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 masterpiece of poetic composition.

The Greeks, a people the most ingenious, the most animated, and in every sense the most accomplished, that the world ever produced—strove to rival 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 Hippocrene, 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 courier, 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 desolate 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 Definition limits of the poetic empire, to contract the sphere of poetry, this divine art, should we say, in imitation of all the dictionaries and other treatises on versification. That poetry is the art of making verses, of lines or periods that are in rhyme or metre. This is rather a grammatical explanation of the word, than a real definition of the thing, and it would be to degrade poetry thus to define it. The father of criticism has denominated poetry ῥητορική, 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 justest definition seems to be that given by Baron Bielfield*, That poetry is the * Elem. of art of expressing our thoughts by fiction. In fact, it is Unvo.Erud. after this manner (if we reflect with attention) that all the metaphors and allegories, all the various kinds of fiction, form the first materials of a poetic edifice: it is thus that all images, all comparisons, allusions, and figures, especially those which personify moral subjects, as virtues and vices, concur to the decoration 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 speech 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 prosaic.

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 thought and to strengthen the memory: for cadence, harmony, essential to poetry, one of its excellencies, that art can invent; and the images, or cellicences, 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 No. 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 risen to a great degree of perfection; and as poetry, like electricity, communicates its fire to every thing it touches, and animates and embellishes whatever it treats; there seems to be no subject in the universe to which poetry cannot be applied, and 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 the end of poetry to be twofold, to please, or to instruct:

*Aut prodeffe volunt, aut delectare poete.*

But Dr. Beattie * maintains, that the ultimate end of this art is to please; instruction being only one of the poetry means (and not always a necessary one) by which that ultimate end is to be accomplished. The passage rightly understood, he observes, will not appear to contain any part i. thing inconsistent with this doctrine. The author is chap. i. 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. without touching their hearts, elevating their fancy, or leaving any durable remembrance. Even of those who pretend to sensibility, how many are there to whom the lustre of the rising or setting sun; the sparkling concave of the midnight sky; the mountain-forest tossing and roaring to the storm, or warbling with all the melodies of a summer evening; the sweet interchange of hill and dale, shade and sunshine, grove, lawn, and water, which an extensive landscape offers to the view; the scenery of the ocean, so lovely, so majestic, and so tremendous; and the many pleasing varieties of the animal and vegetable kingdoms, could never afford so much real satisfaction, as the steam 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 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 sensibility to the beauties of nature should be cherished in young persons. It engages them to contemplate the Creator in his wonderful works; it purifies and harmonizes the soul, and prepares it for moral and intellectual discipline; it supplies an endless source of amusement; it contributes even to bodily health; and, as a first 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

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, intimates, 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, object of contempt and abomination. An intimate acquaintance with the best descriptive poets, Spenser, Milton, and Thomson, but above all with the divine Geor- gic, 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 ro- mantic.

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 quick-

* Brydone's Tour 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 benevolence 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 carcases, fishes sporting in the woods, and elephants walking on the sea. Could such figures and combinations give pleasure, or merit the appellation of sublime or beautiful? Should we hesitate to pronounce their author mad? And are the absurdities of madmen proper subjects either of amusement or of imitation to reasonable beings?

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

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

And though every part of the material universe abounds in objects of pleasurable contemplation, yet nothing in nature so powerfully touches our hearts, or gives so great variety of exercise to our moral and intellectual faculties, as man. Human affairs and human feelings are universally interesting. There are many who have no great relish for the poetry that delineates only irrational or inanimate beings; but to that which exhibits the fortunes, the characters, and the conduct of men, there is hardly any person who does not listen with sympathy and delight. And hence to imitate human action, is considered by Aristotle as essential to this art; and must be allowed to be essential to the most pleasing and most instructive part of it, Epic and Dramatic composition. Mere descriptions, however beautiful, and moral reflections, however just, become tiresome, where our passions are not occasionally awakened by some event that concerns our fellow-men. Do not all readers of taste receive peculiar pleasure from these 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 (Summer, v. 1171); nor the harvest-scene, without that of Palemon and Lavinia (Autumn, 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, great influence 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 feeling, and been born and bred in the Sicilian villa above mentioned, of course and never heard anything applauded but what deserved upon cenfure, nor cenfured but what merited applause. Yet habit must be allowed to have a powerful influence over the 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 consistent, either, first, with general experience; or, secondly, with popular opinion; or thirdly, that it be consistent with itself, and connected with probable circumstances.

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

Secondly: Fiction is admitted as conformable to this standard, when it accords with received opinions. These may be erroneous, but are not often apparently repugnant to nature. On this account, and because they are familiar to us from our infancy, the mind readily acquiesces in them, or at least yields them that degree of credit which is necessary to render them pleasing: hence the fairies, ghosts, and witches of Shakespeare, are admitted as probable beings; and angels obtain a place in religious pictures, though we know that they do not now appear in the scenery of real life. A poet who should at this day make the whole action of his tragedy depend upon enchantment, and produce the chief events by the assistance 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 unpolite, 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 Tasso, which may be supposed to have obtained no small degree of credit among the Italians of the 16th century, and are suitable enough to the notions that prevailed universally in Europe not long before (a). In fact, when poetry is in other respects true, when it gives an accurate display of those parts of nature about which we know that men in all ages must have entertained the same opinion, namely, those appearances in the visible creation, and those feelings and workings of the human mind, which are obvious to all mankind—when poetry is thus far according to nature, we are very willing to be indulgent to what is fictitious in it, and to grant a temporary allowance to any system of fable which the author pleases to adopt; provided that he lay the scene in a distant country, or fix the date to a remote period. This is no unreasonable piece of complaisance; we owe it both to the poet and to ourselves; for without it we should neither form a right estimate of his genius, nor receive from his works that pleasure which they were intended to impart. Let him, however, take care, that his system of fable be such as his countrymen and contemporaries (to whom his work is immediately addressed) might be supposed capable of yielding their assent to; for otherwise we should not believe him to be in earnest; and let him connect it as much as he can with probable circumstances, and make it appear in a series of events consistent with itself.

For (thirdly) if this be the case, we shall admit his story as probable, or at least as natural, and consequently be interested in it, even though it be not warranted by general experience, and derive but slender authority from popular opinion. 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 consistent behaviour. But when we are told that he sprung from a witch and a demon, a connection not contrary to the laws of nature, as they were 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

(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 fallow complexion, and stunted beard (which seemed by its growth and colour to have been too near the fire), were the consequence of his passing so much of his time in that hot and smoky region. See Vicende della Literatura del Sig. G. Denino, cap. 4. 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 naiveties 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 to relate nothing as true which is false or dubious, and their works to conceal nothing material which he knows to be true. But it is to be doubted whether any writer of profane history has ever been so scrupulous. Thucydides himself, who began his history when that war began which he records, and who set down every event soon after it happened, according to the most authentic information, seems, however, to have indulged his fancy not a little in his harangues and descriptions, particularly that of the plague of Athens: and the same thing has been practised, with greater latitude, by Livy and Tacitus, and more or less by all the best historians both ancient and modern. Nor are they to be blamed for it. By these improved or invented speeches, and by the heightenings thus given to their descriptions, their work becomes more interesting, and more useful; nobody is deceived, and historical truth is not materially affected. A medium is, however, to be observed in this, as in other things. When the historian lengthens a description into a detail of fictitious events, as Voltaire has done in his account of the battle of Fontenoy, he loses his credit with us, by raising a suspicion that he is more intent upon a pretty story than upon the truth. And we are disgusted with his insincerity, when, in defiance even of verisimilitude, he puts long elaborate orations in the mouth of those, of whom we know, either from the circumstances that they could not, or from more authentic records that they did not, make any such orations; as Dionysius of Halicarnassus has done in the case of 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

(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. Of Nature conjecture that the Roman matron had studied at Athens in Poetry, 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 blamable when it leads into any mistake either of facts or of characters.

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

The possibility of thus improving upon nature must be obvious to every one. When we look at a landscape, we can fancy a thousand additional embellishments. Mountains loftier and more picturesque; rivers more copious, more limpid, and more beautifully winding; smoother and wider lawns; valleys more richly diversified; caverns and rocks more gloomy and more stupendous; ruins more majestic; buildings more magnificent; oceans more varied with islands, more splendid with shipping, or more agitated by storm, than any we have ever seen—it is easy for human imagination to conceive. Many things in art and nature exceed expectation; but nothing sensible transcends or equals the capacity of thought—a striking evidence of the dignity of the human soul! The finest woman in the world appears to every eye susceptible of improvement, except perhaps to that of her lover. No wonder, then, if in poetry events can be exhibited more compact, and of more pleasing variety, than those delineated by the historian, and scenes of inanimate nature more dreadful or more lovely, and human characters more sublime and more exquisite, both in good and evil. Yet still let nature supply the ground-work and materials, as well as the standard, of poetical fiction. The most expert painters use a layman, or other visible figure, to direct their hand and regulate their fancy. Homer himself founds his two poems on authentic tradition; and tragic as well 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 seafaring 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 Roderic Random; and the chief characters in Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, and Pamela, are said to have been copied from real originals. Dramatic comedy, indeed, is for the most part purely fictitious: for if it were to exhibit real events as well as pretent manners, it would become too personal to be endured by a well-bred audience, and degenerate into downright farce; 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 pliability to fiction, even in the most fanciful poem. These hints, however, may be improved by the poet's imagination, and let off with every probable ornament that can be devised, confidently 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."* "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; and the more they affect, the more they please us, and make them 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 rife to perfect enthusiasm. The following observations will perhaps explain this matter.

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

When our mind is occupied by any emotion, we naturally use words and meditate on things that are suitable to it and tend to encourage it. If a man were to write a letter when he is very angry, there would probably be something of vehemence or bitterness in the style, even though the person to whom he wrote were not the object of his anger. The same thing holds true of every other strong passion or emotion—while it predominates in the mind, it gives a peculiarity to our thoughts, as well as to our voice, gesture, and countenance: And hence we expect, that every personage introduced in poetry should feel things through the medium of his ruling passion, and that his thoughts and actions 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 his ruling passion. Of Nature the same place, finds many subjects of cheerful meditations, 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, flattered 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 Penelope, 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 oftener 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 very much improved in piety or benevolence.

And thus we see, how the compositions of an ingenious author may operate upon the heart, whatever be the subject. The affections that prevail in the author himself, direct his attention to objects congenial, and give a peculiar bias to his inventive powers, and a peculiar colour to his language. Hence his work, as well as face, it is thus if nature is permitted to exert herself freely in it, will that poetry exhibit a picture of his mind, and awaken correspondent affections in the reader. When these are favourable to what 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 do highly admire, and do 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 v. 99.—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.

The true poet, therefore, must not only study nature, and know the reality of things, but must also possess poetical fancy, to invent additional decorations; judgment, to possess fancy to indirect 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

(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 seva indignatio ulterius cor lacerare nequit." See his last will and testament. 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 expulsive of the feelings and character, and more suitable to the circumstances of the speaker; personages better accomplished in those qualities that raise admiration, pity, terror, and other ardent emotions; and events more compact, more clearly connected with causes and consequences, and unfolded in an order more flattering to the fancy, and more interesting to the passions. But where, it may be said, is this pattern of perfection to be found? Not in real nature; otherwise history, which delineates real nature, would also delineate this pattern of perfection. It is to be found only in the mind of the poet; and it is imagination, regulated by knowledge, that enables him to form it.

In the beginning of life, and while experience is confined to a small circle, we admire every thing, and are pleased with very moderate excellence. A peasant thinks the hall of his landlord the finest apartment in the universe, lifts 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 traveled 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 actual fancy, vivacity of our mind, and extent of our experience, till at last we come to raise them to a degree of perfection superior to any thing to be found in real life. There cannot be any mystery in this doctrine; for we think and speak to the same purpose every day. Thus nothing is more common than to say, that such an artist excels all we have ever known in his profession, and yet that we can still conceive a superior performance. A moralist, by bringing together into one view the separate virtues of many persons, is enabled to lay down a system of duty more perfect than any he has ever seen exemplified in human conduct. Whatever be the emotion the poet intends to raise in his reader, whether admiration or terror, joy or sorrow; and whatever be the object he would exhibit, whether Venus or Tityphone, 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 poetical rather general than singular; rather collected from the conceptions examination of a species or class of things, than copied from an individual. And this, according to Aristotle, is in fact the case, at least for the most part; whence that critic determines, that poetry is something more exquisite and more philosophical than history*. The historian may describe Bucephalus, but the poet delineates§ a war-horse; the former must have seen the animal he speaks of, or received authentic information concerning it, if he mean to describe it historically; for the latter, it is enough that he has seen several animals of that sort. The former tells us, what Achilles actually did and said; the latter, what such a species of human character as that which bears the name of Achilles would probably do or say in certain given circumstances.

It is indeed true, that the poet may, and often does, copy after individual objects. Homer, no doubt, took his characters from the life; or at least, in forming them, was careful to follow tradition as far as the nature of his plan would allow. But he probably took the freedom to add or heighten some qualities, and take away others; to make Achilles, for example, stronger, perhaps, and more impetuous, and more eminent for filial affection, and Hector more patriotic and more amiable than he really was. If he had not done this, or something like it, his work would have been rather a history than a poem; would have exhibited men and things as they were, and not as they might have been; and Achilles and Hector would have been the names of individual and real heroes; whereas, according to Aristotle, they are rather to be considered as two distinct modifications or species of the heroic character. Shakespeare's account of the cliffs of Dover comes so near the truth, that we cannot doubt of its having been written by one who had seen them; but he who takes it for an exact historical description, will be 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 left 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 counterfeiting, and strutting, and turning out their toes secundum artem, and dressed in ruffles, and wigs, and flounces, and hoop-petticoats, and full-trimmed suits, would appear elegant no further than the present fashions are propagated, and no longer than they remain unaltered.

There is, in the progress of human society, as well as of human life, a period to which it is of great importance for the higher order of poets to attend, and from which they will do well to take their characters, and manners, and the era of their events; namely, that wherein men are raised above savage life, and considerably improved by arts, government, and conversation; but not advanced so high in the ascent towards politeness, as to have acquired a habit of 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 unnervated 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 would not be so generally interesting. Like a human figure adjusted by a modern dancing-master, and dressed by a modern tailor, it may have a good effect in satire, comedy, or farce: but if introduced into the higher poetry, it would be admired by those only who had learned to admire nothing but present fashions, and by them no longer than the present fashions lasted; and to all the rest of the world would appear awkward, 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 discussing the rights of mankind, must often allude to an imaginary state of nature; so the poet who intends to raise admiration, pity, terror, and other important emotions, in the generality of mankind, especially in those readers whose minds are most improved, must take his pictures of life and manners, rather from the heroic period we now speak of, than from the ages of refinement; and must therefore (to repeat the maxim of Aristotle) "exhibit things, not as they are, but as they might be."

Sect. IV. Of Poetical Characters.

Horace seems to think, that a competent knowledge of moral philosophy will fit an author for affixing to the delineation of suitable qualities and duties to each poetical personage: (Art. Poet. v. 359.—316.). The maxim may be true, as far as mere morality is the aim of the poet; but cannot be understood to refer to the delineation of poetical characters in general: for a thorough acquaintance with all the moral philosophy in the world would not have enabled Blackmore to paint such a personage as Homer's Achilles, Shakespeare's Othello, or the Satan of Paradise Lost. To a competency of moral science, there must be added an extensive knowledge of mankind, a warm and elevated imagination, and the greatest sensibility of heart, before a genius can be formed equal to so difficult a task. Horace is indeed 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.—132.

To conceive the idea of a good man, and to invent and support a great poetical character, are two very different things, however they may seem to have been confounded by some late critics. The first is easy to any person sufficiently instructed in the duties of life: the last is perhaps of all the efforts of human genius the most difficult; so very difficult, that, though attempted by many, Homer, Shakespeare, and Milton, are almost the only authors who have succeeded in it. But characters of perfect virtue are not the most proper for poetry. It seems to be agreed, that the Deity should not be introduced in the machinery of a poetical fable. To ascribe to him words and actions of our own invention, seems very unbecoming; nor can a poetical description, that is known to be, and must of necessity be, infinitely inadequate, ever satisfy the human mind. Poetry, according to the best critics, which 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 and Odyssey 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, Of Poetical his divine poem must have wanted much of its pathos, characters, and could not have been (what it now is) such a treasure of important knowledge, as no other uninspired writer ever comprehended in so small a compass.—Virtue, like truth, is uniform and unchangeable. We may anticipate the part a good man will act in any given circumstances: and therefore the events that depend on such a man must be less surprising than those which proceed from passion; the vicissitudes whereof it is frequently impossible to foresee. From the violent temper of Achilles, in the Iliad, spring many great incidents; which could not have taken place, if he had been calm and prudent like Ulysses, or pious and patriotic like Eneas: his rejection of Agamemnon's offers, in the ninth book, arises from the violence of his resentment—his yielding to the request of Patroclus, in the 16th, from the violence of his friendship (if we may so speak) counteracting his resentment; and his restoring to Priam the dead body of Hector, in the 24th, from the violence of his affection to his own aged father, and his regard to the command of Jupiter, counteracting, in some measure, both his sorrow for his friend, and his thirst for vengeance.—Besides, except where there is some degree of vice, it pains us too exquisitely to see misfortune; and therefore poetry would cease to have a pleasurable influence over our tender passions, if it were to exhibit virtuous characters only. And as in life, evil is necessary to our moral probation, and the possibility of error to our intellectual improvement; so bad or mixed characters are useful in poetry, to give to the good such opposition, as puts them upon displaying and exercising their virtue.

All those personages, however, in whose fortune the poet means that we should be interested, ought to have good and great qualities. Whilst the personages in whom the poet means that we should be interested ought to have good and great qualities.

(D) "I say the Achilles of Homer. Later 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. Now, 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 Asteropæus, in the battle near the river Scamander." See Iliad, xxi. verse 161—168. Of Poetical 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 oppression, by a liberal and elevated mind, by a passion for glory, and by a love of truth, freedom, and sincerity. He is for the most part attentive to the duties of religion; and, except to those who have injured him, courteous and kind: he is affectionate to his tutor Phoenix; and not only shares 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, or 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 (ε); 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 in his power, either to return home before the end of the war, or to remain at Troy:—if he chose the former, he would enjoy tranquillity and happiness in his own country to a good old age; if the latter, he must perish in the bloom of his youth:—his affection to his father and native country, and his hatred to Agamemnon, strongly urged him to the first; but a desire to avenge the death of his friend determines him to accept the last with all its consequences. This at once displays the greatness of his fortitude, the warmth of his friendship, and the violence of his sanguinary passions: and it is this that so often and so powerfully recommends him to the pity, as well as admiration, of the attentive reader.”

It is equally a proof of rich invention and exact judgment in Homer, that he mixes some good qualities in all his bad characters, and some degree of imperfection in almost all his good ones.—Agamemnon, notwithstanding his pride, is an able general, and a valiant man, and highly esteemed as such by the greater part of the army.—Paris, though effeminate, and vain of his charms and person, is, however, good-natured, patient of reproach, not destitute of courage, and eminently skilled in music and other fine arts.—Ajax is a huge giant; fearless rather from inflexibility to danger, and confidence in his mighty arms, than from any nobler principle; boastful and rough; regardless of the gods, though not downright impious: yet there is in his manner something of frankness and blunt sincerity, which entitle him ut supra, to a share in our esteem; and he is ever ready to assist his countrymen, to whom he renders good service on many a perilous emergency.—The character of Helen, in spite of her faults, and of the many calamities whereof she is the guilty cause, Homer has found means to recommend to our pity; and almost to our love; and this he does, without seeking to extenuate the crime of Paris, of which the most respectable personages in the poem are made to speak with becoming abhorrence. She is so full of remorse, so ready on every occasion to condemn her past conduct, so affectionate to her friends, so willing to do justice to every body's merit, and withal so finely accomplished, that she extorts our admiration, as well as that of the Trojan senators.—Menelaus, though sufficiently sensible of the injury he had received, is yet a man of moderation, clemency, and good-nature, a valiant folder, 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 unrefused 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; on the contrary, he and his unworthy favourite Paris seem to have been the only persons of distinction in Troy who were adverse to the restoring of Helen. Priam's foible (if it can be called by so loft a name), however faulty, is not uncommon, and has often produced calamity both in private and public life. The Scripture gives a memorable instance in the history of the good old Eli.—Sarpedon comes nearer a perfect character than any other of Homer's heroes; but the part he has to act is short. It is a character which one could hardly have expected in those rude times: a sovereign prince, who considers himself as a magistrate set up by the people for the public good, and therefore bound in honour and gratitude to be himself their example, and study to excel as much in virtue as in rank and authority.—Hector is the favourite of every reader, and with good reason. To the truest valour he joins the most generous patriotism. He abominates the crime of Paris; but not being able to prevent the war, he thinks it his duty to defend his country, and his father and sovereign, to the last. He too, as well as Achilles, foresees his

(ε) 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 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 distin- guished 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 re- proachful word to give her pain, nor heard others re- proach her without blaming them for it. Some ten- dency to ostentation (which however may be pardon- able in a commander in chief), and temporary fits of timidity, are the only blemishes discoverable in this he- ro; 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 conti- nually 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 improve- ment; and at the same time, without hurting verisimil- itude, gives every necessary embellishment to particular parts of his poem, and variety, coherence, and anima- tion, 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 en- abled 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 him- self 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 knowl- edge of any one of them. Achates is faithful, and Gyas is brave, and Cloanthus is brave; and this is all we can say of the matter. We see these heroes at a distance, and have some notion of their shape and size; but are not near enough to distinguish their features; and every face seems to exhibit the same faint and am- biguous 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. Si- milar 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 per-

fusive, and accompanied with a peculiar modesty and simplicity of manner. Homer's heroes are all valiant; yet each displays a modification of valor peculiar to himself; one is valiant from principle, another from con- stitution; one is rash, another cautious; one is impe- tuous and headstrong, another impetuous, but tractable; one is cruel, another merciful; one is insolent and often- times, 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 enu- meration. Almost every species of the heroic character is to be found in Homer.

Of the agents in Paradise Lost, it has been observed * * Johnstone's that "the weakest are the highest and noblest of human 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 flight occasions: the rest are lower pow'rs;

—Of which the least could wield The elements, and arm him with the force Of all their regions:

Powers, which only the control of Omnipotence re- strains from laying creation waste, and filling the vast expanses of space with ruin and confusion. To display and distin- guish the motives and actions of beings thus superior, so far as minute human reason can examine, or human imagination re- present 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 dig- nity of his own nature. Abdiel and Gabriel appear oc- casionally, and act as every incident requires: the fol- lowing fidelity of Abdiel is very amably painted.

"Of the evil angels, the characters are more diver- sified. To Satan such sentiments are given as suit the most exalted and most depraved being. Milton has been censured for the impiety which sometimes breaks from Satan's mouth; for there are thoughts, it is justly remarked, which no observation of character can justify; because no good man would willingly permit them to pass, however transiently, through his mind. This cen- sure has been shown to be groundless by the great critic from whom we quote. To make Satan speak as a rebel, says he, without any such expressions as might taint the reader's imagination, was indeed one of the great diffi- culties in Milton's undertaking; and I cannot but think that he has extricated himself with great happiness.

There is in Satan's speeches little that can give pain to Milton's pious ear. The language of rebellion cannot be the same with that of obedience: the malignity of Satan foams in haughtiness and obstinacy; but his expressions are commonly general, and no otherwise offensive than as they are wicked.—The other chiefs of the celestial rebellion are very judiciously discriminated; and the ferocious character of Moloch appears, both in the battle and in the council, with exact consistency.

"To, "To Adam and Eve are given, during their innocence, such sentiments as innocence can generate and utter. Their love is pure benevolence and mutual veneration; their repasts are without luxury, and their diligence without toil. Their addressees to their Maker have little more than the voice of admiration and gratitude: fruition left them nothing to ask, and innocence left them nothing to fear. But with guilt enter distrust and discord, mutual accusation and stubborn self-defence; they regard each other with alienated minds, and dread their Creator as the avenger of their transgression; at last, they seek shelter in his mercy, soften to repentance, and melt in supplication. Both before and after the fall, the different sentiments arising from difference of sex are traced out with inimitable delicacy and philosophical propriety. Adam has always that pre-eminence in dignity, and Eve in loveliness, which we should naturally look for in the father and mother of mankind."

From what has been said, it seems abundantly evident,—That the end of poetry is to please; and therefore that the most perfect poetry must be the most pleasing;—that what is unnatural cannot give pleasure; and therefore that poetry must be according to nature:—that it must be either according to real nature, or according to nature somewhat different from the reality;—that, if according to real nature, it would give no greater pleasure than history, which is a transcript of real nature;—that greater pleasure is, however, to be expected from it, because we grant it superior indulgence, in regard to fiction, and the choice of words;—and, consequently, that poetry must be, not according to real nature, but according to nature improved to that degree which is consistent with probability and suitable to the poet's purpose.—And hence it is that we call poetry, An imitation of nature.—For that which is properly termed imitation has always in it something which is not in the original. If the prototype and transcript be exactly alike; if there be nothing in the one which is not in the other; we may call the latter a representation, a copy, a draught, or a picture, of the former; but we never call it an imitation.

Sect. V. Of Arrangement, Unity, Digression.—Further remarks on Nature in Poetry.

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

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

In the Aeneid, 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 Aeneid, 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 Bocttie, 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 arrangement scenes, 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 Part I.

If Poetical 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 to some it 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 encumber the main action, instead of helping it forward, a correct artist would consider it but as a gaudy superfluity or splendid deformity; like a piece of scarlet cloth sewed upon a garment of a different colour†.

Not that all the parts of the fable either are, or can be, equally essential. Many descriptions and thoughts, of little consequence to the plan, may be admitted for the sake of variety: and the poet may, as well as the historian and philosopher, drop his subject for a time, in order to take up an affecting or instructive digression.

III. The doctrine of poetical digressions and episodes has been largely treated by the critics. We shall here only remark, that, in estimating their propriety, three things are to be attended to:—their connection with the fable or subject; their own peculiar excellence; and their subferviency 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 Caesar 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, Of Poetic 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 their own at whatever expense to the subject it may be introduced, peculiar excellence, They who can blame Virgil for obtruding upon them and 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 their other similar contrivances, it may be expedient to attend servility to (3.) to the design of the poet, as distinguished from the poet's 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 transcendant merit of the poetry, must have been still more interesting to the Romans because of their connection with the Roman affairs; for the one accounts poetically for their wars with Carthage; and the other not only explains some of their religious ceremonies, but also gives a most charming rural picture of those hills and valleys in the neighbourhood of the Tiber, on which, in after times, their majestic city was fated to stand.* And if we consider, that the design of Homer's Iliad was not only to show the fatal effects of dissension among confederates, but also to 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 Of Poetical to give an amiable display of any particular virtue, they may be intitled, not to our pardon only, but even to our admiration, however loofly 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 book of the Æneid.

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

Such, in general, is the nature of that poetry which is intended to raise admiration, pity, and other serious emotions. But in this art, as in all others, there are different degrees of excellence; and we have hitherto directed our view chiefly to the highest. All serious poets are not equally solicitous to improve nature. Euripides is said to have represented men as they were; Sophocles, more poetically, as they should or might be*. Theocritus in his Idyls, and Spenser in his Shepherd's Calendar, give us language and sentiments more nearly approaching those of the Rus verum et barbarum†, than what we meet with in the Pastorals of Virgil and Pope. In the historical drama, human characters and events must be according to historical truth, or at least not so remote from it as to lead into any important misapprehension of fact. And in the historical epic poem, such as the Pharsalia of Lucan, and the Campaign of Addison, the historical arrangement is preferred to the poetical, as being nearer the truth. Yet nature is a little improved even in these poems. The persons in Shakespeare's historical plays, and the heroes of the Pharsalia, talk in verse, and suitably to their characters, and with a readiness, beauty, and harmony of expression, not to be met with in real life, nor even in history: speeches are invented, and, to heighten the description, circumstances added, with great latitude: real events are rendered more compact and more strictly dependent upon one another; and fictitious ones brought in, to elucidate human characters and diversify the narration.

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

Yet poetry, when it falls short of this perfection, may have great merit as an instrument of both instruction and pleasure. To most men, simple unadorned nature is, at certain times, and in certain compositions, more agreeable than the most elaborate improvements of art; as a plain short period, without modulation, gives a pleasing variety to a discourse. Many such portraits of simple nature there are in the subordinate parts both of Homer's and of Virgil's poetry: and an excellent effect of poetical they have in giving probability to the fiction, as well as Language, 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 Æneid, perhaps from its being nearer the truth, or perhaps from the sublime sentiments of stoical morality to forcibly and so often ostentatiously displayed in it.

Poets may refine upon nature too much as well as too little; for affectation and rusticity are equally remote from true elegance. The style and sentiments of comedy should no doubt be more correct and more pointed than those of the most polite conversation: but to make every footman a wit, and every gentleman and lady an epigrammatist, as Congreve has done, is an excessive and faulty refinement. The proper medium has been hit by Menander and Terence, by Shakespeare in his happier scenes, and by Garrick, Cumberland, and some others of late renown. To describe the passion of love with as little delicacy as some men speak of it would be unpardonable; but to transform it into mere Platonic adoration is to run into another extreme, less criminal indeed, but too remote from universal truth to be universally interesting. To the former extreme Ovid inclines, and Petrarch and his imitators to the latter. Virgil has happily avoided both: but Milton has painted this passion as distinct from all others, with such peculiar truth and beauty, that we cannot think Voltaire's encomium too high, when he says, that love in all other poetry seems a weakness, but in Paradise Lost a virtue. There are many good strokes of nature in Ramfay'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 and affected as to outrage all probability. In fine, though mediocrity of execution in poetry be allowed to deserve the doom pronounced upon it by Horace; yet it is true, notwithstanding, that in this art, as in many other good things, the point of excellence lies in a middle between two extremes; and has been reached by those only who sought to improve nature as far as the genius of their work would permit, keeping at an equal distance from rusticity on the one hand, and affected elegance on the other.

Sect. VI. Of Poetical Language.

Words in poetry are chosen, first, for their sense; and, secondly, for their sound. That the first of these poetry to be grounds of choice is the more excellent nobody can deny; their sense. He who in literary matters prefers found to sense, and for 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. 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. If this be not the case, if the language of poetry be such only as we hear in conversation or read in history, it will, instead of delight, bring disappointment: because it will fall short of what we expect from an art which is recommended rather by its pleasurable qualities than by its intrinsic utility; and to which, in order to render it pleasing, we grant higher privileges than to any other kind of literary composition, or any other mode of 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. Prose writers are not so apt to imitate one another, at least in words and phrases, both because they do not so well remember one another's phraseology, and also because their language is less artificial, and must not, if they would make it easy and flowing (without which it cannot be elegant), depart essentially from the style of correct conversation. Poets, too, on account of the greater difficulty of their numbers, have, both in the choice and in the arrangement of words, a better claim to indulgence, and stand more in need of a discretionary power.

The language of Homer differs materially from what was written and spoken in Greece in the days of Socrates. It differs in the mode of inflection, it differs in the syntax, it differs even in the words: so that one might read Homer with ease who could not read Xenophon; or Xenophon, without being able to read Hom- Of Poetical Words.

ming 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 prefaces 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 indispensable. For the same reason, perhaps the articles a and the are sometimes omitted by our poets, though less frequently in serious than burlesque composition.—In English, the adjective generally goes before the substantive, the nominative before the verb, and the active verb before (what we call) the acculative. Exceptions, however, to this rule, are not uncommon even in prose. But in poetry they are more frequent. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight; and all the air a solemn stillness holds. In general, that 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, dispair, disport, affright, enchain, for part, slain, sport, fright, chain. Others seem to be nothing else than common words made shorter, for the convenience of the verifier. Such are, auxiliary, sublunar, trump, wale, part, clime, submire, frolic, plain, drear, dread, helm, morn, mead, eve and even, gan, illume and illumine, one, hour, bide, savage, scope; for auxiliary, sublunary, trumpet, valley, depart, climate, submire, frolicsome, complain, dreary, dreadful, helmet, morning, meadow, evening, began or began to, illuminate, open, hoary, abide, alliage, escape.—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, intam, munimen.

(3.) Of the following words, which are now almost peculiar to poetry, the greater part are ancient, and were once no doubt in common use in England, as many of them still are in Scotland. Affled, amain, annoy (a noun), anon, age (ever), beheth, blithe, brand (sword), brutal, curd, dame (lady), fealty, fell (an adjective), gaude, gore, holf (army), lamkin, late (of late), lay (poem), lea, glade, gleam, hurl, tore, need, orifion, plo (to travel laboriously), ringlet, rue (a verb) ruth, ruthless, sejourn (a noun), smite, spied (an active verb), sace (except), spray (twig), sted, strain (long), strand, swain, thrall, thrill, trail (a verb), troll, wait, weller, 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. Appal, arrowy, attune, battailous, breezy, car (chariot), clarion, cutes, cowser, darkling, flicker, floweret, embloze, garish, circlet, impearl, nightly, noisefles, pinion (wing), shadowy, flumberow, dreary, ambulous, winder (a verb) jirrit (a verb), book (thaken), mudding, viewles.—The following, too, derived from the Greek and Latin, seem peculiar to poetry. Clang, clangor, choral, bland, boreal, dire, enfangnished, ire, irful, love (to wash), nymphs, (lady, girl), orient, panoply, philetom, infrute, jocund, radiant, rupt, redolent, refusent, verdant, vernal, zephyr, zone (girdle), sylvan, fulfuse.

(5.) In most languages, the rapidity of pronunciation abbreviates some of the commonest words, or even joins two, or perhaps more, of them, into one; and some of those abbreviated forms find admission into writing. The English language was quite disfigured by them in the end of the last century; but Swift, by his satire and example, brought them into disrepute; and, though some of them are retained in conversation, as don't, shan't, can't, they are now avoided in solemn style; and by elegant writers in general, except where the colloquial dialect is imitated, as in comedy. 'Tis and 'twas, since the time of Shakspeare, 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 wife'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.—'Tis calm, eternal midnight of the grave.—These abbreviations are now peculiar to the poetical tongue, but not necessary to it. They sometimes Of poetical sometimes promote brevity, and render verification less words difficult.

(6.) Those words which are commonly called compound epithets, as rosy-finger'd, rosy-bloom'd, many-winking, many-sounding, moss-grown, bright-eyed, straw-built, spirit-stirring, incense-breathing, heaven-taught, love-whispering, late-refounding, are also to be considered as part of our poetical dialect. It is true, we have compounded adjectives in familiar use, as high-seasoned, well-natured, ill-bred, and innumerable others. But we speak of those that are less common, that seldom occur except in poetry, and of which in prose the use would appear affected. And that they sometimes promote brevity and vivacity of expression, cannot be denied. But as they give, when too frequent, a stiff and finical air to a performance; as they are not always explicit in the sense, nor agreeable in the sound; as they are apt to produce a confusion, or too great a multiplicity, of images; as they tend to disfigure the language, and furnish a pretext for endless innovation; they ought to be used sparingly; and those only used which the practice of popular authors has rendered familiar to the ear, and which are in themselves 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, bofom, sphere, are common nouns; but to hymn, to pillow, curtained, pillared, pictured, pealing, surging, cavern'd, honied, careering, cinctured, bofomed, sphered, would appear affected in prose, and yet in verse they are warranted by great authorities, though it must be confessed that they are censured by an able critic*, who had studied the English language, both poetical and profane, with wonderful diligence.

Some late poets, particularly the imitators of Spenser, have introduced a great variety of uncommon words, as certes, efflores, ne, whilom, tranfmew, mow, fone, lofel, albe, hight, digit, pight, thews, coulthful, affot, muchel, wend, arrear, &c. These were once poetical words, no doubt; but they are now obsolete, and to many readers unintelligible. No man of the present age, however conversant in this dialect, would naturally express himself in it on any interesting emergence; or, supposing this natural to the antiquarian, it would never appear so to the common hearer or reader. A mixture of these words, therefore, must ruin the 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 Schoolmirefs of Shenstone, 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, pray, thrall, may already appear antiquated; and to some the style of Spenser, or even of Chaucer, may be as intelligible as that of Dryden. This however we may venture to affirm, that a word, which the majority of readers cannot understand without a glossary, may with reason be considered as obsolete; and ought not to be used in modern composition, unless revived, and recommended to the public ear, by some very eminent writer. There are but few words in Milton, as nathless, time, frore, bofky, &c.; there are but one or two in Dryden, as falify (*); and in Pope, there are none at all, which every reader of our poetry may not be supposed to understand: whereas in Shakespeare, there are many, and in Spenser many more, for which one who knows English very well may be obliged to consult the dictionary. The practice of Milton, Dryden, or Pope, may therefore, in almost all cases, be admitted as good authority for the use of a poetical word. And in them, all the words above enumerated, as poetical, and in present use, may actually be found. And of such poets as may choose to observe this 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 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, in which and more easily reducible into measure. Words of un-caste they wieldy size, or difficult pronunciation, are never used by any render correct poets, where they can be avoided: unless in their style more found they have something imitative of the sense. Ho-melodious, mer'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 founding, 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* — * Eff. and if the Greek and Roman poets claimed this indulgence, Orat. lib. x., gence cap. i. § 3.

(D) Dryden in one place (Æneid ix. verse 1095.) uses Falffied 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 Falfare in Italian sometimes means the same thing. gentle 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 effectively 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 as sensible of the dignity of the language, as one would be of the vileness or vulgarity of that man's speech, who should prove his acquaintance with Bridewell, by interlard his discourse with such terms as milldall, queer cull, or nobbing cheat; or who, in imitation of fops and gamblers, should on the common occasions of life, talk of being beat hollow, or saving his durance. 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 as by an active old age, the dignity of such men is confirmed and heightened; so the dignity of such words, if they be not suffered to fall into disuse, seldom fails to improve by length of time.

Art. II. Of Tropes and Figures.

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

1. 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 and 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 supplying qualities. What was to be done in this case? Would the defects they think of making a new language to express the simple qualities of mind? No: that would have been difficult and 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, they used not to use the names of the material qualities tropically, by applying them to the mental qualities. Hence came the phrase solidity of judgment, warmth of imagination, enlargement of understanding, and many others; which, though figurative, expresses 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. Tastes and smells are almost as numerous as the species of bodies. Sounds admit of perceptible varieties that surpass all computation, and the seven primary colours may be diversified without end. If each variety of external perception were to have a name, language would be infuriously difficult; nay, if men were to appropriate a class of names to each particular sense, they would multiply words exceedingly, without adding any thing to the clearness of speech. Those words, therefore, that in their proper signification denote the objects of one sense, we often apply tropically to the objects of another, and say, Sweet taste, sweet smell, sweet sound; sharp point, sharp taste, sharp sound; harmony of sounds, harmony of colours, harmony of parts; soft silk, soft colour, soft sound, soft temper; and so in a thousand instances; and yet these words, in their tropical signification, are not less intelligible than in their proper one; for sharp taste and sharp sound, are as expressive as sharp sword; and harmony of tones is not better understood by the musician, than harmony of parts by the architect, and harmony of colours by the painter.

Savages, illiterate persons, and children, have comparatively but few words in proportion to the things they may have occasion to speak of; and must therefore recur to tropes and figures more frequently than persons of copious elocution. A seaman, or mechanic, even when he talks of that which does not belong to his art, borrows his language from that which does; and this makes his diction figurative to a degree that is sometimes entertaining enough. "Death (says a seaman in one of Smollet's novels) has not yet boarded my comrade; but they have been yard-arm and yard-arm these three glases. His starboard eye is open, but fast jammed in his head; and the halyards of his under jaw have given way." These phrases are exaggerated; but we allow them to be natural, because we know that illiterate people are apt to make use of tropes and figures taken from their own trade, even when they speak of things that are very remote and incongruous. In those poems, therefore, that imitate the conversation of illiterate persons, as in comedy, farce, and pastoral, such figures judiciously. 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 meaning that disqualifies them for a place in serious poetry; while perhaps, under the influence of a different system of manners, the corresponding words in another language may be elegant, or at least not vulgar. When one reads Homer in the Greek, one takes no offence at his calling Eumeus by a name which, literally rendered, signifies swine-herd; firstly, because the Greek word is well-founding in itself; secondly, because we have never heard it pronounced in conversation, nor consequently debased by vulgar use; and, thirdly, because we know, that the office denoted by it was, in the age of Eumeus, both important and honourable. But Pope would have been blamed, if a name so indelicate as swine-herd had in his translation been applied to so eminent a personage; and therefore he judiciously makes use of the trope fynedocche, and calls him fswain*; a word both elegant and poetical, and not likely to lead the reader into any mistake about the person spoken of, as his employment had been described in a preceding passage. The same Eumeus is said, in the simple but melodious language of the original, to have been making his own shoes when Ulysses came to his door; a work which in those days the greatest heroes would often find necessary. This, too, the translator softens by a tropical expression:

Here sat Eumeus, and his cares applied, To form strong buckkins of well seasoned 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 means 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 however, killing an innocent man in a duel an affair of honour, and may be carried too far, 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 express excessive drinking. Language of this sort generally implies, that the public abhorrence of such crimes is not so strong as it ought to be: and it is a question, whether even our morals might not be improved, if we were to call these and such like crimes by their proper names, murder, adultery, drunkenness, gluttony; names that not only express our meaning, but also betoken our disapprobation.—As to writing, it cannot be denied, that even Pope himself, in the excellent version just now quoted, has sometimes, for the sake of his numbers, or for fear of giving offence by too close an imitation of Homer's simplicity, employed tropes and figures too quaint or too solemn for the occasion. And the finical style is in part characterised by the writer's dislike to literal expressions, and affectedly substituting in their stead unnecessary tropes and figures. With these authors, a man's only child must always be his only hope; a country maid becomes a rural beauty, or perhaps a nymph of the groves; if flattery sing at all, it must be a 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 belts, and languish to the complaining gale. A young woman, though a good Christian, cannot make herself agreeable without sacrificing to the Graces; nor hope to do any execution among the gentle swains, till a whole legion of Cupids, armed with flames and darts, and other weapons, begin to discharge from her eyes their formidable artillery. For the sake of variety, or of the verse, some of these figures may now and then find a place in a poem; but in prose, unless very sparingly used, they favour of affectation.

(3.) Tropes and figures promote brevity; and brevity, united with perspicuity, is always agreeable. An example or two will be given in the next paragraph. Sentiments thus delivered, and imagery, thus painted, are readily apprehended, by the mind, make a strong impression upon the fancy, and remain long in the memory; whereas too many words, even when the meaning is good, never fail to bring disgust and weariness. They argue a debility of mind which hinders the author from seeing his thoughts in one distinct point of view; and they also encourage a suspicion, that there is something faulty or defective in the matter. In the 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 indispensable. And a language will always be... Of Tropes 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. iv. 1013.

To take in the full meaning of which figure, we must imagine ourselves in chaos, and a vast luminous body rising upwards, 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 for ever.—When it is said in Scripture, of a good man who died, that he fell asleep, what a number of ideas are at once conveyed to our imagination, by this beautiful and expressive figure: As a labourer, at the close of day, goes to sleep, with the satisfaction of having performed his work, and with the agreeable hope of awaking 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 awaking 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 Palladi arte edificant."—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 astonishment, thunderstruck with disagreeable and unexpected intelligence, melted with love or pity, dissolved in luxury, hardened in wickedness, stiffening into remorse, inflamed with desire, reft with uncertainty, &c.,—every one is sensible of the force of these and the like phrases, and that they must contribute to the energy of composition.

(5.) Tropes and figures promote strength of expression; and are in poetry peculiarly requisite, because they likewise are often more natural, and more imitative, than proper language. In fact, this is so much the case, that it would be impossible to imitate the language of passion without them. It is true, that when the mind is agitated, one does not run out into allegories, or long-winded similitudes, or any of the figures that require much attention and many words, or that tend to withdraw the fancy from the object of the passion. Yet the language of many passions must be figurative notwithstanding; because they rouse the fancy, and direct it to objects congenial to their own nature, which diversify the language of the speaker with a multitude of allusions. The fancy of a very angry man, for example, presents to his view a train of disagreeable ideas connected with the passion of anger, and tending to encourage it; and if he speak without restraint during the paroxysm of his rage, those ideas will force themselves upon him, and compel him to give them utterance. "Infernal monster!" (he will say),—"my blood boils at him: he has used me like a dog; never was man so injured as I have been by this barbarian. He has no more sense of propriety than a stone. His countenance is diabolical, and his soul as ugly as his countenance. His heart is cold and hard, and his resolutions dark and bloody," &c. This speech is wholly figurative. It is made up of metaphors and hyperboles, which, with the prosopopeia and apophthegmata, 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 Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipt of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand, Thou perjur'd, and thou simular of virtue, That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake, That under covert, and convenient seeming, Hast practis'd on man's life. Close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace.

King Lear.

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

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

King John.

—Similar to this, and equally expressive of conjugal love, is that beautiful hyperbole in Homer; where An- drimache, 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.

Ibid., b. vi.

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 pre- sent themselves; and when these are few and familiar, the words that express them must be simple. As no au- thor 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 hu- man mind in a dejected state, no uninspired writer ex- cels him in simplicity. The same Lear whose resent- ment 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 iv. 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 false, And did forsake her. She had a long of willow; An old thing it was, but it express'd her fortune, And the 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 iv. sc. 3.

Sometimes the imagination, even when exerted to the utmost, takes in but few ideas. This happens when the attention is totally engrossed by some very great object; admiration being one of those emotions that rather suspend the exercise of the faculties than push them into action. And here, too, the simplest language is the most natural; as when Milton says of the Deity, that he sits "high-throned above all height." And as to 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 imagi- nation 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 at- tention from the principal idea. In these and the like cases, the fancy left to itself will have more satisfaction in pursuing at leisure its own speculations than in at- tending 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 al- ready acquainted with, or may easily conceive.

It was remarked above that the hyperbole, propositio- neis, and apophthegm, are among the most passionate fig- ures. This deserves illustration.

If, A very angry man is apt to think the injury he Hyperbole has just received greater than it really is; and if he natural to proceed immediately to retaliate by word or deed, seldom the passion fails to exceed the due bounds, and to become injurious of anger, in his turn. The fond parent looks upon his child as a &c. prodigy of genius and beauty; and the romantic lover will not be persuaded that his mistress has nothing su- pernatural 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 won- der, 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 extra- vagantly of the beauty of his mistress, the coward of the dangers he has encountered, and the credulous clown of the miracles performed by the juggler. In fact, these people would not do justice to what they feel if they did not say more than the truth. The valiant man, on the other hand, as naturally adopts the diminishing hyperbole when he speaks of danger; and the man of sense, when he is obliged to mention his own virtue or ability; because it appears to him, or he is willing to Of Tropes consider it, as less than the truth, or at best as inconsiderable. Contempt uses the same figure; and therefore Petruchio, afflicting that passion, affects also the language of it:

Thou lieft, 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 iv. sc. i.

For some passions consider their objects as important, and others as unimportant. Of the former fort are anger, love, fear, admiration, joy, sorrow, pride; of the latter are contempt and courage. Those may be said to subdue the mind to the object, and these to subdue the object to the mind. And the former, when violent, always magnify their objects; whence the hyperbole called amplification, or *auxesis*; and the latter—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 aphorisms, 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 effe 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 disclaimer, who, by putting on the gestures and looks of a lunatic, satisfy the differing part of their audience, that, instead of feeling strongly, they have no rational feelings at all. In the wildest energies of nature there is a modesty which the imitative artist will be careful never to overstep.

2dly, That figure, by which things are spoken of as proper persons, when if they were persons, is called *proposopopia*, 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 percipient 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 fort of demon or goblin, and people 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 sighing of the winds and groves, in the lowings of the herd, and in the murmurs of the stream, he seems to hear the voice of lamentation. But when joy or hope predominate, the whole world assumes a gay appearance. In the contemplation of every part of nature, of every condition of mankind, of every form of human society, the benevolent and the pious man, the morale and the cheerful, the miser and the misanthrope, 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 everything 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 after sympathy, perception, and the other attributes of animal life, to things inanimate, or even to notions merely intellectual.

Motion, too, bears a close affinity to action, and affects our imagination nearly in the same manner; and we feel 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 sympathize 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 Portion to the vivacity of the perceptions that excite them. Distress that we see is more affecting than what we only hear of; a perusal of the gayest scenes in a comedy does not rouse the mind so effectually as the presence of a cheerful companion; and the death of a friend is of greater energy in producing seriousness, and the consideration of our latter end, than all the pathos of Young.

Of descriptions 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 severest woe.

And for this reason partly it is that the epic poet, in order to work the more effectually upon our passions and imagination, refers the secret springs of human conduct, and the vicissitudes of human affairs, to the agency of personified causes; that is, to the machinery of gods and goddesses, angels, demons, magicians, and other powerful beings. And hence, in all sublime poetry, life and motion, with their several modes and attributes, are liberally bestowed on those objects whereewith 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 enthusiastic converse with persons who exist only in their own disordered fancy; and the glutton and the miser, if they were to give utterance to all their thoughts, would often, it is probable, 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, Apostrrophe, or a sudden diversion of speech from one person to another person or thing, is a figure nearly related to the former. Poets sometimes make use of it, in order to help out their verse, or merely to give variety to their style: but on 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 apostrophe is made, and for whose sake we give a new direction to our speech, is in our eyes eminently distinguished for good or evil, or raises within us some sudden and powerful emotion, such as the hearer would acquiesce in, or at least acknowledge to be reasonable. But this, like the other pathetic figures, must be used with great prudence. For if, instead of calling forth the hearer's sympathy, it should only betray the levity of the speaker, or such wanderings of his mind as neither the subject nor the occasion would lead one to expect, it will then create disgust instead of approbation. The orator, therefore, must not attempt the passionate apostrophe, till the minds of the hearers be prepared to join in it. And every audience is not equally obsequious in this respect. In the forum of ancient Rome that would have passed for sublime and pathetic, which in the most respectable British auditoriums would appear ridiculous. For our style of public speaking is cool and argumentative; and partakes less of enthusiasm than the Roman did, and much less than the modern French or Italian. Of British eloquence, particularly that of the pulpit, the chief recommendations are gravity and simplicity. And it is vain to say, that our oratory ought to be more vehement: for that matter depends on causes, which it is not only inexpedient, but impossible to alter; namely, on the character and spirit of the people, and their rational notions in regard to religion, policy, and literature. The exclamations of Cicero would weigh but little in our parliament; and many of those which we meet with in French sermons would not be more effectual if attempted in our pulpit. To see one of our preachers, who the moment before was a cool reasoner, a temperate speaker, an humble Christian, and an orthodox divine, break out into a sudden apostrophe to the immortal powers, or to the walls of the church, tends to force a smile, rather than a tear, from those among us who reflect, that there is nothing in the subject, and should be nothing in the orator, to warrant such wanderings of fancy or vehemence of emotion. If he be careful to cultivate a pure style, and a grave and graceful utterance, a British clergyman, who speaks from conviction the plain unaffected words of truth and soberness, of benevolence and piety, will, it is believed, convey more pathetic, as well as more permanent, impressions to the heart, and be more useful as a Christian teacher, than if he were to put in practice all the attitudes of Roscius, and all the tropes and figures of Cicero.

But where the language of passion and enthusiasm is permitted to display itself, whatever raises any strong emotion, whether it be animate 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, happening to mention the death of his father, makes a sudden address to him as follows:

hic, pelagi tot tempestatisbus actus, Hecu, genitorem, omnis curae casuque levamen, Amitto Anchisen.—hic me, pater optime, fetusum Desiris, heu, tantis nequicquam crepte perilcis!

This apostrophe has a pleasing effect. It seems to intimate, that the love which the hero bore his father was so great, that when he mentioned him he forgot every thing. thing else; and, without minding his company, one of whom was a queen, suddenly addressed himself to that which, though present only in idea, was still a principal object of his affection. An emotion so warm and so reasonable cannot fail to command the sympathy of the reader.—When Michael, in the eleventh book of Paradise Lost, 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 adored. 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 often honoured with a sensible manifestation of the divine presence. The use of the apostrophe in the one case, and the omission of it in the other, not only gives a beautiful variety to the style, but also marks that superior elevation and composure of mind, by which the poet had all along distinguished the character of Adam.—One of the finest applications of this figure that is anywhere to be seen, is in the fourth book of the same poem; where the author, catching by sympathy the devotion of our first parents, suddenly drops his narrative, and joins his voice to theirs in adoring the Father of the universe.

Thus at their shady lodge arriv'd, both 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'st the night, Maker omnipotent! and thou the day, Which we in our appointed work employ'd Have finish'd.

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

Hic juvenum chorus, ille senum; qui carmine laudes Herculeas et facta ferant; ut duros mille labores Rege sub Eurythreo, fatis Jononis inique, Pertulerit:—Tu nubigenas, invicte, bimembres, Hyloceumque, Pholomque manu, tu Cresia maestas Prodigia.

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

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

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

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

We said, that "the poet seeks not to convince the judgment of his reader by arguments of either real or apparent cogency." We do not mean, that in poetry argument has no place. The most legitimate reasoning, the soundest philosophy, and narratives purely historical, may appear in a poem, and contribute greatly to the honour of the author, and to the importance of his work. All this we have in Paradise Lost. We mean, that what distinguishes pure poetry from other writing, is its aptitude, not to sway the judgment by reasoning, Of poetical rhyming, but to please the fancy, and move the passions, by harmony, 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 versification or regular measure may be essential to this art, has been disputed by critical writers; some holding it to be indispensably necessary, and some not necessary at all.

The fact seems to be, as already hinted, that to poetry verse is not essential. In a prose work, we may have the fable, the arrangement, and a great deal of the pathos and language, of poetry; and such a work is certainly a poem, though perhaps not a perfect one. For how absurd would it be to say, that by changing the position only of a word or two in each line, one might divest Homer's Iliad of the poetical character! At this rate, the arts of poetry and versification would be the same; and the rules in Defaueter's Grammar, and the moral distichs 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, adds it is necessary to the perfection of all poetry that admits the perfection of it. Verse is to poetry, what colours are to painting (G). 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 *, "Versification is to poetry what bloom is to the human countenance." A good face is agreeable when the bloom is gone, and good poetry may please without versification; harmonious numbers may set off an indifferent poem, and a fine bloom indifferent features: but, without verse, poetry is incomplete; and beauty is not perfect, unless to sweetness and regularity of feature there be superadded.

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

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

That the rhythm and measure of verse are naturally agreeable, and therefore that by these poetry may be made more pleasing than it would be without them, is evident from this, that children and illiterate people, whose admiration we cannot suppose to be the effect of habit or prejudice, are exceedingly delighted with them. In many proverbial sayings, where there is neither rhyme nor alliteration, rhythm is obviously studied. Nay, the use of rhythm in poetry is universal; whereas alliteration

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

Descriptas servare vices, operumque colores. Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, Poeta salutor? Ar. Poet. ver. 86. Of poetical rhyme, though relished by some nations, are not much sought after by others. And we need not be at a loss to account for the agreeableness of proportion and order, if we reflect, that they suggest the agreeable ideas of contrivance and skill, at the same time that they render the connection of things obvious to the understanding, and imprint it deeply on the memory. Verse, by promoting distinct and easy remembrance, conveys ideas to the mind with energy, and enlivens every emotion the poet intends to raise in the reader or hearer. Besides, when we attend to verses, after hearing one or two, we become acquainted with the measure, which, therefore, we always look for in the sequel. This perpetual interchange of hope and gratification is a source of delight; and to this in part is owing the pleasure we take in the rhymes of modern poetry. And hence we see, that though an incorrect rhyme or untuneful verse be in itself, and compared with an important sentiment, a very trifling matter; yet it is no trifle in regard to its effects on the hearer; because it brings disappointment, and so gives a temporary shock to the mind, and interrupts the current of the affections; and because it suggests the disagreeable ideas of negligence or want of skill on the part of the author. And therefore, as the public ear becomes more delicate, the negligence will be more glaring, and the disappointment more intensely felt; and correctness of rhyme and of measure will of course be the more indispensible. In our tongue, rhyme is more necessary to Lyric than to Heroic poetry. The reason seems to be, that in the latter the ear can of itself perceive the boundary of the measure, because the lines are all of equal length nearly, and every good reader makes a short pause at the end of each; whereas, in the former, the lines vary in length; and therefore the rhyme is requisite to make the measure and rhythm sufficiently perceptible. Custom too may have some influence. English Odes without rhyme are uncommon; and therefore have something awkward about them, or something at least to which the public ear is not yet thoroughly reconciled. Indeed, when the drama is excepted, we do 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 attaining (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; insomuch that, notwithstanding the likeness of one hexameter verse to another, it is not common, either in Virgil or 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 heroic or hexameter verse is no improbability here; because his words are supposed to be transmitted by one of the 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 periphrastic 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 cence poetry is permitted to imitate nature, not as it is, but would be in that state of perfection in which it might be. The Greeks and Romans considered their hexameter as too artificial for dramatic poetry; and therefore in tragedy, comedy, 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 of the source 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, and of a softer harmony; because the state of mind expressed in it has more composition. Philosophy can scarce go further in this investigation, without deviating into whims and hypotheses. 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 analogy between moral 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 harmony, those of almost every criminal passion disagreeable. The looks, the attitudes, and the vocal sounds, natural to benevolence, to gratitude, to compassion, to piety, are in themselves graceful and pleasing; while anger, discontent, despair, and cruelty, bring discord to the voice, deformity to the features, and distortion to the limbs. That flowing curve, which painters know to be essential to the beauty of animal shape, gives place to a multiplicity Of poetical triplicity 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 affumes a sweet and sprightly note, fear a weak and tremulous cadence; the tones of love and benevolence are musical and uniform, those of rage loud and dissonant; the voice of the sedate reasoner is equable and grave, but not unpleasant; and he who declaims with energy, employs many varieties of modulation suited to the various 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 flow emotion, extreme labour and easy performance, agreeable sensation and excruciating pain: who should talk of the tumult of a tempestuous ocean, the roar of thunder, the devastations of an earthquake, or an Egyptian pyramid tumbling into ruins, in the same tone of voice wherewith he describes the murmur of a rill, the warbling of the harp of 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 sonorous accent, as a nervous style and majestic attitude. Coxcombs and bullies, while they assume airs of importance and valour, affect also a dignified articulation.

Since the tones of natural language are so various, of imitative poetry, which imitates the language of nature, must all harmony of so vary its tones; and, in respect of sound as well as of meaning, be framed after that model of ideal perfection, which the variety and energy of the human articulate voice render probable. This is the more easily accomplished, because in every language there is between the sound and sense of certain words a perceptible analogy; which, though not so accurate as to lead a foreigner from the sound to the signification, is yet accurate enough to show, that, in forming such words, regard has been had to the imitative qualities of vocal sound. Such, in English, are the words yell, crack, huff, 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 Romard's affected imitation of the song of the sky-lark:

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

This is as ridiculous as that line of Ennius,

Tum tuba terribili sonitu taratantara 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, can the poet may imitate Sounds that are sweet with dignity (H),—sweet and tender (I),—loud (K),—and harsh (L),—and Motions that are slow, in consequence of dignity (M),—flow in consequence of difficulty (N).

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

(L) The hoarse rough verse should 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. ii. 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 flops you've dragg'd your thighs.

Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir.

The huge leviathan Wallowing unwieldily, enormous in their gait, Tempest the ocean.—Par. Lof, vii. 411. Of poetical swift and noisy (o)—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 slowly, even in common discourse; and therefore a line of poetry that requires a slow pronunciation, or seems longer than it should be, may be used with good effect in describing vastness of size (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 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

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

(o) Quadrupedante putrem senitu quatis ungula campum. *Aeneid.*

*Αυτας επείτε πεδονε κυλινδετο λαος αναιδων.* Odyss. xi.

See also Virg. *Aeneid.* lib. i. ver. 83—87.

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

Ille volat, simul arva fuga, simul aequora verrens. *Virg.*

Πράσιν τ' ἐπέτη πέδει, χαλέπιν τῶν τοῦ οὔνομα. *Hesiod.*

(q) Πολλὰ δ' αἰκίαν καταγεῖ κατάγει τε δοξήμα τ' ἀλόγον. *Hom.*

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

(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 fommis oculos ubi languida pressit Nocte quies, nequiquam avidos extendere curfus Velle videmur:—et in mediis conatibus ægri Succidimus.—*Aeneid.*

See also Virg. Georg. lib. iii. 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. *Profpero 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. Lost,* iv.

And over them triumphant Death his dart Shook,—but delay'd to strike. *Id.*

See also Hom. Odyss. lib. ix. ver. 290.

(x) Thus stretch'd out, huge in length, the arch fiend lay. *Par. Lost.*

Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum. *Aeneid.* iii.

Et magnos membrorum artus, magna osa, lacertosoque Exuit, atque ingens media confultit arena. *Aeneid.* v. 422.

(y) Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori, Hic nemus, hic ipso tecum consumerent ævo. *Virg. Ecl.* x.

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

See Milton's description of the evening, Par. Lost, book iv. 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 dispersere carmen. *Virg. Ecl.* iii.

Immo ego Sardois videar tibi amarior herbis, Horridior rufo, proiecta vilior alga. *Virg. Ecl.* vii.

Neu patriæ validas in viscera vertite vires. *Virg. Aeneid.* vi.

See also Milton's description of the Lazar-house in Paradise Lost, book xi. ver. 477—492.

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

(b) See Virg. *Aeneid,* iv. 24.

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

O now for ever Farewell the tranquil mind! &c. *Act iii.* sc. 3. Part I.

Of Poetical correspondent pomp of language and versification.—Harmony. 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, Georg. iii. 276.

which is 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, Of Poetical Harmony, 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 was 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 means is employed, viz. imitation of human actions. They differ only in the manner of imitating; epic poetry employs narration; tragedy represents its facts as passing in our sight: in the former, the poet introduces himself as an historian; in the latter, he presents his actors, and never himself.

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

A dramatic composition has another property, independent altogether of action; which is, that it makes a deeper impression than narration: in the former, persons express their own sentiments; in the latter, sentiments are related at second-hand. For that reason, Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule*, that in an epic poem the author ought to have every opportunity of introducing his actors, and of confining the narrative part within the narrowest bounds. Homer understood perfectly the advantage of this method; and his poems are both of them in a great measure dramatic. Lucan runs to the opposite extreme; and is guilty of a still greater fault, in stuffing his Pharsalia with cold and languid reflections, the merit of which he attributes to himself, and deigns not to share with his actors. Nothing can be more injudiciously timed, than a chain of such reflections, which suspend the battle of Pharsalia, after the leaders had made their speeches, and the two armies are ready to engage†.

Aristotle, from the nature of the fable, divides tragedy into simple and complex: but it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic as well as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends attained by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, that has nothing in view but to move the passions and to exhibit pictures of virtue and vice, may be distinguished by the name of pathetic: but where a story is purposely contrived to illustrate some moral truth, by showing that disorderly passions naturally lead to external misfortunes, such compositions may be denominated moral. Besides making a deeper impression than can be done by cool reasoning, a moral poem does not fall short of reasoning in affording conviction: the natural connection of vice with misery, and of virtue with happiness, may be illustrated by stating a fact as well as by urging an argument. Let us assume, for example, the following moral truths: That discord among the chiefs renders ineffectual all common measures; and that the consequences of a slightly founded quarrel, fostered by pride and arrogance, are not less fatal than those of the greatest injury: these truths may be inculcated by the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles at the siege of Troy. If facts or circumstances be wanting, such as tend to rouse the turbulent passions, they must be invented; but no accidental nor unaccountable event ought to be admitted; for the necessary or probable connection between vice and misery is not learned from any events but what are naturally occasioned by the characters and passions of the persons represented, acting in such circumstances. A real event, of which we see not the cause, may afford a lesson, upon the presumption that what hath happened may again happen: but this cannot be inferred from a story that is known to be a fiction.

Many are the good effects of such compositions. A the good pathetic composition, whether epic or dramatic, tends effects of a habit of virtue, by exciting us to do what is right, and restraining us from what is wrong. Its frequent pictures of human woes produce, beside, two effects, extremely salutary: They improve our sympathy, and fortify us to bear our misfortunes. A moral composition must obviously produce the same good effects because by being moral it ceaseth not to be pathetic: it enjoys besides an excellence peculiar to itself; for it not only improves the heart, as above mentioned, but instructs the head by the moral it contains. It seems impossible to imagine any entertainment more suited to a rational being, than a work thus happily illustrating some moral truth; where a number of persons of different characters are engaged in an important action, some retarding, others promoting, the great catastrophe; and where there is dignity of style as well as of matter. A work of this kind has our sympathy at command, Of the Epopée and Drama.

mand, and can put in motion the whole train of the social affections; our curiosity in some scenes is excited, in others gratified; and our delight is consummated at the close, upon finding, from the characters and situations exhibited at the commencement, that every incident down to the final catastrophe is natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of causes and effects.

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

"The epic poem is universally allowed to be *, of all poetical works, the most dignified, and, at the same time, the most difficult in execution. To contrive a story which shall please and interest all readers, by being at once entertaining, important, and instructive; to fill it with suitable incidents; to enliven it with a variety of characters and descriptions; and, throughout a long work, to maintain that propriety of sentiment, and that elevation of style, which the epic character requires, is unquestionably the highest effort of poetical genius.

"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 diffusion 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 ferocious barbarous 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 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 host 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 value may be so constructed as to prove cold and tiresome. "Much * will depend on the happy choice of Blair's 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 sin like him, and like him must all bewail our offences. We have restless and insidious enemies in the fallen angels, and in the blessed 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 or nation alone, but all readers, is the skilful conduct of chiefly in the author in the management of his subject. His plan of epic poetry must comprehend many affecting incidents. He may sometimes be awful and august; 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 the feelings of humanity, it is the more interesting. 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 the hero ultimately successful? To this question Johnson replies, that "there is no reason why the hero should not be successful, 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 was 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 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 distresses 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 distresses, 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 distresses; 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 scarcely exceeded by any thing felt in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field; as it not only exercises our pity, but raises another passion, which, though selfish, deserves to be cherished equally with the social affection. The passion we have in view is fear or terror; for when a misfortune is the natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, every spectator who is conscious of such a bias in himself takes the alarm, and dreads his falling into the same misfortune: and by the emotion of fear or terror, frequently reiterated in a variety of moral tragedies, the spectators are put upon their guard against the disorders of passion.

The commentators upon Aristotle, and other critics, have been much 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 doctrines 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 upon a principle of justice; but it will not move our pity, or 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 Lawrence's coming to the monument a minute too late; we are vexed at the unlucky chance, and go away dissatisfied. Such impressions, The misfortunes of a virtuous person, arising from the impro-neceffary caufes, or a chain of unavoidable circumstances, as they excite a notion of definity, are equally unsatisfactory to the human mind. A metaphyfician in his clofe may reafon himfelf into the belief of fate, or what in modern language is called philosophical neceffity; but the feelings of the heart revolt againft that doctrine; and we have the confefion of the two ableft philofophers by whom it was ever maintained, that men conduct themfelves through life as if their will were absolutely free, and their actions no part of a chain of neceffary caufes and effects. As no man goes to the theatre to study metaphyfics, or to divelf himfelf of the common feelings of humanity, it is impoffible, whatever be his philofophical creed, that he fhould contemplate without horror and difgulf an innocent perfon suffering by mere definity.

A tragedy of uncommon merit in every other refpect may indeed be endured, nay perhaps admired, though fuch be its catastrophe; because no work of man was ever perfect; and becaufe, where imperfections are unavoidable, a multitude of excellencies may be allowed to cover one fault: but we believe the mifery of an innocent perfon resulting from a chain of unavoidable circumftances has never been considered as a beauty by minds unperverted by a falfe philofophy. "It muft be acknowledged * that the subjects of the ancient Greek tragedies were frequently founded on mere definity and inevitable misfortunes. In the courfe of the drama many moral sentiments occurred; but the only inftruction which the fable conveyed was, that reverence was due to the gods, and fubmiffion to the decrees of fate. Modern tragedy has aimed at a higher object, by becoming more the theatre of paflion; pointing out to men the confequences of their own mifconduct, fhowing the direful effects which ambition, jealoufy, love, refentment, and other fuch strong emotions, when mifguided or left unrestrained, produce upon human life. An Othello, hurried by jealoufy to murder his innocent wife; a Jaffier enfnaired by refentment and want to engage in a conspiracy, and then flung with remorfe and involved in ruin; a Sifferidi, through the deceit which he employs for public-spirited ends, bringing deftruftion on all whom he loved: thefe, and fuch as thefe, are the examples which Tragedy now displays to public view; and by means of which it inculcates on men the proper go-vernment of their paflions."

There is indeed one fingular drama, in which definity is employed in a manner very different from that in which it was ufed 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 obferves) with the moft generous feelings, animated by the higheft fenfe of honour, and fuscible of the warmeft affections of the heart, is driven by the perfidy of a brother, and the fuppofed inhumanity of his father, into a fate of confirmed mifanthropy and defpair." He with-eld that he "could blow the trumpet of rebellion through all nature; that he could extinguifh with one mortal blow the viperous race of men; and that he could fo strike as to destroy the germ of exiftence." In this fi-tuation he is hurried on to the perpetration of a feries of crimes which find from their very magnitude and atrocity a recommendation to his diftempered mind. Sensible all the while of his own guilt, and suffering for that guilt the fervent pangs of remorfe, he yet believes himfelf an instrument of vengeance in the hands of the Almighty for the punishment of the crimes of others. In thus accomplishing the dreadful definity which is precribed for him, he feels a species of gloomy satisfaction, at the fame time that he confiders himfelf as doomed to the performance of that part in life which is to confign his memory to infamy and his foul 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 pef-tilence, flood, and famine overwhelm at once the righteous and the guilty? Who can command the flames to stay their courfe, to destroy only the noxious vermin, and spare the fertile field?" yet with the fame breath he accuses himfelf of extreme criminality for "prelumptuously wielding the sword of the Moft High!" He frequently laments in the moft affecting manner the losf 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 meaneft hind, a peafant of the field," He confiders himfelf 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 wonderous purpofes; employed them as his angels to execute his ftern decrees, and pour the vials of his wrath;" and in a very folemn prayer, he fuppofes that "the God who ruleth over all had decreed that he fhould become the chief of thefe foul mur-derers."

"It will be allowed (says the translator), that the imagination could not have conceived a fpectacle more deeply interesting, more powerfully afflicting to the mind of man, than that of a human being thus charac-terized and acting under fuch impressions. The compaflionate intereft which the mind feels in the emotions or sufferings of the guilty perfon, is not diminifhed by the observation, that he acts under an impreflion of inevi-table definity; on the contrary, there is something in our nature which leads us the more to compaffionate the instrument of thofe crimes, that we fee him confider himfelf as bound to guilt by fetters, which he has the con-fant will, but not the strength, to break."

This is indeed true: we fympathife with the hero of the Robbers, not only on account of his exalted fenti-ments and his inflexible regard to the abstract principles of honour and justice, but much more for that disorder of intellect which makes him fuppofe "his definity fixed and unalterable," at the very time that he is torn with remorfe for the perpetration of thofe crimes by which he believed it to be fulfilling. Definity, however, is not in this tragedy exhibited as real, but merely as the phan-tom of a diftempered though noble mind. Had the poet reprefented his hero as in fact decreed by God, or bound by fate, to head a band of foul murderers, and to com-mit a feries of the moft atrocious crimes; though our pity for him might not have been lefened, the impressions of the whole piece on the mind could have been only thofe of horror and difgulf at what would have appeared to us the unequal ways of providence.

The tragedy of the Robbers is a striking instance of the juftnefs 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 an epic poem, or of an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be intended for so flight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. The supposed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the end of every act, ought always to coincide with some pause in the action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem ought to resemble a sentence or period in language, divided into members that are distinguished from each other by proper pauses; or it ought to resemble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded by imperfect closes that contribute to the melody. The division of every play into five acts has no other foundation than common practice, and the authority of Horace (D). 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 convocated host of the fallen angels; and the second book begins with the speech. Milton seems to have copied the Æneid, of which the two first books are divided much in the same manner. Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the seventh book of Paradise Lost, nor at the end of the eleventh. In the Iliad little attention is given to this rule.

Besides tragedy, dramatic poetry comprehends co. The object of 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 decorums 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

(D) Neve minor, neu fit quinto productior actu Fabula.

De Arte Poetica.

If you would have your play deserve success, Give it five acts complete, nor more nor less. Francis. 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 so 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, searching the person whom he suspects of having stolen his casket, after examining first his right hand and then his left, cries out, *offende etiam tertiam—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 obscenity that reigns in them is gross 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 gross 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 sub- servient 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 gross absurdity to introduce upon the stage superior beings in a visible shape, place in a drama, nor Boileau, with many other critics, declares strongly for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. But wavering authority, which is apt to impede upon the judgment, let us draw what light we can from reason. We may in the first place observe, that this matter is but indistinctly handled by critics: the poetical privilege of animating insensible objects for enlivening a description, is very different from what is termed machinery, where deities, angels, devils, or other supernatural powers, are introduced as real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the catastrophe; and yet these two things are constantly jumbled together in reasoning. The former is founded on a natural principle; but nothing is more unnatural than the latter. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First, it gives an air of fiction to the whole; and prevents that impression of reality which is requisite to interest our affections, and to move our passions; which of itself is sufficient to explode machinery, whatever entertainment it may afford to readers of a fantastic taste or irregular imagination. And, next, were it possible, by disguising the fiction, to delude us into a notion of reality, an insuperable objection would still remain, which is, that the aim or end in the high of an epic poem can never be attained in any perfection where machinery is introduced; for an evident reason, that virtuous emotions cannot be raised successfully but by the actions of those who are endowed with passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions; and as for moral instruction, it is clear, that none can be drawn from beings who act not upon the same principles with us. A fable in Æsop's manner is no objection to this reasoning: his lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men under disguise; they act and feel in every respect as human beings; and the moral we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it is true, introduces the gods into his fable; but the religion of his country authorized that liberty; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and bodily in human affairs. It must however be observed, that Homer's deities do no honour to his poems: fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have a good effect; they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will not be relished by any person of a correct taste. They may be of some use to the lower rank of writers; but an author of genius has much finer materials, of Nature's production, for elevating his subject, and making it interesting.

One would be apt to think, that Boileau, declaring for the Heathen deities, intended them only for embellishing the diction; but unluckily he banishes angels and devils, who undoubtedly make a figure in poetic language, equal to the Heathen deities. Boileau, therefore, by pleading for the latter in opposition to the former, certainly meant, if he had any distinct meaning, that the Heathen deities may be introduced as actors. And, in fact, he himself is guilty of that glaring absurdity, where... 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 Giuvallemme Liberata, Tasso's greatest admirers must acknowledge: a situation can never be intricate, nor the reader even 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 Pharalia, observes judiciously, "That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the solidity of Lucan's subject, deprived him of poetical fiction." Is it not amazing, that a critic who reasons so justly with respect to others, can be so blind with respect to himself? Voltaire, not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisible and superior beings, introduces them into the action: in the sixth canto of the Henrieide, St Louis appears in person, and terrifies the soldiers; in the seventh canto, St Louis sends the god of Sleep to Henry; and in the tenth, the Demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War, &c., assist Aumale in a single combat with Turenne, and are driven away by a good angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend such fictitious personages in the same action with mortals, makes a bad figure at any rate; and is intolerable in a history so recent as that of Henry IV. But perfection is not the lot of man.

But perhaps the most successful weapon that can be employed upon this subject is ridicule. Addison has applied this in an elegant manner: "Whereas the time of a general peace is, in all appearance, drawing near; being informed that there are several ingenious persons who intend to 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 catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of him, in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending upon 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 business on his hands in several poems which we may now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his appearance, unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short allusion; and that even here he may not be permitted to enter, but with great caution and circumspection. I desire that the same rule may be extended to his whole fraternity of Heathen gods; it being my design to condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or exercises any other act of authority which does not belong to him. In short I expect that no pagan agent shall be introduced, or any fact related which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience. Provided always that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be construed to extend to several of the female poets in this nation, who shall still be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in the same manner as if this paper had never been written."

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

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

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

"Comal was a son of Albion; the chief of a 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 sunbeam 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 Gor-mal loved the maid, the chief of gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps on the heath, the foe of unhappy Comal.

"One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Ronan. It was the wonted haunt of Comal. Its sides were hung with his arms; a hundred shields of thongs were there, a hundred helms of sounding steel. Rest here, said he, my love Galvina, thou light of the cave of Ronan: a deer appears on Mora's brow; I go, but soon will return. I fear, said she, dark Gor-mal 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 Double plot the first we shall mention is a double plot: one of which is a drama 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 interesting subject that engages our affections, occupies our whole attention, and leaves no room for any separate concern. Variety is more tolerable in comedy; which pretends only to amuse, without totally occupying the mind. But even there, to make a double plot agreeable, is no slight effort of art: the under plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone from the principal; for discordant emotions are unpleasant when jumbled together; which, by the way, is an insuperable objection to tragic-comedy. Upon that account the Provok'd Husbond deserves censure; all the scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads into action, being ludicrous and farcical, are in a very different tone from the principal scenes, displaying severe and bitter expostulations between Lord Townley and his lady. The same objection touches not the double plot of the Careless Husbond; 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 not to be represented. culars concur to delude us into an impression of reality; genuine sentiments, passionate language, and persuasive gesture: the spectator, once engaged, is willing to be deceived, loses sight of himself, and without scruple enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From this absent state he is roused by violent action; he wakes as from a pleasing dream; and, gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a fiction. Horace delivers the same rule; and founds it upon the same reason:

Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet; Aut humana palam coquet extra nefarius Atreus; Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem: Quodcumque offendis mihi fice, 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 gust of passion. If Corneille, in representing the affair between Horatius and his sister, upon which the murder ensues behind the scene, had no other view but to remove from the spectators a shocking action, he was guilty of a capital mistake: for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was the case as represented, is more shocking to a polite audience, even where the conclusive stab is not seen, than the same act performed in their presence by violent and unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repeated as is committed. Adolphe's observation is just*, That no part of this incident ought to have been represented, but reserved for a narrative, with every alleviating circumstance in favour of the hero.

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

This manner of dialogue-writing, besides an unnatural air, has another bad effect; it lays 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, a footman deliver a simple message in blank verse must appear ridiculous to every one who is not baffled by custom. In short, that variety of characters and of situations, which is the life of a play, requires not only a suitable variety in the sentiments, but also in the diction.

§ 3. The Three Unities.

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 clove.

But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in what the conjunction with the material, the scene is varied. Unity of Man acts with deliberation, will, and choice: he aims action at some end; glory, for example, or riches, or conquest, fits 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 Three Unities.

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 so 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 underparts 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 be 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; reverting the preliminaries for a conversation piece, if thought necessary; and that method, at the same time, has a peculiar beauty from being dramatic. But a privilege that deviates from nature ought to be sparingly indulged; and yet romance writers make no difficulty of presenting to the reader, without the least preparation, unknown persons engaged in some arduous adventure equally unknown. In Cassandra, two personages, who 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 analysed is a chain of connected facts, of which each scene makes a link. Each scene, accordingly, ought to produce some incident relative to the catastrophe or ultimate event, by advancing or retarding it. A scene that produceth no incident, and for that reason may be termed barren, ought not to be indulged, because it breaks the unity of action: a barren scene can never be intitled to a place, because the chain is complete without it. In the Old Bachelor, the 3rd 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 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 Shakespeare! in whose works there is not to be found a single barren scene.

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

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

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

We are aware, that the drama differs so far from the epic as to admit different rules. It will be observed, "That an historical fable, intended for reading solely, is under no limitation of time 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 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 fingers, 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 guilty of an egregious blunder. The unities of place and of time were in Greece, as we see, a matter of necessity, not of choice; and it is easy to show, that if we submit to such fetters, it must be from choice, not necessity. This will be evident upon taking a view of the constitution of our drama, which differs widely from that of Greece; whether more or less perfect, is a different point, to be handled afterward. By dropping the chorus, opportunity is afforded to divide the representation by intervals of time, during which the stage is evacuated, and the spectacle suspended. This qualifies our drama for subjects spread through a wide space both of time and of place; the time supposed to pass during the suspension of the representation is not measured by the time of the suspension; and any place may be supposed, as it is not in sight: by which means, many subjects can be justly represented in our theatres, that were excluded from those of ancient Greece. This doctrine may be illustrated, by comparing a modern play to a set of historical pictures; let us suppose them five in number, and the resemblance will be complete: each of the pictures resembles an act in one of our plays: there must necessarily be the strictest unity of place and of time in each picture; and the same necessity requires these two unities during each act of a play, because during an act there is no interruption in the spectacle. Now, when we view in succession a number of such historical pictures, let it be, for example, the history of Alexander by Le Brun, we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years have passed between the events exhibited in two different pictures, though the interruption is imperceptible in passing our eye from the one to the other; and we have as little difficulty to conceive a change of place, however great: in which view, there is truly no difference between five acts of a modern play and five such pictures. Where the representation is suspended, we can with the greatest facility suppose any length of time or any change of place: the spectator, it is true, may be conscious, that the real time and place are not the same with what are employed in the representation; but this is the work of reflection; and by the same reflection he may also be conscious, that Garrick is not King Lear, that the playhouse is not Dover cliffs, nor the noise he hears thunder and lightning. In a word, after an interruption of the representation, it is not more difficult for a spectator to imagine a new place, or a different time, than, at the commencement of the play, to imagine himself at Rome, or in a period of time two thousand years back. And indeed, it is abundantly ridiculous, that a critic, who is willing to hold candlelight for sunshine, 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; in a composition for the theatre: nothing can be more ever, not absurd, than at the close to exhibit a full-grown person to be in 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 scarcely make any impression.

At the same time, it is not here meant to justify licence with place-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; and accordingly we 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 of which employs but one place, and requires not a greater length of time than is necessary for the representation, is The three so much the more perfect; because the confining an event within narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of action, and also prevents that labour, however flighty, which the mind must undergo in imagining frequent changes of place, and many intervals of time. But still we must insist that such limitation of place and time as was necessary in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us; and therefore, that though such limitation adds one beauty more to the composition, it is at best but a refinement, which may justly give place to a thousand beauties more substantial. And we may add, that it is extremely difficult, if not impracticable, to contract within the Grecian limits any fable so fruitful of incidents in number and variety as to give full scope to the fluctuation of passion.

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

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

From these premises, one will naturally be led, at first view, to pronounce the frequent interruptions in the modern drama to be an imperfection. It will occur, "That every interruption must have the effect to banish the dream of reality, and with it to banish our concern, which cannot subsist while we are conscious that all is a fiction; and therefore, that in the modern drama, sufficient time is not afforded for fluctuation and swelling of passion, like what is afforded in that of Greece, where there is no interruption." This reasoning, it must be owned, has a specious appearance: but we must not be come 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 act 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 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 gross malady in our theatrical representations; but a malady that luckily is not incurable: to revive the Grecian chorus, would be to revive the Grecian slavery of place and time; but we can figure a detached chorus coinciding with a pause in the representation, as the ancient chorus did with a pause in the principal action. What objection, for example, can there lie against music between the acts, vocal and instrumental, 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 flattery 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 entreaties 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 ii. sc. 2.). Alceste, in Euripides, at the point of death, is brought from the palace to the place of action, groaning and lamenting her untimely fate (act ii. sc. 1.). In the Trachiniae of Sophocles (act ii.), 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 iv.), 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 convenience 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 v. 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 colloquy 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 still is an interruption, and a link of the chain broken: for during the change of the actors, there must be a space of time, during which the stage is occupied by neither feet. 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 passes within doors, are excluded. The three ed; witness the last act of the Eunuch. He hath submitted to the like slavery with respect to time. In a word, a play with a regular chorus, is not more confined in place and time than his plays are. Thus a zealous sectary follows implicitly ancient forms and ceremonies, without once considering whether their introductory cause be still subsisting. Plautus, of a bolder genius than Terence, makes good use of the liberty afforded by an interrupted representation: he varies the place of action upon all occasions, when the variation suits his purpose.

The intelligent reader will by this time understand, that we plead for no change of place in our plays but after an interval, nor for any latitude in point of time but what falls in with an interval. The unities of place and time ought to be strictly observed during each act; for during the representation there is no opportunity for the smallest deviation from either. Hence it is an essential requisite, that during an act the stage be always occupied; for even a momentary vacancy makes an interval or interruption. Another rule is no less essential: it would be a gross breach of the unity of action to exhibit upon the stage two separate actions at the same time; and therefore, to preserve that unity, it is necessary that each personage introduced during an act be linked to those in possession of the stage, so as to join all in one action. These things follow from the very conception of an act, which admits not the slightest interruption: the moment the representation is intermitted, there is an end of that act; and we have no other notion of a new act, but where, after a pause or interval, the representation is again put in motion. French writers, generally speaking, are correct in this particular. The English, on the contrary, are so irregular as scarce to deserve a criticism; actors not only succeed each other in the same place without connection, but, what is still less excusable, they frequently succeed each other in different places. This change of place in the same act ought never to be indulged; for, before 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 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 a drama represented in this form 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 ballets, 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 fingering and music is so little natural, and has something in it 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'oeuvres 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 should take at least very rarely, choose a subject from history, but its subject 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 and en-pipe of a chaffinch, To arms! To arms! and in the enchantment, fame 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 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 buffets of the poet. He should never lose sight of nature even in the midst of the greatest fiction. A god, a demi-god, a renowned hero, such for example as Renaud in Armida; a fairy, a genii, a nymph, or fury, &c. should constantly be represented according to the characters we give them, and never be made to talk the language of a fop or a petite maîtresse. The recitative, which is the ground-work of the dialogue, requires verses that are free and not regular, such as with a simple cadence approach the nearest to common language. The airs should not be forced into the piece, nor improperly placed for the sake of terminating a scene, or to display the voice of a performer; they should express some sentiment, or some precept, short and striking, or tender and affecting; or some simple 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, ballets, 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 characterizes 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 that lasts full four hours, and sometimes longer.

They have indeed endeavoured to obviate this inconvenience by dividing an opera into three, and even into five acts; but experience proves, that this division, though judicious, is still not sufficient to relieve the wearied attention.

Sect. II. Of Lyric Poetry.

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

But in process of time it was employed, not only to praise the Almighty for bounties received, but to solicit his aid in time of trouble; as is plain from the odes written by King David and others, and collected by the Jewish Sanhedrim into the book of Psalms, to be sung at their fasts, festivals, and on other solemn occasions. Nor was this practice confined to the Israelites only: other nations had their songs of praise and petitions of this sort, which they preferred to their deities, in time of public prosperity and public distress, as well as to those heroes who distinguished themselves in arms. Even the American Indians, whose notions of religion are extremely confined, have their war-songs, which they sing to this day. It is reasonable to suppose that the awful purpose to which the ode was applied, gave rise among the ancients to the custom of invoking the muses; and that the poets in order to raise their sentiments and language, so as to be acceptable to their deities, thought it expedient to solicit some divine assistance. Hence poets are said to have been inspired, and hence an unbounded liberty has been given to the ode; for the lyric poet, fired, as it were, with his subject, and borne away on the wings of gratitude, disdains grammatical niceties and common modes of speech, and often soars above rule, though not above reason. This freedom, however, consists chiefly in sudden transitions, bold digressions, and lofty excursions. For the ancient poets, and even Pindar, the most daring and lofty of them all, has in his 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 song: but with the moderns, the ode and the song are considered as different compositions; the ode being usually employed in grave and lofty subjects, and seldom sung but on solemn occasions.

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

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

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

But who can number ev'ry sandy grain Wash'd by Sicilia's hoarse-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's PINDAR.

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

Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms Adria's black gulf, and vexes it with storms, The stubborn virtue of his soul can move; Nor the red arm of angry Jove, That flings the thunder from the sky, And gives it rage to roar, and strength 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 the following 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 Athletes dans Pise elle ouvre la barriere, Chante un vainqueur poudreux au bout de la carrière; Mene Achille fanglant au bords du Simois Ou fait flechir l'Efeaut sous le joug de Louis. Tantôt comme une abeille ardente à son ouvrage Elle s'en va de fleurs d'épouiller le rivage: Elle peint les fetins, les danse & les ris, Vante un baiser cueilli sur les levres d'Iris, Qui mollement résiste & par un doux caprice Quelquefois le refuse, afin qu'on le ravisse. Son style impetueux souvent marche au hasard. Chez elle un beau defordre est un effet de l'art, Loin ces rumeurs crainfus, dont l'esprit phlegmatique Garde dans ses fureurs un ordre didactique: Qui chantant d'un heros les progres eclatans, Maigres historiens, suivront l'ordre des temps. Apollon de son feu leur fut toujours avare, &c.

The lofty ode demands the strongest fire, For there the muse all Phoebus must inspire: Mounting to heav'n in her ambitious flight, Amongst the gods and heroes takes delight; Of Pifa's wrestlers tells the finewy force, And sings the dusty conqueror's glorious course; To Simois' banks now fierce Achilles sends, Beneath the Gallic yoke now Ecaut 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 kiss, When gently the results with feign'd remorse, That what she grants may seem to be by force.

Her generous style will oft at random start, And by a brave disorder show her art; Unlike those fearful poets whose cold rhyme In all their raptures keeps exactest time, Who sing th' 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.

POETRY continued in next Volume.

END OF THE SIXTEENTH VOLUME. DIRECTIONS FOR PLACING THE PLATES OF VOL. XVI.

PART I.

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PART II.

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p a false illusive ray, That leads our dazzled feet astray Far from the springs, where, calm and flow, 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, in general character, that odes of this sort are distinguished by the happy transitions and digressions which they admit, and the surprising yet natural returns to the subject. This requires great judgment and genius; and the poet 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 fallacies and wanderings may be made, and where the returns will be easy and proper.