thers happy, and with sighs withdrew: Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent; She figh'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 'quire; Up to her godly garret after seven, There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n. Some 'quire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is whist, whose treat's a toast in sack; Who visits with a gun, prefers you birds, Then gives a smacking buf, 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 lights 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 four, 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 II Penfero, 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 dresses her up in the manner in which 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 fail 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 surprise, and to raise what is called the wonderful, which is as necessary 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 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 Æneis of Virgil may be said to be an allegory, if you suppose Æneas to represent Augustus Caesar, 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 Æneas 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 Tallo 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 anything 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 Adventurer.
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 flower 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 preside 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 hare 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 Therites? 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 defy 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 disfigured by the language in which they are cloathed. 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 below 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 livers 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 peurile 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-moule. 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.
Dejections, 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 dejection 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 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 would 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, unconfur'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 alperty, 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, blame. So that satire may be looked upon as the physician of a distempered mind, which it endeavours to cure by bitter and unfavourly, 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 unseasonably 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 debauch 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, banterers 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-chosen 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 Buckingham'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 characteristic, 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 Mock 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 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 satire 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 throws 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 judg- ment; 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 of- fends 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 con- tempt), it is prudent to give way to that which most offends vice and folly, and least affects ourselves; and to smile 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 Splen- did 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 Phi- lips 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 in- titled Hudibras. Almost every one knows, that this poem is a satire upon the authors of our civil differ- ences 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 families, 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 epi- grams derive their origin from those inscriptions placed by the ancients on their statues, temples, pillars, tri- umphal 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 re- gard 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