AMIDST 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 poetical composition.

The Greeks, a people the most ingenious, the most animated, and in every sense the most accomplished, that the world ever produced—strive 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.

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 defective of all the Americans. Nature affords 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, Aulonia, 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.

But what is Poetry? It would be to abridge the limits 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 verification, 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 father of criticism has denominated poetry τύπον μυθικόν, an imitative art; but this, though just in itself, is too general for a definition, as it does not discriminate poetry from other arts which depend equally on imitation. The juleft definition seems to be that given by Baron Bielfield*: 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 poetical edifice; it is thus that all images, all comparisons, allusions, 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.

An ingenious fable, 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. It is the peculiar privilege of poetry to exalt inanimate things into animals, and abstract ideas into persons. The former licence is so common, that it is now considered as nothing more than a characteristic dialect appropriated by the poets to distinguish themselves from the writers of prose; and it is at the same time so essential, that we question much if this species of composition could subsist without it; for it will perhaps, upon examination, be found, that in every poetical description some of the qualities of Animal Nature are ascribed to things not having life. Every work, therefore, where the thoughts are expressed by fictions or images, is poetical; and every work where they are expressed naturally, simply, and without ornament, although it be in verse, is prose.

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 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 affluence of its essence 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 excellent 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.

The essence of Polite Arts in general, and consequently of poetry in particular, consists in expression; and we think that, to be poetical, the expression must necessarily arise from fiction, or invention. (See the article Art, particularly from n° 12. to the end.) 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 everything 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 which 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.

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

*Aut professe volunt, aut declarare poeta.*

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 anything 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 through 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 all 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.**

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, inferrates, that the gladness of the shepherd is owing to his sense of the utility of those luminaries. And this may in part 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 work, there is a splendour 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-lake; the mountain-forest toiling 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 kingdoms, could never afford so much real satisfaction, as the screams 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 bright'ning face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns by living stream at eve.

Castle of Indolence.

Such minds have always in them the seeds of true taste, and frequently of imitative genius. At least, though their enthusiastic or visionary turn of mind (as the man of the world would call it) should not always incline them to practice 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. attended with pain, and even from some of those that are, as moderate terror and pity, a sound mind derives satisfaction; exercise being equally necessary to the body and the soul, and to both equally productive of health and pleasure.

This happy feasibility 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 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 tho' 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 Palamon 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: for objects to which we have been long accustomed, we are apt to contract a fondness: 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 confident, either, first, with general experience; or, secondly, with popular opinion; or, thirdly, that it be confident with itself, and connected with probable circumstances.

First: If a human invention be confident 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 conformable 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 acquiesces in them, or at least yields them that degree of credit which is necessary to render them pleasing: hence invisible 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. A poet who should at this day make the whole action of his tragedy depend upon enchantment, and produce the chief events by the affluence of supernatural agents, would indeed be censured as transgressing the bounds of probability, be banished from the theatre to the nursery, and condemned to write fairy tales instead of tragedies. But Shakespeare was in no danger of such censures: In his days the doctrine of witchcraft was established both by law and by the fashion; and it was not only unpoltite, but criminal, to doubt it. Now indeed it is admitted only by the vulgar; but it does not therefore follow that an old poem built upon it should not be acceptable to the learned themselves. When a popular opinion has long been exploded, and has become repugnant to philosophical belief, the fictions built upon it are still admitted as natural, both because we all remember to have listened to them in childhood with some degree of credit, and because we know that they were accounted natural 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 Fallo, 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 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

(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 fellow complexion, and stunted beard (which seemed by its growth and colour to have been too near the fire), were the consequence of his palling so much of his time in that hot and smoky region. See Vicende della Letteratura del Sig. C. Denna, cap. 4. much as he can with probable circumstances, and make it appear in a series of events confluent 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. Caliban, 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 confluent 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 understood 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 pigmies was once current in the world (for the true ancient pigmy 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 like the dreams of a bedlamite than the inventions of a rational being.

If we were to prosecute this subject any farther, 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, 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.

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 embellish to relate nothing as true which is false or dubious, and by fiction to conceal nothing material which he knows to be true, and make 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,

(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. ceived, 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 Volumnia 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 groundwork 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 founded his two poems on authentic tradition; and 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: Smollet is thought to have given us several of his own adventures in the history of Roderick 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 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 of poems. Those hints, however, may be improved by the poet's imagination, and set off with every probable ornament that can be devised, confitently 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 effe poema; dulcia sunt o!"* 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†.

That the sentiments and feelings of percipient 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: the more they affect, the more they please us, and even the more poetical we allow them to be. Virgil's Georgics 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 able 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 babbling 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, stung 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 Penitential, 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 oftenest 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 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 ever be it give a peculiar bias to his inventive powers, and a particular 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 to which Horace alludes in the passage above mentioned; and which we 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 best shall paint them who can feel them most.

Pope's Eloisa, v. 366.

(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 sava indignatio ulterius cor lacerare nequit." See his last will and testament. 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 transmute 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 everything, 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-finger, 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 neighborhood 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 everything 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 anything to be found in real life. There cannot 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 morality, 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 been 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, whether Venus or Tiliphone, Achilles or Therites, 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 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 surprized 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 sea-shore.

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 manners; 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 draped 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, the poets 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 disguising 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 tinctured with the fashions of polite life of poetical would not be so generally interesting. Like a human character, figure adjusted by a modern dancing-master, and deftly 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, unaffected, and perhaps ridiculous. But Achilles and Sarpedon, Diomede and Hector, Nestor and Ulysses, as drawn by Homer, must in all ages, independently on fashion, command the attention and admiration 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 delineating 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.

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: (Art. Poet. v. 309.—316.) The maxim may be true, as far as mere morality is the aim of the poet; but cannot be underlaid 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 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 pro- Of Poetical per 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 Æneid are those that describe the effects of unlawful passion:—the most instructive tragedy in the world, we mean Macbeth, is founded in crimes of dreadful enormity:—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 Enneas:—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 retorting 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, of 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, 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, Titiphoine, Alecto, Megara, are objects of unmixed and unmilitated abhorrence; Titius, Enceladus, and their brethren, are remarkable for nothing but impiety, deformity, and vaults of fire; Pluto is, at best, an insipid personage; Mars, a half-brained 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 (B) seems to me the most exquisite of 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

(d) "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 Ateropæus, in the battle near the river Scamander." See Iliad, xxii. ver. 161.—168. 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 everywhere distinguished by an abhorrence of opprobrium, 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 Phoenix; and not only pities the misfortunes of his enemy Priam, but in the most soothing manner administers to him the best consolation that Homer's poor 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 (§); 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, the 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 of poetical 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 languishing 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 effeminate, 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 than inflexible to danger, and confidence in his mighty arms, than from any nobler principle; boisterous and rough; regardless of the gods, though not downright impious: yet there is in his manner something of Beattie's frankness and blunt sincerity, which entitle him to our sympathy; 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 weaknesses, 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.

(§) See Iliad xxii. 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. Of Poetical 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 so) is often produced calamity both in private and public life. The Scripture gives a memorable instance in the history of the good old Eli.—Sarpodon 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 though 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 Charon 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; one is rash, another cautious; one is impetuous and headstrong, another impetuous, but tractable; one is cruel, another merciful; one is insolent and offensive, 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.

Of the agents in Paradise Lost, it has been observed* that "the weakest are the highest and noblest of beings, the original parents of mankind; with whose actions the elements consented; on whose rectitude or deviation of will depended the state of terrestrial nature, and the condition of all the future inhabitants of the globe. Of the other agents in the poem, the chief are such as it is irreverence to name on slight occasions: the rest are lower powers;

—Of which the least could wield

These elements, and arm him with the force

Of all their regions:

Powers, which only the control of Omnipotence restrains from laying creation waste, and filling the vast expanse of space with ruin and confusion. To display Paradise the motives and actions of beings thus superior, so far as human reason can examine, or human imagination represent them, is the task which Milton undertook and performed. The characters in the Paradise Lost, which admit of examination, are those of angels and of men; of angels good and evil; of man in his innocent and sinful state.

"Among the angels, the virtue of Raphael is mild and placid, of easy condescension, and free communication; that of Michael is regal and lofty, attentive to the dignity of his own nature. Abdiel and Gabriel appear occasionally, and act as every incident requires: the solitary fidelity of Abdiel is very amably painted.

"Of the evil angels, the characters are more diversified. To Satan such sentiments are given as suit the..." 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 their high expectation; not by any affected pomp of style, but by 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 Æneid, 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 interfering 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 Æneid, 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 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 strike 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.

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 some is more essential than to others; and to none so much as in 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 limited 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 confidence and stability of the whole*. In itself an incident may be interesting, a character well drawn, a description beautiful; and yet, if it disfigure 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 or purple cloth sewed upon a garment of a different colour†. Not arrange 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.

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, and epilogues three things are to be attended to:—their connection with the fable or subject; their own peculiar excellence; and their subserviency 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 Cæsar 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 Æneid, 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 Æneid, 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 expense to the subject it may be introduced. They who can blame Virgil for obtruding upon them the charming tale of Orpheus and Euridice 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 contexture 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 Æneid may seem to be too long obstructed in one place by the 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... And if we consider, that the design of Homer's Iliad was not only to show the fatal effects of diffusion among confederates, but also to immortalize 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 fifth book of the Iliad; and the two last, by the no less beautiful one of Euryalus and Nissus in the ninth of the Aeneid.

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, 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 Idyls, and Spencer 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, 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 may have 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 Aeneid, perhaps from its being nearer the truth, or perhaps from the sublime sentiments of ideal morality so forcibly and so ostentatiously displayed in it.

Poets may refine upon nature too much as well as too little; for affectation and nifticity 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 pallion 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 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 conclusion 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 rus verum betrays him into some indecencies: 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... Of Poetical Language.

Words in poetry are chosen, first, for their sense; poetry to be and, secondly, for their sound. That the first of these chosen for grounds of choice is the more excellent nobody can deny. He who in literary matters prefers found to their sound, 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.

§ I. Of Poetical Language considered as Significant.

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 which 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.

Improved as far as may be consistent with probability, 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 human language.

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.

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. Poets 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 Ho-cap-mer'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 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 poet-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 that of from prose, and is altogether so peculiar, that it is perhaps impossible to analyse it on the common principles of... 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.

The poetical dialect of modern Italy is so different from the profaic, 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 preludes already.

The English poetical dialect is not characterized by any peculiarities of inflection, nor by any great latitude in the use of foreign idioms. More copious it is, however, than one would at first imagine; as may appear from the following specimen 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.—'Tis thus we riot, while who sow it starve. Pope.—This day be bread and peace my lot. 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 indispensible. 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 of poetical words 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 versification 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, disport, distain, disport, effright, 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, auxiliar, sublunar, trumpet, vale, part, clime, submiff, frolic, plain, drear, dread, helm, mean, meed, eve and even, gan, illume and illumine, ope, boar, abide, savage, scape; for auxiliary, sublunar, trumpet, valley, depart, climate, submiffive, frolicome, complain, dreary, dreadful, helmet, morning, meadow, evening, began or began to, illuminate, open, hoary, abide, affluage, etc., etc. —Of some of these the short form is the more ancient. In Scotland, even, morn, bide, savage, are still in vulgar use; but morn, except when contradistinguished to 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, muniment.

(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. Affled, amain, annoy (a noun), anon, aye (ever), behyld, blithe, brand (sword), bridal, carol, dame (lady), fealty, fell (an adjective), gaude, gore, hoyl (army), lambkin, late (of late), lay (poem), lea, glad, gleam, bur', lors, meed, origins, plod (to travel laboriously), ringlet, rue (a verb), ruby, rubleth, sojourn (a noun), snite, spead (an active verb), sace (except), spray (twig), fleed, strain (long), strand, swain, thrall, thrilly, trail (a verb), troll, cuvil, welter, warble, wayward, woo, 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. Appeal, arrowy, attune, battalions, breezy, car (chariot), clarion, cates, courier, darkling, flicker, floweret, emblaze, garish, circle, imperal, nightly, nofeles, pinion (wing), shadowy, lumberous, streamy, troublous, wilder (a verb), brill (a verb), flook (thaken), madding, vivacious.—The following, too, derived from the Greek and Latin, seem peculiar to poetry. Clang, clangor, choral, bland, boreal, dire, enanguished, ireful, love (to wash), nymph (lady, girl), orient, panoply, philomel, injuriates, jocund, radiant, ropt, redolent, refugent, verdant, vernal, zephyr, zone (girdle), sylvan, 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 Of Poetical 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'ts, shan'ts, can'ts, 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 waft'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 e'er gave. Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll. Gray.—'Talarm 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 verification less difficult.

(6.) Those words which are commonly called compound epithets, as rosy-finger'd, rosy-bosom'd, many-twinkling, many-founded, musk-grown, bright-eyed, flour-built, spirit-flitting, incense-breathing, heaven-taught, love-whispering, late-rousing, are also to be considered as part of our poetical dialect. It is true, we have compound-ed 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 to be used sparingly. 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 peculiarly 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, honeyed, careering, cinctured, boomed, sobered, would appear affected in prose, and yet in verse they are warranted by great authorities, though it must be confessed that they are centred by an able critic *, who had studied the English language, both poetical and prosaic, with wonderful diligence.

Some late poets, particularly the imitators of Spencer, have introduced a great variety of uncommon words, as certes, eftsoons, ne, whilom, transmew, moil, fone, of poetical losel, albe, hight, dight, pight, thews, coulthful, affot, muchel, wend, rearre, &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 paths 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 verification. Yet in subjects approaching to the ludicrous they may have a good effect; as in the Schoolmistress of Shenton, Parnell'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, behoof, blithe, gaude, spry, thrall, may already appear antiquated; and to some the style of Spencer, 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, frore, bocky, &c.; there are but one or two in Dryden, as falsify (r); 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 Spencer 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 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 inattentive to Pope's precept;

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

Eff. 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

(f) Dryden in one place (Æneid ix. verf. 1095.) uses Falsify 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. 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-founded, 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 indelicate 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 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 having his distance§. What gives dignity to persons 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

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 poetical 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. In fact, numerous as the words in every language are, they must always fall short of the unbounded variety of human thoughts and perceptions. Tropes and similes 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 innumerably 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 word; and harmony of tones is not better understood by the musician, than har-mony. 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 glaases. His starboard eye is open, but fast jammed in his head; and the hawlsards 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 sylvan 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 fauve-herd; first, because the Greek word is well-founded 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 fauve-herd had in his translation been applied to so eminent a personage; and therefore he judiciously makes use of the trope lynx-eyed, and calls him lynx*; 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 topical expression:

Here sat Eumeus, and his cares applied, To form strong bykins of well seafon'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 found could be more agreeable, or any one phrase more dignified, than another. 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 unpleasing, 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 which, 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 theft 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 characterized 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 flattering fay at all, it must be a syren song; the shepherd's flute dwindles into an oaten 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 Part I.

Trope hope to do any execution among the gentle souls, 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 poetical 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 indispensible. 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 intellectual, 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 repose 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 resplendent appearance, his perpendicular ascent through a region of darkness, 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, though 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 forever. — 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 waking 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 "fall 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 Palladis arte adficient." — Milton is still bolder when he says,

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

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, petrified with afflorniment, thunderstruck with disagreeable and unexpected intelligence, melted with love or pity, dissolved in luxury, hardened in wickedness, softening into remorse, inflamed with desire, torpid 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; they are and are in poetry peculiarly requisite, because they are likewise 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 Of Troops 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 prolepsis 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. Clofe pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry Their 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 the lov'd prov'd mad, And did forake her. She had a song of willow; An old thing it was, but it expres'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 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, sentiment that he fits "high-throned above all height." And as of admirers 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 principle idea. In these and the like cases, the fancy left to itself will have more satisfaction in pursuing 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, prolepsis, and apostrophe, are among the most passionate figures. This deserves illustration.

A very angry man is apt to think the injury he has just received greater than it really is; and if he natural proceed immediately to retaliate by word or deed, seldom fails to exceed the due bounds, and to become injurious, etc., etc. 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 virtues or abilities; because it appears to him, or he is willing to consider it, as less than the truth, or at best as insensible. 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 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 those 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 theirs; and give rise to the hyperbole called meiosis, 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 impress 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 artificer will be careful never to overstep.

2dly. That figure, by which things are spoken of as proper, if they were persons, is called proopopoeia, 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 perceiving creature. Hence it was that Mary queen of Scotland, when on her return to her own kingdom, so affectionately bade adieu to the country which she had left. "Farewell, France," said she; "farewell, beloved country, which I shall never more behold!" 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, 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 sympathizes with him. If he has lost a beloved friend, he thinks the sun less bright than at other times; and in the fighting 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 affumes 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 philanthropist, finds occasion to indulge his favourite passion, and fees, or thinks he fees, 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 affect sympathy, perception, and the other attributes of animal life, to things inanimate, or even to notions merely intellectual.—Motion, too, bears a close affinity... Of Tropes and Figures.

affinity to action, and affects our imagination nearly in the same manner; and we see a great part of nature in motion, and by its 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 serious feelings, and the consideration of our latter end, than all the pathos of Young. Of descriptions addressed 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 than 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 fervent wo.

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 distempered 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, Apotheose, or a sudden diversion of speech from one person to another person or thing, is a figure how to be 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 these 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 apotheosis 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 create disgust instead of approbation. The orator, therefore, must not attempt the passionate apotheosis, 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 palled for sublime and pathetic, which in the most respectable British auditory 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, 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 Æneid, where Æneas, who is telling his story to Dido, happens to mention the death of his father, makes a sudden address to him as follows:

hic, pelagi tot tempestatibus actus, Heu, genitorem, omnis cura caufoque levamen, Amitto Anchilon; — hic me, pater optime, fefum Defiris, heu, tantis nequiquam erete periclis!

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 everything 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, announces 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 composition 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 stood, 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'ft the night, Maker omnipotent! and thou the day, Which we in our appointed work employ'd Have hith'rd.

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

Hic juvenum chorus, ille fenum; qui carmine laudes Herculeas et facta ferant; ut duros mille labores Regre sub Euroitheo, fatis Janonis inique, Pertulerit: — Tu nubigenas, invicte, bimembres, Hyloem Pholoumque, manu; tu Crefia maetas 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 end, 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, mode of writing. 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 executive 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 unfuitable, and even impossible, to the geometrician, while intent upon his argument; it is, upon the same principle, perfectly. Of Tropes feally 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 the Moral Essays of Addison and Johnson abound in poetical 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.

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 verification 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 which 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 verification would be the same; and the rules in Defaueter'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-version of Job, 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 the perfection of it. Verse is to poetry, what colours are to painting (c). 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 Demosthenes, quoted by Aristotle*, "Verification is to poetry what bloom is to the human countenance." A good face is agreeable when the bloom is gone, and good poetry may cap, please without verification; harmonious numbers may set

(c) 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,

Defectas servare vices, operumque colores. Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, Poeta salutor? Ar. Poet, ver. 86. not think that rhyme can be safely spared from English poetry of any kind, but when the subject is able to support itself. "He that thinks himself capable of astonishing (says Johnson) may write blank verse; but those that hope only to please, must condescend to rhyme."

Rhyme, however, is of less importance by far than rhythm, which in poetry as well as in music 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 versification, "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 his 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 persons, and according to the immediate impulse of passion and sentiment. Yet, even in tragedy, the versification may be both harmonious and dignified; because the same 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 would be in that state of perfection in which it might be. The improper Greeks and Romans considered their hexameter as too much 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-sonnet, and Anacreontic song, will be less various, more regular, Of poetical harmony; because the state of mind expressed in it has more composition. 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 pity, 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 unpleasing; and he who declaims with energy, employs many varieties of modulation suited to the various emotions 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 where-with he describes the murmur of a rill, the warbling of the harp of Æolus, 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 honourable accent, as a nervous style and majestic attitude. Coxcomb and bullies, while they assume airs of importance and valour, affect also a dignified articulation.

Since the tones of natural language are so various, the source poetry, which imitates the language of nature, must allow of imitative to vary its tones; and, in respect of sound as well as of harmony 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, 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 Ronfard's affected imitation of the song of the sky-lark:

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

This is as ridiculous as that line of Ennius,

Tum tuba terribili sonitu taratatanta 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, the poet may imitate Sounds that are sweet with dignity (h),—sweet and tender (i),—loud (k),—and harsh.

(h) No sooner had th' Almighty ceased, 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 Th' eternal regions. —Par. Loft, b. 3.

See also the night-flower of thunder, lightning, wind, and rain, in Virg. Georg. lib. i. ver. 328—334.

(i) Et longum, formosum, vale, vale, inquit, Iola. Virg. Ecl. 1.

Formosam resonare doces Amarilliida silvas. Virg. Ecl. 1.

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

(k) —— vibratus ab æthera fulgor Cum sonitu venit, et ruere omnia visa repente, Tyrrhenusque tubæ mugire per æthera clangor, Sufpicunt: iterum atque iterum fragor intonat ingens. Æneid. 8. Part I.

Of Poetical Harshness (l);—and Motions that are slow, in consequence of Difficulty (n),—swift and smooth (p)—uneven and abrupt (q),—quick and joyous (r). An unexpected pause in the verse may also imitate a sudden failure of strength (s), or interruption of motion (t), or give vivacity to an image or thought, by fixing our attention longer than usual upon the word that precedes it (u). Moreover, when we describe great bulk, it is natural for us to articulate flowly, 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 (x).—Sweet and smooth numbers are most proper, when the poet paints agreeable objects, or gentle energy (y); and harsher sounds when he speaks of what is ugly, violent, or disagreeable (z). 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

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

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

On a sudden open fly, With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder. —Par. Lof., II. 879.

See also Homer's Iliad, lib. 2. ver. 363, and Clarke's Annotation.

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

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

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

See the famous description of Sisyphus rolling the stone, Odyss. lib. 11. ver. 592. See Quintil. Inst. Orat. lib. 9. cap. 4. § 4. compared with Paradise Lost, book 2. ver. 1022.

(o) Quadrupedante putrem fontem quattuor ungula campum.

See also Virg. Æneid, lib. 1. ver. 83—87.

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

Ille volat, simul arva fuga, simul aquora verrens.

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

(r) Let the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound, To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade. —Milt. Allegro.

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

(s) Ac velut in somnis oculos ubi languida pressit Nocte quies, nequiquam avidos extendere cursus

Velle videmur:—et in mediis conatis agri Succidimus. —Æneid.

See also Virg. Georg. lib. 3. ver. 515, 516.

(t) For this, be sure to-night thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall exercise upon thee. —Prospero to Caliban in the Tempest.

See Pope's Iliad, XIII. 199.

(u) ——How often from the steep 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. Lof., b. 4. And over them triumphant Death his dart Shook,—but delay'd to strike. —Id.

See also Hom. Odyss. l. 9. v. 290.

(x) Thus stretch'd out, huge in length, the arch fiend lay. Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum.

Etmagnos membrorum artus, magna osa, lacertosque Exuit, atque ingens media conficit arena. —Æneid. v. 422.

(y) Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori, Hic nemus, hic ipso tecum consumerent ævo. —Virg. Eccl. 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. Lof., book 4. ver. 598—609.

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

(z) Stridenti stipula miserum disperdere carmen.

Immo ego Sardois videar tibi amarior herbis, Horridior rufco, proiecta vilior alga. —Virg. Eccl. 7.

Neu patriæ validas in vicera vertite vires. —Virg. Æneid. 6.

See also Milton's description of the Lazar-house in Paradise Lost, b. 11. v. 477—492. 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 (A), solemn vows (B), and all sentiments that proceed from a mind elevated with great ideas (C), require a correspondent pomp of language and verification.—Lastly, an irregular or uncommon movement in the verse may sometimes 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 convallis.

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 Epopee and Drama compared.

Tragedy and the epic differ not in substantial: 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 prefers 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 Pharja.

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

(B) See Virg. Æneid, IV. 24.

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

O now for ever Farewell the tranquil mind! &c.

Act 3. sc. 3. The action or subject of the epic poem must be great and interesting. Without greatness it would not have sufficient importance either to fix our attention or to justify the magnificent apparatus which the poet bestows on it. This is so evidently requisite as not to require illustration; and, indeed, hardly any who have attempted epic poetry have failed in choosing some subject sufficiently important, either by the nature of the action or by the fame of the personages concerned in it. The fame of Homer's heroes, and the consequences of disfavour between the greatest of them, is a subject important in itself, and must have appeared particularly so to his countrymen, who boasted their descent from those heroes. The subject of the Æneid is still greater than that of the Iliad, as it is the foundation of the most powerful empire that ever was established upon this globe; an event of much greater importance than the destruction of a city, or the anger of a formidable warrior. But the poems of Homer and Virgil fall in this respect infinitely short of that of Milton.

Before the greatness displayed in Paradise Lost, it has been well observed § that all other greatness shrinks away. The subject of the English poet is not the life of Milton, the destruction of a city, the conduct of a colony, or the foundation of an empire; it is the fate of worlds, the revolutions of heaven and earth; rebellion against the Supreme King, raised by the highest order of created beings; the overthrow of their hosts, and the punishment of their crime; the creation of a new race of reasonable creatures; their original happiness and innocence, their forfeiture of immortality, and their restoration to hope and peace."

An epic poem, however, is defective if its action be not interesting as well as great; for a narrative of mere valour may be so constructed as to prove cold and tame. "Much * will depend on the happy choice of * Blair ubi some subject, which shall by its nature interest the public; as when the poet selects for his hero one who is the founder, or the deliverer, or the favourite of his nation; or when he writes achievements that have been highly celebrated, or have been connected with important consequences to any public cause. Most of the great epic poems are abundantly fortunate in this respect, and must have been very interesting to those ages in which they were composed." The subject of the Paradise Lost, as it is infinitely greater, must likewise be considered as more universally interesting than that of any other poem. "We all feel the effects of Adam's transgression; we all feel like him, and like him must all bewail our offences. We have restless and insidious enemies in the fallen angels, and in the blest spirits we have guardians and friends; in the redemption of mankind we hope to be included; in the description of heaven and hell we are surely interested, as we are all to reside hereafter either in the regions of horror or bliss."

"The chief circumstance which renders an epic poem circum-interesting †, and which tends to interest not one age, but all ages, is the skilful conduct of the author in the management of his subject. His epic poetry plan must comprehend many affecting incidents. Het Blair and may sometimes be awful and awful; he must often be tender and pathetic; he must give us gentle and pleasing scenes of love, friendship, and affection. The more that an epic poem abounds with situations which awaken awaken the feelings of humanity, it is the more intense. In this respect perhaps no epic poets have been so happy as Virgil and Tasso. The plan of the *Paradise Lost* comprises neither human actions nor human manners. The man and woman who act and suffer, are in a state which no other man or woman can ever know. The reader finds no transaction in which he can be engaged; beholds no condition in which he can by any effort of imagination place himself; he has therefore little natural curiosity or sympathy."

A question has been moved, Whether the nature of the epic poem does not require that the hero should be ultimately successful? To this question Johnson replies, that "there is no reason why the hero should not be unfortunate, except established practice, since success and virtue do not necessarily go together." Most critics, however, are of a different opinion, and hold success to be, if not the necessary, at least the most proper issue of an epic poem. An unhappy conclusion depresses the mind, and is opposite to the elevating emotions which belong to this species of poetry. Terror and compassion are the proper subjects of tragedy; but as the epic is of larger extent, it were too much, if, after the difficulties and troubles which commonly abound in the progress of the poem, the author should bring them all at last to an unfortunate conclusion. We know not that any author of name has held this course except Lucan; for in the *Paradise Lost*, as Adam's deceiver is at last crushed, and he himself restored to the favour of his maker, Milton's hero must be considered as finally successful.

We have no occasion to say more of the epic, considered as peculiarly adapted to certain subjects, and to be conducted according to a certain plan. But as dramatic subjects are more complex, it is necessary to take a narrower view of them. They are either the light and the gay, or the grave and affecting, incidents of human life. The former constitute the subject of comedy, and the latter of tragedy.

As great and serious objects command more attention than little and ludicrous ones; as the fall of a hero interests the public more than the marriage of a private person; tragedy has been always held a more dignified entertainment than comedy. The first thing required of the tragic poet is, that he pitch upon some moving and interesting story, and that he conduct it in a natural and probable manner. For we must observe, that the natural and probable are more essential to tragic than even to epic poetry. Admiration is excited by the wonderful; but passion can be raised only by the impressions of nature and truth upon the mind.

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 flight 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 anything 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 gravelled 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 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 foregoing 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. 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 relate 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 a chain of unavoidable circumstances, as they excite a notion of destiny, are equally unsatisfactory to the human mind. A metaphysician in his closet may reason himself into the belief of fate, or what in modern language is called philosophical necessity; but the feelings of the heart revolt against that doctrine; and we have the confession of the two ablest philosophers by whom it was ever maintained, that men conduct themselves through life as if their will were absolutely free, and their actions no part of a chain of necessary causes and effects. As no man goes to the theatre to study metaphysics, or to divest himself of the common feelings of humanity, it is impossible, whatever be his philosophical creed, that he should contemplate without horror and disgust an innocent person suffering by mere destiny.

A tragedy of uncommon merit in every other respect may indeed be endured, nay perhaps admired, though such be its catastrophe; because no work of man was ever perfect; and because, where imperfections are unavoidable, a multitude of excellencies may be allowed to cover one fault: but we believe the misery of an innocent person resulting from a chain of unavoidable circumstances has never been considered as a beauty by minds unperverted by a false philosophy. "It must be acknowledged" that the subjects of the ancient Greeks tragedies were frequently founded on mere destiny and inevitable misfortunes. In the course of the drama many moral sentiments occurred; but the only instruction which the fable conveyed was, that reverence was due to the gods, and submission to the decrees of fate. Modern tragedy has aimed at a higher object, by becoming more the theatre of passion; pointing out to men the consequences of their own misconduct, showing the direful effects which ambition, jealousy, love, resentment, and other such strong emotions, when misguided or left unrestrained, produce upon human life. An Othello, hurried by jealousy to murder his innocent wife; a Jaferi enslaved by resentment and want to engage in a conspiracy, and then flung with remorse and involved in ruin; a Sifredi, through the deceit which he employs for public-spirited ends, bringing destruction on all whom he loved: these, and such as these, are the examples which Tragedy now displays to public view; and by means of which it inculcates on men the proper government of their passions."

There is indeed one singular drama, in which destiny How it is employed in a manner very different from that in which it was used by the poets of Greece and Rome. It is Schiller's Tragedy of the Robbers, of which "the hero, endowed by nature (as the translator of the piece observes) with the most generous feelings, animated by the highest sense of honour, and susceptible of the warmest affections of the heart, is driven by the perfidy of a brother, and the supposed inhumanity of his father, into a state of confirmed misanthropy and despair." He wishes that he "could blow the trumpet of rebellion through all nature; that he could extinguish with one mortal blow the viperous race of men; and that he could so strike as to destroy the germ of existence." In this situation he is hurried on to the perpetration of a series of crimes, which bind from their very magnitude and atrocity a recommendation to his dilated mind. Sensible all the while of his own guilt, and suffering for that guilt the severest pangs of remorse, he yet believes himself an instrument of vengeance in the hand of the Almighty for the punishment of the crimes of others. In thus accomplishing the dreadful destiny which is prescribed for him, he feels a species of gloomy satisfaction, at the same time that he considers himself as doomed to the performance of that part in life which is to confine his memory to infamy and his soul to perdition. After burning a town, he exclaims, "O God of vengeance! am I to blame for this? Art thou to blame, O Father of Heaven! when the instruments of thy wrath, the pestilence, flood, and famine overwhelm at once the righteous and the guilty? Who can command the flames to stay their course, to destroy only the noxious vermin, and spare the fertile field?" yet with the same breath he accuses himself of extreme criminality for "presumptuously wielding the sword of the Most High!" He frequently laments in the most affecting manner the loss of his innocence, wishes that "he could return into the womb that bare him, that he hung an infant at the breast, that he were born a beggar, the meanest hind, a peasant of the field." He considers himself as the outcast of Heaven, and finally rejected by the Father of mercy; yet he tells the band of robbers whom he commanded, that the "Almighty honoured them as agents in his hands to execute his wonderful purposes; employed them as his angels to execute his stern decrees, and pour the vials..." It will be allowed, says the translator, that the imagination could not have conceived a spectacle more deeply interesting, more powerfully affecting to the mind of man, than that of a human being thus characterized and acting under such impressions. The compassionate interest which the mind feels in the emotions or sufferings of the guilty person, is not diminished by the observation, that he acts under an impression of inevitable destiny; on the contrary, there is something in our nature which leads us the more to compaionate the instrument of those crimes, that we see him consider himself as bound to guilt by fetters, which he has the constant wish, but not the strength, to break.

This is indeed true: we sympathize with the hero of the Robbers, not only on account of his exalted sentiments and his inflexible regard to the abstract principles of honour and justice, but much more for that disorder of intellect which makes him suppose "his destiny fixed and unalterable," at the very time that he is torn with remorse for the perpetration of those crimes by which he believed it to be fulfilling. Destiny, however, is not in this tragedy exhibited as real, but merely as the phantom of a disordered though noble mind. Had the poet represented his hero as in fact decreed by God, or bound by fate, to head a band of foul murderers, and to commit a series of the most atrocious crimes; though our pity for him might not have been lessened, the impressions of the whole piece on the mind could have been only those of horror and disgust at what would have appeared to us the unequal ways of providence.

The Tragedy of the Robbers is a striking instance of the justness of Dr Blair's criticism, in opposition to that of Lord Kames. His lordship holds that it is essential to a good tragedy, that its principal facts be borrowed from history; because a mixture of known truth with the fable tends to delude us into a conviction of the reality of the whole. The Doctor considers this as a matter of no great consequence; for "it is proved by experience, that a fictitious tale, if properly conducted, will melt the heart as much as any real history;" this observation is verified in the Robbers. It is indeed a very irregular drama, and perhaps could not be acted on a British theatre. But although the whole is known to be a fiction, we believe there are few effusions of human genius which more powerfully excite the emotions of terror and pity. Truth is indeed congenial to the mind; and when a subject proper for tragedy occurs in history or tradition, it is perhaps better to adopt it than to invent one which has no such foundation. But in choosing a subject which makes a figure in history, greater precaution is necessary than where the whole is a fiction. In the latter case, 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 tragedy or 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 supposition how many pauses at the end of every book, and the real pause at acts in 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. The division of every play into five acts has no other foundation than common practice, and the authority of Horace (p.). It is a division purely arbitrary; there is nothing in the nature of the composition which fixes this number rather than any other; and it had been much better if no such number had been ascertained. But, since it is ascertained, every act in a dramatic poem ought 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 way.

(d) Neve minor, neu fit quinto producitur actu Fabula.

De Arte Poetica.

If you would have your play deserve success, Give it five acts complete, nor more nor less. Francis. Besides tragedy, dramatic poetry comprehends comedy and farce. These are sufficiently distinguished from tragedy by their general spirit and strain. "While pity and terror, and the other strong passions, form the province of the tragic muse, the chief or rather sole instrument of comedy and farce is ridicule." These two species of composition are so perpetually running into each other, that we shall not treat of them separately; since what is now known by the name of farce differs in nothing essential from what was called the old comedy among the Greeks. "Comedy proposes for its object neither the great sufferings nor the great crimes of men; but their follies and lighter vices, those parts of their character which raise in beholders a sense of impropriety, which expose them to be censured and laughed at by others, or which render them troublesome in civil society.

"The subjects of tragedy are not limited to any age or country; but the scene and subject of comedy should always be laid in our own country, and in our own times. The reason is obvious: those decors of behaviour, those lesser discriminations of character, which afford subject for comedy, change with the differences of countries and times; and can never be so well understood by foreigners as by natives. The comic poet, who aims at correcting improprieties and follies of behaviour, should 'catch the manners living as they rise.' It is not his business to amuse us with a tale of other times; but to give us pictures taken from among ourselves; to satirize reigning and present vices; to exhibit to the age a faithful copy of itself, with its humours, its follies, and its extravagancies.

"Comedy may be divided into two kinds: comedy of character, and comedy of intrigue. The former is the more valuable species; because it is the business of comedy to exhibit the prevailing manners, which mark the character of the age in which the scene is laid: yet there should be always as much intrigue as to give us something to wish and something to fear. The incidents should succeed one another, as to produce striking situations, and to fix our attention; while they afford at the same time a proper field for the exhibition of character. The action in comedy, though it demands the poet's care in order to render it animated and natural, is a less significant and important part of the performance than the action in tragedy; as in comedy it is what men say, and how they behave, that draws our attention, rather than what they perform or what they suffer.

"In the management of characters, one of the most common faults of comic writers is the carrying of them too far beyond life. Wherever ridicule is concerned, it is indeed extremely difficult to hit the precise point where true wit ends and buffoonery begins. When the miser in Plautus, fearing the person whom he suspects of having stolen his cashbox, after examining first his right hand and then his left, cries out, 'affunde etiam tertium—show me your third hand,' there is no one but must be sensible of the extravagance. Certain degrees of exaggeration are allowed to the comedian, but there are limits set to it by nature and good taste; and supposing the miser to be ever so much engrossed by his jealousy and his suspicions, it is impossible to conceive any man in his wits suspecting another of having more than two hands."

It appears from the plays of Aristophanes which remain, that the characters in the old comedy of Athens were almost always overcharged. They were likewise direct and avowed satires against particular persons, who were brought upon the stage by name. "The ridicule employed in them is extravagant, the wit for the most part buffoonish and farcical, the raillery biting and cruel, and the obfiscity that reigns in them is grofs and intolerable. They seem to have been composed merely for the mob." Yet of these abominable dramas, an excellent critic has affirmed, with too much truth, that what is now called farce is nothing more than the shadow. The characters in genuine comedy are not those of particular and known persons, but the general characters of the age and nation; which it requires no small skill to distinguish clearly and naturally from each other. In attempting this, poets are too apt to contrast characters and introduce them always in pairs; which gives an affected air to the whole piece. The perfection of art is to conceal art. "A masterly writer will give us his characters distinguished rather by such shades of diversity as are commonly found in society, than marked with such strong oppositions as are rarely brought into actual contrast in any of the circumstances of real life."

The style of comedy ought to be pure, elegant, and lively, very seldom rising higher than the ordinary tone of polite conversation; and upon no occasion descending into vulgar, mean, and grofs expressions; and in one word, action and character being the fundamental parts of every epic and dramatic composition, the sentiments and tone of language ought to be subservient to these, so as to appear natural and proper for the occasion.

§ 2. Respective peculiarities of the Epopee and Drama.

In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both Machinery the eye and the ear, it would be a grofs absurdity to can have introduce upon the stage superior beings in a vitible shape. There is no place for such objection in an epic poem; nor and Boileau, with many other critics, declares strongly for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. But wavering 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 infensible 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, has it not been possible, by disguising the fiction, to delude good effect us into a notion of reality, an insuperable objection in the would still remain, which is, that the aim or end of higher epics 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 Aesop'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 fiction; 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 lend a helping hand. Voltaire, in his essay upon epic poetry, talking of the Pharolus, observes judiciously, "That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the fidelity 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 superior beings, introduces them into the action: in the fifth 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 Armide in a single combat with Turcine, 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 show their talents on so happy an occasion, and being willing, as much as in me lies, 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 catholicism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of him, in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending upon Phoebus 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 Deities 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 buffoonery 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 declare 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."

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 introduces his deities with no greater ceremony than his mortals; and Virgil has still less moderation: 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 through 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 cooperate 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 intitle it to be copied. An allegorical object, such as Fame in the Æneid, and the Temple of Love in the Henriade, may find place in a description: but to introduce Discord as a real personage, imploring the affiance 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 connected with the principal action, but contributing neither to advance nor retard it." The descent of Æneas into hell does not advance nor retard the catastrophe, and therefore is an episode. The story of Nîfus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal action.

The family-scene in the fifth 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 (§).

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 founding steel. Rest here, said he, my love Galvina, thou light of the cave of Ronan: a deer appears on Mora'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."

Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the

(§) 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. the first we shall mention is a double plot: one of which must 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 intertwining 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 flight 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 tragic-comedy. Upon that account the Provok'd 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 fevers 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 abject 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 coquet exta nefarius Atrus; Aut in avem Prugne vertatur, Cadmus in anguam: Quodcumque ostendis mihi fac, 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 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 gush 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 repeated as of committed. Addison's observation is just, That no part of this incident ought to have been represented, but referred for a narrative, with every alleviating circumstance in favour of the hero.

A few words upon the dialogue, which ought to be 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 Aurelius. 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 folloquies, 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 disagreeable 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? Shakespeare, 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, § 3. The Three Unites.

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 unity, or a beginning, middle, and end, without fo intimate a relation of parts; as where the catastrophe is different from what is intended or desired, which frequently happens in our best tragedies. In the Æneid, 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 Æneid, 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 Æneid. 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; revering 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 prefacing to the reader, without the least preparation, unknown persons engaged in some arduous adventure equally unknown. In Caffandra, two personages, who afterwards 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 analyzed 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 produces 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 intitled 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 personae, 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 Shakespear! 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.

How far the unities of time and of place are essential, whether it is a question of greater intricacy. These unities were strictly observed in the Greek and Roman theatres; and time and place are inculcated by the French and English critics as essential to every dramatic composition. In theory essential. The three 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 or 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 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.

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 prologue. 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 French or English, 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 the 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 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 fun-shine, and some painted canvases 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 regardful 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 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 laborious, 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 able to in time or in place; because we know that the play is that of 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 lighter interruptions than the interval between two acts are insufficient 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 dwelling 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.

On the Greek stage, whatever may have been the case on the Roman, the representation was never interrupted, and the division by acts was totally unknown. The word αὐτὸς never once occurs in Aristotle's Poetics, in which he defines exactly every part of the drama, and divides it into the beginning, the middle, and the end. At certain intervals indeed the actors retired; but the stage was not then left empty, nor the curtain let fall; for the chorus continued and sung. Neither do these songs of the chorus divide the Greek tragedies into five portions, similar to our acts; though some of the commentators have endeavoured to force them into this office. But it is plain, that the intervals at which the chorus sung are extremely unequal and irregular, suited to the occasion and the subject; and would divide the play sometimes into three, sometimes into seven or eight acts.

As practice has now established a different plan on the modern stage, has divided every play into five acts, and made a total pause in the representation at the end of each act, the question to be considered is, Whether the plan of the ancient or of the modern drama is best qualified for making a deep impression on the mind? That the preference is due to the plan of the modern drama, will be evident from the following considerations. If it be indeed true, as the advocates for the three unities allege, that the audience is deluded into the belief The three of the reality of a well-acted tragedy, it is certain that this delusion cannot be long supported; 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 seasonable 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 great 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 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 distresses. 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 i. sc. 6.), Phaedra, 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 intretries to make her reveal the secret cause of her anguish; which at last Phaedra, 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 Trachiniae 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 inconveniences 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 incongruity 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 folloquy 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 third 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 fill 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 everything 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 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 introductive 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.

§ 4. Of the Opera.

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 expense 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 dances and ballettes, with superb decorations, and surprising machinery. The dresses of the actors, of those who assist in the chorus, and of the dancers, 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 expense, 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'œuvre 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 sight and the beauty of the music, than 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. (See Music.) We have only here to consider the buffoons 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 as 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 groundwork 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 smile 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 disagreeable 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 finger 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 inanimated 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 division. 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.

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 harvett 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 feasts, 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 duties 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 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, confines 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 sublime 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 The sublong: but with the moderns, the ode and the song are subjects of the considered as different compositions; the ode being usually employed in grave and lofty subjects, and seldom fung 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 hoarly-refounding main? Or who can Theron's gen'rous works express, And tell how many hearts his bounteous virtues blest?

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.

We'll Pindar.

The man resolv'd and steady to his trust, Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just, May the rude rabble's insolence despise, Their tempests 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 gulph, 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 to 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 Elevant 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; Mène Achille sanglant au bord du Simois Ou fait flechir l'Efeaut sous le joug de Louis. Tantôt comme une abeille ardente à fon ouvrage Elle s'en va de fleurs dépouiller le rivage: Elle peint les fellins, les danfes & les ris, Vante un baifer cueilli sur les lèvres d'Iris, Qui mollement résiste & par un doux caprice Quelquefois le refuse, afin qu'on le ravisse. Son style impétueux souvent marche au hasard. Chez elle un beau defordre est un effet de l'art, Loin ces rumeurs crainfifs, dont l'esprit plegmatique Garde dans ses fureurs un ordre didactique: Qui chantant d'un heros les progrès éclatans, Maigres historiens, suivront l'ordre des temps. Apollon de fon feu leur fut toujours avare, &c.

The lofty ode demands the strongest fire, For there the muse all Phoebus must inspire: Mounting to heav'n in her ambitious flight, Amongst the gods and heroes takes delight; Of Pifa'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 Efeaut bends: Sometimes he 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 surprize a kis, When gently he refits with feign'd renorce, That what the 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.

SOAMES.

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.

1. 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,

Though 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.

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

'Th' 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, though 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 preferred a fragment of Sappho, an ancient Greek poetess, which is in great reputation among 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 the copied nature. To enter into the beauties of this ode, we must suppose a lover fitting by his mistress, and thus expressing his passion:

Blest as th' immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly fits 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 toss'd, 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 darkens 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 but with 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 curst, Who the sleeping mischief first Wak'd to life, and, vile before, Stamp'd with worth the forlorn 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 unseene, The sweet breathing buds between, Stung his finger, cruel chance! With its little pointed lance. Straight 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,

Among the most successful of this poet's English imitations may be reckoned Dr Johnson and Mr Prior. The following ode on Evening by the former of these writers has, if we mistake not, the very spirit and air of Anacreon.

Evening now from purple wings Sheds the grateful gifts she brings; Brilliant drops bedeck the mead; Cooling breezes shake the reed; Shake the reed, and curl the stream Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam; Near the chequer'd lonely grove Hears, and keeps thy secrets, Love. Stella, thither let us stray! Lightly o'er the dewy way. Phœbus drives his burning car. Hence, my lovely Stella, far: In his stead the queen of night Round us pours a lambent light; Light that seems but just to show Breaths that beat, and cheeks that glow: Let us now, in whisper'd joy, Evening's silent hours employ; Silence beft, and conscious shades, Please the hearts that love invades: Other pleasures give them pain; Lovers all but love disdain.

But of all the imitations of the playful bard of Greece that we have ever met with, the most perfect is the following Anacreontic by the regent Duke of Orleans.

I. Je suis né pour les plaisirs; Bien fou qui s'en païse; Je ne veux pas les choifir; Souvent le choix m'embarrasse: Aime t'on? J'aime foudain; Bois t'on? J'ai le verre à la main; Je tiens par tout ma place.

II. Dormir est un temps perdu; Faut il qu'on s'y livre? Sommeil, prends ce qui t'est du; Mais attends que je sois yvre; Saifs moi dans cet instant; Fais moi dormir promptement; Je suis pressé de vivre.

III. Mais si quelque objet charmant, Dans un songe aimable, Vient d'un plaisir félicitant M'offrir l'image agréable; Sommeil, allons doucement; L'erreur est en ce moment Un bonheur véritable.

Translation Translation of the Regent's Anacreontic (e).

Frolic and free, for pleasure born, The self-denying fool I scorn: The proffer'd joy I ne'er refuse; 'Tis oft-times troublesome to chase. Lov'it thou, my friend? I love at sight: Drink'it thou? this bumper does thee right. At random with the stream I flow, And play my part where'er I go.

Great God of Sleep, since we must be Oblig'd to give some hours to thee, Invade me not till the full bowl Glows in my cheek, and warms my soul. Be that the only time to snore, When I can love and drink no more: Short, very short, then be thy reign; For I'm in haste to live again.

But, O! if melting in my arms, In some soft dream, with all her charms, The nymph belov'd should then surprize, And grant what waking denies; Then prithee, gentle Slumber, stay; Slowly, ah slowly, bring the day: Let no rude noise my bliss destroy; Such sweet delusion's real joy.

We have mentioned Prior as an imitator of Anacreon; but the reader has by this time had a sufficient specimen of Anacreontics. The following Answer to Cloe jealous, which was written when Prior 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 perils to love thee.

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

The slightest 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 illus'ry, too cruel, forbidding should 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 int, 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!"

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 Penseroso, 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 loofly flowing hair, With buckin'd leg, and bofom bare; Thy wait 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, Through air, and over earth and sea; While the vast various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes. O lover of the desert, hail! Say, in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what heary 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;

(e) We give this translation, both because of its excellence and because it is said to have been the production of no less a man than the late Lord Chatham. Where never human art appear'd, Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cott was rear'd; Where Nature seems to fit alone, Majestic on a craggy throne. Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer! tell, To thy unknown sequester'd cell, Where woodbine clusters round the door, Where shells and moths o'erlay the floor, And on whose top an hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, Each ev'n'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 through 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, goddefs, by the right-hand lead, Sometimes through the yellow mead; Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court; Where Mirth and Youth each ev'n'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, Lifting 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! Goddefs of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms and sigh. Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels, 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 towers, Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs, The naked beggar shivering lies, While whistling tempests round her rise, And trembles lest the tottering 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 horse, I cry; Lo, the safe Gallic squadrons fly! Whence is this rage?—what spirit, fay, 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 slain, Where tumult and destruction reign; Where, mad with pain, the wounded bleed, Tramples the dying and the dead;

Where giant Terror stalks around, With sullen joy surveys the ground, And, pointing to th' entangled 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 canst place me near my love; Canst fold in visionary bliss, And let me think I steal a kiss; While her ruby lips dispense Lucious nectar's quintessence! When young-eyed 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 stains 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 powerful, 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, Musings 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, unequalled 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 to attend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottoes talk; Teach him to scorn, with frigid art, Feebly to touch th' enraptured heart; Like lightning, let his mighty verse The boldest'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 birthday 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 judgment 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 blustering 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 Phoebus shine in all his state With more than summer rays. Though jocund June may justly boast Long days and happy hours; Though 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 Thomson, 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 delivered 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 whispering reeds His airy harp * shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through 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 safe and health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire †, And 'mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who own'st that earthly 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 glistening near? With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, And joy-defert the blooming year. But thou, lone stream, whose fallen tide No hedge-crown'd sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side, Whose cold turf hides the buried friend. And see, the fairy valleys fade, Dim night has veild the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade, Meek nature's child, again adieu! The genial meads, assign'd to blest 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 muting Briton's eyes; O vales and wild woods, shall he say, In yonder grave your Druid lies!

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 handywork."

The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heav'ns, 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 wond'rous tale, And nightly to the list'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' nor 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 ringing, as they shine, "The hand that made us is divine."

The following pastoral hymn is a version of the 23rd 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.

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 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 masterpiece 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.

If there be any thing that in sublimity approaches to it, we must look for it in the east, where perhaps we shall find nothing superior to the following Hindu hymn to Narayana, or "the spirit of God," taken, as Sir William Jones informs us, from the writings of the ancient Bramins.

Spirit of spirits, who, through every part Of space expanded, and of endless time, Beyond the reach of lab'ring thought sublime, Badit uproar into beauteous order start; Before heav'n was, thou art. Ere spheres beneath us roll'd, or spheres above, Ere earth in firmamental ether hung, Thou sat'st alone, till, through thy mystic love, Things unexiting to existence sprung, And grateful decent lung. Omnicient Spirit, whose all-ruling pow'r Bids from each sense bright emanations beam; Glows in the rainbow, sparkles in the stream, Smiles in the bud, and glitten's in the flow'r That crowns each vernal bow'r; Sighs in the gale, and warbles in the throat Of every bird that bails the bloomy spring, Or tells his love in many a liquid note, Whilst envious artists touch the rival string, Till rocks and forests ring; Breathes in rich fragrance from the Sandal grove, Or where the precious musk-deer playful rove; In dulcet juice, from cliff'ring fruit distills, And burns fabulous in the tateful clove: Soft banks and verd'rous hills Thy present influence fills; In air, in floods, in caverns, woods, and plains, Thy will inspirits all, thy sovereign Maya reigns. Blue crystal vault, and elemental fires, That in th' ethereal fluid blaze and breathe; Thou, toiling main, whose snaky branches wreath This penile orb with intertwisting gyres; Mountains, whose lofty spires, Preamptuous, rear their summits to the skies, And blend their em'rald hue with sapphire light; Smooth meads and lawns, that glow with varying dye Of dew-bespangled leaves and blossoms bright, Hence! vanish from my sight Delusive pictures! unsubstantial shows! My soul absorb'd—one only Being knows, Of all perceptions one abundant source, Whence ev'ry object, ev'ry moment flows: Suns hence derive their force, Hence planets learn their course; But furs and fading worlds I view no more; God only I perceive; God only I adore (r).

We come now to the Pindaric ode, which (if we except the hymns in the Old Testament, the psalms of David, and such hymns of the Hindoos as that just quoted) is the most exalted part of Lyric 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

(f). For the philosophy of this ode, which represents the Deity as the soul of the world, or rather as the only Being (the τοῦ νόου of the Greeks), see METAPHYSICS, p. 269, and PHILOSOPHY, p. 6. 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 preferring, that the first would decay, but the other endure forever.

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 Weft 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 strope, antistrope, 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 strope, 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 antistrope, from the counterversion of the chorus; the fingers in performing that, turning from the left hand to the right, contrary always to their motion in the strope. The third stanza was called the epode (it may be as being the after-song), which they sang in the middle, neither turning to one hand nor the other. But Dr Weft's friend is of opinion, that the performers also danced one way while they were singing the strope, and danced back as they sang the antistrope, till they came to the same place again, and then standing still they sang the epode. He has translated a passage from the Scholiast on Hephaestion, in proof of his opinion; and observes, that the dancing the strope and antistrope 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 Weft.

The eleventh Nemean Ode.

This ode is inscribed to Ariftagoras, 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 Ariftagoras 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 strope and antistrope.

Argument.

Pindar opens this ode with an invocation to Veifa (the goddess who presided over the courts of justice, and whose statue and altar were for that reason placed in the town-halls, or Prytaneums, as the Greeks called them), beseeching her to receive favourably Ariftagoras 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 Ariftagoras under her protection during that time, and to conduct him to the end of it without trouble or disgrace. From Ariftagoras, 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 clothing of flesh is perishable, that he must ever 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 Ariftagoras, for instance, who hath rendered both himself and his country illustrious by the many victories he hath obtained, to the number of fifteen, 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 Ariftagoras, 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 anymore 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 streams, says he, lie remote and out of the common road. From all which he infers, that it is better to moderate our desires, and set bounds to our avarice and ambition; with which moral precept he concludes the ode.

Strophe I.

Daughter of Rhea! thou, whose holy fire Before the awful seat of justice flames! Sister of heav'n's almighty fire! Sister of Juno, who coequal claims With Jove to share the empire of the gods! O virgin Veifa! to thy dread abodes,

Lo! Lo! Arisagoras 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.

Antistrophe I. And lo! with frequent off'nings, 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 hospitalite love, Are solemniz'd the rites of genial Jove: Then guard him, Vefta, through his long career, And let him close in joy his ministerial year.

Epode I. But hail, Arcesilas! all hail To thee, blest father of a son so great! Thou whom on fortune's highest scale The favourable hand of heav'n hath fet, 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 renown'd; Tho' with triumphal chaplets crown'd: Let him remember, that, in flesh array'd, Soon shall he feel that mortal vestment fade; Till loft, imprison'd in the mould'ring urn, To earth, the end of all things, he return.

Strophe II. Yet should the worthy from the public tongue Receive their recompense 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, Arisagoras, thy virtues claim, Claim from thy country; on whose glorious brow The wreftler's chaplet still unfaded blows; Mix'd with the great Pancratia'tic crown, Which from the neighb'ring youth thy early valour won.

Antistrophe II. 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 Caflalia†, 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 mourn'd.

Epode II. 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 prepot'trous fate! Now, with o'er-weaning pride elate, Too far he aims his shaft to throw, And straining burfts 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' empow'rd to gain the prize.

Strophe III. But who could err in prophesying good Of him, whose undegenerating breast Swells with a tide of Spartan blood, From fire to fire in long succession trac'd Up to Pifander; who in days of yore From old Amyclæ to the Lebian shore And Tenedos, colleague'd in high command With great Orctes, led th' Æolian band? Nor was his mother's race less strong and brave, Sprung from a stock that grew on fair* Ifsmenus' wave.

Antistrophe III. Tho' for long intervals obscure'd, again Oft-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, pass The generations of a noble race; While nature's vigour, working at the root, In after-ages swells, and blossoms into fruit.

Epode III. 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.

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 characters, transitions and digressions which they admit, and the surprising yet natural returns to the subject. This requires great judgment and genius; and the poet who would excel in this kind of writing, should draw the plan of his poem, in manner of the argument we have above inferred, and mark out the places where those elegant and beautiful fallies and wanderings may be made, and where the returns will be easy and proper.

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 sententious style: but it is generally supposed that many of those pieces which procured him such extravagant praises... 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.

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 mistaking Pindar's measures, given their odes an improper title, it is a crime, one would think, not so dangerous 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 fingering and dancing, in the manner of Pindar's, it seemed unnecessary to confine the first and second stanzas 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 loose and wild numbers, 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 pleasing 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 deserve the fair.

Chor. Happy, happy, &c.

Timothus, plac'd on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heav'nly 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 spires he rode, When he to fair Olympia pres'ld; And while he sought her snowy breast: Then round her tender waist he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a fav'reign of the world. The light'ning 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 the 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, Changed his hand, and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful muse Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too fervent fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And wailing in his blood; Defeated at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth expos'd he lies, With not a friend to clothe his eyes. With downcast 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.

Cho. 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 footh'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble, Never ending, till 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 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 opprest'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 asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark! hark! the horrid sound Has rais'd up his head, As awake 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 ghosts that in battle were slain, And bury'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 Perian 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, she 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 enthusiasm, 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.

There is another poem by Dryden, on the death of Mrs Anne Killebrew, a young lady eminent for her skill in poetry and painting, which a great critic* has pronounced to be "undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language has ever produced." He owns, that as a whole it may perhaps be inferior to Alexander's Feast; but he affirms that the first stanza of it is superior to any single part of the other. This famous stanza, he says, flows with a torrent of enthusiasm: *Feroet immem- fulgus ruït.* How far this criticism is just, the public must determine.

Vol. XV. Part I.

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest'd; Whose palms, new-pluck'd from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest; Whether, adopted to some neighboring star, Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race, Or in procession fix'd and regular, Mov'd with the heav'n's majestic pace; Or, call'd to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st with seraphim the vast abyss: Whatever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since heaven's eternal year is thine. Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse In no ignoble verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first fruits of poetry were given To make thyself a welcome inmate there; While yet a young probationer, And candidate of heav'n.

II.

If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the least to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; 'Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood, So wert thou born into a tuneful strain, An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. But, if thy pre-existing soul Was form'd at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll, Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore, Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

III.

May we presume to say, that, at thy birth, New joy was sprung in heav'n, as well as here on earth? For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, An e'en the most malicious were in trine. Thy brother-angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, That all the people of the sky Might know a poetess was born on earth. And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres. And if no clut'ring swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 'Twas that such vulgar miracles Heav'n had not leisure to renew: For all thy blest'd fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy day above.

IV.

O gracious God! how far have we Profan'd thy heav'nly gift of poetry? Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use,

* Dr. John Skill in poetry and painting, which a great critic* has pronounced to be "undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language has ever produced." He owns, that as a whole it may perhaps be inferior to Alexander's Feast; but he affirms that the first stanza of it is superior to any single part of the other. This famous stanza, he says, flows with a torrent of enthusiasm: *Feroet immem- fulgus ruït.* How far this criticism is just, the public must determine.

Vol. XV. Part I. Of Lyric Poetry.

Whose harmony was first ordain'd above For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love? O wretched we! why were we hurry'd down This lubrique and adult'rate age, (Nay added fat pollutions of our own) 'T increate the streaming ordures of the stage! What can we say t'excuse our second fall? Let this thy vefal, Heav'n, atone for all; Her Arethulian stream remains unfoil'd, Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefil'd; Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

V.

Art she had none, yet wanted none; For nature did that want supply: So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy: Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd where 'twas only born. Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred, By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life she read. And to be read herself, she need not fear; Each teft, and every light, her Muse will bear, Tho' Epictetus with his lamp were there. E'en love (for love sometimes her Muse express'd) Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast, Light as the vapours of a morning dream, So cold herself, while she such warmth express'd, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

VI.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, One would have thought she should have been content To manage well that mighty government; But what can young ambitious souls confine? To the next realm she stretch'd her sway, For Painture near adjoining lay, A plenteous province and alluring prey. A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd, (As conquerors will never want pretence, When arm'd, to justify th' offence) And the whole sief, in right of poetry, she claim'd. The country open lay without defence: For poets frequent inroads there had made, And perfectly could represent The shape, the face, with ev'ry lincament, And all the large domains which the dumb fitter sway'd. All bow'd beneath her government, Receiv'd in triumph whereof'er she went. Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd, And oft the happy draught surpafs'd the image in her mind. The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks, And fruitful plains and barren rocks, Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear, The bottom did the top appear; Of deeper too, and ampler floods, Which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods; Of lofty trees, with sacred shades, And perspectives of pleasant glades, Where nymphs of brightest form appear, And shaggy satyrs standing near, Which them at once admire and fear. The ruins too of some majestic piece, Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece, Whose statues, freezes, columns, broken lie, And, though defac'd, the wonder of the eye;

What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame, Her forming hand gave feature to the name, So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, But when the peopl'd ark the whole creation bore.

VII.

The scene then chang'd, with bold erected look Our martial king the fight with reverence struck: For not content t'express his outward part Her hand call'd out the image of his heart: His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, His high-defining thoughts were figur'd there, As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear. Our phoenix queen was pourtray'd too so bright, Beauty alone could beauty take to right: Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, Were all oblerv'd, as well as heav'nly face. With such a peerless majesty she stands, As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands: Before a train of heroines was seen, In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen. Thus nothing to her genius was denied, But like a ball of fire the further thrown, Still with a greater blaze she shone, And her bright soul broke out on ev'ry side. What next she had design'd, Heav'n only knows: To such immod'rate growth her conquest rose, That fate alone its progress could oppose.

VIII.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth the much lamented virgin lies. Nor wit nor piety could fate prevent; Nor was the cruel Destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To weep at once her life and beauty too; But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride To work more mischievously slow, And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd, O double sacrilege on things divine, To rob the reliqu, and deface the shrine! But thus Orinda died: Heav'n, by the same diffeafe, did both translate; As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

IX.

Meantime her warlike brother on the seas His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. Ah generous youth! that wish forbear, The winds too soon will waft thee here! Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home! No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, Thou hast already had her last embrace. But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far, Among the Pleiads a new-kindled star, If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 'Tis he that shines in that propitious light.

X.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When in the valley of Jehovaphat, The judging God shall close the book of fate; And there the last affixer keep For those who wake and those who sleep:

When When rattling bones together fly From the four corners of the sky; When finews o'er the skeletons are spread, 'Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead; The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremoast from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight with in-born vigour, on the wing, Like mounting larks to the new morning sings. There thou, sweet faint, before the quire shalt go As harbinger of heav'n, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learnt below.

That this is a fine ode, and not unworthy of the genius of Dryden, must be acknowledged; but that it is the noblest which the English language has produced, or that any part of it runs with the torrent of enthusiasm which characterizes Alexander's Feast, are positions which we feel not ourselves inclined to admit. Had the critic by whom it is so highly praised, inspected it with the eye which scanned the odes of Gray, we cannot help thinking that he would have perceived some parts of it to be tediously minute in description, and others not very perspicuous at the first perusal. It may perhaps, upon the whole, rank as high as the following ode by Collins on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland; but to a higher place it has surely no claim.

I. Home, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future day, Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song, Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth (g) Whom, long endeavoured, thou leav'st by Lavant's side; Together let us with him lasting truth, And joy untainted with his delinquent bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; But think, far off, how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where ev'ry vale Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail; Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe who own thy genial land.

II. There must thou wake perchance thy Doric quill; 'Tis fancy's land to which thou fittest thy feet; Where still, 'tis said, the Fairy people meet, Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There, each trim laf, that skims the milky store, To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots; By night they sip it round the cottage-door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. There, ev'ry herd, by sad experience, knows, How, wing'd with Fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, Or stretch'd on earth, the heart-faint heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain: Nor thou, tho' learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect: Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain; These are the themes of simple, sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain.

III. Ev'n yet prefer'd, how often may'st thou hear, Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father to his list'ning son, Strange lays, whose pow'r had charm'd a Spenner's ear. At ev'ry pause, before thy mind posset, Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres in many-colour'd vest, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bid'st the well-taught mind repeat The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When ev'ry shrieking maid her bosom beat, And flrew'd with choicest herbs its scented grave; Or whether fitting in the shepherd's shiel (h), Thou hear'st some founding tale of war's alarms, When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, The sturdy clans pour'd forth their brazen swarms, And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms.

IV. 'Tis thine to sing how framing hideous spells, In Sky's lone ille the gifted wizzard's ear, Lodg'd in the wintry cave with Fate's fell spear (i), Or in the depth of Ulf's dark forest dwells: How they whose flight such dreary dreams engross, With their own visions oft astonish'd droop, When, o'er the wat'ry strath, or quaggy moss, They see the gliding ghosts embodied troop. Or, if in spots, or on the festive green, Their delphin'd glance some fated youth decry, Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen, And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey; Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. They know what spirit brews the stormful day, And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

V. To monarchs dear (k), some hundred miles afar, Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow! The fear in Sky shriek'd as the blood did flow When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay!

(g) A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins. (h) A summer hut, built in the high part of the mountains, to tend their flocks in the warm season, when the pasture is fine. (i) Waiting in wintry cave his wayward fits. (k) Of this beautiful ode two copies have been printed: one by Dr Carlyle, from a manuscript which he acknowledges to be mutilated; another by an editor who seems to hope that a nameless somebody will be believed, when he declares, that "he discovered a perfect copy of this admirable ode among some old papers in the concealed drawers of a bureau left him by a relation." The present age has been already too much amused with pretended discoveries of poems in the bottoms of old chests, to pay full credit to an assertion of this kind, even though... As Boreas threw his young Aurora forth, In the first year of the first George's reign, And battles rag'd in welkin of the North, They mourn'd in air, fell, fell rebellion, slain! And as of late they joy'd in Preston's fight, Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd! They rav'd divining through their second-fight, Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were crown'd! Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! One William sav'd us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame, But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hath broke, To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!

VI.

These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic muse Can to the topmost heav'n of grandeur soar! Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more! Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er loose; Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath: Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake, He glows, to draw you downward to your death, In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake! What though far off, from some dark dell espied, His glimm'ring mazes cheer th' excursive flight, Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking, 'mid th' unruffling reed, At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, And listens oft to hear the pausing tread, And frequent round him rolls his fullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

VII.

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed! Whom late bewilderd in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then! To that sad spot where burns the feckless weed.

On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood, Shall never look with pity's kind concern, But infant, furious, raise the whelm'ing flood O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return! Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape, To some dim hill that seems uprising near, To his faint eye, the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. Meantime the wat'ry surge shall round him rise, Pour'd sudden forth from ev'ry swelling source! What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? His fear-struck limbs have lost their youthful force, And down the waves he floats, pale and breathless corpse.

VIII.

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait, Or wander forth to meet him on his way; For him in vain, at to-fall of the day, His babes shall linger at th' uncloring gate! Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night, Her travell'd limbs in broken flammers sleep! With drooping willows drear, his mournful sprite Shall visit lad, perchance, her silent sleep: Then he, perhaps, with moist and wat'ry hand, Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, And with his blue-wool face before her stand, And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: "Purific, dear wife, thy daily toils purific, "At dawn or dusk, indistinct as before; "Nor e'er of me one thought renew, "While I lie weeping on the ozier'd shore, "Drown'd by the keppie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee the wave."

IX.

Unbounded is thy range; with varied flight, Thy muse may, like those feath'ry tribes which spring From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moist marge of each cold Hebridean isle,

the scene of discovery be laid in a bureau. As the ode of the anonymous editor differs, however, very little from that of Dr Carlyle, and as what is affirmed by a gentleman may be true, though "he chooses not at present to publish his name," we have inserted into our work the copy which pretends to be perfect, noting at the bottom or margin of the page the different readings of Dr Carlyle's edition. In the Doctor's manuscript, which appeared to have been nothing more than the prima cura, or first sketch of the poem, the fifth stanza and half of the sixth were wanting; and to give a continued context, he prevailed with Mr M'Kenzie, the ingenious author of the Man of Feeling, to fill up the chasm. This he did by the following beautiful lines, which we cannot help thinking much more happy than those which occupy their place in the copy said to be perfect:

O'er the dire whirlpool, that in ocean's waste, Draws instant down whate'er devoted thing The falling breeze within its reach hath plac'd— The distant seaman hears, and flies with trembling haste.

Or if on land the fiend exerts his sway, Silent he broods o'er quicksand, bog, or fen, Far from the fleck't ring roof and haunts of men, When witched darkness flouts the eye of day, And shrouds each star that wont to cheer the night; Or if the drifted snow perplex the way, With treach'rous gleam he lures the fated wight And leads him flound'ring on and quite astray." Part II.

Of Lyric Poetry.

To that hoar pile (p) which still its ruin shows: In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, Whole bones the delver with his spade upthrows, And calls them, wond'ring, from the hallow'd ground! Or thither (q), where beneath the show'ry weft, The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest, No slaves rever there, and no wars invade: Yet frequent now, at midnight solemn hour, The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with fow'reign pow'r In pageant robes; and, wreath'd with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

X.

But, oh! o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wafting tides, Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go! jilt, as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song, Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wint'ry main. With sparing temp'rance at the needful time, They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-pref't, Along th'Atlantic rock, undreading, climb, And of its eggs deploit the Solan's nest.* Thus, blest in primal innocence, they live, Suffic'd, and happy with that frugal fare. Which tattful toil and hourly danger give. Hard is their shallow foil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

XI.

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; For not alone they touch the village breast, But fill'd in elder time th' historic page. There, Shakespeare's self, with every garland crown'd, Flew to those fairy climes his fancy flown (r), In musing hour; his wayward filters found, And with their terrors dreis'd the magic scene. From them he fung, when 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast! The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line, Thro' the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass'd. Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my ans'ring bosom please; Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy pow'ful verse.

XII.

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart, From sober truth, are still to nature true, And call forth fresh delight to fancy's view, Th' heroic muse employ'd her Tasso's art!

How have I trembl'd, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypres pour'd, When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheav'd the yawn'd fword! How have I sat, when pip'd the penive wind, To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung! Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind, Believ'd the magic wonders which he fung! Hence, at each sound, imagination glows! Hence, at each picture, vivid life flarts here! (s) Hence his warm lay with loftest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murm'ring*, strong, and clear, And fills th' impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmonious ear!

XIII.

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail! Ye splendid† friths and lakes, which, far away, Are by smooth Annan‡ fill'd, or palt'ral Tay‡, Or Don'st romantic springs, at distance hail! The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread Your lowly glens§, o'erhung with spreading broom; Or o'er your stretching heaths, by fancy led, Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! (t) Then will I drefs once more the faded bow'r, Where Jonson (u) sat in Drummond's* shade; * social Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flow'r, And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's laid††; †† the widowed maid! Meantime, ye pow'rs that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains (x), attend! Where'er Home dwelle†‡, on hill, or lowly moor, To him I loo‡§, your kind protection lend, [friend! § lose. And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent

Dr Johnson, in his life of Collins, informs us, that Dr Warton and his brother, who had seen this ode in the author's possession, thought it superior to his other works. The taste of the Wartons will hardly be questioned; but we are not sure that the following Ode to the Paffions has much less merit, though it be merit of a different kind, than the Ode on the Superstitions of the Highlands:

When Music, heav'nly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she fung, The Paffions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possest beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd. 'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound; And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art.

Each.

(p) One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Pigmies, where it is reported, that several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there. (q) Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where many of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings, are said to be interred. (r) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition. (s) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition. (t) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition. (u) Ben Jonson paid a visit on foot in 1619 to the Scotch poet Drummond, at his seat of Hawthornden, within seven miles of Edinburgh. (x) Barrow, it seems, was at the university of Edinburgh, which is in the county of Lothian. Each, for madness rul'd the hour, Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret flings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair— Low fallen founds his grief beguile'd; A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all her song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smile d, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung—but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose; He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, And, with a withering look, The war-demonstrating trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, his head.

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from Thy numbers, Jealousy, to sought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd; And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul, And dashing foxt from rocks around, Bubbling ripples join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musings, In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her bulkins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear, Last came Joy's ecstatic trial; He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whole sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the fatal founding shades, To some unweary'd minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid, Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid, Why, Goddes, why to us denied? Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? As in that lov'd Athenian bower, You learn'd an all-commanding power; Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd, Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to virtue, fancy, art? Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! Thy wonders, in that god-like age, Fill thy recording sifter's page— 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail, Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age; Ev'n all at once together found Cæcilia's mingled world of sound— O! bid our vain endeavours cease, Revive the just designs of Greece, Return is all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her son's relate.

We shall conclude this section, and these examples, with Gray's Progress of Poets, which, in spite of the severity of Johnson's criticism, certainly ranks high among the odes which pretend to sublimity. The first stanza, when examined by the frigid rules of grammatical criticism, is certainly not faultless; but its faults will be overlooked by every reader who has any portion of the author's fervor:

I. I.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings, From Helicon's harmonious springs. A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep again, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks, and nodding groves, rebe low to the roar.

Oh! Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the fullen cares, And frantic passions, hear thy soft controul. On Thracia's hills the lord of war Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

I. 3. Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay: O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned loves are seen. On Cytherea's day, With antic sports, and blue-ey'd pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet; To brisk notes, in cadence beating, Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns, the graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young desire, and purple light of love.

II. 1. Man's feeble race what ills await; Labour, and penury, the racks of pain, Disease, and sorrow's weeping train, And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! The fond complaint, my song disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'ly muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky; Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

II. 2. In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom, To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loole numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her tract, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursues, and gen'rous flame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

II. 3. Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep, Fields, that cool Ilius haves, Or where Maeander's amber waves In ling'ring lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish? Mute, but to the voice of anguish!

Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath'd around; Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad nine, in Grecce's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power, And coward vice that revels in her chains: When Latium had her lofty spirit loft, They fought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III. 1. Far from the sun, and summer-gale, In thy green lap was nature's* darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

III. 2. Nor second he†, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of ecstacy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Close'd his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's lefs presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-refounding

III. 3. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-ey'd fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more— Oh! Lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air; Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.

Sect. III. Of the Elegy.

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... love seem most agreeable to its character, which is gentleness and tenacity.

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 profess. I hate those idlest writers whose fore'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 infidely feign; And always pine, and fondly hug their chain; Adore their prison, and their suff'ring blest; 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 entice.

[From the French of Defreux.]

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 so 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 the sweet and engaging, elegant and attractive. This poem is adorned with frequent commendations, complaints, exclamations, addresses to things or persons, short and proper digressions, allusions, comparisons, prologues or feigned persons, and sometimes with short descriptions. The diction ought to be free from any harshness; neat, easy, perspicuous, expressive of 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 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 of 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 slumbering, never found: While, calmly poor, I trifle life away, Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, But cheaply blest 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 blith to spread the hay, the hook to wield, Or range my 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 clap a fearful mistress to my breast? Or lulled to slumber by the beating rain, Secure and happy sunk 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 possest, Could float and wander with ambition's wind, And, if his outward trappings spoke him blest, Not heed the fickleness 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 rein his eager wit confine, While manly sente the deep attention draws. Let Stanhope speak his rising country's wrong, My humble voice shall please one partial maid; For her alone I pen my tender song, Securely fitting 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 distinguished 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 lately bed, And far from her midst tall teles grandeur weep, By marble fountains lay the pensive head, And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep! Delia alone can please and never tire, Exceed the pain of thought in true delight; With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, And equal rapture glows thro' ev'ry night. Beauty and worth in her alike 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 it already, as I were no more, Nor can that gentle breath 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; Tho' I am dead, my soul shall love thee still.

Oh 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 wond'rous love relate.

Sect. IV. Of the Pastoral.

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

These poems are frequently called eclogues, which signifies "select or choice pieces;" though some account for this name in a different manner. They are also called bucolicks, from bucolicus, "a herdman."

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 usually 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 undefining 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 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 supposititious 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 to 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.

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 cannot dispute, preferred to all other pastoral writers, with perhaps the single exception of the tender and delicate Gefner. 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, Meanwhile my goats upon the mountains feed. O Tityrus, tend them with affiduous 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 grot, Where in my folding arms you lay reclining? 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.

Meanwhile Meanwhile 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 sequester'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 nurt 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 fees my sorrows nor will hear my prayer. I'll doff my garments, since I needs must die, And from yon 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 fad tidings to my ears, She who tells fortunes with the sieve and sheers For leafing 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, Erithacus, Has begg'd and paid before-hand with a kiss; And since you thus my ardent passion flight, 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 sage Melampus came, He drove the lowing herd, yet won the dame; Fair Pero blest 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 chase, Nor dead dismisse'd him from her warm embrace. Though young Endymion was by Cynthia blest, I envy nothing but his lasting rest. Jason slumbering on the Cretan plain Ceres once saw, and blest 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 taste.

Fawkes.

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.

Meliboeus and Tityrus.

Mel. Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse, You, Tityrus, entertain your sylvan muse. Round the wide world in banishment we roam, Forc'd from our pleasing fields and native home; While stretch'd at ease you sing your happy loves, And Amyrillis 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 forlorn 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 lots 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 prefag'd the coming blow. But tell me, Tityrus, what heav'nly pow'r Preferv'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 lefs: 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 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 whit'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 prayer. 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 retor'd my former flocks to feed.

Mel. O fortunate old man! whose farm remains For you sufficient, and requites your pains, Though rushes overspread the neigh'ring plains, Tho' here the marshy grounds approach your fields, And there the foil 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 flow'rs, the flow'rs are fraught with The busy bees, with a soft murm'ring strain, Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain: While from the neigh'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 Aras'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 come to fair Oaxis 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. 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 browsing 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!

Tit. This night, at least, with me forget your care; Chefs and curds and cream shall be your fare: The carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'er-spread, And boughs shall weave a cov'ring for your head:

For see you sunny hill the shade extends, And curling smoke from cottages ascends.

Dryden.

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 wear'd my wandering 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 the water's fall their tunes attempt right.

Col. O! happy Hobbinol, I blest thy state, That paradise half found which Adam lost. Here wander may thy flock early or late, Without dread of wolves to been ytoft; 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 hit advised be, Forfate the foil that so doth thee bewitch: Leave me those hills, where harbourmists to see, Nor holly-bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch; And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich, And fruitful flocks been everywhere 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 ring long night, With heydegues, and trimly trodden traces; Whilst filters 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 Phoebe shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.

Col. And I whilst youth, and course of carelesse 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 strayed steps: for time in palling wears (As garments done, which waxen old above) And draweth new delights with hoary hairs. Though e'en 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 thade Dight gawdy gironds was my common trade, To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe, And los 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 went wont on watful hills to fing, I more delight, than lark in sommer days: Whose 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 mules moe, Soon as thy eaten pipe began to sound, Their ivory lutes and tambourines forego, And from the fountain, where they fate around, Ren after hasty 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 muses, Hobbinol, I con no skill, For they been daughters of the highest Jove, And holden scorn of homely shepherds quill: For sith I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never lift perfume 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, Nor strive to win renown, or pass the rift: 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 care 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 liv'd, 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 pasting skill with him is fled, The same 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 discourtease, 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, Menalca, that by treachery Didst underfond my lafs to wax to light, Shouldst it 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 lafs, whose flower is woxe a weed,

And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless feere, 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 Rosaind, 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 blest flocks, and home apace, Left night with flealing steps do you forelo, And wet your tender lambs that by you trace.

By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr Philips has, in imitation of Spenser, 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 rustic 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.

Thenot, Colinet.

Th. Is it not Colinet I lonefome see Leaning with folded arms against the tree? Or is it age of late bedims my sight? 'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful 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 fo my wayward 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 caule, I ween, has lusty 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 snowly 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 walke thee, Thenot, the whole day, Should't 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 clofe: and I, 'Tween whiles, across 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 wo: No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear, My low'ring sky and wintry months to cheer. My piteous plight in yonder naked tree, Which bears the thunder-fear too plain, I see: Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind, The mark of storms, and sport of every wind:

The The riven trunk feels not the 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.

Thb. Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born, When blighting mists do 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, forehows, Blood-taint'd in foul eclipse, impending woes. Untimely born, ill luck betides thee still.

Co. And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill? Thb. Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot amongst 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 silvery 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 am'ld 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.

Thb. 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 wo. With wand'ring feet unblest, and fond of fame, I sought I knew not what besides a name.

Thb. 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 moos; And, to their cost, green years old proverbs crost.

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 wo! My sheep quite spent through travel and ill fare, And like their keeper ragged grown and bare, The damp cold greenward for my nightly bed, And some flaunt willow's trunk to rest my head. Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain; And hard is want to the unpriestly twain; But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard, To blasting storms of calumny compar'd: Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting show'r Defeys the tender herb and budding flow'r.

Thb. Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong: And what wounds sooner 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, fo 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, Menalcas seems to like my simple strain: And while that he delighteth in my song, Which to the good Menalcas doth belong, Nor night nor day shall my rude music cease; I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.

Thb. Menalcas, 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 firstlings 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 Menalcas grow.

Thb. 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'n'ing 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 hinds return from plow; And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.

Mr Pope's Pastorals next appeared, but in a different dress from those of Spenser and Philips; 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 fente 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 fetting Phoebus 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 founding 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 have I 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 ev'n'ing 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'ring faint with pain, Not show'rs to larks, or sunshine to the bee, Are half so charming as thy flight to me. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Come, Delia, come! ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds; Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy foists 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 fung, while Windsor groves admir'd; Rehearse, ye muses, what yourselves inspir'd. Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying, I complain: Here where the mountains, leas'ning as they rise, Loose the low vales, and fleal 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. Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay! Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day; Oft on the rind I carve'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. Refound, ye hills, refound 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 blushing berries paint the yellow grove; Jut Gods! shall all things yield returns but love? Refound, ye hills, refound 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 heart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart? What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move? And is there magic but what dwells in love? Refound, ye hills, refound 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 went from Hestia's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born. Refound, ye hills, refound 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 refound 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 fix pastorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautiful and lively representation of the manners, customs, and notions of our rustic. We shall insert the first of them, intitled The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to outdo each other in fingering the praises of their sweethearts, 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 thritlee shrill the bramble-bush forlack; No chirping lark the welkin sheen * invokes; No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes; O'er yonder hill does feant † the dawn appear; Then why does Cuddy leave his cot to rear ‡?

Cud. Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween || my plight is guest; || Conceive.

For be that lover, a stranger is to rest. If twins beye not, thou hast prov'd the smart, And Blouzalinda's mitre's of thy heart. This rising tear betokeneth well thy mind; Those arms are folded for thy Blouzalinda. And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree; Thee Blouzalinda finites, Buxoma me.

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

Cud. Hold, widelfs Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, Left blisters fore on thy own tongue arise. Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome fawn, The wisest lout of all the neigh'ring plain! From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies, To know when hail will fall or winds arise. He taught us crit * the heiter's tail to view, When ituck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue: He inst 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 rely-ware, And praise his sweetheart 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 fleec'd fallow-deer: This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddish hue, I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due. Cud. Begin thy carrols, then, thou vaunting flouch; Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.

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

Cud. My brown Buxoma is the featest maid That e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd; Clean as young lambkins, or the goose's down, And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown. The wifely lamb may sport upon the plain, The frisking kid delight the gaping swain; The wanton calf may skip with many a bound, And my cur Tray play deftly + 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 thee's nigh, with love I glow. Come, Blouzalinda, cast 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. Estoons†, O sweetheart kind, my love repay, And all the year shall then be holiday.

Lob. As by Blouzalinda, in a gameesome mood, Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing stood, I silly ran and snatch'd a hafty kis; 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 brook'd her milky care, I quaintly || stole a kis; 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 cows.

Lob. Leck 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 the loves turnips, batter I'll despise, Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.

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

Lob. As once I play'd at blind man's buff, it hapt About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt; I mis'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.

Lob. On two near elms the slacken'd cord I hung; Now high, now low, my Blouzalinda swung; With the rude wind her rumped 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.

Lob. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst explain, This wily riddle puzzles every swain: What flow'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 flow'r is that which royal honour craves, Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis thrown on graves†?

Cud. Forbear, contending louts, 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 songs—and so am I.

We have given the rules usually laid down for pastoral writing, and exhibited some examples written on this plan; but we have to observe, that this poem may take very different forms. It may appear either as a comedy or as a ballad. As a pastoral comedy, there is perhaps nothing which possesses equal merit with Ramfay's Gentle Shepherd, and we know not where to find in any language a rival to the Pastoral Ballad of Shenstone. That the excellence of this poem is great can hardly be questioned, since it compelled a critic, who was never lavish of his praise, and who on all occasions was ready to vilify the pastoral, to express himself in terms of high encomium. "In the first part (says he) are two passages, to which if any mind denies its sympathy, it has no acquaintance with love or nature:

I priz'd every hour that went by, Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are past, and I sigh, And I grieve that I priz'd them no more. When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, What anguish I felt in my heart! Yet I thought—but it might not be so, 'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew, My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return.

"In the second (continues the same critic) this passage has its prettiness, though it be not equal to the former?"

I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forbear, She would say 'twas a barbarous deed: For he ne'er could be true, the averr'd, Who could rob a poor bird of its young; And I lov'd her the more when I heard Such tendernefs fall from her tongue.

Sect. V. Of Didactic or Preceptive Poetry.

The method of writing precepts in verse, and embellishing them with the graces of poetry, had its rise, use of didactic poetry, we may suppose, from a due consideration of the frailties. ties 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 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.

I. On the first subject, indeed, we have scarce anything that deserves the name of poetry, except Mr Pope's Didactic Essay on Man, his Ethic Epistle, Blackmore's Creation, and part of Young's Night Thoughts; to which therefore we refer as examples.

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; among the moderns we have little else but small detached pieces, except the poem called Anti-Lucretius, which has not yet received an English dress; Dr Akenfield's Pleasures of the Imagination, and Dr Darwin's Botanic Garden; which are all worthy of our admiration. Some of the small pieces in this department 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, to 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. Diff'rent their bulk, their distance, their career, And diff'rent 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 ev'ning, 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, Below their beams divine, and light his skies. Farthest and last, scarce warm'd by Phoebus' ray, Through his vast orbit Saturn wheels away. How great the change could we be wafted there! How flow the seas! 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 senses, 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 diff'rence 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.

III. Of those preceptive poems that treat of the benefits and pleasures of mankind, Virgil's Georgics claim 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 of a poet; the meanest of his rules are laid down with a kind of grandeur; and he breaks the cloths, and tosses about the dust, 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.

IV. Of those poems which give precepts for the re- creations and pleasures of a country life, we have sev- eral 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 par- ticularly 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 antici- pated 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 how- ever 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.

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 be- low 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 Routhong's Art of Preserving Health deserves par- ticular recommendation, as well in consideration of the subject, as of the elegant and matterly 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.

With regard to the style or drefs of these poems, it proper it should be so rich as to hide the nakedness of the style, subject, and the barrenness of the precepts should be lost in the lustre of the language. "It ought to a Writer be bound 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 ma- jesty of words, and by every figure that can lift a lan- guage 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 re- garded 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 tale, where he introduces dialogue; and the writer of tra- gedy cannot fall into so nauseous and unnatural an af- fection, as to put laboured descriptions, pompous epi- thets, 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 pro- per for him to use a brighter colouring of style, and to be more studious of ornament. And this is agree- able 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 descrip- tive, parts of a poem, in which the opinions, manners, and passions of men are not represented; for too gla- ring an expression obscures the manners and the senti- ments."

We have already observed that any thing in nature may be the subject of this poem. Some things how- ever will appear to more advantage than others, as they give a greater latitude to genius, and admit of more poetical ornaments. Natural history and philo- sophy 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 flow 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. VI. Of the Epistle.

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 should 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 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.

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 ineffable 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 poets 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 rhyme.

For wherefore I turn my ravish'd eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospecta 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 unfung, 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 Mincia draw its wat'ry store 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 thro' flow'ry meadows stray, The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains, The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, And, proudly swoln 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 thirty urns, and an unfruitful source; Yet sung so often in poetic lays, With foam the Danube and the Nile surveys; So high the deathless muse exalts her theme! Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream, That in Hibernian vales obscurely play'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 coals of Britain's stormy isle, Or when transplanted and prefer'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. Part II.

Epistle. 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 destroy 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 forsook 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 loft 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 bleatings with a watery 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 curst, And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst.

O liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright, Proudfest 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'n 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 fought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountain may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant foil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine: 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile.

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 pray'r. The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms, Blest 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 advent'rous 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.

There is a fine spirit of freedom, and love of liberty, Displayed in the following letter from Lord Lyttleton 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 vowe The fairest garlands of the Aonian grove; Preferv'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, Dav'hters of reason and of liberty.

Nor Baia 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.

H h 2 So in the shades, where cheer'd with summer rays Melodious linnets warbled spritely lays, Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain Of gloomy winter's inauspicious reign, No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love, But mournful silence saddens all the grove.

Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state Has felt the worst severity of fate; Not that barbarian hands her faces broke, And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke; Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown, Her cities desert, and her fields unown; 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 Latiun shin'd, 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 vift, and your urns adore; Oft kifs, 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 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 fit, 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 from that thorny, that unpleasing way; Nor, when each foit engaging muse is thine, Addres 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 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 Cocythus 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.

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.

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 fing? 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 white fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region fing; 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 sprawl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glaify plain: 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.

Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow, Or winds began through hazy skies to blow, At evening a keen easterly breeze arose, And the defending rain unfly'd froze; Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view The face of nature in a rich disguise, And brighten'd every 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 stag in limpid currents with surprize, Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise: The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine, Glaz'd over, in the freezing ether shine. The frighted 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 wintry charm, The traveller a miry country sees, And journey sad beneath the dropping trees: Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads Thro fragrant bow'rs and thro 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.

The great use of medals is properly described in the ensuing elegant epistle from Mr Pope to Mr Addison; and 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 flames 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 less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage; Barbarian blindfolds, Christian zeal conspire, And papal piety, and Gothic fire. Perhaps, by its own ruin fad 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 butt; Huge moles, whose shadow stretch from shore to shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more! Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, Beneath her palm here fad Judra weeps; Now fainter 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 wave 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, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, Th' inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years! To gain Ptolemy one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cæcrops 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.

Their's 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 brafs? 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 Craggs (and let me call him mine) On the cast ore, another Pollio thine; 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."

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 fever, Yet takes one kiss before the parts for ever: Thus from the world fair Zephyrinda 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 pulling brooks, Old-fashioned halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning-walks, and prayers 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 whims, whose treat's a toast in fact; Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buff, 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 jefts 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'erhades 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-ache, 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 Descriptive. 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 sour, and hum a tune, as you may now.

Sect. VII. Of Descriptive Poetry.

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 families properly introduced, 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*. Everybody being in possession of Milton's works, we forbear inferring 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.

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 poets therefore drest 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 must 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 Jafon, may fail to parts unexplored, but will meet with no applause if he returns without a golden fleece; for allegorical 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.

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 fancies; 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 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 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 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 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, everything 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 allegorical, 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 parable-ful; 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 most striking, and the most 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. IX. Of Fables.

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 intimates its moral.

As to the actors in this little drama, the fabulist has authority to press 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 articulate 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 diver- Of fables, fify 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 join them proper tales, 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 Thetis? 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 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 star. 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 defile a periwig, and the moon petition for a new pair of boots, probability would then be violated, and the absurdity become too glaring.

The most beautiful fables that ever were invented may be disfigured 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 infirmation 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 infirmation 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 that all the charms of the familiar depend. 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 justifies 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 gobblets 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 pedantic 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 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 table. 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. X. Of Satire.

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 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 rustic.

The first Tragedians found that serious style Too grave for their uncultivated ages, 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 actions; 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, unclean'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.

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 fine satire to be, A free, (and often jocose), witty, and of it.

sharp poem, wherein the follies and vices of men are lauded 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 inductive; and its end, blame. So that satire may be looked upon as the physician of a dilated mind, which it endeavours to cure by bitter and unsavoury, or by pleasant and salutary, applications.

A good satirist ought to be a man of wit and ad-

Qualities dres, 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 unfavourably throw the satirist out of his character.

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.

The style proper for satire is sometimes grave and proper animated, invigorating against vice with warmth and style of earnestness; but that which is pleasant, sportive, and satire, with becoming merriment, banter, 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.

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 the poem entitled London, written in imitation of the third satire of Juvenal, by Dr 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.

We have already observed, that personal satire approaches too near defamation, to deserve any countenance or encouragement. Dryden's Mock Election 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 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 Buckingham'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 foed.

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 splendid 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.

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 divisions 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. XI. Of the Epigram.

The epigram is a little poem, or composition in verse, Character treating of one thing only, and whose distinguishing characters of the epigram 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 two to twenty verses, though sometimes it extends to fifty; 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 preferred. ved; 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 tases 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 tase, being a fine encomium on the performance of an excellent painter.

On a Flower, painted by Varelst.

When fam'd Varelst this little wonder drew, Flora vouchsafe'd the growing work to view: 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 Mijlaken.

When Chloe's picture was to Venus shown; Surpris'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 show'r. The brooks beyond their limits flow, And louder murmurs speak their wo: 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 cloed in a beautiful manner.

On a Fan.

Flavia the least and lightest toy Can with restless 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 for their satirical kind, and such as turn upon the pun or equi-point, vogue, as the French call it: in which sort the point is more conspicuous than in those of the former character.

The following distich 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 danced 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-itick.

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, matter 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 taunted his impertinence in this epigram:

While faster than his costive brain indites, Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes, His case appears to me like honest Teague's, When he was run away with by his legs. Phoebus, 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, Prefented 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 Phœbus was am'rous and long'd to be rude, Miss Daphne cry'd Pith! 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 brows.

Sect. XII. Of the Epitaph.

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 epitaph (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 jocular 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 Sydney's sister, the countess of Pembroke, said to be written by the famous Ben Jonson, 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 Jonson'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.

The following epitaph by Dr Samuel Johnson, on a musician much celebrated for his performance, will bear a comparison with these, or perhaps with anything of the kind in the English language.

Philip! whose touch harmonious could remove The pangs of guilty pow'r and hapless love, Rest here, distress by poverty no more; Find here that calm thou gav'st so oft before; Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine, Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

It is the just observation of an eminent critic, that the best subject for epitaphs is private virtue; virtue exerted in the same circumstances in which the bulk of mankind are placed, and which, therefore, may admit of many imitators. He that has delivered his country from oppression, or freed the world from ignorance and error, besides that he stands in no need of monumental panegyric, can excite the emulation of a very small number. The bare name of such men answers every purpose of a long inscription, because their achievements are universally known, and their fame is immortal.

But the virtues of him who has repelled the temptations of poverty, and disdained to free himself from distress at the expense of his honour or his conscience, as they were practised in private, are fit to be told, because they may animate multitudes to the same firmness of heart and steadfastness of resolution. On this account, there are few epitaphs of more value than the following, which was written by Pope on Mrs Corbet, who died of a cancer in her breast.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence, Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense: No conquest she, but o'er herself defin'd; No arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd. Passion and pride were to her foul unknown, Convinced that virtue only is our own. So unaffected, so compos'd a mind, So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin'd, Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd; The faint sustain'd it, but the woman dy'd.

This epitaph, as well as the second quoted from Ben Jonson, has indeed one fault; the name is omitted. The end of an epitaph is to convey some account of the dead; and to what purpose is any thing told of him whose name is concealed? The name, it is true, may be inscribed by itself upon the stone; but such a shift of the poet is like that of an unskilful painter, who is obliged to make his purpose known by adventitious help.

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 upon account of the long series of ancestors through which they can trace their pedigree.

Nobles and heralds, by your leave, Here lie 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 railing.

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

But Dr Swift's epitaph on the same subject is a masterpiece of the kind.

Beneath 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 re- jects rhyme, and has no certain and determinate mea- sure; but where the diction must be pure and strong, every word have weight, and the antithesis be prefer- ved in a clear and direct opposition. We cannot give a better example of this sort of epitaph than that on the tomb of Mr Pulteney in the cloisters of Westminster-abbey.

Reader,

If thou art a Briton, Behold this Tomb with Reverence and Regret: Here lie the Remains of DANIEL PULTENEY, The kindest Relation, the truest Friend, The warmest Patriot, the worthiest Man. He exercised Virtues in this Age, Sufficient to have distinguished him even in the best. Sagacious by Nature, Indulgent by Habit, Inquisitive with Art; He gained 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 undiluted Youth. He served 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 served his Country always, At Court independent, In the Senate unbias'd, 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, determined, inflexible, He feared none he could create in the Cause of Britain.

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 continueth 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 Provacy 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 Mark 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 acquire'd it; Regardless of the Praise of his Friends, But most sensible of their Love, Though he liv'd amongst the Great, He neither learnt nor flatter'd any Vice. He was no Bigot, Though 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 Course. 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.

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 to see, that, unless the reader be uncommonly skilful, 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 founded. Sometimes to humour the sense, and sometimes the melody, a particular syllable is founded 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 verses of pronouncing twelve long syllables or twenty-four short. The Greeks and Romans considered an hexameter line may consist of seventeen syllables; and when regular and not spondeic 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 dactyls and spondees, which they denominate feet.

Among the ancient Greeks and Romans, these feet regulated the pronunciation, which they are far from doing among us; of which the reason will be discovered from the explanation that we shall give of the English accent. We shall at present content ourselves with pointing out the difference between our pronunciation and that of the Romans in the first line of Virgil's Eclogues, where it is scarcely credible how much we pervert the quantity.

Tityre tā patulce recubans sub tegmine fagi.

It will be acknowledged by every reader who has an ear, that we have placed the accentual marks upon every syllable, and the letter of every syllable, that an Englishman Part III.

Verifica- tion.

lithman marks with the *iota* of his voice when he recites the line. But, as will be seen presently, a syllable which is pronounced with the *iota* of the voice upon a consonant is uttered in the shortest time possible. Hence it follows, that in this verse, as recited by us, there are but two long syllables, *tā* and *fā*; though it is certain, that, as recited by a Roman, it contained no fewer than eight long syllables.

But though to pronounce it in this manner with the voice dwelling on the vowel of each long syllable would undoubtedly be correct, and preserve the true movement of the verse, yet to an English ear, prejudiced in behalf of a different movement, it founds so very uncouth, that Lord Kames has pronounced the true feet of the Greek and Roman verses extremely artificial and complex; and has substituted in their stead the following rules, which he thinks 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. For 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 shortly, "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 dactyls 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 eft 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 in the following examples:

Effusus labor, at||que inimitis rupta Tyranni Again: Observans nido im||plumes detraxit; at illa Again: Loricam quam De||moleo detraxerat ipse

The dividing a word by a semipause has not the same bad effect:

Jamque pedem referens || causae e|vaferat omnes. Again: Qualis populea || moerens 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: Quadrupedante putrem|| sonitu quatit | ungula campum. Again: Eurydice tota || referebant | flumine ripa.

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 agreeableness 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:

Pupilis 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:

Formofam... Formosam resonare || doces Amaryllida sylvas.

Again: Agricolae, 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:

Romae moenia terrui || 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 great 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 discovered, 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 fibi sed toto || genitam se | credere mundo

Again: Qualis speleum || subito com|mota 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 Alysrio || fuetur | lana veneno

Again: Panditur interea || domus omnipotentis Olympi

Again: Olli fedato || respóndit | corde Latinus.

In lines where the pause comes after the short syllable succeeding the 5th portion, the accent is displaced, and rendered less sensible: it seems to be split into two, and to be laid partly on the 5th portion, and partly on the 7th, its usual place; as in

Nuda genu, nodóque || finis col|lecta fluentes.

Again: Formosam resonare || doces Amaryllida sylvas.

Beside this capital accent, slighter accents are laid upon other portions; particularly upon the 4th, unless where it consists of two short syllables; upon the 9th, which is always a long syllable; and upon the 11th, 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.

Laudere quoé vollem calamó permisit agresti

Again: Et durè quercus sudábunt róscida mella

Again: Parturiant montes, nascétur ridiculus 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, into the melody is found in very different degrees of perfection; which is not occasioned by any particular combination of dactyls and spondees, or of long and short syllables, because we find lines where dactyls prevail, and lines where spondees prevail, equally melodious. Of the former take the following instance:

Æneidum genitrix hominum divumque voluptas. Of the latter: Mollipaulatim flavefecit campus arista.

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?

Ad talos Íola dimissa et circumdata palla. Hor. Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine calum. 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. distinct and full: there is no cliffion; and the words are more liquid and founding. 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 cliffions are multiplied. To add to the account, profane low-founding words are introduced; and, which is still worse, accents are laid on them. Of such faulty lines take the following instances.

Candida reque sit, munda haec tenus fit neque longa,

Jupiter exclamat simul atque audit; at in se

Custodes, lexicus, cinifiones, parasitae

Optimus est modulator, ut Alfenus Vafer omni

Nunc illud tantum queram, meritone tibi fit.

These observations on pauses and semi-pauses, and on the structure of an hexameter line, are doubtless ingenious; but it is by no means certain that a strict attention to them would affix any man in the writing of such verses as would have been pleasing to a Roman ear. Many of his Lordship's rules have no other foundation than what rests on our improper mode of accenting Latin words; which to Virgil or Lucretius would probably have been as offensive as the Scotch accent is to a native of Middlesex.

II. Next in order comes English heroic verse; which shall be examined under the heads of number, accent, quantity, movement, and pause. These have been treated in so clear and masterly a manner by Sheridan in his Art of Reading, that we shall have little more to do than abridge his doctrine, and point out the few instances in which attachment to a system and partiality to his native tongue seem to have betrayed him into error, or at least made him carry to an extreme what is just only when used with moderation.

"Numbers, in the strict sense of the word*, whether with regard to poetry or music, consist in certain impressions made on the ear at stated and regular distances. The lowest species of numbers is a double stroke of the same note or sound, repeated a certain number of times, at equal distances. The repetition of the same single note in a continued series, and exactly at equal distances, like the ticking of a clock, has in it nothing numerous; but the same note, twice struck a certain number of times, with a pause between each repetition of double the time of that between the strokes, is numerous. The reason is, that the pleasure arising from numbers, consists in the observation of proportion; now the repetition of the same note, in exactly the same intervals, will admit of no proportion. But the same note twice struck, with the pause of one between the two strokes, and repeated again at the distance of a pause equal to two, admits of the proportional measurement in the pauses of two to one, to which time can be beaten, and is the lowest and simplest species of numbers. It may be exemplified on the drum, as tu'm-tu'm-tu'm-tu'm-tu'm-tu'm, &c.

"The next progression of numbers is, when the same note is repeated, but in such a way as that one makes a

Vol. XV. Part I.

more sensible impression on the ear than the other, by being more forcibly struck, and therefore having a greater degree of loudness; as ti-tu'm-ti-tu'm; or, tu'm-ti-tu'm-tu'm; or when two weak notes precede a more forcible one, as ti-ti-tu'm-ti-ti-tu'm; or when the weak notes follow the forcible one, tu'm-ti-ti-tu'm-ti-ti.

"In the first and lowest species of numbers which we have mentioned, as the notes are exactly the same in every respect, there can be no proportion observed but in the time of the pauses. In the second, which rises in a degree just above the other, though the notes are still the same, yet there is a diversity to be observed in their respective loudness and softness, and therefore a measurable proportion of the quantity of sound. In them we must likewise take into consideration the order of the notes, whether they proceed from strong to weak, or from weak to strong; for this diversity of order occasions a great difference in the impressions made upon the ear, and in the effects produced upon the mind. To express the diversity of order in the notes in all its several kinds, the common term movement may be used, as the term measure will properly enough express the different proportions of time both in the pauses and in the notes."

For it is to be observed, that all notes are not of the same length or on the same key. In poetry, as well as in music, notes may be high or low, flat or sharp; and some of them may be prolonged at pleasure. "Poetic numbers are indeed founded upon the very same principles with those of the musical kind, and are governed by similar laws (see Music). Proportion and order are the sources of the pleasure which we receive from both; and the beauty of each depends upon a due observation of the laws of measure and movement. The essential difference between them is, that the matter of the one is articulate, that of the other inarticulate sounds; but syllables in the one correspond to notes in the other; poetic feet to musical bars; and verses to strains; in a word, they have all like properties, and are governed by laws of the same kind.

"From what has been said, it is evident, that the essence of numbers consists in certain impressions made on the mind through the ear at stated and regular distances of time, with an observation of a relative proportion in those distances; and that the other circumstances of long or short in syllables, or diversity of notes in uttering them, are not essentials but only accidents of poetic numbers. Should this be questioned, the objector might be silenced by having the experiment tried on a drum, on which, although it is incapable of producing long or short, high or low notes, there is no kind of metre which may not be beat. That, therefore, which regulates the feries and movement of the impressions given to the ear by the recitation of an English verse, must, when properly disposed, constitute the essence of English poetical numbers; but it is the accent which particularly impresses the sound of certain syllables or letters upon the ear; for in every word there is a syllable or letter accented. The necessity and use of the accent, as well in prose as in verse, we shall therefore proceed to explain.

"As words may be formed of various numbers of syllables, from one up to eight or nine*, it was necessary that there should be some peculiar mark to distinguish..." guish words from disjointed syllables, otherwise speech would be nothing but a continued succession of syllables conveying no ideas. This distinction of one word from another might be made by a perceptible pause at the end of each in speaking; analogous to the distance made between them in writing and in printing. But these pauses would make discourse disgustingly tedious; and though they might render words sufficiently distinct, they would make the meaning of sentences extremely confused. Words might also be distinguished from each other, and from a collection of detached syllables, by an elevation or depression of the voice upon one syllable of each word; and this, as is well known to the learned, was the practice of the Greeks and Romans. But the English tongue has for this purpose adopted a mark of the easiest and simplest kind, which is called accent. By accent is meant, a certain stress of the voice, upon a particular letter of a syllable, which distinguishes it from the rest, and at the same time distinguishes the syllable itself to which it belongs from the other syllables which compose the word. Thus, in the word habit, the accent upon the b distinguishes that letter from the others, and the first syllable from the last; add more syllables to it, and it will still do the same, as habitable. In the word accept, the p is the distinguished letter, and the syllable which contains it the distinguished syllable; but if we add more syllables to it, as in the word acceptable, the seat of the accent is changed to the first syllable, of which e is the distinguished letter. Every word in our language of more syllables than one has one of the syllables distinguished from the rest in this manner, and every monosyllable has a letter. Thus, in the word hot the t is accented, in hate the vowel a, in cub the b, and in cube the u; so that as articulation is the essence of syllables, accent is the essence of words; which without it would be nothing more than a mere succession of syllables.

We have said, that it was the practice of the Greeks and Romans to elevate or depress their voice upon one syllable of each word. In this elevation or depression consisted their accent; but the English accent consists in the mere stress of the voice, without any change of note. Among the Greeks, all syllables were pronounced either in a high, low, or middle note; or else in a union of the high and low by means of the intermediate. The middle note, which was exactly at an equal distance between the high and the low, was that in which the unaccented syllables were pronounced. But every word had one letter, if a monosyllable; or one syllable, if it consisted of more than one, distinguished from the rest; either by a note of the voice perceptibly higher than the middle note, which was called the acute accent; or by a note perceptibly, and in an equal proportion, lower than the middle one, which was called the grave accent; or by an union of the acute and grave on one syllable, which was done by the voice pausing from the acute, through the middle note, in continuity down to the grave, which was called the circumflex.

Now in pronouncing English words, it is true that one syllable is always distinguished from the rest, but it is not by any perceptible elevation or depression of the voice, any high or low note, that it is done, but merely by dwelling longer upon it, or by giving it a more forcible stroke. When the stress or accent is on the vowel, we dwell longer on that syllable than on the rest; as, in the words glory, father, holy. When it is on the consonant, the voice, pausing rapidly over the vowel, gives a smarter stroke to the consonant, which distinguishes that syllable from others, as in the words battle, habit, barrow.

Having treated so largely of accent and quantity, the next thing to be considered in verse will be quickly discussed; for in English it depends wholly on the seat of the accent. "When the accent or stress is on the vowel, the syllable is necessarily long, because the accent cannot be made without dwelling on the vowel a longer time than usual. When it is on the consonant, the syllable is short; because the accent is made by pausing rapidly over the vowel, and giving a smart stroke of the voice to the following consonant. Thus the words add, led, bid, cut, are all short, the voice pausing quickly over the vowel to the consonant; but for the contrary reason, the words tall, laid, bide, abide, are long; the accent being on the vowels, on which the voice dwells some time before it takes in the sound of the consonant."

Obvious as this point is, it has wholly escaped the observation of many an ingenious and learned writer. Lord Kames affirms*, that accenting is confined in *Fl. of English heroic verse to the long syllables; for a short syllable (says he) is not capable of an accent: and Dr Forster, who ought to have understood the nature of the English accent better than his Lordship, asks, whether we do not employ more time in uttering the first syllables of beauty, happily, quickly, slowly; and the second in solicitude, misfortune, researches, delusions, than in the others?" To this question Mr Sheridan replies†, that in some of these words we certainly do as the Doctor supposes; in happily, slowly, misfortune, delusions, for instance; where the accent being on the vowels renders their sound long: but in all the others, heaviness, quickness, solicitude, researches, where the accent is on the consonant, the syllables heavy, quick, list, for, are pronounced as rapidly as possible, and the vowels are all short. In the Scotch pronunciation (continues he) they would indeed be all reduced to an equal quantity, as thus; heaviness, happiness, quickness, slowness, solicitude, researches, delusions. But here we see that the four short syllables are changed into four long ones of a different sound, occasioned by their placing the seat of the accent on the vowels instead of the consonants: thus instead of heaviness they say heaviness; for quickness, quickness; for list, lists; and for for, for.

It appears therefore, that the quantity of English syllables is adjusted by one easy and simple rule; which is, that when the seat of the accent is on a vowel, the syllable is long; when on a consonant, short; and that all unaccented syllables are short. Without a due observation of quantity in reciting verses there will be no poetical numbers; yet in composing English verses the poet need not pay the least attention to the quantity of his syllables, as measure and movement will result from the observation of other laws, which are now to be explained.

It has been affirmed by a writer* of great authority among the critics, that in English heroic verse 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 heroes wit's are kept in pond'rous vases, And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.

The other exception, he says, concerns the second line of a couplet, which is sometimes stretched out to twelve syllables, termed an Alexandrine line.

A needleless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

After what has been just said, it is needless to stop for the purpose of pointing out the ingenious author's mistake respecting long and short syllables. Every attentive reader of what has been already laid down, must perceive, that in the first line of the former couplet, though there are no fewer than six accented syllables when it is properly read, yet of these there are but three that are long, viz. those which have the accent on the vowel. Our business at present is, to show the falsity of the rule which restrains the heroic line to ten syllables; and this we shall do by producing lines of a greater number.

And the shrill sounds ran echoing through the wood.

This line, though it consists of eleven syllables, and has the last of those accented, or, as Lord Kames would say, long, is yet undoubtedly a heroic verse of very fine sound. Perhaps the advocates for the rule may contend, that the vowel o in echoing ought to be struck out by an apostrophe; but as no one reads,

And the shrill sounds ran echoing through the wood,

it is surely very absurd to omit in writing what cannot be omitted in utterance. The two following lines have each eleven syllables, of which not one can be suppressed in recitation.

Their glittering textures of the filmy dew, The great hierarchal standard was to move.

Mr Sheridan quotes as a heroic line,

O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp;

and observes what a monstrous line it would appear, if pronounced,

O'er man's a frozen, man's a fiery Alp,

instead of that noble verse, which it certainly is, when all the thirteen syllables are distinctly uttered. He then produces a couplet, of which the former line has fourteen, and the latter twelve syllables.

And many an amorous, many a humorous lay, Which many a bard had chaunted many a day.

That this is a couplet of very fine sound cannot be controverted; but we doubt whether the numbers of it or of the other quoted line of thirteen syllables be truly heroic. To our ears at least there appears a very perceptible difference between the movement of these verses and that of the verses of Pope or Dryden; and we think, that, though such couplets or single lines may, for the sake of variety or expression, be admitted into a heroic poem, yet a poem wholly composed of them would not be considered as heroic verse. It has a much greater resemblance to the verse of Spenser, which is now broke into two lines, of which the first has eight and the second six syllables. Nothing, however, seems to be more evident, from the other quoted instances, than that a heroic line is not confined to the syllables, and that it is not by the number of syllables that an English verse is to be measured.

But if a heroic verse in our tongue be not composed, as in French, of a certain number of syllables, how is it formed? We answer by feet, as was the hexameter line of the ancients; though between their feet and ours there is at the same time a great difference. The poetic feet of the Greeks and Romans are formed by quantity, those of the English by stress or accent. "Though these terms are in continual use, and in the mouths of all who treat of poetic numbers, very confused and erroneous ideas are sometimes annexed to them. Yet as the knowledge of the peculiar genius of our language with regard to poetic numbers and its characteristic difference from others in that respect, depends upon our having clear and precise notions of those terms, it will be necessary to have them fully explained. The general nature of them has been already sufficiently laid open, and we have now only to make some observations on their particular effects in the formation of metre.

"No scholar is ignorant that quantity is a term which relates to the length or the shortness of syllables, and that a long syllable is double the length of a short one. Now the plain meaning of this is, that a long syllable takes up double the time in founding that a short one does; a fact of which the ear alone can be the judge. When a syllable in Latin ends with a consonant, and the subsequent syllable commences with one, every school-boy knows that the former is long, to use the technical term, by the law of position. This rule was in pronunciation strictly observed by the Romans, who always made such syllables long by dwelling on the vowels; whereas the very reverse is the case with us, because a quite contrary rule takes place in English words so constructed, as the accent or stresses of the voice is in such cases always transferred to the consonant, and the preceding vowel being rapidly passed over, that syllable is of course short.

"The Romans had another rule of prosody, that when one syllable ending with a vowel, was followed by another beginning with a vowel, the former syllable was pronounced short; whereas in English there is generally an accent in that case on the former syllable, as in the word pious, which renders the syllable long. Pronouncing Latin therefore by our own rule, as in the former case, we make those syllables short which were founded long by them; so in the latter, we make those syllables long which with them were short. We say arma and virumque, instead of arma and virumque; felio and tium, instead of felio and tium.

"Having made these preliminary observations, we proceed now to explain the nature of poetic feet. Feet in verse correspond to bars in music: a certain number of syllables connected form a foot in the one, as a certain number of notes make a bar in the other. They are called feet, because it is by their aid that the voice as it were steps along through the verse in a measured pace; and it is necessary that the syllables which mark this regular movement of the voice should in some measure..." measure be distinguished from the others. This distinction, as we have already observed, was made among the ancient Romans, by dividing their syllables into long and short, and ascertaining their quantity by an exact proportion of time in sounding them; the long being to the short as two to one; and the long syllables, being thus the more important, marked the movement of the verse. In English, syllables are divided into accented and unaccented; and the accented syllables being strongly distinguished from the unaccented, by the peculiar stress of the voice upon them, are as capable of marking the movement, and pointing out the regular paces of the voice, as the long syllables were by their quantity among the Romans. Hence it follows, that our accented syllables corresponding to their long ones, and our unaccented to their short, in the structure of poetic feet, an accented syllable followed by one unaccented in the same foot will answer to their trochee; and preceded by an unaccented one, to their iambus; and so with the rest.

"All feet used in poetry consist either of two or three syllables; and the feet among the ancients were denominated from the number and quantity of their syllables. The measure of quantity was the short syllable, and the long one in time was equal to two short. A foot could not consist of less than two times, because it must contain at least two syllables; and by a law respecting numbers, which is explained elsewhere (see Music), a poetic foot would admit of no more than four of those times. Consequently the poetic feet were necessarily reduced to eight; four of two syllables, and four of three. Those of two syllables must either consist of two short, called a pyrrhic; two long, called a spondee; a long and a short, called a trochee; or a short and a long, called an iambus. Those of three syllables were, either three short, a tribrach; a long and two short, a dactyl; a short, long, and short, an amphibrach; or two short and a long, an anapest (v).

We are now sufficiently prepared for considering what feet enter into the composition of an English heroic verse.

The Greeks and Romans made use of but two feet in the structure of their hexameters; and the English heroic may be wholly composed of one foot, viz., the iambic, which is therefore the foot most congenial to that species of verse. Our poetry indeed abounds with verses into which no other foot is admitted. Such as,

The pow'rs | gave ear | and granted half | his pray'rs, The rest | the winds | dispers'd | in empty air.

Our heroic line, however, is not wholly restrained to the use of this foot. In the opinion of Mr Sheridan it admits all the eight before enumerated; and it certainly excludes none, unless perhaps the tribrach. It is known to every reader of English poetry, that some of the finest heroic verses in our language begin with a trochee; and that Pope, the smoothest of all our versifiers, was remarkable for his use of this foot, as is evident from the following example, where four succeeding lines out of five have a trochaic beginning:

Her lively looks a sprightly mind diffluse, Quick as | her eyes | and as unfix'd as thine: Favours | to none | to all she smiles extends, Of the | rejects | but never once offends. Bright as | the sun | her eyes the gazers strike, And like the sun, she shines on all alike.

The use of this foot, however, is not necessarily confined to the beginning of a line. Milton frequently introduces it into other parts of the verse; of which take the following instances:

That all | was lost | back to | the thick'et sunk— Of Eve | whose eye | darted contagious fire.

The last line of the following couplet begins with a pyrrhic:

She said, | and melting as in tears she lay, In a | soft silver stream dissolv'd away.

But this foot is introduced likewise with very good effect into other parts of the verse, as

Paint on | thy lip | and to | thy heart | be prest. The phantom flies me | as unkind as you. Leaps o'er the fence with ease | into | the fold. And the | shrill sounds | ran echoing through the wood.

In this last line we see that the first foot is a pyrrhic, and the second a spondee; but in the next the two first feet are spondees.

Hills peep | o'er hills | and Alps | on Alps | arise.

In the following verse a trochee is succeeded by two spondees, of which the former is a genuine spondee by quantity, and the latter equivalent to a spondee by accent.

See the | bold youth | strain up | the threatening steep.

We shall now give some instances of lines containing both the pyrrhic and the spondees, and then proceed to the consideration of the other four feet.

That on | weak wings | from far pursues your flight. Thro' the | fair scene | roll flow | the ling'ring streams. On her | white breast | a sparkling cross she wore.

Of the four trisyllabic feet, the first, of which we shall give instances in heroic lines, is the dactyl; as

Murmuring, | and with | him fled | the shades | of night.

Hovering.

(v) For the convenience of the less learned reader we shall here subjoin a scheme of poetic feet, using the marks (v) in use among the Latin grammarians to denote the genuine feet by quantity; and the following marks (v) to denote the English feet by accent which answer to those.

| Trochee | Roman | English | |---|---|---| | Iambus | Roman | English | | Spondee | Roman | English | | Pyrrhic | Roman | English |

| Dactyl | Roman | English | | Amphibrach | Roman | English | | Anapest | Roman | English | | Tribach | Roman | English | Hovering on wing under the cape of hell, Timorous and slothful yet he pleased the ear. Of truth in word mightier than they in arms. Of the anapest a single instance shall suffice; for except by Milton it is not often used.

The great hierarchical standard was to move.

The amphibrach is employed in the four following verses, and in the three last with a very fine effect.

With wheels yet hovering o'er the ocean brim, Rous'd from their slumber on that fiery couch, While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof. Throws his steep flight in manly airy whirl.

Having thus sufficiently proved that the English heroic verse admits of all the feet except the tribrach, it may be proper to add, that from the nature of our accent we have duplicates of these feet, viz. such as are formed by quantity, and such as are formed by the mere iitus of the voice; an opulence peculiar to our tongue, and which may be the source of a boundless variety. But as feet formed of syllables which have the accent or iitus on the consonant are necessarily pronounced in less time than similar feet formed by quantity, it may be objected, that the measure of a whole line, constructed in the former manner, must be shorter than that of another line constructed in the latter; and that the intermixture of verses of such different measures in the same poem must have a bad effect on the melody, as being destructive of proportion. This objection would be well-founded, were not the time of the short accented syllables compensated by a small pause at the end of each word to which they belong, as is evident in the following verse:

Then rustling crackling crashing thun'nderown.

This line is formed of iambics by accent upon consonants, except the last syllable; and yet by means of these soft pauses or rests, the measure of the whole is equal to that of the following, which consists of pure iambics by quantity.

O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the flatly hind.

Movement, of so much importance in versification, regards the order of syllables in a foot, measure their quantity. The order of syllables reflects their progress from short to long or from long to short, as in the Greek and Latin languages; or from strong to weak or weak to strong, i.e., from accented or unaccented syllables, as in our tongue. It has been already observed, that an English heroic verse may be composed wholly of iambics; and experience shows that such verses have a fine melody. But as the effects of the voice, in repeating verses of pure iambics, is regularly on every second syllable, such uniformity would disgust the ear in any long succession, and therefore such changes were sought for as might introduce the pleasure of variety without prejudice to melody; or which might even contribute to its improvement. Of this nature was the introduction of the trochee to form the first foot of an heroic verse, which experience has shown us is so far from spoiling the melody, that in many cases it heightens it. This foot, however, cannot well be admitted into any other part of the verse without prejudice to the melody, because it interrupts and stops the usual movement by another directly opposite. But though it be excluded with regard to pure melody, it may often be admitted into any part of the verse with advantage to expression, as is well known to the readers of Milton.

"The next change admitted for the sake of variety, without prejudice to melody, is the intermixture of pyrrhics and spondees; in which two imperfects in the one foot make up for the want of one in the other; and two long syllables compensate two short, so as to make the sum of the quantity of the two feet equal to two iambics. That this may be done without prejudice to the melody, take the following instances:

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore.— Nor the deep track of hell—say first what cause.

This intermixture may be employed ad libitum, in any part of the line; and sometimes two spondees may be placed together in one part of the verse, to be compensated by two pyrrhics in another; of which Mr Sheridan quotes the following lines as instances:

Stood rul'd steadfast vast infinitude confined. She all night long her amorous descent sung.

That the former is a proper example, will not perhaps be questioned; but the third foot in the latter is certainly no pyrrhic. As it is marked here and by him, it is a tribrach; but we appeal to our English readers, if it ought not to have been marked an amphibrach by accent, and if the fourth foot be not an iambus. To us the feet of the line appear to be as follow:

She all night long her amorous descent sung.

It is indeed a better example of the proper use of the amphibrach than any which he has given, unless perhaps the two following lines:

Up to the fiery cavern towering high Throws his steep flight in manly airy whirl.

That in these three lines the introduction of the amphibrach does not hurt the melody, will be acknowledged by every person who has an ear; and those who have not, are not qualified to judge. But we appeal to every man of taste, if the two amphibrachs succeeding each other in the last line do not add much to the expression of the verse. If this be questioned, we have only to change the movement to the common iambic, and we shall discover how feeble the line will become.

Throws his steep flight in manly airy whirls.

This is simple description, instead of that magical power of numbers which to the imagination produces the object itself, whirling as it were round an axis.

Having thus shown that the iambus, spondee, pyrrhic, and amphibrach, by accent, may be used in our measure with great latitude; and that the trochee may at all times begin the line, and in some cases with advantage to the melody; it now remains only to add, that the dactyl, having the same movement, may be introduced in the place of the trochee; and the anapest in the place of the iambus. In proof of this, were not the article dwelling in our hands, we could adduce many instances which would show what an inexhaustible fund of riches, and what an immense variety of materials, are prepared for us, "to build the lofty rhyme." But we hasten Verifica. hasten to the next thing to be considered in the art of verifying, which is known by the name of pausus.

"Of the poetic pauses there are two sorts, the cefural and the final." The cefural divides the verse into equal or unequal parts; the final closes it. In a verse there may be two or more cefural pauses, but it is evident that there can be but one final. As the final pause concerns the reader more than the writer of verses, it has been seldom treated of by the critics. Yet as it is this final pause which in many cases distinguishes verse from prose, it cannot be improper in the present article to show how it ought to be made. Were it indeed a law of our versification, that every line should terminate with a stop in the senfe, the boundaries of the measure would be fixed, and the nature of the final pause could not be mistaken. But nothing has puzzled the bulk of readers, or divided their opinions, more than the manner in which those verses ought to be recited, where the senfe does not close with the line; and whose last words have a necessary connection with those that begin the subsequent verse. "Some (says Mr Sheridan) who see the necessity of pointing out the metre, pronounce the last word of each line in such a note as usually accompanies a comma, in marking the final member of a sentence. Now this is certainly improper, because it makes that appear to be a complete member of a sentence which is an incomplete one; and by adjoining the senfe as well as the words, often confounds the meaning. Others again, but these fewer in number, and of the more absurd kind, drop their voice at the end of every line, in the same note which they use in marking a full stop; to the utter annihilation of the senfe. Some readers (continues our author) of a more enthusiastic kind, elevate their voices at the end of all verses to a higher note than is ever used in the stops which divide the meaning. But such a continued repetition of the same high note becomes disagreeing by its monotony, and gives an air of chanting to such recitation. To avoid these several faults, the bulk of readers have chosen what they think a safer course, which is that of running the lines one into another without the least pause, where they find none in the senfe; but by this mode of recitation they reduce poetry to something worse than prose, to verse run mad.

But it may be asked, if this final pause must be marked neither by an elevation nor by a depression of the voice, how is it to be marked at all? To which Mr Sheridan replies, by making no change whatever in the voice before it. This will sufficiently distinguish it from the other pauses, the comma, semicolon, &c. because some change of note, by raising or depressing the voice, always precedes them, whilst the voice is here only suspended.

Now this pause of suspension is the very thing wanting to preserve the melody at all times, without interfering with the senfe. For it perfectly marks the bound of the metre; and being made only by a suspension, not by a change of note in the voice, it never can affect the senfe; because the sentential stops, or those which affect the senfe, being all made with a change of note, where there is no such change, the senfe cannot be affected. Nor is this the only advantage gained to numbers by this stop of suspension. It also prevents the monotony at the end of lines; which, however pleasing to a rude, is disagreeing to a delicate ear. For as this stop has no peculiar note of its own, but always takes that which belongs to the preceding word, it changes continually with the matter, and is as various as the senfe.

Having said all that is necessary with regard to the final, we proceed now to consider the cefural, pause. These two pauses it will be proper to give the denomination of musical, to distinguish them from the comma, semicolon, colon, and full stop, which may be called sentential pauses; the office of the former being to mark the melody, as that of the latter is to point out the senfe. The cefural, like the final pause, sometimes coincides with the sentential; and sometimes takes place where there is no stop in the senfe. In this last case, it is exactly of the same nature, and governed by the same laws with the pause of suspension, which we have just described.

The cefure, though not essential, is however a great ornament to verse, as it improves and diversifies the melody, by a judicious management in varying its situation; but it discharges a still more important office than this. Were there no cefure, verse could aspire to no higher ornament than that of simple melody; but by means of this pause there is a new source of delight opened in poetic numbers, correspondent in some sort to harmony in music. This takes its rise from that act of the mind which compares the relative proportions that the members of a verse thus divided bear to each other, as well as to those in the adjoining lines. In order to see this matter in a clear light, let us examine what effect the cefure produces in single lines, and afterwards in comparing contiguous lines with each other.

With regard to the place of the cefure, Mr Pope and others have expressly declared, that no line appeared musical to their ears, where the cefure was not after the fourth, fifth, or sixth syllable of the verse. Some have enlarged its empire to the third and seventh syllables; whilst others have asserted that it may be admitted into any part of the line.

"There needs but a little distinguishing (says Mr Sheridan) to reconcile these different opinions. If melody alone is to be considered, Mr Pope is in the right when he fixes its seat in or as near as may be to the middle of the verse. To form lines of the first melody, the cefure must either be at the end of the second or of the third foot, or in the middle of the third between the two. Of this movement take the following examples:

1. Of the cefure at the end of the second foot.

Our plenteous streams || a various race supply; The bright-eyed perch || with fins of Tyrian dye; The silver eel || in shining volumes roll'd; The yellow carp' || in scales bedrop'd with gold.

2. At the end of the third foot.

With tender billet-doux || he lights the pyre, And breathes three amorous sighs || to raise the fire.

3. Between the two, dividing the third foot.

The fields are ravish'd || from the industrious swains, From men their cities, || and from gods their fanes.

These lines are certainly all of a fine melody, yet they are not quite upon an equality in that respect. Those which have the cefure in the middle are of the first order. der; those which have it at the end of the second foot are next; and those which have the pause at the end of the third foot the last. The reason of this preference it may not perhaps be difficult to assign.

In the pleasure arising from comparing the proportion which the parts of a whole bear to each other, the more easily and distinctly the mind perceives that proportion, the greater is the pleasure. Now there is nothing which the mind more instantaneously and clearly discerns, than the division of a whole into two equal parts, which alone would give a superiority to lines of the first order over those of the other two. But this is not the only claim to superiority which such lines possess. The cæsura being in them always on an unaccented, and the final pause on an accented syllable, they have a mixture of variety and equality of which neither of the other orders can boast, as in these orders the cæsural and final pauses are both on accented syllables.

In the division of the other two species, if we respect quantity only, the proportion is exactly the same, the one being as two to three, and the other as three to two; but it is the order or movement which here makes the difference. In lines where the cæsura bounds the second foot, the smaller portion of the verse is first in order, the greater last; and this order is reversed in lines which have the cæsura at the end of the third foot. Now, as the latter part of the verse leaves the strongest and most lasting impression on the ear, where the larger portion belongs to the latter part of the line, the impression must in proportion be greater; the effect in found being the same as that produced by a climax in sense, where one part rises above another.

Having shown in what manner the cæsura improves and diversifies the melody of verse, we shall now treat of its more important office, by which it is the chief source of harmony in numbers. But, first, it will be necessary to explain what we mean by the term harmony, as applied to verse.

Melody in music regards only the effects produced by successive sounds; and harmony, strictly speaking, the effects produced by different co-existing sounds, which are found to be in concord. Harmony, therefore, in this sense of the word, can never be applied to poetic numbers, of which there can be only one reciter, and consequently the sounds can only be in succession. When therefore we speak of the harmony of verse, we mean nothing more than an effect produced by an action of the mind in comparing the different members of verse already constructed according to the laws of melody with each other, and perceiving a due and beautiful proportion between them.

The first and lowest perception of this kind of harmony arises from comparing two members of the same line with each other, divided in the manner to be seen in the three instances already given; because the beauty of proportion in the members, according to each of these divisions, is founded in nature. But there is a perception of harmony in versification, which arises from the comparison of two lines, and observing the relative proportion of their members; whether they correspond exactly to each other by similar divisions, as in the couplets already quoted; or whether they are diversified by cæsuras in different places. As,

See the bold youth || strain up the threatening steep, Rush thro' the thickets || down the valleys sweep.

Where we find the cæsura at the end of the second foot of the first line, and in the middle of the third foot of the last,

Hang o'er their coursers heads || with eager speed, And earth rolls back || beneath the flying steed.

Here the cæsura is at the end of the third foot in the former, and of the second in the latter line.—The perception of this species of harmony is far superior to the former; because, to the pleasure of comparing the members of the same line with each other, there is superadded that of comparing the different members of the different lines with each other; and the harmony is enriched by having four members of comparison instead of two. The pleasure is still increased in comparing a greater number of lines, and observing the relative proportion of the couplets to each other in point of similarity and diversity. As thus,

Thy forests, Windsor, || and thy green retreats, At once the monarch's || and the muse's seats, Invite my lays. || Be present sylvan maids, Unlock your springs || and open all your shades.

Here we find that the cæsura is in the middle of the verse in each line of the first couplet, and at the end of the second foot in each line of the last; which gives a similarity in each couplet distinctly considered, and a diversity when the one is compared with the other, that has a very pleasing effect. Nor is the pleasure less where we find a diversity in the lines of each couplet, and a similarity in comparing the couplets themselves. As in these,

Not half so swift || the trembling doves can fly, When the fierce eagle || cleaves the liquid sky; Not half so swiftly || the fierce eagle moves, When thro' the clouds || he drives the trembling doves.

There is another mode of dividing lines well suited to the nature of the couplet, by introducing semifrases, which with the cæsura divide the line into four portions. By a semifrase, we mean a small rest of the voice, during a portion of time equal to half of that taken up by the cæsura; as will be perceived in the following fine couplet:

Warms || in the sun || refreshes || in the breeze, Glows || in the stars || and blossoms || in the trees.

That the harmony, and of course the pleasure, resulting from poetical numbers, is increased as well by the semifrases as by the cæsura, is obvious to every ear; because lines so constructed furnish a greater number of members for comparison: but it is of more importance to observe, that by means of the semifrases, lines which, separately considered, are not of the finest harmony, may yet produce it when opposed to each other, and compared in the compleat. Of the truth of this observation, the following couplet, especially as it succeeds that immediately quoted, is a striking proof:

Lives || thro' all life || extends || thro' all extent, Spreads || undivided || operates || unspent.

What we have advanced upon this species of verse, will contribute to solve a poetical problem thrown out by Dryden as a crux to his brethren: it was to account for the peculiar beauty of that celebrated couplet in Sir John Denham's Cooper's Hill, where he thus describes the Thames: Tho' deep yet clear tho' gentle yet not dull. Strong without rage without o'erflowing full.

This description has great merit independent of the harmony of the numbers; but the chief beauty of the verification lies in the happy disposition of the pauses and semipauses, so as to make a fine harmony in each line when its portions are compared, and in the couplet when one line is compared with the other.

Having now said all that is necessary upon pauses and semipauses, we have done the utmost justice to our subject which the limits affixed will permit. Feet and pauses are the constituent parts of verse; and the proper adjustment of them depends upon the poet's knowledge of numbers, accent, quantity, and movement, all of which we have endeavoured briefly to explain. In conformity to the practice of some critics, we might have treated separately of rhyme and of blank verse; but as the essentials of all heroic verses are the same, such a division of our subject would have thrown no light upon the art of English verification. It may be just worth while to observe, that the pause at the end of a couplet ought to coincide, if possible, with a slight pause in the sentence, and that there is no necessity for this coincidence of pauses at the end of any particular blank verse. We might likewise compare our heroic line with the ancient hexameter, and endeavour to appreciate their respective merits; but there is not a reader capable of attending to such a comparison who will not judge for himself; and it may perhaps be questioned, whether there be two who will form precisely the same judgment. Mr Sheridan, and all the mere English critics, give a high degree of preference to our heroic, on account of the vast variety of feet which it admits; whilst the readers of Greek and Latin poetry prefer the hexameter, on account of its more musical notes and majestic length.