pow'r declare, his purposes fulfil.

72. III. Of those preceptive poems that treat of the business and pleasures of mankind, Virgil's Georgics claims our first and principal attention. In these he has laid down the rules of husbandry in all its branches with the utmost exactness and perspicuity, and at the same time embellished them with all the beauties and graces of poetry. Though his subject was husbandry, he has delivered his precepts, as Mr Addison observes, not with the simplicity of a ploughman, but with the address

Didactic. address of a poet: the meanest of his rules are laid down with a kind of grandeur; and he breaks the clods, and tosses about the dung, with an air of gracefulness. Of the different ways of conveying the same truth to the mind, he takes that which is pleasantest; and this chiefly distinguishes poetry from prose, and renders Virgil's rules of husbandry more delightful and valuable than any other.

These poems, which are esteemed the most perfect of the author's works, are, perhaps, the best that can be proposed for the young student's imitation in this manner of writing; for the whole of his Georgics is wrought up with wonderful art, and decorated with all the flowers of poetry.

74. IV. Of those poems which give precepts for the recreations and pleasures of a country life, we have several in our own language that are justly admired. As the most considerable of those diversions, however, are finely treated by Mr Gay in his Rural Sports, we particularly refer to that poem.

We should here treat of those preceptive poems that teach the art of poetry itself, of which there are many that deserve particular attention; but we have anticipated our design, and rendered any farther notice of them in a manner useless, by the observations we have made in the course of this treatise. We ought however to remark, that Horace was the only poet among the ancients who wrote precepts for poetry in verse: at least his epistle to the Pisos is the only piece of the kind that has been handed down to us; and that is so perfect, it seems almost to have precluded the necessity of any other. Among the moderns we have several that are justly admired; as Boileau, Pope, &c.

74. Poets who write in the preceptive manner should take care to choose such subjects as are worthy of their muse, and of consequence to all mankind; for to bestow both parts and pains to teach people trifles that are unworthy of their attention, is to the last degree ridiculous.

Among poems of the useful and interesting kind, Dr Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health deserves particular recommendation, as well in consideration of the subject, as of the elegant and masterly manner in which he has treated it; for he has made those things, which are in their own nature dry and unentertaining, perfectly agreeable and pleasing, by adhering to the rules observed by Virgil and others, in the conduct of these poems.

75. With regard to the style or dress of these poems, it should be so rich as to hide the nakedness of the subject, and the barrenness of the precepts should be lost in the lustre of the language. "It ought to abound in the most bold and forcible metaphors, the most glowing and picturesque epithets; it ought to be elevated and enlivened by pomp of numbers and majesty of words, and by every figure that can lift a language above the vulgar and current expressions." One may add, that in no kind of poetry (not even in the sublime ode) is beauty of expression so much to be regarded as in this. For the epic writer should be very cautious of indulging himself in too florid a manner of expression, especially in the dramatic parts of his fable, where he introduces dialogue: and the writer of tragedy cannot fall into so nauseous and unnatural an af-

VOL. VIII.

festation, as to put laboured descriptions, pompous epithets, studied phrases, and high-flown metaphors, into the mouths of his characters. But as the didactic poet speaks in his own person, it is necessary and proper for him to use a brighter colouring of style, and to be more studious of ornament. And this is agreeable to an admirable precept of Aristotle, which no writer should ever forget,—"That diction ought most to be laboured in the unactive, that is, the descriptive, parts of a poem, in which the opinions, manners, and passions of men are not represented; for too glaring an expression obscures the manners and the sentiments."

We have already observed that any thing in nature may be the subject of this poem. Some things however will appear to more advantage than others, as they give a greater latitude to genius, and admit of more poetical ornaments. Natural history and philosophy are copious subjects. Precepts in these might be decorated with all the flowers in poetry; and, as Dr Trapp observes, how can poetry be better employed, or more agreeably to its nature and dignity, than in celebrating the works of the great Creator, and describing the nature and generation of animals, vegetables, and minerals; the revolutions of the heavenly bodies; the motions of the earth; the flux and reflux of the sea; the cause of thunder, lightning, and other meteors; the attraction of the magnet; the gravitation, cohesion, and repulsion of matter; the impulsive motion of light; the slow progression of sounds; and other amazing phenomena of nature. Most of the arts and sciences are also proper subjects for this poem; and none are more so than its two sister arts, painting and music. In the former, particularly, there is room for the most entertaining precepts concerning the disposal of colours; the arrangement of lights and shades; the secret attractives of beauty; the various ideas which make up the one; the distinguishing between the attitudes proper to either sex, and every passion; the representing prospects of buildings, battles, or the country; and lastly, concerning the nature of imitation, and the power of painting. What a boundless field of invention is here? What room for description, comparison, and poetical fable? How easy the transition, at any time, from the draught to the original, from the shadow to the substance? and from hence, what noble excursions may be made into history, into panegyric upon the greatest beauties or heroes of the past or present age?

SECT. VII. Of the Epistle.

76. This species of writing, if we are permitted to lay down rules from the examples of our best poets, admits of great latitude, and solicits ornament and decoration: yet the poet is still to consider that the true character of the epistle is ease and elegance; nothing therefore should be forced or unnatural, laboured, or affected, but every part of the composition breathe an easy, polite, and unconstrained freedom.

It is suitable to every subject; for as the epistle takes place of discourse, and is intended as a sort of distant conversation, all the affairs of life and researches into nature may be introduced. Those, however, which are fraught with compliment or condolence, that

35 O

contain

contain a description of places, or are full of pertinent remarks, and in a familiar and humorous way describe the manners, vices, and follies of mankind, are the best; because they are most suitable to the true character of epistolary writing, and (business set apart) are the usual subjects upon which our letters are employed.

All farther rules and directions are unnecessary; for this kind of writing is better learned by example and practice, than by precept. We shall therefore, in conformity to our plan, select a few epistles for the reader's imitation; which, as this method of writing has of late much prevailed, may be best taken, perhaps, from our modern poets.

77. The following letter from Mr Addison to lord Halifax, contains an elegant description of the curiosities and places about Rome, together with such reflections on the inestimable blessings of liberty as must give pleasure to every Briton, especially when he sees them thus placed in direct opposition to the baneful influence of slavery and oppression which are ever to be seen among the miserable inhabitants of those countries.

While you, my lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhime.

For wherefo'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows,
And ev'ry stream in heav'nly numbers flows.

How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rising springs and celebrated floods;
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source;
To see the Mincio draw his wat'ry shore
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide!

Fir'd with a thousand raptures, I survey
Eridanus through flow'ry meadows stray,
The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains,
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,
And, proudly swollen with a whole winter's snows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in song,
That lost in silence and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)
Yet run for ever by the muse's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur still.

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty shores admire,
That, destitute of strength, derives its course
From thirsty urns, and an unfruitful source;

Yet sung so often in poetic lays,
With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;
So high the deathless muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyn, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,
And unobserv'd in wild meanders play'd;
Till, by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd,
Its rising billows through the world resound,
Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh cou'd the muse my ravish'd breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine,
And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile,
That shun the coasts of Britain's stormy isle,
Or when transplanted and preserv'd with care,
Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents:
Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtles bloom,
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.
Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;
Where western gales eternally reside,
And all the seasons lavish all their pride:
Blossoms, and fruits, and flow'rs together rise,
And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my soul a thousand passions strive,
When Rome's exalted beauties I deserv
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That on its public shows unpeopled Rome,
And held uncrowded nations in its womb:
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies;
And here the proud triumphal arches rise,
Where the old Romans deathless acts, display'd,
Their base degenerate progeny upbraid:
Whole rivers here forsake the fields below,
And wond'ring at their height thro' airy channels flow.

Still to new scenes my wand'ring muse retires;
And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires;
Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown,
And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone.
In solemn silence, a majestic band,
Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown;
While the bright dames, to whom they humbly su'd,
Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdu'd.

Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And show th' immortal labours in my verse,
Where from the mingled strength of shade and light
A new creation rises to my sight,
Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow.
From theme to theme with secret pleasure tost,
Amidst the soft variety I'm lost.
Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of sound;
Here domes and temples rise in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my muse.

How has kind heav'n adorn'd the happy land,
And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand!
But what avail her unexhausted stores,
Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores,
With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart,
The smiles of nature, and the charms of art,
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns,
And tyranny usurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The red'ning orange and the swelling grain:
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curs'd,
And in the laden vineyard dies for thirst.

O liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright,
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eas'd of her load, subjection grows more light,
And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;
Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay,
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.

Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores;
How has she oft exhausted all her stores,
How oft in fields of death thy presence sought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!
On foreign mountains may the sun refine
The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat olive swell with floods of oil:
We envy not the warmer climate, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine,
Though o'er our heads the frozen pleiads shine:
'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, [smile.
And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains

Others with tow'ring piles may please the sight,
And in their proud aspiring domes delight;
A nicer touch to the stretch'd canvas give,
Or teach their animated rocks to live:
'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate,
And hold in balance each contending state,
To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war,
And answer her afflicted neighbour's prayer.
The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms,
Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms:
Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease,
And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace.

Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread
Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head,
And fain her godlike sons would disunite
By foreign gold, or by domestic spite;
But strives in vain to conquer or divide,
Whom Nassau's arms defend and counsels guide.

Fir'd with the name, which I so oft have found
The distant climes and different tongues resound,
I bridle in my struggling muse with pain,
That longs to launch into a bolder strain.
But I've already troubled you too long,
Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song:
My humble verse demands a softer theme,
A painted meadow, or a purling stream;
Unfit for heroes; whom immortal lays,
And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, should praise.

78. There is a fine spirit of freedom, and love of liberty, displayed in the following letter from lord Lyttelton to Mr Pope; and the message from the shade of Virgil, which is truly poetical, and justly preceptive, may prove an useful lesson to future bards.

From Rome, 1730.

IMMORTAL bard! for whom each muse has wove
The fairest garlands of the Aonian grove;
Preserv'd, our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in night,
The darken'd age's last remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Inspir'd by memory of ancient wit:
For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost;
From tyrants, and from priests, the muses fly,
Daughters of reason and of liberty.

Nor Baie now nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar or Mincia rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the shades, where cheer'd with summer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful silence saddens all the grove.

Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd fate
Has felt the worst severity of fate:
Not that barbarian hands her fasces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities desert, and her fields unfown;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,
That sacred wisdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the source of science flows no more,
Whence its rich streams supply'd the world before.

Illustrious names! that once in Latium shined,
Born to instruct and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And poets, who those chiefs sublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;
Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mould'ring stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;
Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see,
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strow'd,
While with th' inspiring muse my bosom'd glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays, my ravish'd eyes
Beheld the poet's awful form arise:
Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this message from his master bear.

Great bard, whose numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of wit,
Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit,
No more let meaner satire dim the rays
That flow majestic from thy noble bays.
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray:

But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way;
Nor, when each soft engaging muse is thine,
Address the least attractive of the nine.

Of thee more worthy were the task to raise
A lasting column to thy country's praise,
To sing the land, which yet alone can boast
That liberty corrupted Rome has lost;
Where science in the arms of peace is laid,
And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade.
Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung,
Such was the people whose exploits I sung;
Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd,
With different bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd,
Dauntless opposers opposers of tyrannic sway,
But pleas'd a mild AUGUSTUS to obey.

If these commands submissive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live;
Envy to black Cocytus shall retire,
And howl with furies in tormenting fire;
Approving time shall consecrate thy lays,
And join the patriot's to the poet's praise.

79. The great use of medals is properly described in the ensuing elegant epistle from Mr Pope to Mr Addison; and the extravagant passion which some people entertain only for the colour of them, is very agreeably and very justly ridiculed.

See the wild waste of all devouring years!
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears!
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very tombs now vanish like their dead!
Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd,
Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd!
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods!
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey,
Statues of men, scarce left alive than they!
Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age,
Some hostile fury, some religious rage;
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruin sav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preserves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sigh'd: She found it vain to trust
The faithless column and the crumbling bust;
Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore,
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!
Convince, the now contracts her vast design,
And all her triumphs shrinks into a coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps,
Beneath her palm here sad Judæa weeps;
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles waves their wings in gold.

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Through climes and ages bears each form and name:
In one short view subjected to our eye,
Gods, em'rors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie.
With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore,
The inscription value, but the rust adore.

This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years!
To gain Prefecennius one employs his schemes,
One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams.
Poor Vadius, long, with learned spleen devour'd,
Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd:
And Curio, restless by the fair one's side,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine:
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine;
Her gods and god-like heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush these studies thy regard engage;
These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage;
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflected images to art.

Oh when shall Britain, conscious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals see her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold?
Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;
There, warriors frowning in historic brais?
Then future ages with delight shall see
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
Or in fair series laurell'd bards be shown,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison.
Then shall thy CRAGS (and let me call him mine)
On the cast ore, another Pollio shine;
With aspect open shall erect his head,
And round the orb in lasting notes be read,
"Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
"In action faithful, and in honour clear;
"Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
"Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;
"Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
"Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd.

80. The following letter from Mr Philips to the earl of Dorset is entirely descriptive; but is one of those descriptions which will be ever read with delight.

Copenhagen, March 9. 1709.

FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow,
From streams which northern winds forbid to flow,
What present shall the muse to Dorset bring,
Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing?
The hoary winter here conceals from sight
All pleasing objects which to verse invite.
The hills and dales, and the delightful woods,
The flow'ry plains, and silver streaming floods,
By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie,
And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring,
No birds within the desert region sing:
The ships, unmov'd, the boisterous winds defy,
While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly.
The vast Leviathan wants room to play,
And spout his waters in the face of day;
The starving wolves along the main sea sprowl,
And to the moon in icy valleys howl.
O'er many a shining league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain:

There

There solid billows of enormous size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.
And yet but lately have I seen, ev'n here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.
'E're yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow,
Or winds begin through hazy skies to blow,
At ev'ning a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unfeasily'd froze;
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes:
For ev'ry shrub, and ev'ry blade of grass,
And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield,
Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field.
The flag in limpid currents with surprise,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing zither shine.
The frightened birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.
When if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies,
The crackling woods beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbend the wint'ry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journey sad beneath the dropping trees:
Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads
Through fragrant bow'rs and through delicious meads,
While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue,
And while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear,
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

81. We have already observed that the essential, and indeed the true characteristic of epistolary writing is ease; and on this account, as well as others, the following letter from Mr Pope to Miss Blount is to be admired.

To Miss BLOUNT, on her leaving the Town after the Coronation.

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the town to wholesome country air;
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephelinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew:
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent;
She sigh'd not that they stay'd, but that she went.
She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from op'ra, park, assembly, play,
To morning-walks, and pray'rs three hours a-day;

To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To muse, and spill her solitary tea,
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire;
Up to her godly garret after seven,
There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whose game is whist, whose treat's a toast in sack;
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking bus, and cries,—no words!
Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all things—but his horse.
In some fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See coronations rise on every green;
Before you pass th' imaginary sights
Of lords and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
While the spread fan o'er-shades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with head-achs, or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my sight;
Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look fow, and hum a tune, as you may now.

SECT. VII. Of Descriptive Poetry.

82. DESCRIPTIVE poetry is of universal use, since there is nothing in nature but what may be described. As poems of this kind, however, are intended more to delight than to instruct, great care should be taken to make them agreeable. Descriptive poems are made beautiful by similes properly induced, images of feigned persons, and allusions to ancient fables or historical facts; as will appear by a perusal of the best of these poems, especially Milton's L' Allegro and Il Penseroso, Denham's Cooper Hill, and Pope's Windsor Forest. Every body being in possession of Milton's works, we forbear inserting the two former; and the others are too long for our purpose. That inimitable poem, The Seasons, by Mr Thomson, notwithstanding some parts of it are didactic, may be also with propriety referred to this head.

SECT. VIII. Of Allegorical Poetry.

83. COULD truth engage the affections of mankind in her native and simple dress, she would require no ornament, or aid, from the imagination; but her delicate light, though lovely in itself, and dear to the most discerning, does not strike the senses of the multitude so as to secure their esteem and attention: the poet therefore dressed her up in the manner in which they

Allegorical. they thought she would appear the most amiable, and called in allegories and airy disguises as her auxiliaries in the cause of virtue.

An allegory is a fable, or story, in which, under the disguise of imaginary persons or things, some real action or instructive moral is conveyed to the mind. Every allegory therefore has two senses, the one literal and the other mystical; the first has been aptly enough compared to a dream, or vision, of which the last is the true meaning or interpretation.

From this definition of allegorical poetry the reader will perceive that it gives great latitude to genius, and affords such a boundless scope for invention, that the poet is allowed to soar beyond all creation; to give life and action to virtues, vices, passions, diseases, and natural and moral qualities; to raise floating islands, enchanted palaces, castles, &c. and to people them with the creatures of his own imagination.

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heav'n to earth, from earth to heav'n;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name. SHAKESPEARE.

But whatever is thus raised by the magic of his mind must be visionary and typical, and the mystical sense appear obvious to the reader, and inculcate some moral or useful lesson in life; otherwise the whole will be deemed rather the effects of a distempered brain, than the productions of real wit and genius. The poet, like Jason, may sail to parts unexplored, but will meet with no applause if he returns without a golden fleece; for these romantic reveries would be unpardonable but for the mystical meaning and moral that is thus artfully and agreeably conveyed with them, and on which account only the allegory is indulged with a greater liberty than any other sort of writing.

The ancients justly considered this sort of allegory as the most essential part of poetry; for the power of raising images of things not in being, giving them a sort of life and action, and presenting them, as it were, before the eyes, was thought to have something in it like creation: but then, in such compositions, they always expected to find a meaning couched under them of consequence; and we may reasonably conclude, that the allegories of their poets would never have been handed down to us, had they been deficient in this respect.

84. As the fable is the part immediately offered to the reader's consideration, and intended as an agreeable vehicle to convey the moral, it ought to be bold, lively, and surprising, that it may excite curiosity and support attention; for if the fable be spiritless and barren of invention, the attention will be disengaged, and the moral, however useful and important in itself, will be little regarded.

There must likewise be a justness and propriety in the fable, that is, it must be closely connected with the subject on which it is employed; for notwithstanding the boundless compass allowed the imagination in these writings, nothing absurd, or useless, is to be introduced. In epic poetry some things may perhaps be admitted for no other reason but to surprize, and to raise what is called the wonderful, which is as ne-

cessary to the epic as the probable; but in allegories, however wild and extravagant the fable and the persons introduced, each must correspond with the subject they are applied to, and, like the members of a well-written simile, bear a due proportion and relation to each other: for we are to consider, that the allegory is a sort of extended or rather multiplied simile, and therefore, like that, should never lose the subject it is intended to illustrate. Whence it will appear, that genius and fancy are here insufficient without the aid of taste and judgment: these first, indeed, may produce a multitude of ornaments, a wilderness of sweets; but the last must be employed to accommodate them to reason, and to arrange them so as to produce pleasure and profit.

But it is not sufficient that the fable be correspondent with the subject, and have the properties above-described; for it must also be consistent with itself. The poet may invent what story he pleases, and form any imaginary beings that his fancy shall suggest; but here, as in dramatic writings, when persons are once introduced, they must be supported to the end, and all speak and act in character: for notwithstanding the general licence here allowed, some order must be observed; and however wild and extravagant the characters, they should not be absurd. To this let me add, that the whole must be clear and intelligible; for the "fable (as Mr Hughes observes) being designed only to clothe and adorn the moral, but not to hide it, should resemble the draperies we admire in some of the ancient statues, in which the folds are not too many nor too thick, but so judiciously ordered, that the shape and beauty of the limbs may be seen through them."—But this will more obviously appear from a perusal of the best compositions of this class; such as Spenser's Fairy Queen, Thomson's Castle of Indolence, Addison and Johnson's beautiful allegories in the Spectator and Rambler, &c. &c.

85. The word allegory has been used in a more extensive sense than that in which we have here applied it: for all writings, where the moral is conveyed under the cover of borrowed characters and actions, by which other characters and actions (that are real) are represented, have obtained the name of allegories; though the fable or story contains nothing that is visionary or romantic, but is made up of real or historical persons, and of actions either probable or possible. But these writings should undoubtedly be distinguished by some other name, because the literal sense is consistent with right reason, and may convey an useful moral, and satisfy the reader, without putting him under the necessity of seeking for another.

Some of the ancient critics, as Mr Addison observes, were fond of giving the works of their poets this second or concealed meaning, though there was no apparent necessity for the attempt, and often but little show of reason in the application. Thus the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer are said to be fables of this kind, and that the gods and heroes introduced are only the affections of the mind represented in a visible shape and character. They tell us, says he, that Achilles in the first Iliad represents anger, or the irascible part of human nature: that upon drawing his sword against his superior, in a full assembly, Pallas (which, say they, is another name for reason) checks and advises him

Allegorical him on the occasion, and, at her first appearance, touches him upon the head; that part of the man being looked upon as the seat of reason. In this sense, as Mr Hughes has well observed, the whole Aeneis of Virgil may be said to be an allegory, if you suppose Aeneas to represent Augustus Cæsar, and that his conducting the remains of his countrymen from the ruins of Troy, to a new settlement in Italy, is an emblem of Augustus's forming a new government out of the ruins of the aristocracy, and establishing the Romans, after the confusion of the civil war, in a peaceable and flourishing condition. However ingenious this coincidence may appear, and whatever design Virgil had in view, he has avoided a particular and direct application, and so conducted his poem, that it is perfect without any allegorical interpretation; for whether we consider Aeneas or Augustus as the hero, the morals contained are equally instructive. And indeed it seems absurd to suppose, that because the epic poets have introduced some allegories into their works, every thing is to be understood in a mystical manner, where the sense is plain and evident without any such application. Nor is the attempt that Tasso made to turn his Jerusalem into a mystery, any particular recommendation of the work: for notwithstanding he tells us, in what is called the allegory, printed with it, that the Christian army represents man, the city of Jerusalem civil happiness, Godfrey the understanding, Rinaldo and Tancred the other powers of the soul, and that the body is typified by the common soldiers, and the like; yet the reader will find himself as little delighted as edified by the explication: for the mind has little pleasure in an allegory that cannot be opened without a key made by the hand of the same artist; and indeed every allegory that is so dark, and, as it were, inexplicable, loses its very essence, and becomes an enigma, or riddle, that is left to be interpreted by every crude imagination.

This last species of writing, whether called an allegory, or by any other name, is not less eminent and useful; for the introducing of real or historical persons may not abridge or lessen either our entertainment or instruction. In these compositions we often meet with an uncommon moral conveyed by the fable in a new and entertaining manner; or with a known truth so artfully decorated, and placed in such a new and beautiful light, that we are amazed how any thing so charming and useful should so long have escaped our observation. Such, for example, are many of Johnson's pieces published in the Rambler under the title of Eastern Stories, and by Hawkesworth in the Advertiser.

The ancient parables are of this species of writing: and it is to be observed, that those in the New Testament have a most remarkable elegance and propriety; and are the more striking, and the more instructive, for being drawn from objects that are familiar.—The more striking, because, as the things are seen, the moral conveyed becomes the object of our senses, and requires little or no reflection:—the more instructive, because every time they are seen, the memory is awakened, and the same moral is again exhibited with pleasure to the mind, and accustoms it to reason and dwell on the subject. So that this method of instruction improves nature, as it were, into a book of life;

since every thing before us may be so managed, as to give lessons for our advantage. Our Saviour's parables of the sower and the seed, of the tares, of the mustard-seed, and of the leaven (Matthew xiii.), are all of this kind, and were obviously taken from the harvest just ripening before him; for his disciples plucked the ears of corn and did eat, rubbing them in their hands. See the articles ALLEGORY, and METAPHOR and ALLEGORY, in the general alphabet.

SECT. VIII. Of Fables.

1. No method of instruction has been more ancient, more universal, and probably none more effectual, than that by apologue or fable. In the first ages, amongst a rude and fierce people, this perhaps was the only method that would have been borne; and even since the progress of learning has furnished other helps, the fable, which at first was used through necessity, is retained from choice, on account of the elegant happiness of its manner, and the refined address with which, when well conducted, it insinuates its moral.

2. As to the actors in this little drama, the fabulist has authority to pres into his service every kind of existence under heaven; not only beasts, birds, insects, and all the animal creation; but flowers, shrubs, trees, and all the tribe of vegetables. Even mountains, fossils, minerals, and the inanimate works of nature, discourse articulately at his command, and act the part which he assigns them. The virtues, vices, and every property of beings, receive from him a local habitation and a name. In short, he may personify, bestow life, speech, and action, on whatever he thinks proper.

It is easy to imagine what a source of novelty and variety this must open to a genius capable of conceiving and of employing these ideal persons in a proper manner: what an opportunity it affords him to diversify his images, and to treat the fancy with changes of objects, while he strengthens the understanding, or regulates the passions, by a succession of truths. To raise beings like these into a state of action and intelligence, gives the fabulist an undoubted claim to that first character of the poet, a creator.

When these persons are once raised, we must carefully enjoin them proper tasks, and assign them sentiments and language suitable to their several natures and respective properties. A raven should not be extolled for her voice, nor a bear be represented with an elegant shape. It were a very obvious instance of absurdity, to paint a bare cruel, or a wolf compassionate. An ass were but ill qualified to be general of an army, though he may well enough serve, perhaps, for one of the trumpeters. But so long as popular opinion allows to the lion magnanimity, rage to the tiger, strength to the mule, cunning to the fox, and buffoonery to the monkey; why may not they support the characters of an Agamemnon, Achilles, Ajax, Ulysses, and Thersites? The truth is, when moral actions are with judgment attributed to the brute creation, we scarce perceive that nature is at all violated by the fabulist. He appears at most to have only translated their language. His lions, wolves, and foxes, behave and argue as those creatures would, had they originally been endowed with the human faculties of speech and reason.

But greater art is yet required whenever we personify inanimate beings. Here the copy so far deviates from the great lines of nature, that, without the nicest care, reason will revolt against the fiction. However, beings of this sort, managed ingeniously and with address, recommend the fabulist's invention by the grace of novelty and of variety. Indeed the analogy between things natural and artificial, animate and inanimate, is often so very striking, that we can, with seeming propriety, give passions and sentiments to every individual part of existence. Appearance favours the deception. The vine may be enamoured of the elm; her embraces testify her passion. The swelling mountain may, naturally enough, be delivered of a mouse. The gourd may reproach the pine, and the sky-rocket insult the stars. The axe may solicit a new handle of the forest; and the moon, in her female character, request a fashionable garment. Here is nothing incongruous; nothing that shocks the reader with impropriety. On the other hand, were the axe to desire a periwig, and the moon petition for a new pair of boots, probability would then be violated, and the absurdity become too glaring.

3. The most beautiful fables that ever were invented, may be disguised by the language in which they are clothed. Of this poor Æsop, in some of his English dresses, affords a melancholy proof. The ordinary style of fable should be familiar, but also elegant.

The familiar, says Mr La Motte, is the general tone or accent of fable. It was thought sufficient, on its first appearance, to lend the animals our most common language. Nor indeed have they any extraordinary pretensions to the sublime; it being requisite they should speak with the same simplicity that they behave.

The familiar also is more proper for insinuation than the elevated; this being the language of reflection, as the former is the voice of sentiment. We guard ourselves against the one, but lie open to the other; and instruction will always the most effectually sway us, when it appears least jealous of its rights and privileges.

The familiar style, however, that is here required, notwithstanding that appearance of ease which is its character, is perhaps more difficult to write than the more elevated or sublime. A writer more readily perceives when he has risen above the common language, than he perceives, in speaking this language, whether he has made the choice that is most suitable to the occasion: and it is, nevertheless, upon this happy choice depends all the charms of the familiar. Moreover, the elevated style deceives and seduces, although it be not the best chosen; whereas the familiar can procure itself no sort of respect, if it be not easy, natural, just, delicate, and unaffected. A fabulist must therefore bestow great attention upon his style; and even labour it so much the more, that it may appear to have cost him no pains at all.

The authority of Fontaine justify these opinions in regard to style. His fables are perhaps the best examples of the genteel familiar, as Sir Roger L'Estrange affords the grossest of the indelicate and low. When we read, that "while the frog and the mouse were disputing it at swords-point, down comes a kite powdering upon them in the interim, and gobbets up both

together to part the fray." And "where the fox reproaches a bevy of jolly gossiping wenches making merry over a dish of pullets, that if he but peeped into a hen-roost, they always made a bawling with their dogs and their bastards; while you yourselves (says he) can lie stuffing your guts with your hens and capons, and not a word of the pudding." This may be familiar; but it is also coarse and vulgar, and cannot fail to disgust a reader that has the least degree of taste or delicacy.

The style of fable then must be simple and familiar; and it must likewise be correct and elegant. By the former, we mean, that it should not be loaded with figure and metaphor; that the disposition of words be natural, the turn of sentences easy, and their construction unembarrassed. By elegance, we would exclude all coarse and provincial terms; all affected and perille conceits; all obsolete and pedantic phrases. To this we would adjoin, as the word perhaps implies, a certain finishing polish, which gives a grace and spirit to the whole; and which, though it have always the appearance of nature, is almost ever the effect of art.

But notwithstanding all that has been said, there are some occasions on which it is allowable, and even expedient, to change the style. The language of a fable must rise or fall in conformity to the subject. A lion, when introduced in his regal capacity, must hold discourse in a strain somewhat more elevated than a country-mouse. The lioness then becomes his queen, and the beasts of the forest are called his subjects: a method that offers at once to the imagination both the animal and the person he is designed to represent. Again, the buffoon-monkey should avoid that pomp of phrase, which the owl employs as her best pretence to wisdom. Unless the style be thus judiciously varied, it will be impossible to preserve a just distinction of character.

Descriptions, at once concise and pertinent, add a grace to fable; but are then most happy when included in the action: whereof the fable of Boreas and the Sun affords us an example. An epithet well chosen is often a description in itself; and so much the more agreeable, as it the less retards us in our pursuit of the catastrophe.

Lastly, little strokes of humour when arising naturally from the subject, and incidental reflections when kept in due subordination to the principal, add a value to these compositions. These latter, however, should be employed very sparingly, and with great address; be very few, and very short: it is scarcely enough that they naturally spring out of the subject; they should be such as to appear necessary and essential parts of the fable. And when these embellishments, pleasing in themselves, tend to illustrate the main action, they then afford that nameless grace remarkable in Fontaine and some few others, and which persons of the best discernment will more easily conceive than they can explain.

SECT. IX. Of Satire.

88. THIS kind of poem is of very ancient date, and (if we believe Horace) was introduced, by way of interlude, by the Greek dramatic poets in their tragedies, to relieve the audience, and take off the force

Satire. force of those strokes which they thought too deep and affecting. In those satirical interludes, the scene was laid in the country; and the persons were rural deities, satyrs, country peasants, and other rustics.

The first Tragedians found that serious style too grave for their uncultivated age, And so brought wild and naked Satyrs in, (Whose motion, words, and shape, were all a farce) As oft as decency wou'd give them leave; Because the mad, ungovernable rout, Full of confusion and the fumes of wine, Lov'd such variety and antic tricks.

Roscommon's Horace.

The satire we now have is generally allowed to be of Roman invention. It was first introduced without the decorations of scenes and action; but written in verses of different measures by Ennius, and afterwards moulded into the form we now have it by Lucilius, whom Horace has imitated, and mentions with esteem. This is the opinion of most of the critics, and particularly of Boileau, who says,

Lucilius led the way, and, bravely bold,
To Roman vices did the mirror hold;
Protected humble goodness from reproach,
Show'd worth on foot, and rascals in a coach.
Horace his pleasing wit to this did add,
That none, unceasur'd, might be fools or mad:
And Juvenal, with rhetorician's rage,
Scourg'd the rank vices of a wicked age;
Tho' horrid truths thro' all his labours shine,
In what he writes there's something of divine.

89. Our satire, therefore, may be distinguished into two kinds; the jocose, or that which makes sport with vice and folly, and sets them up to ridicule; and the serious, or that which deals in asperity, and is severe and acrimonious. Horace is a perfect master of the first, and Juvenal much admired for the last. The one is facetious, and smiles: the other is angry, and storms. The foibles of mankind are the object of one; but crimes of a deeper dye have engaged the other. They both agree, however, in being pungent and biting: and from a due consideration of the writings of these authors, who are our masters in this art, we may define satire to be, A free, (and often jocose), witty, and sharp poem, wherein the follies and vices of men are lashed and ridiculed in order to their reformation. Its subject is whatever deserves our contempt or abhorrence, (including every thing that is ridiculous and absurd, or scandalous and repugnant to the golden precepts of religion and virtue.) Its manner is invective; and its end, shame. So that satire may be looked upon as the physician of a disordered mind, which it endeavours to cure by bitter and unfavoury, or by pleasant and salutary applications.

90. A good satirist ought to be a man of wit and address, sagacity and eloquence. He should also have a great deal of good-nature, as all the sentiments which are beautiful in this way of writing must proceed from that quality in the author. It is good-nature produces that disdain of all baseness, vice, and folly, which prompts the poet to express himself with such smartness against the errors of men, but without bitterness to their persons. It is this quality that keeps

the mind even, and never lets an offence unreasonably throw the satirist out of his character.

61. In writing satire, care should be taken that it be true and general; that is, levelled at abuses in which numbers are concerned: for the personal kind of satire, or lampoon, which exposes particular characters, and affects the reputation of those at whom it is pointed, is scarce to be distinguished from scandal and defamation. The poet also, whilst he is endeavouring to correct the guilty, must take care not to use such expressions as may corrupt the innocent: he must therefore avoid all obscene words, and images that tend to debase and mislead the mind. Horace and Juvenal, the chief satirists among the Romans, are faulty in this respect, and ought to be read with caution.

92. The style proper for satire is sometimes grave and animated, inveighing against vice with warmth and earnestness; but that which is pleasant, sportive, and, with becoming raillery, banters men out of their bad dispositions, has generally the best effect, as it seems only to play with their follies, though it omits no opportunity of making them feel the lash. The verses should be smooth and flowing, and the language manly, just, and decent.

Of well-chos'n words some take not care enough,
And think they should be as the subject rough:
But satire must be more exactly made,
And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words convey'd.

Duke of Bucks's Essay.

93. Satires, either of the jocose or serious kind, may be written in the epistolary manner, or by way of dialogue. Horace, Juvenal, and Persius, have given us examples of both. Nay, some of Horace's satires may, without incongruity, be called epistles, and his epistles satires. But this is obvious to every reader.

Of the facetious kind, the second satire of the second book of Horace imitated by Mr Pope, and Swift's verses on his own death, may be referred to as examples.

As to those satires of the serious kind, for which Juvenal is so much distinguished, the characteristic properties of which are, morality, dignity, and severity; a better example cannot be mentioned than a poem entitled London, written in imitation of the third satire of Juvenal, by Mr Samuel Johnson, who has kept up to the spirit and force of the original.

Nor must we omit to mention Dr Young's Love of Fame the Universal Passion, in seven satires; which, though characteristical, abound with morality and good sense. The characters are well selected, the ridicule is high, and the satire well pointed and to the purpose.

94. We have already observed, that personal satire approaches too near defamation, to deserve any countenance or encouragement. Dryden's Mack Flecknoe is for this reason exceptionable, but as a composition it is inimitable.

We have dwelt thus long on the present subject, because there is reason to apprehend, that the benefits arising from well-conducted satire have not been sufficiently considered. A satire may often do more service to the cause of religion and virtue, than a sermon; since it gives pleasure, at the same time that it creates

Satire. fear or indignation, and conveys its sentiments in a manner the most likely to captivate the mind.

Of all the ways that wisest men could find
To mend the age and mortify mankind,
Satire well writ has most successful prov'd,
And cures, because the remedy is lov'd.

Duke of Bucks's ESSAY.

But to produce the desired effect, it must be jocose, free, and impartial, though severe. The satirist should always preserve good-humour; and, however keen he cuts, should cut with kindness. When he loses temper, his weapons will be inverted, and the ridicule he threw at others will retort with contempt upon himself: for the reader will perceive that he is angry and hurt, and consider his satire as the effect of malice, not of judgment; and that it is intended rather to wound persons, than reform manners.

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down:
A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown.

The best, and indeed the only method to expose vice and folly effectually, is to turn them to ridicule, and hold them up for public contempt; and as it most offends these objects of satire, so it least hurts ourselves. One passion frequently drives out another; and as we cannot look with indifference on the bad actions of men (for they must excite either our wrath or contempt), it is prudent to give way to that which most offends vice and folly, and least affects ourselves; and to sneer and laugh, rather than be angry and scold.

95. Burlesque poetry, which is chiefly used by way of drollery and ridicule, falls properly to be spoken of under the head of satire. An excellent example of this kind is a poem in blank verse, intitled The Splendid Shilling, written by Mr John Philips, which, in the opinion of one of the best judges of the age, is the finest burlesque in the English language. In this poem the author has handled a low subject in the lofty style and numbers of Milton; in which way of writing Mr Philips has been imitated by several, but none have come up to the humour and happy turn of the original. When we read it, we are betrayed into a pleasure that we could not expect; though, at the same time, the sublimity of the style, and gravity of the phrase, seem to chastise that laughter which they provoke.

96. There is another sort of verse and style, which is most frequently made use of in treating any subject in a ludicrous manner, viz. that which is generally called Hudibrastic, from Butler's admirable poem intitled Hudibras. Almost every one knows, that this poem is a satire upon the authors of our civil dissensions in the reign of king Charles I. wherein the poet has, with abundance of wit and humour, exposed and ridiculed the hypocrisy or blind zeal of those unhappy times. In short, it is a kind of burlesque epic poem, which, for the oddity of the rhymes, the quaintness of the similes, the novelty of the thoughts, and that fine raillery which runs through the whole performance, is not to be paralleled.

SECT. X. Of the Epigram.

97. THE epigram is a little poem, or composition in verse, treating of one thing only, and whose distinguishing characters are brevity, beauty, and point.

The word epigram signifies "inscription;" for epigrams derive their origin from those inscriptions placed by the ancients on their statues, temples, pillars, triumphal arches, and the like; which, at first, were very short, being sometimes no more than a single word; but afterwards, increasing their length, they made them in verse, to be the better retained by the memory. This short way of writing came at last to be used upon any occasion or subject; and hence the name of epigram has been given to any little copy of verses, without regard to the original application of such poems.

Its usual limits are from 2 to 20 verses, though sometimes it extends to 50; but the shorter, the better it is, and the more perfect, as it partakes more of the nature and character of this kind of poem: besides, the epigram, being only a single thought, ought to be expressed in a little compass, or else it loses its force and strength.

The beauty required in an epigram is an harmony and apt agreement of all its parts, a sweet simplicity, and polite language.

The point is a sharp, lively, unexpected turn of wit, with which an epigram ought to be concluded. There are some critics, indeed, who will not admit the point in an epigram; but require that the thought be equally diffused through the whole poem, which is usually the practice of Catullus, as the former is that of Martial. It is allowed there is more delicacy in the manner of Catullus; but the point is more agreeable to the general taste, and seems to be the chief characteristic of the epigram.

This sort of poem admits of all manner of subjects, provided that brevity, beauty, and point are preserved; but it is generally employed either in praise or satire.

Though the best epigrams are said to be such as are comprised in two or four verses, we are not to understand it as if none can be perfect which exceed those limits. Neither the ancients nor moderns have been so scrupulous with respect to the length of their epigrams; but however, brevity in general is always to be studied in these compositions.

For examples of good epigrams in the English language, we shall make choice of several in the different tastes we have mentioned; some remarkable for their delicate turn and simplicity of expression; and others for their salt and sharpness, their equivocating pun, or pleasant allusion. In the first place, take that of Mr Pope, said to be written on a glass with the earl of Chesterfield's diamond-pencil.

Accept a miracle, instead of wit;
See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ.

The beauty of this epigram is more easily seen than described; and it is difficult to determine, whether it does more honour to the poet who wrote it, or to the nobleman for whom the compliment is designed.—The following epigram of Mr Prior is written in the same taste, being a fine encomium on the performance of an excellent painter.

On a Flower, painted by VAREST.

When fam'd Varest this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsaf'd the growing work to view:
Finding

Finding the painter's science at a stand,
The Goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand,
And, finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine which ne'er shall fade.

Another compliment of this delicate kind he has made Mr Howard in the following epigram.

VENUS Mistaken.

When Chloe's picture was to Venus shown;
Surpriz'd, the Goddess took it for her own.
And what, said she, does this bold painter mean?
When was I bathing thus, and naked seen?
Pleas'd Cupid heard, and check'd his mother's pride:
And who's blind now, mamma? the urchin cry'd.
'Tis Chloe's eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast:
Friend Howard's genius fancy'd all the rest.

Most of Mr Prior's epigrams are of this delicate cast, and have the thought, like those of Catullus, diffused through the whole. Of this kind is his address

To CHLOE Weeping.

See, whilst thou weep'st, fair Chloe, see
The world in sympathy with thee.
The cheerful birds no longer sing,
Each drops his head, and hangs his wing.
The clouds have bent their bosom lower,
And shed their sorrow in a shower.
The brooks beyond their limits flow,
And louder murmurs speak their woe:
The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares;
They heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears.
Fantastic nymph! that grief should move
Thy heart obdurate against love.
Strange tears! whose pow'r can soften all,
But that dear breast on which they fall.

The epigram written on the leaves of a fan by Dr Atterbury, late bishop of Rochester, contains a pretty thought, expressed with ease and conciseness, and closed in a beautiful manner.

On a FAN.

Flavia the least and slightest toy
Can with resistless art employ.
This fan in meaner hands would prove
An engine of small force in love:
Yet she, with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told or safely seen,
Directs its wanton motion so,
That it wounds more than Cupid's bow,
Gives coolness to the matchless dame,
To ev'ry other breast a flame.

We shall now select some epigrams of the biting and satirical kind, and such as turn upon the pun or equivogue, as the French call it: in which sort the point is more conspicuous than in those of the former character.

The following dithy is an admirable epigram, having all the necessary qualities of one, especially point and brevity.

On a Company of bad DANCERS to good Music.
How ill the motion with the music suits!
So Orpheus fiddled, and so dane'd the brutes.

This brings to mind another epigram upon a bad fiddler, which we shall venture to insert merely for the humour of it, and not for any real excellence it contains.

To a Bad FIDDLER.

Old Orpheus play'd so well, he mov'd Old Nick;
But thou mov'st nothing but thy fiddle-stick.

One of Martial's epigrams, wherein he agreeably rallies the foolish vanity of a man who hired people to make verses for him, and published them as his own, has been thus translated into English:

Paul so fond of the name of a poet is grown,
With gold he buys verses, and calls them his own.
Go on, master Paul, nor mind what the world says,
They are surely his own for which a man pays.

Some bad writer having taken the liberty to censure Mr Prior, the poet very wittily lashed his impertinence in this epigram:

While faster than his costive brain indites,
Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes,
His ease appears to me like honest Teague's,
When he was run away with by his legs.
Phæbus, give Philo o'er himself command;
Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand:
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink;
So he may cease to write, and learn to think.

Mr Wesley has given us a pretty epigram, alluding to a well-known text of scripture, on the setting up a monument in Westminster Abbey, to the memory of the ingenious Mr Butler, author of Hudibras.

While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive,
No generous patron would a dinner give.
See him when starv'd to death, and turn'd to dust,
Presented with a monumental bust!
The poet's fate is here in emblem shown;
He ask'd for Bread, and he receiv'd a Stone.

We shall close this section with an epigram written on the well-known story of Apollo and Daphne, by Mr Smart.

When Phæbus was am'rous and long'd to be rude,
Mist Daphne cry'd Pish! and ran swift to the wood;
And rather than do such a naughty affair,
She became a fine laurel to deck the god's hair.
The nymph was, no doubt, of a cold constitution;
For, sure, to turn tree was an odd resolution!
Yet in this she behav'd like a true modern spouse,
For she fled from his arms to distinguish his brow.

SECT. XI. Of the Epitaph.

102. THESE compositions generally contain some eulogium of the virtues and good qualities of the deceased, and have a turn of seriousness and gravity adapted to the nature of the subject. Their elegance consists in a nervous and expressive brevity; and sometimes they are closed with an epigrammatic point. In these compositions, no mere epithet (properly so called) should be admitted; for here illustration would impair the strength, and render the sentiment too diffuse and languid. Words that are synonymous are also to be rejected.

Though the true characteristic of the epitaph is seriousness and gravity, yet we may find many that are jocose and ludicrous: some likewise have true metre and rhyme; while others are between prose and verse, without any certain measure, though the words are truly poetical; and the beauty of this last sort is generally heightened by an apt and judicious antithesis. We shall give examples of each.

The following epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney's sister, the countess of Pembroke, said to be written by the famous Ben Johnson, is remarkable for the noble thought with which it concludes.

On MARY countess dowager of PEMBROKE.

Underneath this noble marble hearse,
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast kill'd another
Fair, and learn'd, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Take another epitaph of Ben Johnson's, on a beautiful and virtuous lady, which has been deservedly admired by very good judges.

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much virtue as could die;
Which when alive did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live.

Mr Pope has drawn the character of Mr Gay, in an epitaph now to be seen on his monument in Westminster-abbey, which he has closed with a most beautiful turn, and is looked upon as a master-piece of its kind, as indeed are most of the productions of that surprising genius.

On Mr GAY.

Of manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit, a man; simplicity, a child:
With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once, and lash the age:
Above temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupted ev'n among the great:
A safe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblam'd thro' life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms—Here lies GAY.

Amongst the epitaphs of a punning and ludicrous cast, we know of none prettier than that which is said to have been written by Mr Prior on himself, wherein he is pleasantly satirical upon the folly of those who value themselves on account of the long series of ancestors through which they can trace their pedigree.

Nobles and heralds, by your leave,
Here lies the bones of Matthew Prior,
The son of Adam and of Eve:
Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher.

The following epitaph on a miser contains a good caution and an agreeable raillery.

Reader, beware immoderate love of self:
Here lies the worst of thieves, who robb'd himself.

But Dr Swift's epitaph on the same subject is a master-piece of the kind. Epitaph.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies
Demer, the wealthy and the wife.
His heirs, that he might safely rest,
Have put his carcass in a chest:
The very chest, in which, they say,
His other Self, his money, lay.
And if his heirs continue kind
To that dear self he left behind,
I dare believe that four in five
Will think his better half alive.

We shall give but one example more of this kind, which is a merry epitaph on an old fiddler, who was remarkable (we may suppose) for beating time to his own music.

On STEPHEN the Fiddler.

Stephen and time are now both even;
Stephen beat time, now time's beat Stephen.

We are come now to that sort of epitaph which rejects rhyme, and has no certain and determinate measure; but where the diction must be pure and strong, every word have weight, and the antithesis be preserved in a clear and direct opposition. We cannot give a better example of this sort of epitaph, than that on the tomb of Mr Pultney in the cloisters of Westminster-abbey.

Reader,

If thou art a BRITON,
Behold this Tomb with Reverence and Regret:
Here lies the Remains of
DANIEL PULTNEY,
The kindest Relation, the truest Friend,
The warmest Patriot, the worthiest Man.
He exercised Virtues in this Age,
Sufficient to have distinguish'd him even in the best.
Sagacious by Nature,
Industrious by Habit,
Inquisitive with Art;
He gain'd a complete Knowledge of the State of Britain,
Foreign and domestic;
In most the backward Fruit of tedious Experience,
In him the early acquisition of undissipated Youth.
He serv'd the Court several Years:
Abroad, in the auspicious Reign of Queen Anne;
At home, in the reign of that excellent prince K. George I.
He serv'd his Country always,
At Court independent,
In the Senate unbiased,
At every Age, and in every Station:
This was the bent of his generous Soul,
This the business of his laborious Life.
Public Men, and Public Things,
He judged by one constant Standard,
The true Interest of Britain:
He made no other Distinction of Party,
He abhorred all other.
Gentle, humane, disinterested, beneficent,
He created no Enemies on his own Account:
Firm, determin'd, inflexible,
He feared none he could create in the Cause of Britain.
Reader,

Reader,
In this Misfortune of thy Country lament thy own:
For know,
The Loss of so much private Virtue
Is a public Calamity.

That poignant satire, as well as extravagant praise, may be conveyed in this manner, will be seen by the following epitaph written by Dr Arbuthnot on Francis Chartres; which is too well known, and too much admired, to need our commendation.

HERE continneth to rot
The Body of FRANCIS CHARTRES,
Who with an INFLEXIBLE CONSTANCY,
AND INIMITABLE UNIFORMITY of Life,
PERSISTED,
In spite of AGE and INFIRMITIES,
In the Practice of EVERY HUMAN VICE,
Excepting PRODIGALITY and HYPOCRISY:
His insatiable AVARICE exempted him from the first,
His matchless IMPUDENCE from the second.
Nor was he more singular
In the undeviating Pravity of his Manners,
Than successful
In Accumulating WEALTH:
For, without TRADE or PROFESSION,
Without TRUST of PUBLIC MONEY,
And without BRIBE-WORTHY SERVICE,
He acquired, or more properly created,
A MINISTERIAL ESTATE.
He was the only Person of his Time
Who could CHEAT without the Mask of HONESTY,
Retain his Primeval MEANNESS
When possessed of TEN THOUSAND a-year;
And having daily deserved the GIBBET for what he did,
Was at last condemn'd to it for what he could not do.
Oh indignant reader!
Think not his Life useless to Mankind;
PROVIDENCE conniv'd at his execrable designs,
To give to After-ages
A conspicuous PROOF and EXAMPLE,
Of how small Estimation is EXORBITANT WEALTH.

In the Sight of GOD,
By His bestowing it on the most UNWORTHY of ALL
MORTALS.

We shall conclude this species of poetry with a droll and satirical epitaph written by Mr Pope, which we transcribed from a monument in Lord Cobham's gardens at Stow in Buckinghamshire.

To the Memory
of
SIGNOR FIDO,
An Italian of good extraction;
Who came into England,
Not to bite us, like most of his Countrymen,
But to gain an honest Livelihood.
He hunted not after Fame,
Yet acquir'd it;
Regardless of the Praise of his Friends,
but most sensible of their Love.
Tho' he liv'd amongst the Great,
He neither learnt nor flatter'd any Vice.
He was no Bigot,
Tho' he doubted of none of the 39 Articles.
And, if to follow Nature,
and to respect the Laws of Society,
be Philosophy,
he was a perfect Philosopher,
a faithful Friend,
an agreeable Companion,
a loving Husband,
distinguish'd by a numerous offspring,
all which he liv'd to see take good Courses.
In his old Age he retired
to the house of a clergyman in the country,
where he finished his earthly Race,
and died an Honour and an Example to the whole Species.
Reader,
This Stone is guiltless of Flattery;
for he to whom it is inscrib'd
was not a MAN,
but a
GRE-HOUND.

PART III. ON VERSIFICATION.

ON this subject it is meant to confine our inquiry to Latin or Greek hexameters, and to French and English heroic verse; as the observations we shall have occasion to make, may, with proper variations, be easily transferred to the composition of other sorts of verse.

Before entering upon particulars, it must be premised in general, that to verse of every kind, five things are of importance. 1st, The number of syllables that compose a line. 2d, The different lengths of syllables, i. e. the difference of time taken in pronouncing. 3d, The arrangement of these syllables combined in words. 4th, The pauses or stops in pronouncing. 5th, Pronouncing syllables in a high or a low tone. The three first mentioned are obviously essential to verse: if any of them be wanting, there cannot be that higher degree of melody which distinguishes verse from prose. To give a just notion of the fourth, it must be observed, that pauses are

necessary for three different purposes: one, to separate periods, and members of the same period, according to the sense: another, to improve the melody of verse: and the last, to afford opportunity for drawing breath in reading. A pause of the first kind is variable, being long or short, frequent or less frequent, as the sense requires. A pause of the second kind, being determined by the melody, is in no degree arbitrary. The last sort is in a measure arbitrary, depending on the reader's command of breath. But as one cannot read with grace, unless, for drawing breath, opportunity be taken of a pause in the sense or in the melody, this pause ought never to be distinguished from the others: and for that reason shall be laid aside. With respect then to the pauses of sense and of melody, it may be affirmed without hesitation, that their coincidence in verse is a capital beauty: but as it cannot be expected, in a long work especially, that every line should be so perfect; we shall afterward have occasion

occasion to see, that the pause necessary for the sense must often, in some degree, be sacrificed to the verse-pause, and the latter sometimes to the former.

The pronouncing syllables in a high or low tone, contributes also to melody. In reading, whether verse or prose, a certain tone is assumed, which may be called the key-note; and in that tone the bulk of the words are sounded. Sometimes to humour the sense, and sometimes the melody, a particular syllable is sounded in a higher tone; and this is termed accenting a syllable, or gracing it with an accent. Opposed to the accent, is the cadence, which, however, being entirely regulated by the sense, hath no peculiar relation to verse. The cadence is a falling of the voice below the key-note at the close of every period; and so little is it essential to verse, that in correct reading the final syllable of every line is accented, that syllable only excepted which closes the period where the sense requires a cadence.

Though the five requisites above mentioned enter the composition of every species of verse, they are however governed by different rules, peculiar to each species. Upon quantity only, one general observation may be premised, because it is applicable to every species of verse. That syllables, with respect to the time taken in pronouncing, are long or short; two short syllables, with respect to time, being precisely equal to a long one. These two lengths are essential to verse of all kinds; and to no verse, it is believed, is a greater variety of time necessary in pronouncing syllables. The voice indeed is frequently made to rest longer than usual upon a word that bears an important signification; but this is done to humour the sense, and is not necessary for melody. A thing not more necessary for melody occurs with respect to accenting, similar to that now mentioned: A word signifying any thing humble, low, or dejected, is naturally, in prose as well as in verse, pronounced in a tone below the key-note.

We are now sufficiently prepared for particulars; beginning with Latin or Greek hexameter, which are the same. The observations upon this species of verse, will come under the four following heads, number, arrangement, pause, and accent; for as to quantity, what is observed above may suffice.

I. Hexameter lines, as to time, are all of the same length; being equivalent to the time taken in pronouncing twelve long syllables or twenty-four short. An hexameter line may consist of seventeen syllables: and when regular and not Spondaic, it never has fewer than thirteen: whence it follows, that where the syllables are many, the plurality must be short; where few, the plurality must be long.

This line is susceptible of much variety as to the succession of long and short syllables. It is however subjected to laws that confine its variety within certain limits: and for ascertaining these limits, grammarians have invented a rule by dactyles and spondees, which they denominate feet. One at first view is led to think, that these feet are also intended to regulate the pronunciation: which is far from being the case; for were one to pronounce according to these feet, the melody of a hexameter line would be destroyed, or at best be much inferior to which it is when properly pronounced. These feet must be confined to regulate the

arrangement, for they serve no other purpose. They are withal extremely artificial and complex; for which reason we are obliged to lord Kames for substituting in their stead the following rules more simple and of more easy application. 1st, The line must always commence with a long syllable, and close with two long preceded by two short. 2d, More than two short can never be found together, nor fewer than two. And, 3d, Two long syllables which have been preceded by two short, cannot also be followed by two short. These few rules fulfil all the conditions of a hexameter line with relation to order or arrangement. To these again a single rule may be substituted, which has also the advantage of regulating more affirmatively the construction of every part. To put this rule into words with perspicuity, a hint is taken from the twelve long syllables that compose an hexameter line, to divide it into twelve equal parts or portions, being each of them one long syllable or two short. The rule then is: "The 1st, 3d, 5th, 7th, 9th, 11th, and 12th portions, must each of them be one long syllable; the 10th must always be two short syllables; the 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th, may either be one long or two short." Or to express the thing still more curtly, "The 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th portions may be one long syllable or two short; the 10th must be two short syllables; all the rest must consist each of one long syllable." This fulfils all the conditions of an hexameter line, and comprehends all the combinations of dactyles and spondees that this line admits.

Next in order comes the pause. At the end of every hexameter line, every one must be sensible of a complete close or full pause; the cause of which follows. The two long syllables preceded by two short, which always close an hexameter line, are a fine preparation for a pause: for long syllables, or syllables pronounced slow, resembling a slow and languid motion tending to rest, naturally incline the mind to rest, or, which is the same, to pause; and to this inclination the two preceding short syllables contribute, which, by contrast, make the slow pronunciation of the final syllables the more conspicuous. Beside this complete close or full pause at the end, others are also requisite for the sake of melody; of which, two are clearly discoverable; and perhaps there may be more. The longest and most remarkable, succeeds the 5th portion: the other, which, being shorter and more faint, may be called the semipause, succeeds the 8th portion. So striking is the pause first mentioned, as to be distinguished even by the rudest ear: the monkish rhymes are evidently built upon it; in which, by an invariable rule, the final word always chimes with that which immediately precedes the pause:

De planctu cudo || metrum cum carmine nudo
Mingere cum bumbis || res est saluberrima lumbis.

The difference of time in the pause and semipause, occasions another difference not less remarkable; that it is lawful to divide a word by a semipause, but never by a pause, the bad effect of which is sensibly felt following examples:

Effusus labor, atque inmitis rupta Tyranni
Again:

Observans nido implumes detraxit; at illa
Again:

Verifica-
tion. Again,

Loricam quam De||moleo detraxerat ipse

The dividing a word by a semipause has not the same bad effect:

Jamque pedem referens || casus e|vaferat omnes.
Again:

Qualis populea || mœrens Philo|mela sub umbra,
Again:

Ludere que vellem || calamo per|misit agresti.

Lines, however, where words are left entire, without being divided even by a semipause, run by that means much the more sweetly.

Nec gemere aërea || cessabit|turtur ab ulmo.
Again:

Quadrupedaate putrem||sonitu quatit|ungula campum.
Again:

Eurydicen toto || referebant|flumine ripse.

The reason of these observations will be evident upon the slightest reflection. Between things so intimately connected in reading aloud, as are sense and sound, every degree of discord is unpleasant: and for that reason, it is a matter of importance, to make the musical pauses coincide as much as possible with those of sense; which is requisite, more especially, with respect to the pause, a deviation from the rule being less remarkable in a semipause. Considering the matter as to melody solely, it is indifferent whether the pauses be at the end of words or in the middle; but when we carry the sense along, it is disagreeable to find a word split into two by a pause, as if there were really two words: and though the disagreeableness here be connected with the sense only, it is by an easy transition of perceptions transferred to the sound; by which means we conceive a line to be harsh and grating to the ear, when in reality it is only so to the understanding.

To the rule that fixes the pause after the 5th portion, there is one exception, and no more. If the syllable succeeding the 5th portion be short, the pause is sometimes postponed to it:

Papillis quos dura || premit custodia matrum
Again:

In terras oppressa || gravi sub religione
Again:

Et quorum pars magna || fui; quis talia fando

This contributes to diversify the melody; and, where the words are smooth and liquid, is not ungraceful; as in the following examples:

Formosam resonare || doces Amaryllida sylvas
Again:

Agricolas, quibus ipsa || procul discordibus armis

If this pause, placed as aforesaid after the short syllable, happen also to divide a word, the melody by these circumstances is totally annihilated. Witness the following line of Ennius, which is plain prose:

Romæ mœnia terru||it impiger|Hannibal armis.

Hitherto the arrangement of the long and short syllables of an hexameter line and its different pauses, have been considered with respect to melody: but to have a just notion of hexameter verse, these particulars must also be considered with respect to sense. There is

not, perhaps, in any other sort of verse, such latitude in the long and short syllables; a circumstance that contributes greatly to that richness of melody which is remarkable in hexameter verse, and which made Aristotle pronounce, that an epic poem in any other verse would not succeed*. One defect, however,

must not be dissembled, that the same means which contribute to the richness of the melody, render it less fit than several other sorts for a narrative poem. There cannot be a more artful contrivance, as above observed, than to close an hexameter line with two long syllables preceded by two short: but unhappily this construction proves a great embarrassment to the sense; which will thus be evident. As, in general, there ought to be a strict concordance between the thought and the words in which it is dressed; so, in particular, every close in the sense ought to be accompanied with a close in the sound. In prose, this law may be strictly observed; but in verse, the same strictness would occasion insuperable difficulties. Willing to sacrifice to the melody of verse, some share of the concordance between thought and expression, we freely excuse the separation of the musical pause from that of the sense, during the course of a line; but the close of an hexameter line is too conspicuous to admit this liberty: for which reason there ought always to be some pause in the sense at the end of every hexameter line, were it but such a pause as is marked by a comma; and for the same reason, there ought never to be a full close in the sense but at the end of a line, because there the melody is closed. An hexameter line, to preserve its melody, cannot well admit any greater relaxation; and yet, in a narrative poem, it is extremely difficult to adhere strictly to the rule even with these indulgences. Virgil, the chief of poets for versification, is forced often to end a line without any close in the sense, and as often to close the sense during the running of a line; though a close in the melody during the movement of the thought, or a close in the thought during the movement of the melody, cannot be agreeable.

The accent, to which we proceed, is not less essential than the other circumstances above handled. By a good ear it will be discerned, that in every line there is one syllable distinguishable from the rest by a capital accent: that syllable, being the seventh portion, is invariably long.

Nec bene promeritis || capitur nec|tangitur ira
Again:

Non sibi sed toto || genitum se|credere mundo
Again:

Qualis spelunca || subito com|nota columba

In these examples, the accent is laid upon the last syllable of a word; which is favourable to the melody in the following respect, that the pause, which for the sake of reading distinctly must follow every word, gives opportunity to prolong the accent. And for that reason, a line thus accented, has a more spirited air, than when the accent is placed on any other syllable. Compare the foregoing lines with the following.

Alba neque Assyrio || fucatur|lana veneno
Again:

Panditur interea || domus omnipot|tentis Olympi

Again:

Verifica-
tion. Again:

Olli sedato || respōndit | corde Latinus.

In lines where the pause comes after the short syllable succeeding the fifth portion, the accent is displaced, and rendered less sensible: it seems to be split into two, and to be laid partly on the fifth portion, and partly on the seventh its usual place; as in

Nuda genu, nodōque || finis ool | lecta fluentes.

Formosam resonare || docēs Amar | yllida sylvas.

Beside this capital accent, lighter accents are laid upon other portions; particularly upon the fourth, unless where it consists of two short syllables; upon the ninth, which is always a long syllable; and upon the eleventh, where the line concludes with a monosyllable. Such conclusion, by the by, impairs the melody, and for that reason is not to be indulged unless where it is expressive of the sense. The following lines are marked with all the accents.

Ludere quæ velle calamō permisit agresti

Et dure quercus sudabunt rōseida mella

Parturiunt mōntes, nascētur ridiculū mus.

Reflecting upon the melody of hexameter verse, we find, that order or arrangement doth not constitute the whole of it: for when we compare different lines, equally regular as to the succession of long and short syllables, the melody is found in very different degrees of perfection; which is not occasioned by any particular combination of dactyles and spondees, or of long and short syllables, because we find lines where dactyles prevail, and lines where spondees prevail, equally melodious. Of the former take the following instance:

Eneadum genitrix hominum divumque voluptas.

Of the latter:

Molli paulatim flaveſcet campus arilla.

What can be more different as to melody than the two following lines, which, however, as to the succession of long and short syllables, are constructed precisely in the same manner.

Spond. Dact. Spond. Spond. Dact. Spond.
Ad talos stola dimissa et circumdatis palla. Hor.

Spond. Dact. Spond. Spond. Dact. Spond.
Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine cælum. Lucret.

In the former, the pause falls in the middle of a word, which is a great blemish, and the accent is disturbed by a harsh elision of the vowel a upon the particle et. In the latter, the pauses and the accent are all of them distinct and full: there is no elision: and the words are more liquid and sounding. In these particulars consists the beauty of an hexameter line with respect to melody; and by neglecting these, many lines in the satires and epistles of Horace are less agreeable than plain prose; for they are neither the one nor the other in perfection. To draw melody from these lines, they must be pronounced without relation to the sense: it must not be regarded, that words are divided by pauses, nor that harsh elisions are multiplied. To add

to the account, prosaic low-sounding words are introduced; and, which is still worse, accents are laid on them. Of such faulty lines take the following instances.

Candida rectaque sit, munda haecenus sit neque longa.

Jupiter exclamat simul atque audirit; at in se

Custodes, leſtica, ciniflones, parasite

Optimus est modulator, ut Alfenus Vaſer omni

Nunc illud tantum queram, meritone tibi sit.

II. Next in order comes English heroic verse; which shall be examined under the whole five heads, of number, quantity, arrangement, pause, and accent. This verse is of two kinds; one named rhyme or metre, and one blank verse. In the former, the lines are connected two and two by similarity of sound in the final syllables; and two lines so connected are termed a couplet: similarity of sound being avoided in the latter, couplets are banished. These two sorts must be handled separately, because there are many peculiarities in each.

(1.) Beginning with rhyme or metre, the first article shall be discussed in a few words. Every line consists of ten syllables, five short and five long; from which there are but two exceptions, both of them rare. The first is, where each line of a couplet is made eleven syllables, by an additional short syllable at the end:

There heros' wits are kept in pond'rous vases,

And beaus' in snuff boxes and tweezer-cases.

The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why, take it,

I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it.

This licence is sufferable in a single couplet; but if frequent, would give disgust.

The other exception concerns the second line of a couplet, which is sometimes stretched out to 12 syllables, termed an Alexandrine line:

A needleſs Alexandrine ends the song, [along.

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length

It doth extremely well when employed to close a period with a certain pomp and solemnity, where the subject makes that tone proper.

With regard to quantity, it is unnecessary to mention a second time, that the quantities employed in verse are but two, the one double of the other; that every syllable is reducible to one or other of these standards; and that a syllable of the larger quantity is termed long, and of the lesser quantity short. It belongs more to the present article, to examine what peculiarities there may be in the English language as to long and short syllables. Every language has syllables that may be pronounced long or short at pleasure; but the English above all abounds in syllables of that kind. In words of three or more syllables, the quantity for the most part is invariable: the exceptions are more frequent in dissyllables: but as to monosyllables, they may, without many exceptions, be pronounced either long or short; nor is the ear hurt by a liberty that is rendered familiar by custom. This shows, that the melody of English verse must depend less upon quantity than upon other circumstances: in which it differs widely from Latin verse, where every syllable, having but

but one found, strikes the ear uniformly with its accustomed impression; and a reader must be delighted to find a number of such syllables, disposed so artfully as to be highly melodious. Syllables variable in quantity cannot possess this power: for though custom may render familiar both a long and a short pronunciation of the same word; yet the mind, wavering between the two sounds, cannot be so much affected as where every syllable has one fixed sound.

[103], 116. And with respect to arrangement, which may be brought within a narrow compass, the English heroic line is commonly iambic, the first syllable short, the second long, and so on alternately thro' the whole line. One exception there is, pretty frequent, of lines commencing with a trocheus, i. e. a long and a short syllable: but this affects not the order of the following syllables, which go on alternately as usual, one short and one long. The following couplet affords an example of each kind.

Some in the fields of purest æther play,
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day.

117. It is a great imperfection in English verse, that it excludes the bulk of polysyllables, which are the most sounding words in our language; for very few of them have such alternation of long and short syllables as to correspond to either of the arrangements mentioned. English verse accordingly is almost totally reduced to disyllables and monosyllables: magnanimity is a sounding word totally excluded: impetuosity is still a finer word, by the resemblance of the sound and sense; and yet a negative is put upon it, as well as upon numberless words of the same kind. Polysyllables composed of syllables long and short alternately, make a good figure in verse; for example, observance, opponent, ostentive, pindaric, productive, prolific, and such others of three syllables. Imitation, imperfectness, misdemeanor, mitigation, moderation, observator, ornamental, regulator, and others similar of four syllables, beginning with two short syllables, the third long, and the fourth short, may find a place in a line commencing with a trocheus.

One would not imagine, without trial, how uncouth false quantity appears in verse; not less than a provincial tone or idiom. The article the is one of the few monosyllables that is invariably short: observe how harsh it makes a line where it must be pronounced long:

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind.

Th' advent'rous bärön the bright locks admir'd.

Let it be pronounced short, and it reduces the melody almost to nothing: better so, however, than false quantity. In the following examples we perceive the same defect.

And old impertinence || expel by new
With varying vanities || from ev'ry part
Love in these labyrinths || his slaves detains
New stratagems || the radiant lock to gain
VOL. VIII.

Her eyes half languishing || half drown'd in tears
Roar'd for the handkerchief || that caus'd his pain
Passions like elements || though born to fight.

118. The great variety of melody conspicuous in English verse, arises chiefly from the pauses and accents; which are of greater importance than is commonly thought. The pause, which paves the way to the accent, offers itself first to our examination; and from a very short trial, the following facts will be verified. 1st, A line admits but one capital pause. 2d, In different lines, we find this pause after the fourth syllable, after the fifth, after the sixth, and after the seventh. These four places of the pause lay a solid foundation for dividing English heroic lines into four kinds; and unless the reader attend to this distinction, he cannot have any just notion of the richness and variety of English versification. Each kind or order hath a melody peculiar to itself, readily distinguishable by a good ear; the cause of which will be afterwards made evident. It must be observed, at the same time, that the pause cannot be made indifferently at any of the places mentioned: it is the sense that regulates the pause, as will be seen afterward; and consequently, it is the sense that determines of what order every line must be: there can be but one capital musical pause in a line; and that pause ought to coincide, if possible, with a pause in the sense, in order that the sound may accord with the sense.

What is said shall be illustrated by examples of each sort or order. And first of the pause after the fourth syllable:

Back thro' the paths || of pleasing sense I ran
Again,
Profuse of bliss || and pregnant with delight

After the fifth;

So when an angel || by divine command,
With rising tempests || shakes a guilty land.

After the sixth:

Speed the soft intercourse || from soul to soul
Again,
Then from his closing eyes || thy form shall part

After the seventh:

And taught the doubtful battle || where to rage
Again,
And in the smooth description || murmur still

119. Beside the capital pause now mentioned, inferior pauses will be discovered by a nice ear. Of these there are commonly two in each line: one before the capital pause, and one after it. The former comes invariably after the first long syllable, whether the line begin with a long syllable or a short. The other in its variety imitates the capital pause: in some lines it comes after the fifth syllable, in some after the seventh, and in some after the eighth. Of these semipauses take the following examples.

1st and 8th:

Led | through a sad || variety | of wo.

Even from these few examples it appears, that the place of the last semipause, like that of the full pause, is directed in a good measure by the sense. Its proper place with respect to the melody is after the eighth syllable, so as to finish the line with an iambus distinctly pronounced, which, by a long syllable after a short, is a preparation for rest: but sometimes it comes after the sixth, and sometimes after the seventh syllable, in order to avoid a pause in the middle of a word, or between two words intimately connected; and so far melody is justly sacrificed to sense.

120. In discoursing of hexameter verse, it was laid down as a rule, That a full pause ought never to divide a word: such licence deviates too far from the coincidence that ought to be between the pauses of sense and of melody. The same rule must obtain in an English line; and we shall support reason by experiments:

These lines seem scarcely distinguishable from prose. The same rule is not applicable to a semipause, which, being short and faint, is not sensibly disagreeable when it divides a word.

It must however be acknowledged, that the melody here suffers in some degree: a word ought to be pronounced without any rest between its component syllables: a semipause that bends to this rule, is scarce perceived.

121. The capital pause is so essential to the melody, that one cannot be too nice in the choice of its place, in order to have it clear and distinct. It cannot be in better company than with a pause in the sense; and if the sense require but a comma after the fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh syllable, it is sufficient for the musical pause. But to make such coincidence essential, would erump verification too much; and we have experience for our authority, that there may be a pause in the melody where the sense requires none. We must not however imagine, that a musical pause may come after any word indifferently: some words, like syllables of the same word, are so intimately connected, as not to bear a separation even by a pause: the separating, for example, a substantive from its article would be harsh and unpleasant; witness the following line, which cannot be pronounced with a pause as marked,

But ought to be pronounced in the following manner,

If then it be not a matter of indifference where to make the pause, there ought to be rules for determining what words may be separated by a pause, and what are incapable of such separation. We shall endeavour to ascertain these rules; not chiefly for their utility, but in order to unfold some latent principles, that tend to regulate our taste even where we are scarce sensible of them: and to that end, the method that appears the most promising, is to run over the verbal relations, beginning with the most intimate. The first that presents itself, is that of adjective and substantive, being the relation of subject and quality, the most intimate of all: and with respect to such intimate companions, the question is, Whether they can bear to be separated by a pause. What occurs is, that a quality cannot exist independent of a subject; nor are they separable even in imagination, because they make parts of the same idea: and for that reason, with respect to melody as well as sense, it must be disagreeable to be flow upon the adjective a sort of independent existence, by interjecting a pause between it and its substantive; as in the following examples.

122. Considering this matter superficially, one might be apt to imagine, that it must be the same, whether the adjective go first, which is the natural order, or the substantive, which is indulged by the laws of inversion. But we soon discover this to be a mistake: colour, for example, cannot be conceived independent of the surface coloured; but a tree may be conceived, as growing in a certain spot, as of a certain kind, and as spreading its extended branches all around, without ever thinking of its colour. In a word, a subject may be considered with some of its qualities independent of others; though we cannot form an image of any single quality independent of the subject. Thus then, tho' an adjective named first be inseparable from the substantive,

Verification. stantive, the proposition does not reciprocate: an image can be formed of the substantive independent of the adjective; and for that reason, they may be separated by a pause, when the substantive takes the lead.

For thee the fates || severely kind ordain
And curs'd with hearts § unknowing how to yield

123. The verb and adverb are precisely in the same condition with the substantive and adjective. An adverb, which modifies the action expressed by the verb, is not separable from the verb even in imagination; and therefore the following lines seem faulty.

And which it much || becomes you to forget
'Tis one thing madly || to disperse my store

But an action may be conceived with some of its modifications, leaving out others, precisely as a subject may be conceived with some of its qualities, leaving out others; and therefore, when by inversion the verb is first introduced, it has no bad effect to interject a pause between it and the adverb that follows: this may be done at the close of a line, where the pause is at least as full as that which divides the line:

While yet he spoke, the Prince advancing drew
Nigh to the lodge, &c.

124. The agent and its action come next, expressed in grammar by the active substantive and its verb. Between these, placed in their natural order, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pause: an active being is not always in motion, and therefore it is easily separable in idea from its action: when in a sentence the substantive takes the lead, we know not that action is to follow; and as rest must precede the commencement of motion, this interval is a proper opportunity for a pause.

Nor when by inversion the verb is placed first, is it lawful to separate it by a pause from the active substantive; because an action is not in idea separable from the agent, more than a quality from the subject to which it belongs.

125. The point of the greatest delicacy regards the active verb and the passive substantive placed in their natural order. On the one hand, it will be observed, that these words signify things which are not separable in idea: killing cannot be conceived without a being that is put to death, nor painting without a surface upon which the colours are spread. On the other hand, an action and the thing on which it is exerted are not, like subject and quality, united in one individual object: the active substantive is perfectly distinct from that which is passive; and they are connected by one circumstance only, that the action exerted by the former is exerted upon the latter. This makes it possible to take the action to pieces, and to consider it first with relation to the agent, and next with relation to the patient. But after all, so intimately connected are the parts of the thought, that it requires an effort to make a separation even for a moment: the subtilising to such a degree is not agreeable, especially in works of imagination. The best poets, however, taking advantage of this subtlety, scruple not to sepa-

rate by a pause an active verb from the thing upon which it is exerted. Such pauses in a long work may be indulged; but taken singly, they certainly are not agreeable:

The peer now spreads || the glitt'ring forfex wide
As ever fully'd || the fair face of light
Repair'd to search || the gloomy cave of Spleen
Nothing, to make || philosophy thy friend
Shou'd chance to make || the well-dres'd rabble stare
Or cross, to plunder || provinces, the main
These madmen ever hurt || the church or state
How shall we fill || a library with wit
What better teach || a foreigner the tongue
Sure, if I spare || the minister, no rules
Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools.

On the other hand, when the passive substantive is by inversion first named, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pause between it and the verb, more than when the active substantive is first named. The same reason holds in both, that though a verb cannot be separated in idea from the substantive which governs it, and scarcely from the substantive it governs; yet a substantive may always be conceived independent of the verb: when the passive substantive is introduced before the verb, we know not that an action is to be exerted upon it; therefore we may rest till the action commences. For the sake of illustration, take the following examples:

Shrines! where their vigils, pale-ey'd virgins keep
Soon as thy letters; trembling I unclose
No happier task || these faded eyes pursue

What is said about the pause, leads to a general observation, That the natural order of placing the active substantive and its verb, is more friendly to a pause than the inverted order; but that in all the other connections, inversion affords a far better opportunity for a pause. And hence one great advantage of blank verse over rhyme; its privilege of inversion giving it a much greater choice of pauses than can be had in the natural order of arrangement.

126. We now proceed to the lighter connections, which shall be discussed in one general article. Words connected by conjunctions and prepositions admit freely a pause between them, which will be clear from the following instances:

Assume what sexes || and what shape they please
The light militia || of the lower sky

Connecting particles were invented to unite in a period two substantives signifying things occasionally united in the thought, but which have no natural union: and between two things not only separable in idea, but really distinct, the mind, for the sake of melody, cheerfully admits by a pause a momentary disjunction of their occasional union.

127. One capital branch of the subject is still upon hand. It concerns those parts of speech which singly repre-

sent no idea, and which become not significant till they be joined to other words: these are, conjunctions, prepositions, articles, and such like accessories, passing under the name of particles. Upon these the question occurs, Whether they can be separated by a pause from the words that make them significant? whether, for example, in the following lines, the separation of the accessory preposition from the principal substantive, be according to rule?

The goddess with || a discontented air
And heighten'd by || the diamond's circling rays
When victims at || yon altar's foot we lay
So take it in || the very words of Creech
An ensign of || the delegates of Jove
Two ages o'er || his native realm he reign'd
While angels, with || their silver wings o'ershade

Or the separation of the conjunction from the word that is connected by it with the antecedent word:

Talthybius and || Eurybates the good

It will be obvious at the first glance, that the foregoing reasoning upon objects naturally connected, is not applicable to words which of themselves are mere ciphers: we must therefore have recourse to some other principle for solving the present question. These particles out of their place are totally insignificant: to give them a meaning, they must be joined to certain words; and the necessity of this junction, together with custom, forms an artificial connection that has a strong influence upon the mind: it cannot bear even a momentary separation, which destroys the sense, and is at the same time contradictory to practice. Another circumstance tends still more to make this separation disagreeable in lines of the first and third order, that it bars the accent; which will be explained afterward in treating of the accent.

128. Hitherto we have discoursed upon that pause only which divides the line. We proceed to the pause that concludes the line; and the question is, Whether the same rules be applicable to both? This must be answered by making a distinction. In the first line of a couplet, the concluding pause differs little, if at all, from the pause which divides the line; and for that reason, the rules are applicable to both equally. The concluding pause of the couplet is in a different condition: it resembles greatly the concluding pause in an hexameter line: both of them indeed are so remarkable, that they never can be graceful, unless where they accompany a pause in the sense. Hence it follows, that a couplet ought always to be finished with some close in the sense; if not a point, at least a comma. The truth is, that this rule is seldom transgressed: in Pope's works we find very few deviations from the rule: take the following instances:

Nothing is foreign: parts relate to whole;
One all-extending, all-preserving soul.
Connects each being —

Another:

To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs;

To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in show'rs,
A brighter wash —

It may be added, with respect to pauses in general, that supposing the connection to be so slender as to admit a pause, it follows not that a pause may in every such case be admitted. There is one rule to which every other ought to bend, That the sense must never be wounded or obscured by the music; and upon that account the following lines seem exceptionable:

Ulysses, first || in public cares, she found,
And,

Who rising, high || th' imperial sceptre rais'd.

With respect to inversion, it appears, both from reason and experiments, that many words which cannot bear a separation in their natural order, admit a pause when inverted. And it may be added, that when two words, or two members of a sentence, in their natural order, can be separated by a pause, such separation can never be amiss in an inverted order. An inverted period, which deviates from the natural train of ideas, requires to be marked in some measure even by pauses in the sense, that the parts may be distinctly known. Take the following examples.

As with cold lips || I kiss'd the sacred veil
With other beauties || charm my partial eyes
Full in my view || set all the bright abode
With words like these || the troops Ulysses rul'd
Back to th' assembly roll || the thronging train
Not for their grief || the Grecian host I blame

The same where the separation is made at the close of the first line of the couplet:

For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease,
Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.

The pause is tolerable even at the close of the couplet, for the reason just now suggested, that inverted members require some slight pause in the sense:

'Twas where the plane-tree spreads its shades around:
The altars heav'd; and from the crumbling ground
A mighty dragon shot.

129. Thus a train of reasoning hath insensibly led us to conclusions with regard to the musical pauses, very different from those in the article Beauty of LANGUAGE (sect. II.) concerning the separating by a circumstance words intimately connected. One would conjecture, that where-ever words are separable by interjecting a circumstance, they should be equally separable by interjecting a pause: but, upon a more narrow inspection, the appearance of analogy vanisheth. This will be evident from considering, that a pause in the sense distinguishes the different members of a period from each other; whereas when two words of the same member are separated by a circumstance, all the three make still but one member; and therefore that words may be separated by an interjected circumstance, though these words are not separated by a pause in the sense. This sets the matter in a clear light; for, as observed above, a musical pause is intimately connected with a pause in the sense, and ought, as far as possible, to be governed by it: particularly a musical pause ought never to

Verfification. be placed where a pause is excluded by the sense, as, for example, between the adjective and following substantive, which make parts of the same idea; and still less between a particle and the word that makes it significant.

Abstracting at present from the peculiarity of melody arising from the different pauses, it cannot fail to be observed in general, that they introduce into our verse no slight degree of variety. A number of uniform lines having all the same pause, are extremely fatiguing, which is remarkable in the French versification. This imperfection will be discerned by a fine ear even in the shortest succession, and becomes intolerable in a long poem. Pope excels in the variety of his melody, which, if different kinds can be compared, is indeed not less perfect than that of Virgil.

130. From what is last said, there ought to be one exception: Uniformity in the members of a thought, demands equal uniformity in the verbal members which express that thought. When therefore resembling objects or things are expressed in a plurality of verse-lines, these lines in their structure ought to be as uniform as possible, and the pauses in particular ought all of them to have the same place. Take the following examples.

By foreign hands || thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands || thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands || thy humble grave adorn'd.

Bright as the sun || her eyes the gazers strike;
And, like the sun, || they shine on all alike.

Speaking of Nature, or the God of Nature:

Warms in the sun || refreshes in the breeze,
Glow in the stars || and blossoms in the trees,
Lives through all life || extends through all extent,
Spreads undivided || operates unspent.

131. Pauses will detain us longer than was expected; for the subject is not yet exhausted. It is laid down above, that English heroic verse admits no more but four capital pauses; and that the capital pause of every line is determined by the sense to be after the 4th, the 5th, the 6th, or 7th syllable. That this doctrine holds true so far as melody alone is concerned, will be testified by every good ear. At the same time it is to be admitted, that this rule may be varied where the sense or expression requires a variation, and that so far the melody may justly be sacrificed. Examples accordingly are not unfrequent, in Milton especially, of the capital pause being after the 1st, the 2d, or the 3d syllable. And that this licence may be taken, even gracefully, when it adds vigour to the expression, will be clear from the following example. Pope, in his translation of Homer, describes a rock broken off from a mountain, and hurling to the plain, in the following words:

From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds;
At every shock the crackling wood resounds;
Still path'ring force, it smokes; and urg'd amain,
Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous, to the plain:

There stops || So Hector. Their whole force he prov'd,
Resists when he rag'd; and when he stoop'd, unmov'd.

In the penult line the proper place of the musical pause is at the end of the 5th syllable; but it enlivens the expression by its coincidence with that of the sense at the end of the 2d syllable: the stopping short before the usual pause in the melody, aids the impression that is made by the description of the stone's stopping short; and what is lost to the melody by this artifice, is more than compensated by the force that is added to the description. Milton makes a happy use of this licence: witness the following examples from his Paradise Lost.

—————Thus with the year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day || or the sweet approach of even or morn.

Celestial voices to the midnight-air
Sole || or responsive each to others note.

And over them triumphant Death his dart
Shook || but delay'd to strike.

—————And wild uproar
Stood rul'd || stood vast infinitude confin'd.

—————And hard'ning in his strength
Glories || for never since created man
Met such embodied force.

From his slack hand the garland wreath'd for Eve
Down drop'd || and all the faded roses shed.

Of unessential night, receives him next,
Wide gaping || and with utter loss of being,
Threatens him, &c.

—————For now the thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him || round he throws his baleful eyes, &c.

If we consider the foregoing passages with respect to melody singly, the pauses are undoubtedly out of their proper place; but being united with those of the sense, they enforce the expression, and enliven it greatly; for, as has been more than once observed, the beauty of expression is communicated to the sound, which, by a natural deception, makes even the melody appear more perfect than if the musical pauses were regular.

132. To explain the rules of accenting, two general observations must be premised. The first is, That accents have a double effect: they contribute to the melody, by giving it air and spirit: they contribute no less to the sense, by distinguishing important words from others. These two effects can never be separated, without impairing the concord that ought to subsist between the thought and the melody: an accent, for example, placed on a low word, has the effect to burlesque it, by giving it an unnatural elevation; and the injury thus done to the sense does not rest there, for it seems also to injure the melody. Let us only reflect what a ridiculous figure a particle must make with an accent or emphasis put upon it, a particle that of itself has no meaning, and that serves only, like cement, to unite words significant. The other general observation is, That a word of whatever number of syllables, is not accented upon more than one of them.

them. The reason is, that the object is set in its best light by a single accent, so as to make more than one unnecessary for the sense: and if another be added, it must be for the sound merely; which would be a transgression of the foregoing rule, by separating a musical accent from that which is requisite for the sense.

133. Keeping in view the foregoing observations, the doctrine of accenting English heroic verse is extremely simple. In the first place, accenting is confined to the long syllables; for a short syllable is not capable of an accent. In the next place, as the melody is enriched in proportion to the number of accents, every word that has a long syllable may be accented; unless the sense interpose, which rejects the accenting a word that makes no figure by its signification. According to this rule, a line may admit five accents; a case by no means rare.

134. But supposing every long syllable to be accented, there is, in every line, one accent that makes a greater figure than the rest, being that which precedes the capital pause. It is distinguished into two kinds; one that is immediately before the pause, and one that is divided from the pause by a short syllable. The former belongs to lines of the first and third order: the latter to those of the second and fourth. Examples of the first kind:

Smooth flow the waves || the zephyrs gently play,
Belinda smil'd || and all the world was gay.

He rais'd his azure wand || and thus began.

Examples of the other kind:

There lays three garters || half a pair of gloves,
And all the trophies || of his former loves.

Our humble province || is to tend the fair,
Not a less pleasing || though less glorious care.

And hew triumphal arches || to the ground.

135. It is a capital defect in the composition of verse, to put a low word, incapable of an accent, in the place where this accent should be: this bars the accent altogether; than which there seems no fault more subversive of the melody, if it be not the barring a pause altogether. Neither does any single circumstance contribute more to the energy of verse, than to put an important word where the accent should be, a word that merits a peculiar emphasis. To show the bad effect of excluding the capital accent, the reader is referred to some instances given above, where particles are separated by a pause from the capital words that make them significant; and which particles ought, for the sake of melody, to be accented, were they capable of an accent. Add to these the following instances from the Essay on Criticism.

Of leaving what || is natural and fit
line 448.

Not yet purg'd off, || of spleen and sour disdain
l. 528.

No pardon vile || obscenity should find
l. 531.

When love was all || an easy monarch's care

l. 537.

For 'tis but half || a judge's task, to know

l. 562.

'Tis not enough, || taste, judgment, learning, join

l. 563.

That only makes || superior sense belov'd

l. 578.

Whose right it is, || uncensur'd, to be dull

l. 590.

'Tis best sometimes || your censure to restrain

l. 597.

When this fault is at the end of a line that closes a couplet, it leaves not the least trace of melody:

But of this frame the bearings, and the ties,
The strong connections, nice dependencies.

In a line expressive of what is humble or dejected, it improves the resemblance between the sound and sense to exclude the capital accent. This, to our taste, is a beauty in the following lines.

In these deep solitudes || and awful cells

The poor inhabitant || beholds in vain

136. To conclude this article, the accents are not, like the syllables, confined to a certain number: some lines have no fewer than five, and there are lines that admit not above one. This variety, as we have seen, depends entirely on the different powers of the component words: particles, even where they are long by position, cannot be accented; and polysyllables, whatever space they occupy, admit but one accent. Polysyllables have another defect, that they generally exclude the full pause. It is shown above, that few polysyllables can find place in the construction of English verse; and here are reasons for excluding them, could they find place.

137. It was mentioned above †, that the four sorts of lines which enter into English heroic verse, have, each of them, a peculiar melody distinguishable by a good ear. This it is now proposed to account for. But first, it is proper to warn the candid reader not to expect this peculiarity of modulation in every instance: for the thought and expression have so great an influence, as often to make the poorest melody pass for rich and spirited. It is necessary therefore, first, That the experiment be tried upon lines equal with respect to the thought and expression; for otherwise one may easily be misled in judging of the melody: and next, That these lines be regularly accented before the pause; for upon a matter abundantly refined in itself, it is wished not to be embarrassed with faulty and irregular lines.

These preliminaries adjusted, we begin with some general observations, that will save repeating the same thing over and over upon each particular case. And, first, an accent succeeded by a pause, as in lines of the first and third order, makes a much greater figure than where the voice goes on without a stop. The fact is so certain, that no person who has an ear can be at a loss to distinguish that accent from others. Nor have we far to seek for the efficient cause: the elevation of an accenting tone produceth in the mind a similar elevation,

vation, which continues during the pause (A): but where the pause is separated from the accent by a short syllable, as in lines of the second and fourth order, the impression made by the accent is more slight when there is no stop, and the elevation of the accent is gone in a moment by the falling of the voice in pronouncing the short syllable that follows. The pause also is sensibly affected by the position of the accent: in lines of the first and third order, the close conjunction of the accent and pause occasions a sudden stop without preparation, which rouses the mind, and bestows on the melody a spirited air: when, on the other hand, the pause is separated from the accent by a short syllable, which always happens in lines of the second and fourth order, the pause is soft and gentle: for this short unaccented syllable succeeding one that is accented, must of course be pronounced with a falling voice, which naturally prepares for a pause; and the mind falls gently from the accented syllable, and slides into rest as it were insensibly. Further, the lines themselves derive different powers from the position of the pause, which will thus appear. A pause after the fourth syllable divides the line into two unequal portions, of which the larger comes last: this circumstance resolving the line into an ascending series, makes an impression in pronouncing like that of ascending; and to this impression contributes the redoubled effort in pronouncing the larger portion, which is last in order. The mind has a different feeling when the pause succeeds the fifth syllable, which divides the line into two equal parts: these parts, pronounced with equal effort, are agreeable by their uniformity. A line divided by a pause after the sixth syllable, makes an impression opposite to that first mentioned: being divided into two unequal portions, of which the shorter is last in order, it appears like a slow descending series; and the second portion being pronounced with less effort than the first, the diminished effort prepares the mind for rest. And this preparation for rest is still more sensibly felt where the pause is after the seventh syllable, as in lines of the fourth order.

138. To apply these observations is an easy task. A line of the first order is of all the most spirited and lively: the accent, being followed instantly by a pause, makes an illustrious figure: the elevated tone of the accent elevates the mind: the mind is supported in its elevation by the sudden unprepared pause which rouses and animates: and the line itself, representing by its unequal division an ascending series, carries the mind still higher, making an impression similar to that of going upward. The second order has a modulation sensibly sweet, soft, and flowing: the accent is not so sprightly as in the former, because a short syllable intervenes between it and the pause; its elevation, by the same means, vanishes instantaneously; the mind, by a falling voice, is gently prepared for a stop: and the pleasure of uniformity from the division of the line into two equal parts, is calm and sweet. The third order has a

modulation not so easily expressed in words: it in part resembles the first order, by the liveliness of an accent succeeded instantly by a full pause: but then the elevation occasioned by this circumstance, is balanced in some degree by the remitted effort in pronouncing the second portion, which remitted effort has a tendency to rest. Another circumstance distinguishes it remarkably: its capital accent comes late, being placed on the sixth syllable, and this circumstance bestows on it an air of gravity and solemnity. The last order resembles the second in the mildness of its accent, and softness of its pause; it is still more solemn than the third, by the lateness of its capital accent: it also possesses in a higher degree than the third, the tendency to rest; and by that circumstance is of all the best qualified for closing a period in the completest manner.

139. But these are not all the distinguishing characters of the different orders. Each order also is distinguished by its final accent and pause: the unequal division in the first order, makes an impression of ascending; and the mind at the close is in the highest elevation, which naturally prompts it to put a strong emphasis upon the concluding syllable, whether by raising the voice to a sharper tone, or by expressing the word in a fuller tone. This order accordingly is of all the least proper for concluding a period, where a cadence is proper, and not an accent. The second order, being destitute of the impression of ascent, cannot rival the first order in the elevation of its concluding accent, nor consequently in the dignity of its concluding pause; for these have a mutual influence. This order, however, with respect to its close, maintains a superiority over the third and fourth orders: in these the close is more humble, being brought down by the impression of descent, and by the remitted effort in pronouncing; considerably in the third order, and still more considerably in the last. According to this description, the concluding accents and pauses of the four orders being reduced to a scale, will form a descending series probably in an arithmetical progression.

140. After what is said, it will scarce be thought refining too much to suggest, that the different orders are qualified for different purposes, and that a poet of genius will be naturally led to make a choice accordingly. The first order seems proper for a sentiment that is bold, lively, or impetuous; the third order, for what is grave, solemn, or lofty; the second, for what is tender, delicate, or melancholy, and in general for all the sympathetic emotions; and the last for subjects of the same kind, when tempered with any degree of solemnity. It is not contended that any one order is fitted for no other task than that assigned it; for at that rate, no sort of melody would be left for accompanying thoughts that have nothing peculiar in them. It is meant to suggest, that each of the orders is peculiarly adapted to certain subjects, and better qualified than the others for expressing them. The best way to judge

(A) Hence the liveliness of the French language as to sound, above the English: the last syllable in the former being generally long and accented, the long syllable in the latter being generally as far back in the word as possible, and often without an accent. For this difference there appears no cause so probable as temperament and disposition: the French being brisk and lively, the English sedate and reserved: and this, if it hold, is a pregnant instance of a resemblance between the character of a people and that of their language.

is by experiment; and to avoid the imputation of a partial search, the instances shall be confined to a single poem, beginning with the first order.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those:
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;
Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike;
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide;
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

Rape of the Lock.

In accounting for the remarkable liveliness of this passage, it will be acknowledged by every one who has an ear, that the melody must come in for a share. The lines, all of them, are of the first order; a very unusual circumstance in the author of this poem, so eminent for variety in his versification. Who can doubt, that he has been led by delicacy of taste to employ the first order preferably to the others?

Second order.

Our humble province is to tend the fair,
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care;
To save the powder from too rude a gale,
Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale;
To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs;
To steal from rainbows, ere they drop their show'rs,
&c.

Again:

Oh, thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.
Sudden, these honours shall be snatch'd away,
And curs'd for ever this victorious day.

Third order.

To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note,
We trust th' important charge, the petticoat.

Again:

Oh say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd,
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord?

A plurality of lines of the fourth order, would not have a good effect in succession; because, by a remarkable tendency to rest, their proper office is to close a period. The reader, therefore, must be satisfied with instances where this order is mixed with others.

Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast,
When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their last.

Again:

Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,
And hew triumphal arches to the ground.

Again:

She fees, and trembles at th' approaching ill,
Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille.

Again:

With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face,
He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case.

And this suggests another experiment, which is, to set the different orders more directly in opposition, by

giving examples where they are mixed in the same passage. Verifica-
tion.

First and second orders.

Sol through white curtains shot a tim'rous ray,
And ope'd those eyes that must eclipse the day.

Again:

Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive,
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss,
Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss,
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pin'd awry,
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,
As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravish'd hair.

First and third.

Think what an equipage thou hast in air.
And view with scorn two pages and a chair.

Again:

What guards the purity of melting maids,
In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades,
Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark,
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark?

Again:

With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre,
And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire;
Then prostrate falls, and begs, with ardent eyes,
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize.

Again:

Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around,
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound,
Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way,
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!

Second and third.

Sunk in Thalestris' arms, the nymph he found,
Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound.

Again:

On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head,
Which with a sigh she rais'd; and thus she said.

141. Upon the whole, from what has been observed, we may with assurance pronounce, that great is the merit of English heroic verse: for though uniformity prevails in the arrangement, in the equality of the lines, and in the resemblance of the final sounds; variety is still more conspicuous in the pauses and in the accents, which are diversified in a surprising manner. Of the beauty that results from a due mixture of uniformity and variety*, many instances have already occurred, but none more illustrious than English versification: however rude it may be in the simplicity of its arrangement, it is highly melodious by its pauses and accents, so as already to rival the most perfect species known in Greece or Rome; and it is no disagreeable prospect to find it susceptible of still greater refinement. * See the article UNIFORMITY and VARIETY.

142. (2.) We proceed to blank verse, which hath so many circumstances in common with rhyme, that its peculiarities may be brought within a narrow compass. With respect to form, it differs from rhyme, in rejecting the jingle of similar sounds, which purifies it from a childish pleasure. But this improvement is a trifle.

Verifica-
tion. trifle compared with what follows. Our verse is extremely cramped by rhyme; and the great advantage of blank verse is, that it is at liberty to attend the imagination in its boldest flights. Rhyme necessarily divides verse into couplets: each couplet makes a complete musical period, the parts of which are divided by pauses, and the whole summed up by a full close at the end: the melody begins anew with the next couplet: and in this manner a composition in rhyme proceeds couplet after couplet. We have frequently had occasion to mention the correspondence and concord that ought to subsist between sound and sense; from which it is a plain inference, that if a couplet be a complete period with regard to melody, it ought regularly to be the same with regard to sense. As it is extremely difficult to support such strictness of composition, licences are indulged, as explained above; which, however, must be used with discretion, so as to preserve some degree of concord between the sense and the music: There ought never to be a full close in the sense but at the end of a couplet; and there ought always to be some pause in the sense at the end of every couplet: the same period as to sense may be extended through several couplets; but each couplet ought to contain a distinct member, distinguished by a pause in the sense as well as in the sound; and the whole ought to be closed with a complete cadence. Rules such as these must confine rhyme within very narrow bounds; a thought of any extent cannot be reduced within its compass; the sense must be curtailed and broken into parts, to make it square with the curtness of the melody; and beside, short periods afford no latitude for inversion.

143. We have examined this point with the greater accuracy, in order to give a just notion of blank verse; and to show, that a slight difference in form may produce a very great difference in substance. Blank verse has the same pauses and accents with rhyme, and a pause at the end of every line, like what concludes the first line of a couplet. In a word, the rules of melody in blank verse, are the same that obtain with respect to the first line of a couplet; but being disengaged from rhyme, or from couplets, there is access to make every line run into another, precisely as to make the first line of a couplet run into the second. There must be a musical pause at the end of every line; but this pause is so slight as not to require a pause in the sense: and accordingly the sense may be carried on with or without pauses, till a period of the utmost extent be completed by a full close both in the sense and the sound: there is no restraint, other than that this full close be at the end of a line; and this restraint is necessary, in order to preserve a coincidence between sense and sound, which ought to be aimed at in general, and is indispensable in the case of a full close, because it has a striking effect. Hence the fitness of blank verse for inversion: and consequently the lustre of its pauses and accents; for which, as observed in the article lately referred to, there is greater scope in inversion, than when words run in their natural order.

144. Nothing contributes more than inversion to the force and elevation of language: the couplets of rhyme
VOL. VIII.

confine inversion within narrow limits; nor would the elevation of inversion, were there access for it in rhyme, readily accord with the humbler tone of that sort of verse. It is universally agreed, that the loftiness of Milton's style supports admirably the sublimity of his subject; and it is not less certain, that the loftiness of his style arises chiefly from inversion. Shakespeare deals little in inversion; but his blank verse being a sort of measured prose, is perfectly well adapted to the stage, where laboured inversion is highly improper, because in dialogue it never can be natural.

145. Hitherto we have considered that superior power of expression which verse acquires by laying aside rhyme. But this is not the only ground for preferring blank verse: it has another preferable quality not less signal; and that is, a more extensive and more complete melody. Its music is not, like that of rhyme, confined to a single couplet, but takes in a great compass, so as in some measure to rival music properly so called. The interval between its cadences may be long or short at pleasure; and by that means its melody, with respect both to richness and variety, is superior far to that of rhyme, and superior even to that of the Greek and Latin hexameter. Of this observation no person can doubt who is acquainted with the Paradise Lost: in which work there are indeed many careless lines; but at every turn the richest melody as well as the sublimest sentiments are conspicuous. Take the following specimen.

Now Mora, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime
Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl;
When Adam wak'd, so custom'd, for his sleep
Was airy light from pure digestion bred,
And temperate vapours bland, which th' only found
Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,
Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill matin song
Of birds on ev'ry bough; so much the more
His wonder was to find unwaken'd Eve
With tresses discompos'd, and glowing cheek,
As through unquiet rest: he on his side
Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial love
Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice
Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whisper'd thus. Awake,
My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found,
Heav'n's last best gift, my ever-new delight,
Awake; the morning shines, and the fresh field
Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring
Our tended plants, how blows the citron grove,
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,
How nature paints her colours, how the bee
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.

Book 5. l. 1.

146. Comparing Latin Hexameter with English heroic rhyme, the former has obviously the advantage in the following particulars. It is greatly preferable as to arrangement, by the latitude it admits in placing the long and short syllables. Secondly, the length of an hexameter line hath a majestic air: ours, by its shortness, is indeed more brisk and lively, but much less fitted for the sublime. And, thirdly, the long high-
35 R sounding

founding words that hexameter admits, add greatly to its majesty. To compensate these advantages, English rhyme possesses a greater number and greater variety both of pauses and of accents. These two sorts of verse stand indeed pretty much in opposition: in hexameter, great variety of arrangement, none in the pauses nor accents: in English rhyme, great variety in the pauses and accents, very little in the arrangement.

147. In blank verse are united, in a good measure, the several properties of Latin hexameter and English rhyme; and it possesses beside many signal properties of its own. It is not confined, like hexameter, by a full close at the end of every line; nor, like rhyme, by a full close at the end of every couplet. Its construction, which admits the lines to run into each other, gives it a still greater majesty than arises from the length of a hexameter line. By the same means, it admits inversion even beyond the Latin or Greek hexameter; for these suffer some confinement by the regular closes at the end of every line. In its music it is illustrious above all: the melody of hexameter verse, is circumscribed to a line; and of English rhyme, to a couplet: the melody of blank verse is under no confinement, but enjoys the utmost privilege of which melody of verse is susceptible; which is, to run hand in hand with the sense. In a word, blank verse is superior to hexameter in many articles; and inferior to it in none, save in the freedom of arrangement, and in the use of long words.

148. In French heroic verse, there are found, on the contrary, all the defects of Latin hexameter and English rhyme, without the beauties of either: subjected to the bondage of rhyme, and to the full close at the end of every couplet, it is also extremely fatiguing by uniformity in its pauses and accents: the line invariably is divided by the pause into two equal parts, and the accent is invariably placed before the pause:

Jeune et vaillant héros dont la haute sagesse
N'est point la fruit tardif d'une lente vieillesse.

Here every circumstance contributes to a tiresome uniformity: a constant return of the same pause and of the same accent, as well as an equal division of every line; which fatigues the ear without intermission or change. This matter cannot be set in a better light, than by presenting to the reader a French translation of the following passage of Milton:

• Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,
  Godlike erect, with native honour clad,
  In naked majesty, seem'd lords of all:
  And worthy seem'd; for in their looks divine
  The image of their glorious Maker shone,
  Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure;
  Severe, but in true filial freedom plac'd;
  Whence true authority in men: though both
  Not equal, as their sex not equal seem'd;
  For contemplation he and valour form'd,
  For softness she and sweet attractive grace;
  He for God only, she for God in him.

Were the pauses of the sense and found in this passage but a little better assorted, nothing in verse could be

more melodious. In general, the great defect of Milton's versification, in other respects admirable, is the want of coincidence between the pauses of the sense and found.

The translation is in the following words:

Ce lieu délicieux, ce paradis charmant,
Reçoit deux objets son plus bel ornement;
Leur port majestueux, et leur démarche altière,
Semble leur mériter sur la nature entière,
Ce droit de commander que Dieu leur a donné,
Sur leur auguste front de gloire couronné.
Du Souverain du ciel drille la ressemblance:
Dans leur simples regards éclate l'innocence,
L'adorable candeur, l'aimable vérité,
La raison, la sagesse, et la sévérité,
Qu'adoucit la prudence, et cet air de droiture
Du visage des rois respectable parure.
Ces deux objets divins n'ont pas les mêmes traits,
Ils paroissent formées, quoique tous deux parfaits;
L'un pour la majesté, la force, et la noblesse;
L'autre pour la douceur, la grace, et la tendresse;
Celui-ci pour Dieu seul, l'autre pour l'homme encore.

Here the sense is fairly translated, the words are of equal power, and yet how inferior the melody!

149. The present article shall be concluded with
A List of the different FEET, and of their NAMES.

1. 1. PYRRHICHUS, consists of two short syllables. Examples: Deus, given, cannot, billock, running.
2. 2. SPONDEUS, consists of two long syllables: owner, possess, forewarn, mankind, sometime.
3. 3. IAMBUS, composed of a short and a long: pious, intent, degree, appear, consent, repent, demand, report, suspect, affront, event.
4. 4. TROCHÆUS, or CHORÆUS, a long and a short: servant, whereby, after, legal, measure, burden, holy, lofty.
5. 5. TRIBRACHYS, three short: melius, property.
6. 6. MOLOSSUS, three long: delectant.
7. 7. ANAPÆSTUS, two short and a long: animos, descend, apprehend, overheard, acquiesce, immature, overcharge, frenade, opportune.
8. 8. DACTYLUS, a long and two short: carmina, evident, excellence, estimate, wonderful, altitude, burdened, minister, tenement.
9. 9. BACCHIUS, a short and two long: dolores.
10. 10. HYPOBACCHIUS, or ANTIBACCHIUS, two long and a short: pelluntur.
11. 11. CRETICUS, or AMPHIMACER, a short syllable between two long: insito, afternoo.
12. 12. AMPHIBRACHYS, a long syllable between two short: honore, consider, imprudent, procedures, attended, proposed, respondent, concurrence, apprentice, retrospective, revenue.
13. 13. PROCELEUSMATICUS, four short syllables: hominibus, necessary.
14. 14. DIS-

14. DISPONDEUS, four long syllables: infinitus.

15. DIAMBUS, composed of two iambi: feveritas.

16. DITROCHÆUS, of two trochæi: permanere, procurator.

17. IONICUS, two short syllables and two long: properabant.

18. Another foot passes under the same name, composed of two long syllables and two short: calcaribus, possessory.

19. CHORIAMBUS, two short syllables between two long: nobilitas.

20. ANTISPASTUS, two long syllables between two short: Alexander.

21. PÆON 1st, one long syllable and three short: temporibus, ordinary, inventory, temperament.

22. PÆON 2d, the second syllable long, and the other three short: rapidity, solemnity, minority, considered, imprudently, extravagant, respectfully, accordingly.

23. PÆON 3d, the third syllable long and the other three short: animatus, independent, condescendence, sacerdotal, reimbursement, manufacture.

24. PÆON 4th, the last syllable long and the other three short: celeritas.

25. EPITRITUS 1st, the first syllable short and the other three long: voluptates.

26. EPITRITUS 2d, the second syllable short and the other three long: pænitentes.

27. EPITRITUS 3d, the third syllable short and the other three long: discordias.

28. EPITRITUS 4th, the last syllable short and the other three long: fortunatus.

29. A word of five syllables composed of a pyrrhichius and dactylus: ministerial.

30. A word of five syllables composed of a trochæus and dactylus: singularity.

31. A word of five syllables composed of a dactylus and trochæus: precipitation, examination.

32. A word of five syllables, the second only long: significancy.

33. A word of six syllables composed of two dactyles: impetuosity.

34. A word of six syllables composed of a tribrachys and dactyle: pusillanimity.

END OF THE EIGHTH VOLUME.

DIRECTIONS for placing the PLATES in this VOLUME.

† Or the 1st page of Sig. M. } The binder will attend to this direction, as pages 5567 to
‡ Or the 5th page of Sig. M. } 5574 have by mistake been twice numbered in the printing.

N. B. ERRATA, OMISSIONS, &c. noticed and supplied in the APPENDIX at the end of the Work.