ather 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 Marat 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 conti- nue 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 inevi- tably happen, and whereof there are not wanting some presages already.

The English poetical dialect is not characterised by any peculiarities of inflection, nor by any great latitude in the use of foreign idioms. More copious it is, how- ever, 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.—

Milton. HE RECEIVED 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 bur- lesque composition.—In English, the adjective gene- rally goes before the substantive, the nominative before the verb, and the active verb before (what we call) the accusative. Exceptions, however, to this rule, are not uncommon even in prose. But in poetry they are more frequent. THEIR HOMELY JOYS, AND DESTINY OBSCURE. NOW FADES THE GLIMMERING LANDSCAPE ON THE SIGHT; AND ALL THE AIR A SOLEMN STILLNESS HOLDS. In general, that versi- fication may be less difficult, and the cadence more uni- formly 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 mo- dulating his lines and periods. Examples may be seen in every page of Paradise Lost.

(2.) Some of our poetical words take an additional syllable, that they may suit the verse the better; as, dispart, distain, disport, affright, enchain, for part, stain, sport, fright, chain. Others seem to be nothing else than common words made shorter, for the convenience of the versifier. Such are, auxiliar, sublunar, trump, vale, part, clime, submiss, frolic, plain, drear, dread, helm, morn, mead, eve and even, gon, illume and illu- mine, ope, hour, hide, savage, scope; for auxiliary, sublu- nary, trumpet, valley, depart, climate, submissive, frolic-

some, complain, dreary, dreadful, helmet, morning, mea- dow, evening, began or began to, illuminate, open, ho- ry, abide, assuage, escape.—Of some of these the short form is the more ancient. In Scotland, even, morn, bide, swage, are still in vulgar use; but morn, except when 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 fun- damentum, tutamentum, munimentum, &c. into funda- men, tutamen, munimen.

(3.) Of the following words, which are now almost peculiar to poetry, the greater part are ancient, and were once no doubt in common use in England, as many of them still are in Scotland. Affid, aman, on- noy (a noun), anon, aye (ever), behest, blithe, brand (sword), bridal, carol, dame (lady), fealty, fell (an ad- jective), gaude, gore, host (army), lambkin, late (of late), lay (poem), lea, glade, gleam, hurl, lore, meed, orion, ploil, (to travel laboriously), ringlet, rue (a verb), ruth, ruthless, sojourn (a noun), smite, speed (an active verb), save (except), sprig (twig), steed, strain (song), strand, succin, thrill, thrill, trail (a verb), troll, weal, welter, warble, wayward, woo, the while (in the mean time), yon, yore.

(4.) These that follow are also poetical; but, so far as appears, were never in common use. Appeal, arroury, attune, battalions, breezy, car, (chariot), clarion, rates, courser, darkling, flicker, floweret, emblaze, garish, cir- clelet, imperil, nightly, noiseless, pinion (wing), shadowy, slumberous, streamy, troublous, wilder (a verb), shrill (a verb), shook (shaken), maddening, viewless.—The follow- ing, too, derived from the Greek and Latin, seem pe- culiar to poetry. Clang, clangor, choral, bland, bereal, dire, ensanguined, ire, irreful, love, (to wash), nymph, (lady, girl), orient, panoply, philtre, infatiate, jocund, radiant, rapt, redolent, refugent, verdant, vernal, xe- ephyr, zone (girdle), sylvan, suffuse.

(5.) In most languages, the rapidity of pronuncia- tion abbreviates some of the commonest words, or even joins two, or perhaps more, of them, into one; and some of these abbreviated forms find admission into writ- ing. The English language was quite disfigured by them in the end of the last century; but Swift, by his satire and example brought them into disrepute; and, though some of them be retained in conversation, as don't, shan't, can't, they are now avoided in solemn style; and by elegant writers in general, except where the colloquial dialect is imitated, as in comedy. 'Tis and 'twas, since the time of Shakesherry, seem to have been daily losing credit, at least in prose; but still have a place in poetry, perhaps because they contribute to conciseness. 'Tis on a lofty case's side. Gray.—'Tis true, 'tis certain, man, though dead, retains part of him- self. 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.—Wherever 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 th' eternal midnight of the grave.—These abbreviations are now peculiar to the poetical tongue, but not necessary to it. They Of poetical sometimes promote brevity, and render versification less words difficult.

(6.) Those words which are commonly called compound epithets, as rosy-finger'd, rosy-bosom'd, many-twinkling, many-sounding, moss-grown, bright-eyed, straw-built, spirit-stirring, incense-breathing, heaven-taught, love-whispering, late-resounding, are also to be considered as part of our poetical dialect. It is true, we have compounded adjectives in familiar use, as high-seasoned, well-natured, ill-bred, and innumerable others. But we speak of those that are less common, that seldom occur except in poetry, and of which in prose the use would appear affected. And that they sometimes promote brevity and vivacity of expression, cannot be denied. But as they give, when too frequent, a stiff and finical air to a performance; as they are not always explicit in the sense, nor agreeable in the sound; as they are apt to produce a confusion, or too great a multiplicity, of images; as they tend to disfigure the language, and furnish a pretext for endless innovation; they ought to be used sparingly; and those only used which the practice of popular authors has rendered familiar to the ear, and which are in themselves 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, peel, surge, cavern, honey, career, cincture, bosom, sphere, are common nouns; but to hymn, to pillow, curtained, pillared, pictured, peeling, surging, cavern'd, honeyed, careering, cinctured, bosomed, 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 prosaic, with wonderful diligence.

Some late poets, particularly the imitators of Spenser, have introduced a great variety of uncommon words, as certes, efteons, ne, whilom, transmew, moil, fone, losel, albe, hight, digit, plight, thews, coothful, assot, 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 pathos of modern language: and as they are not familiar to our ear, and plainly appear to be sought after and affected, will generally give a stiffness to modern versification. Yet in subjects approaching to the ludicrous they may have a good effect; as in the Schoolmistress of Shenstone, 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, behest, blithe, gaudy, spray, thrall, may already appear antiquated; and to some the style of Spenser, or even of Chaucer, may be as intelligible as that of Dryden. This however we may venture to affirm, that a word, which the majority of readers cannot understand without a glossary, may with reason be considered as obsolete; and ought not to be used in modern composition, unless revived, and recommended to the public ear, by some very eminent writer. There are but few words in Milton, as nathless, tine, frore, bovsky, &c.; there are but one or two in Dryden, as falsify (r); and in Pope, there are none at all, which every reader of our poetry may not be supposed to understand: whereas in Shakespeare, there are many, and in 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.

Ess. on Crit. v. 335.

We must not suppose that these poetical words never occur at all except in poetry. Even from conversation they are not excluded: and the ancient critics allow, that they may be admitted into prose, where they occasionally confer dignity upon a sublime subject, or heighten the ludicrous qualities of a mean one. But it is in poetry only where the frequent use of them does not savour 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-case they wieldy size, or difficult pronunciation, are never used by may render correct poets, where they can be avoided: unless in their style more sound they have something imitative of the sense. Homer's poetical inflections contribute wonderfully to the sweetness of his numbers: and if the reader is pleased to look back to the specimen above given of the English poetical dialect, he will find that the words are in general well sounding, and such as may coalesce with other words, without producing harsh combinations. Quintilian observes, that poets, for the sake of their verse, are indulged in many liberties, not granted to the orator, of lengthening, shortening, and dividing their words*:

and if the Greek and Roman poets claimed this indulgence, lib. x.

---

* Dryden in one place (Æneid ix. verse 1095,) uses Falsified to denote Pierced through and through. He acknowledges, that this use of the word is an innovation; and has nothing to plead for it but his own authority, and that Falsare in Italian sometimes means the same thing. Of poetical genius from necessity, and obtained it, the English, those words of them especially who write in rhyme, may claim it with better reason; as the words of their language are less musical and far less susceptible of variety in arrangement and syntax.

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

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed:

—one is as sensible of the dignity of the language, as one would be of the vulgarity or vulgarity of that man's speech, who should prove his acquaintance with Bridewell, by interlarding his discourse with such terms as milldull, queer cull, or nodding cheat†; or who, in imitation of fops and gamblers, should on the common occasions of life, talk of being beat hollow, or saving his distance‡. What gives dignity to persons 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 poetical language, whose end is to please by imitating nature, figures must be not only ornamental, but necessary. It will here be proper, therefore, first to point out the importance and utility of figurative language; secondly, to show, that figures are more necessary to poetry in general than to any other mode of writing.

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 of Trope 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 supply qualities. What was to be done in this case? Would the defects they think of making a new language to express the 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 and analogy between the qualities of the mind and the qualities of matter, scrupled not to use the names of the material qualities tropically, by applying them to the mental qualities. Hence came the phrases solidity of judgment, warmth of imagination, enlargement of understanding, and many others; which, though figurative, express the meaning just as well as proper words would have done. In fact, numerous as the words in every language are, they must always fall short of the unbounded variety of human thoughts and perceptions. Tastes and smells are almost as numerous as the species of bodies. Sounds admit of perceptible varieties that surpass all computation, and the seven primary colours may be diversified without end. If each variety of external perception were to have a name, language would be insurmountably difficult; nay, if men were to appropriate a class of names to each particular sense, they would multiply words exceedingly, without adding any thing to the clearness of speech. Those words, therefore, that in their proper signification denote the objects of one sense, we often apply tropically to the objects of another, and say, Sweet taste, sweet smell, sweet sound; sharp point, sharp taste, sharp sound; harmony of sounds, harmony of colours, harmony of parts; soft silk, soft colour, soft sound, soft temper; and so in a thousand instances: and yet these words, in their tropical signification, are not less intelligible than in their proper one; for sharp taste and sharp sound, are as expressive as sharp sword; and harmony of tones is not better understood by the musician, than harmony of parts by the architect, and harmony of colours by the painter.

Savages, illiterate persons, and children, have comparatively but few words in proportion to the things they may have occasion to speak of; and must therefore recur to tropes and figures more frequently than persons of copious eloquence. A seaman, or mechanic, even when he talks of that which does not belong to his art, borrows his language from that which does; and this makes his diction figurative to a degree that is sometimes entertaining enough. "Death (says a seaman in one of Smollet's novels) has not yet boarded my comrade; but they have been yard-arm and yard-arm these three glasses. His 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 Of Tropes diciously applied may render the imitation more pleasing, because more exact and natural.

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

(2.) Tropes and figures are favourable to delicacy. When the proper name of a thing is in any respect unpleasant, a well chosen trope will convey the idea in such a way as to give no offence. This is agreeable, and even necessary, in polite conversation, and cannot be dispensed with in elegant writing of any kind. Many words, from their being often applied to vulgar use, acquire a meanness that disqualifies them for a place in serious poetry; while perhaps, under the influence of a different system of manners, the corresponding words in another language may be elegant, or at least not vulgar. When one reads Homer in the Greek, one takes no offence at his calling Eumens by a name which, literally rendered, signifies swine-herd; first, because the Greek word is well-sounding in itself; secondly, because we have never heard it pronounced in conversation, nor consequently debased by vulgar use; and, thirdly, because we know, that the office denoted by it was, in the age of Eumens, both important and honourable. But Pope would have been blamed, if a name so indelicate as swine-herd had in his translation been applied to so eminent a personage; and therefore he judiciously makes use of the trope synecdoche, and calls him swain; 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 Eumens 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 Eumens, and his cares applied, To form strong buckins 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 sound could be more agreeable, or any one phrase more dignified than another. In his Iliad and Odyssey, even when he hits the author's sense (which is not always the case), he proves, by his choice of words, that of harmony, elegance, or energy of style, he had no manner of conception. And hence that work, though called a Translation of Homer, does not even deserve the name of poem; because it is in every respect unpleasing, being nothing more than a fictitious narrative delivered in a mean prose, with the additional meanness of harsh rhyme and untuneable measure.—Trapp understood Virgil well enough as a grammarian, and had a taste for his beauties; yet his translation bears no resemblance to Virgil; which is owing to the same cause, an imprudent choice of words and figures, and a total want of harmony.

The delicacy we here contend for may, indeed, both in conversation and in writing, be carried too far. To call killing an innocent man in a duel an affair of honour, and rid 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 beoken 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 green song; the shepherd's flute dwindles into an oaten reed, and his crook is exalted into a sceptre; the silver lilies rise from their golden beds, and languish to the complaining gale. A young woman, though a good Christian, cannot make herself agreeable without sacrificing to the Graces; nor hope to do any execution among the gentle swains, till a whole legion of Cupids, armed with flames and darts, and other weapons, begin to discharge from her eyes their formidable artillery. For the sake of variety, or of the verse, some of these figures may now and then find a place in a poem; but in prose, unless very sparingly used, they favour of affectation.

(3.) Tropes and figures promote brevity; and brevity, united with perspicuity, is always agreeable. An example or two will be given in the next paragraph. Sentiments thus delivered, and imagery, thus painted, are readily apprehended, by the mind, make a strong impression upon the fancy, and remain long in the memory; whereas too many words, even when the meaning is good, never fail to bring disgust and weariness. They argue a debility of mind which hinders the author from seeing his thoughts in one distinct point of view; and they also encourage a suspicion, that there is something faulty or defective in the matter. In the poetic style, therefore, which is addressed to the fancy and passions, and intended to make a vivid, a pleasing, and a permanent impression, brevity, and consequently tropes and figures, are indispensable. And a language will always be 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 reposed on his valour.—When Solomon says of the strange woman, or harlot, that "her feet go down to death," he lets us know, not only that her path ends in destruction, but also, that they who accompany her will find it easy to go forwards to ruin, and difficult to return to their duty.—Satan's enormous magnitude, and 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. 1613.

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 waking in the morning of a new day, refreshed and cheerful; so a good man, at the end of life, resigns himself calm and contented to the will of his Maker, with the sweet reflection of having endeavoured to do his duty, and with the transporting hope of soon 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 "soil between worlds and worlds;" which has an elegance and force far superior to the proper word fly. For by this allusion to a ship, we are made to form a lively idea of his great size, and to conceive of his motion, that it was equable and majestic.—Virgil uses a happy figure to express the size of the great wooden horse, by means of which the Greeks were conveyed into Troy: "Equum divina Palladis arte adficient."—Milton is still bolder when he says,

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

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

(5.) Tropes and figures promote strength of expression; and are in poetry peculiarly requisite, because they 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 apostrophe, are the most passionate of all the figures. Lear, driven out of doors by his unnatural daughters, in the midst of darkness, thunder, and tempest, naturally Of Trope rally breaks forth (for his indignation is just now raised and to the very highest pitch) into the following violent exclamation against the crimes of mankind, in which almost every word is figurative.

Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipt of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand, Thou perjur'd, and thou simular of virtue, That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake, That under covert, and convenient seeming, Hast practis'd on man's life. Close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. King Lear.

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

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

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

But while my Hector yet survives, I see My father, mother, brethren, all in thee. Iliad, b. 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 we 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, Fourscore 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, shock- ed at the unkindness of her husband, and overcome with melancholy, speaks in a style so beautifully simple, and so perfectly natural, that one knows not what to say in commendation of it:

My mother had a maid call'd Barbara; She was in love, and he she lov'd prov'd false, And did forsake her. She had a song of willow; An old thing it was, but it express'd her fortune, And she died singing it. That song to-night. Will not go from my mind: I have much to do, But to go hang my head all at one side, And 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, and to that he sits high-throned above all height." And an sentiment this simplicity is more suitable to that one great exertion of admira- tion 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 that 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 interrupt- ed 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, prespo- pelia, and apostrophe, are among the most passionate fi- gures. This deserves illustration.

1st, A very angry man is apt to think the injury he Hyperbole has just received greater than it really is; and if he fails to proceed immediately to retaliate by word or deed, seldom fails to exceed the due bounds, and to become injurious in his turn. The fond parent looks upon his child as a prodigy of genius and beauty; and the romantic lover will not be persuaded that his mistress has nothing 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 wonder, then, that they who speak according to the impulse of passion should speak hyperbolically; that the angry man should exaggerate the injury he has received; and the vengeance he is going to inflict; that the sorrowful should magnify what they have lost, and the joyful what they have obtained; that the lover should speak 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 consider it, as less than the truth, or at best as inconsiderable. Contempt uses the same figure; and therefore Petruchio, affecting that passion, affects also the language of it:

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

*Taming of the Shrew*, act iv. sc. i.

For some passions consider their objects as important and others as unimportant. Of the former sort are anger, love, fear, admiration, joy, sorrow, pride; of the latter are contempt and courage. Those may be said to subdue the mind to the object, and these to subdue the object to the mind. And the former, when violent, always magnify their objects: whence the hyperbole called amplification, or *auxesis*; and the latter as constantly diminish theirs; and give rise to the hyperbole called *meiosis*, or diminution.—Even when the mind cannot be said to be under the influence of any violent passion, we naturally employ the same figure when we would impress another very strongly with any idea. "He is a walking shadow: he is worn to skin and bone: he has one foot in the grave and the other following:"—these, and the like phrases, are proved to be natural by their frequency. By introducing great ideas, the hyperbole is further useful in poetry as a source of the sublime; but when employed injudiciously is very apt to become ridiculous. Cowley makes Goliath as big as the hill down which he was marching*; and tells us, that when he came into the valley he seemed to fill it, and to overtop the neighbouring mountains (which, by the by, seems rather to lessen the mountains and valleys than to magnify the giant): nay, he adds that the sun started back when he saw the splendour of his arms.

This poet seems to have thought that the figure in question could never be sufficiently enormous; but Quintilian would have taught him, "Quamvis omnis hyperbole ultra fidem, non tamen esse debet ultra modum." The reason is, that this figure, when excessive, betokens rather absolute infatuation than intense emotion; and resembles the efforts of a ranting tragedian, or the ravings of an enthusiastic disclaimer, who, by putting on the gestures and looks of a lunatic, satisfy the discerning part of their audience, that, instead of feeling strongly, they have no rational feelings at all. In the wildest energies of nature there is a modesty which the imitative artist will be careful never to overstep.

2dly, That figure, by which things are spoken of as persons, when if they were persons, is called *prosopopoeia*, 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, and over streams and fountains; little deities, called *Lares* and *Penates*, were believed to be the guardians of hearths and houses. In Scotland there is hardly a hill remarkable for the beauty of its shape, that was not in former times thought to be the habitation of fairies. Nay, modern as well as ancient superstition has appropriated the waters to a peculiar sort of demon or goblin, and peoples 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 an interesting passion, especially of long continuance, is apt to fancy that all nature sympathises with him. If he has lost a beloved friend, he thinks the sun less bright than at other times; and in the sighing of the winds and groves, in the lowings of the herd, and in the murmurs of the stream, he seems to hear the voice of lamentation. But when joy or hope predominate, the whole world assumes a gay appearance. In the contemplation of every part of nature, of every condition of mankind, of every form of human society, the benevolent and the pious man, the morose and the cheerful, the miser and the misanthrope, finds occasion to indulge his favourite passion, and sees or thinks he sees, his own temper reflected back in the actions, sympathies, and tendencies of other things and persons. Our affections are indeed the medium through which we may be said to survey ourselves, and every thing else; and whatever be our inward frame, we are apt to perceive a wonderful congeniality in the world without us. And hence the fancy, when roused by real emotions, or by the pathos of composition, is easily reconciled to those figures of speech that ascribe sympathy, perception, and the other attributes of animal life, to things inanimate, or even to notions merely intellectual.—Motion, too, bears a close affinity to action, and affects our imagination nearly in the same manner; and we see a great part of nature in motion, and by its sensible effects are led to contemplate energies innumerable. These conduct the rational mind to the Great First Cause; and these, in times of ignorance, disposed the vulgar to believe in a variety of subordinate agents employed in producing those appearances that could not otherwise be accounted for. Hence an endless train of fabulous deities, and of witches, demons, fairies, genii; which, if they prove our reason weak, and our fancy strong, prove also that personification is natural to the human mind; and that a right use of this figure may have a powerful effect, in fabulous writing especially, to engage our sympathy in behalf of things as well as persons; for nothing can give lasting delight to a moral being, but that which awakens sympathy, and touches the heart; and though it be true that we sympathise in some degree even with inanimate things, yet what has, or is supposed to have, life, calls forth a more sincere and more permanent fellow-feeling.—Let it be observed further, that to awaken our sympathetic feelings, a lively conception of their object is necessary. This indeed is true of almost all our emotions; their keenness is in proportion... Of Troops 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 wo.

And for this reason partly it is that the epic poet, in order to work the more effectually upon our passions and imagination, refers the secret springs of human conduct, and the vicissitudes of human affairs, to the agency of personified causes; that is, to the machinery of gods and goddesses, angels, demons, magicians, and other powerful beings. And hence, in all sublime poetry, life and motion, with their several modes and attributes, are liberally bestowed on those objects wherewith the author intends that we should be strongly impressed: scenes perfectly inanimate and still, tending rather to diffuse a languor over the mind than to communicate to our internal powers those lively energies without which a being essentially active can never receive complete gratification.

Lastly, some violent passions are peculiarly inclined to change things into persons. The horrors of his mind haunted Orestes in the shape of furies. Conscience, in the form of the murdered person, stares the murderer in the face, and often terrifies him to distraction. The superstitious man, travelling alone in the dark, mistakes a white stone for a ghost, a bush for a demon, a tree waving with the wind for an enormous giant brandishing a hundred arms. The lunatic and enthusiast converse with persons who exist only in their own distempered fancy; and the glutton and the miser, if they were to give utterance to all their thoughts, would often, it is presumable, speak, the one of his gold, the other of his belly, not only as a person, but as a god,—the object of his warmest love and most devout regard.—More need not be said to prove that personification is natural, and may frequently contribute to the pathos, energy, and beauty of poetic language.

3dly, Apostrophe, or a sudden diversion of speech from one person to another person or thing, is a figure nearly related to the former. Poets sometimes make use of it, in order to help out their verse, or merely to give variety to their style: but on 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 auditories would appear ridiculous. For our style of public speaking is cool and argumentative; and partakes less of enthusiasm than the Roman did, and much less than the modern French or Italian. Of British eloquence, particularly that of the pulpit, the chief recommendations are gravity and simplicity. And it is vain to say, that our oratory ought to be more vehement: for that matter depends on causes, which it is not only inexpedient, but impossible to alter; namely, on the character and spirit of the people, and their rational notions in regard to religion, policy, and literature. The exclamations of Cicero would weigh but little in our parliament; and many of those which we meet with in French sermons would not be more effectual if attempted in our pulpit. To see one of our preachers, who the moment before was a cool reasoner, a temperate speaker, an humble Christian, and an orthodox divine, break out into a sudden apostrophe to the immortal powers, or to the walls of the church, tends to force a smile, rather than a tear, from those among us who reflect, that there is nothing in the subject, and should be nothing in the orator, to warrant such wanderings of fancy or vehemence of emotion. If he be careful to cultivate a pure style, and a grave and graceful utterance, a British clergyman, who speaks from conviction the plain unaffected words of truth and soberness, of benevolence and piety, will, it is believed, convey more pathetic, as well as more permanent, impressions to the heart, and be more useful as a Christian teacher, than if he were to put in practice all the attitudes of Roscius, and all the 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 tempestatibus actus, Heu, genitorem, omnis curse causoque levamen, Amitto Anchisen:—hic me, pater optime, fessum Deseris, heu, tantis nequiquam crepte periclis!

This apostrophe has a pleasing effect. It seems to intimate, that the love which the hero bore his father was so great, that when he mentioned him he forgot every thing Of Tropes 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 adorned. Adam makes no address to the walks, the trees, or the flowers of the garden, the loss whereof did not so much afflict him; but, in his reply to the Archangel, expresses, without a figure, his regret for being banished from a place where he had been so 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 looigc 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 seren; qui carmine laudes Herculeas et facta fert; Ut duros milie labores Rege sub Eurystheo, fatis Junonis inique, Pertulerit.—Tu nubigenas, invicte, bimembres, Hykenunque, Pholunque manu, tu Cresia nactas Prodigia.

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

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

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

Language, as already observed, is then natural, when it is suitable to the supposed condition of the speaker. Figurative language is peculiarly suitable to the supposed condition of the poet; because figures are suggested by the fancy; and the fancy of him who composes to any poetry is more employed than that of any other author. Of all historical, philosophical, and theological researches, the object is real truth, which is fixed and permanent. The aim of rhetorical declamation (according to Cicero) is apparent truth; which, being less determinate, leaves the fancy of the speaker more free, gives greater scope to the inventive powers, and supplies the materials of a more figurative phraseology. But the poet is subject to no restraints, but those of verisimilitude; which is still less determinate than rhetorical truth. He seeks not to convince the judgment of his reader by arguments of either real or apparent cogency; he means only to please and interest him, by an appeal to his sensibility and imagination. His own imagination is therefore continually at work, ranging through the whole of real and probable existence, "glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven," in quest of images and ideas suited to the emotions he himself feels, and to the sympathies he would communicate to others. And, consequently, figures of speech, the offspring of excursive 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 Vernam, 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 sonning, 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 though not 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 Harmony 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 Despauter'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 versifying 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 to 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

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

Rhyme, however, is of less importance by far than rhythm, which in poetry as well as in music is the source of much pleasing variety; of variety tempered with uniformity, and regulated by art; 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 32 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 who will of his own accord give them every ornament necessary to reduce them into dignified measure; as an eloquent man, in a solemn assembly, recapitulating the speech of a clown, would naturally express it in pure and perspicuous language. The uniform heroic measure will suit any subject of dignity, whether narrative or didactic, that admits or requires uniformity of style. In tragedy, where the imitation of real life is more perfect than in epic poetry, the uniform magnificence of epic numbers might be improper; because the heroes and heroines are supposed to speak in their own persons, and according to the immediate impulse of passion and sentiment. Yet, even in tragedy, the versification may be both harmonious and dignified; because the same characters are taken chiefly from high life, and the events from a remote period; and because the higher, more 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 so like the course 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 composure. Philosophy can scarce go farther in this investigation, without deviating into whim and hypothesis. The particular sorts of verse to be adopted in the lower species of poetry, are determined by fashion chiefly, and the practice of approved authors.

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

It is pleasing to observe the uniformity of nature in all her operations. Between moral and material beauty, between moral and material deformity, there obtains a very striking analogy. The visible and audible expressions of almost every virtuous and vicious emotion are agreeable to the eye and the ear, and formity, 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 tincture of right lines and sharp angles in the countenance and gesture of him who knits his brows, stretches his nostrils, grinds his teeth, and clenches his fist; whereas, devotion, magnanimity, benevolence, contentment, and good humour, soften the attitude, and give a more graceful swell to the outline of every feature. Certain vocal tones accompany certain mental emotions. The voice of sorrow is feeble and broken, that of despair boisterous and incoherent; joy assumes a sweet and sprightly note, fear a weak and tremulous cadence; the tones of love and benevolence are musical and uniform, those of rage loud and dissonant; the voice of the sedate reasoner is equable and grave, but not unpleasant; and he who declaims with energy, employs many varieties of modulation suited to the various emotions that predominate in his discourse.

But it is not in the language of passion only that the human voice varies its tone, or the human face its features. Every striking sentiment, and every interesting idea, has an effect upon it. One would esteem that person no adept in narrative eloquence, who should describe, with the very same accent, swift and slow 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 also vary its tones; and, in respect of sound as well as of meaning, be framed after that model of ideal perfection, which the variety and energy of the human articulate voice render probable. This is the more easily accomplished, because in every language there is between the sound and sense of certain words a perceptible harmony, analogy; which, though not so accurate as to lead a foreigner from the sound to the signification, is yet accurate enough to show, that, in forming such words, regard has been had to the imitative qualities of vocal sound. Such, in English, are the words yell, crash, crack, kiss, 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 Rosnard's affected imitation of the song of the sky-lark:

Elle quintée du zephyre Sublime en l'air vire et revire, Et y déclique 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 tarantanta 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, Taranta taranta; while all the boys hollow.

Words by their sound may imitate sound; and quick or slow articulation may imitate quick or slow motion, many of Hence, by a proper choice and arrangement of words, numbers the poet may imitate Sounds that are sweet with dignity (m),—sweet and tender (1),—loud (k),—and harsh (l),—and Motions that are slow, in consequence of dignity (m),—slow in consequence of difficulty (n),—swift

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

The boarse 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.

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

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

And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your thighs.

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

The huge leviathan Wallowing unwieldy, enormous in their gait, Tempest the ocean.

Virg. Ec. i.

Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvas.

Virg. Ec. i.

See also the simile of the nightingale, Georg. lib. iv. ver. 511. And see that wonderful couplet describing the wailings of the owl, Æneid iv. 462.

Cum sonitus venit, et ruere omnia visa repente, Tyrhenusque tubae mugire per aethera clanger, Suspiciunt: iterum atque iterum fragor increpat ingen.

Æneid, viii. Of poetical swift and noisy (o)—swift and smooth (p)—uneven harmony, 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 harmony, the objects of love, complacency, and 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, Odysseus, lib. xii. ver. 592. See Quintil. Inst. Orat. lib. ix. cap. 4. § 4. compared with Paradise Lost, book ii. ver. 1022.

(o) Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quattit ungula campum.

See also Virg. Æneid. lib. i. ver. 83—87.

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

Ille volat, simul arva fuga, simul sequora verrens.

(q) Πάλλας ὑπὸ πονηρὰ κατάστη τροχία τι δύναμις τ' ἐκεῖνον.

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

(b) 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.

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

(s) Ac velut in somnis oculos ubi languida pressit Nocte quies, nequiquam avidos extendere cursus Velle videmur:—et in mediis conatibus agri Succeidimus.

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

(t) For this, be sure to-night thou shalt have cramps; Side-stitches that shall pent thy breath up. Urchins Shall exercise upon thee.

Prospero to Caliban in the Tempest.

See Pope's Iliad, xiii. 129.

(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.

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.

Æneid. iii.

Et magnos membrorum artus, magna ossa, lacertosque Exuit, atque ingens media consistit arena.

Æneid. v. 422.

(y) Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori; Hic nemus, hic ipso tectum consumerent ævo.

Virg. Ec. 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 disperdere carmen.

Virg. Ec. iii.

Immo ego Sardois videar tibi amarior herbis, Horridior rusco, projecta vilior alga.

Virg. Ec. vii.

Neu patrice validas in viscera vertite vires.

Virg. Æneid. 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. Æneid, iv. 24.

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

O now for ever Farewell the tranquil mind! &c. Act 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 convallès, 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 this extraordinary change of the rhythm may be allow- Harmony. ed to bear some resemblance to the animal's change of motion, as it would be felt by a rider, and as we may suppose it is felt by the animal itself.

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

Part II. Of the DIFFERENT SPECIES OF POETRY, with their PARTICULAR PRINCIPLES.

Sect. I. Of Epic and Dramatic Compositions.

§ 1. The Epopée and Drama compared.

TRAGEDY and the epic differ not in substantial: in both the same ends are proposed, viz. instruction and amusement; and in both the same mean is employed, viz. imitation of human actions. They differ only in the manner of imitating; epic poetry employs narration; tragedy represents its facts as passing in our sight; in the former, the poet introduces himself as an historian; in the latter, he 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 assumes to himself, and deigns not to share with his actors. Nothing can be more injudiciously timed, than a chain of such reflections, which suspend the battle of Pharsalia, after the leaders had made their speeches, and the two armies are ready to engage †.

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

Many are the good effects of such compositions. A tragic composition, whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by exciting us to do what is right, and restraining us from what is wrong. Its frequent pictures of human woes, produce, beside, two effects, extremely salutary: They improve our sympathy, and fortify us to bear our 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 mand, and can put in motion the whole train of the Epopeean 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 of 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 dissension 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 semibarbarous 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 valour 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 the author in the management of his subject. His plan 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 unfortunate, except established practice, since success and virtue do not necessarily go together." Most critics, however, are of a different opinion, and hold success to be, if not the necessary, at least the most proper issue of an epic poem. An unhappy conclusion depresses the mind, and is opposite to the elevating emotions which belong to this species of poetry. Terror and compassion are the proper subjects of tragedy; but as the epic is of larger extent, it were too much, if, after the difficulties and troubles which commonly abound in the progress of the poem, the author should bring them all at last to an unfortunate conclusion. We know not that any author of name has held this course except Lucan; for in the Paradise Lost, as Adam's deceiver is at last crushed, and he himself restored to the favour of his maker, Milton's hero must be considered as finally successful. We have no occasion to say more of the epic, comic, and dramatic subjects as peculiarly adapted to certain subjects, and to be conducted according to a certain plan. But as dramatic subjects are more complex, it is necessary to take a narrower view of them. They are either the light and the gay, or the grave and affecting, incidents of human life. The former constitute the subject of comedy, and the latter of tragedy.

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

The subject best fitted for tragedy is where a man has himself been the cause of his misfortune; not so as to be deeply guilty, nor altogether innocent: the misfortune must be occasioned by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore in some degree venial. Such misfortunes call forth the social affections, and warmly interest the spectator. An accidental misfortune, if not extremely singular, doth not greatly move our pity: the person who suffers, being innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, that anguish of mind which is occasioned by remorse. An atrocious criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself, excites little pity, for a different reason: his remorse, it is true, aggravates his distress and swells the first emotions of pity: but then our hatred of him as a criminal blending with pity, blunts its edge considerably. Misfortunes that are not innocent nor highly criminal, partake the advantages of each extreme: they are attended with remorse to embitter the distress, which raises our pity to a great height; and the slight indignation we have at a venal fault detracts not sensibly from our pity. The happiest of all subjects accordingly for raising pity, is where a man of integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an action that is innocent, but which, by some singular means, is conceived by him to be criminal: his remorse aggravates his distress; and our compassion, unrestrained by indignation, knows no bounds. Pity comes thus to be the ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy; and, by proper representation, may be raised to a height 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 had 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 incalculable 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 Of the lucky chance, and go away dissatisfied. Such impressions, which ought not to be cherished, are a sufficient reason for excluding stories of this kind from the theatre.

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

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

There is indeed one singular drama, in which destiny is employed in a manner very different from that in which it was used by the poets of Greece and Rome. It is Schiller's tragedy of the Robbers, of which "the hero, endowed by nature (as the translator of the piece observes) with the most generous feelings, animated by the highest sense of honour, and susceptible of the warmest affections of the heart, is driven by the perfidy of a brother, and the supposed inhumanity of his father, into a state of confirmed misanthropy and despair." He wished that he "could blow the trumpet of rebellion through all nature; that he could extinguish with one mortal blow the viperous race of men; and that he could so strike as to destroy the germ of existence." In this situation he is hurried on to the perpetration of a series of crimes which find from their very magnitude and atrocity a recommendation to his distempered mind. Sensible all the while of his own guilt, and suffering for that guilt the severest pangs of remorse, he yet believes himself an instrument of vengeance in the hands of the Almighty for the punishment of the crimes of others. In thus accomplishing the dreadful destiny which is prescribed for him, he feels a species of gloomy satisfaction, at the same time that he considers himself as doomed to the performance of that part in life which is to consign his memory to infamy and his soul to perdition. After burning a town, he exclaims, "O God of vengeance! am I to blame for this? Art thou to blame, O Father of Heaven! when the instruments of thy wrath, the pestilence, flood, and famine overwhelm at once the righteous and the guilty? Who can command the flames to stay their course, to destroy only the noxious vermin, and spare the fertile field?" yet with the same breath he accuses himself of extreme criminality for "presumptuously wielding the sword of the Most High!" He frequently laments in the most affecting manner the loss of his innocence, wishes that "he could return into the womb that bare him, that he hung an infant at the breast, that he were born a beggar, the meanest hind, a peasant of the field." He considers himself as the outcast of Heaven, and finally rejected by the Father of mercy; yet he tells the band of robbers whom he commanded, that the "Almighty honoured them as agents in his hands to execute his wonderous purposes; employed them as his angels to execute his stern decrees, and pour the vials of his wrath;" and in a very solemn prayer, he supposes "that the God who ruleth over all had decreed he should become the chief of these foul murderers."

"It will be allowed (says the translator), that the imagination could not have conceived a spectacle more deeply interesting, more powerfully affecting to the mind of man, than that of a human being thus characterised and acting under such impressions. The compassionate interest which the mind feels in the emotions or sufferings of the guilty person, is not diminished by the observation, that he acts under an impression of inevitable destiny; on the contrary, there is something in our nature which leads us the more to compassionate the instrument of those crimes, that we see him consider himself as bound to guilt by fetters, which he has the constant wish, but not the strength, to break."

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

The tragedy of the Robbers is a striking instance of the justness of Dr Blair's criticism, in opposition to that Of the 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 Shakespear has employed it successfully in several of his pieces. One advantage it possesses above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tends above any other particular to raise our sympathy. The scene of comedy is generally laid at home: familiarity is no objection; and we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our own manners.

After a proper subject is chosen, the dividing it into parts requires some art. The conclusion of a book in an epic poem, or of an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be intended for so slight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. The supposed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the end of every act, ought always to coincide with some pause in the action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem ought to resemble a sentence or period in language, divided into members that are distinguished from each other by proper pauses; or it ought to resemble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded by imperfect closes that contribute to the melody. The division of every play into five acts has no other foundation than common practice, and the authority of Horace (b). 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 Æacid, 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 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 slighter 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

(b) Neve minor, nec sit quinto productior actus 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, *ostende 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 subservient to these, so as to appear natural and proper for the occasion.

§ 2. Respective peculiarities of the Epopee and Drama.

In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both Machinery the eye and the ear, it would be a gross absurdity to intro-duce upon the stage superior beings in a visible shape, no place. There is no place for such objection in an epic poem; in drama, and Boileau, with many other critics, declares strongly for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. But wav-ing authority, which is apt to impose upon the judge-ment, 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 objec-tion would still remain, which is, that the aim or end in the high-est of an epic poem can never be attained in any perfection where machinery is introduced; for an evident reason, that virtuous emotions cannot be raised successfully but by the actions of those who are endowed with passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions; and as for moral instruction, it is clear, that none can be drawn from beings who act not upon the same principles with us. A fable in Æsop's manner is no objection to this reasoning: his lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men under disguise; they act and feel in every respect as human beings; and the moral we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it is true, introduces the gods into his fable: but the religion of his country authorized that liberty; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and bodily in human affairs. It must however be observed, that Homer's deities do no honour to his poems: fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have a good effect; they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will not be relished by any person of a correct taste. They may be of some use to the lower rank of writers; but an author of genius has much finer materials, of Nature's production, for elevating his subject, and making it interesting.

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

That this is a capital error in Gierusalemme Liberata, Tasso's greatest admirers must acknowledge: a situation can never be intricate, nor the reader 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 Pharsalia, observes judiciously, "That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the solidity of Lucan's subject, deprived him of poetical fiction." Is it not amazing, that a critic who reasons so justly with respect to others, can be so blind with respect to himself? Voltaire, not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisible and superior beings, introduces them into the action: in the sixth canto of the Henriade, St Louis appears in person, and terrifies the soldiers; in the seventh canto, St Louis sends the god of Sleep to Henry; and in the tenth, the Demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War, &c. assist Annalie 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 Destinies to have had a hand in the deaths of the several thousands who have been slain in the late war, being of opinion that all such deaths may be well accounted for by the Christian system of powder and ball. I do therefore strictly forbid the Fates to cut the thread of man's life upon any pretence whatsoever, unless it be for the sake of rhyme. And whereas I have good reason to fear, that Neptune will have a great deal of business on his hands in several poems which we may now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his appearance, unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short allusion; and that even here he may not be permitted to enter, but with great caution and circumspection. I desire that the same rule may be extended to his whole fraternity of Heathen gods; it being my design to condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or exercises any other act of authority which does not belong to him. In short I expect that no pagan agent shall be introduced, or any fact related which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience. Provided always that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be construed to extend to several of the female poets in this nation, who shall still be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in the same manner as if this paper had never been written."

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

What is the true notion of an episode? or how is it to be distinguished from the principal action? Every incident that promotes or retards the catastrophe must be part of the principal action. This clears the nature of an episode; which may be defined, "An incident connected with the principal action, but contributing neither to advance nor retard it." The descent of *Aeneas* into hell does not advance or retard the catastrophe, and therefore is an episode. The story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal action. The family-scene in the sixth book of the *Iliad* is of the same nature: for by Hector's retiring from the field of battle to visit his wife, the Grecians had opportunity to breathe, and even to turn upon the Trojans. The unavoidable effect of an episode according to this definition must be, to break the unity of action; and therefore it ought never to be indulged unless to unbind 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 (e).

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

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

"One day, tired of the chace, 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. It 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 Gormal my foe: I will rest here; but soon return, my love.

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

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

Violent action ought never to be represented on the violent stage. While the dialogue goes on, a thousand particulars not to be represented ed.

(e) Homer's description of the shield of Achilles is properly introduced at a time when the action relents, and the reader can bear an interruption. But the author of Telemachus describes the shield of that young hero in the heat of battle; a very improper time for an interruption. 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 raised 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 Meden trucidet; Ant humana palam coquet extra nefarius Atreus; Ant in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in angem: Quodcumque ostendis mibi sic, incredulus odi.

The French critics join with Horace in excluding blood from the stage; but overlooking the most substantial objection, they urge only that it is barbarous and shocking to a polite audience. The Greeks had 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, representing the affair between Horatius and his sister, upon which the murder ensues behind the scene, had no other view but to remove from the spectators a shocking action, he was guilty of a capital mistake: for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was the case as represented, is more shocking to a polite audience, even where the conclusive stab is not seen, than the same act performed in their presence by violent and unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repented of as committed.

Addison's observation is just*, That no part of this incident ought to have been represented, but reserved for a narrative, with every alleviating circumstance in favour of the hero.

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 Grenada. 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 uncoast 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 stays the course of the action, because it is not productive of any consequence. In Congreve's comedies, the action is often suspended to make way for a play of wit.

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

Rhyme being unnatural and disgustful 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 biased by custom. In short, that variety of characters and of situations, which is the life of a play, requires not only a suitable variety in the sentiments, but also in the diction.

§ 3. The Three Unities.

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

But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in what conjunction with the material, the scene is varied. Unity of Man acts with deliberation, will, and choice: he aims at some end; glory, for example, or riches, or conquest, the procuring happiness to individuals, or to his country in general: he proposes means, and lays plans to attain the proposed end. 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 and the end, of what Aristotle calls an entire action*. 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; reserving 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 3d scene of act 2, and all that follow to the end of that act, are mere conversation-pieces, productive of no consequence. The 16th and 17th scenes, act 3. Double Dealer, and the 18th, 19th, 20th, 21st, and 22nd scenes, act 1. Love for Love, are of the same kind. Neither is The Way of the World entirely guiltless of such scenes. It will be no justification that they help to display characters: it were better, like Dryden in his dramatis personæ, 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 tale 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.

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

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

We are aware, that the drama differs so far from the epic as to admit different rules. It will be observed, "That an historical fable, intended for reading solely, is under no limitation of time or of place more than a genuine history; but that a dramatic composition cannot be accurately represented unless it be limited, as its representation is, to one place and to a few hours; and therefore that no fable can be admitted but what has these properties, because it would be absurd to compose a piece for representation that cannot be justly represented." This argument has at least a plausible appearance; and yet one is apt to suspect some fallacy, considering that no critic, however strict, has ventured to confine the unities of place and of time within so narrow bounds.

A view of the Grecian drama, compared with our own, may perhaps relieve us from this dilemma: if they be differently constructed, as shall be made evident, it is possible that the foregoing reasoning may not be equally applicable to both.

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

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

Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to establish rules founded on the practice of the Greeks, are 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

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

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

And therefore the only proper question is, Whether our model be or be not a real improvement? This indeed may fairly be called in question; and in order to a comparative trial, some particulars must be premised. When a play begins, we have no difficulty to adjust our imagination to the scene of action, however distant it be in time or in place; because we know that the play is a representation only. The case is very different after we are engaged: it is the perfection of representation to hide itself, to impose on the spectator, and to produce in him an impression of reality, as if he were spectator of a real event; but any interruption annihilates that impression, by rousing him out of his waking dream, and unhappily restoring him to his senses. So difficult it is to support the impression of reality, that much slighter interruptions than the interval between two acts are sufficient to dissolve the charm: in the 4th 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 become faint-hearted upon the first repulse; let us rally our troops for a second engagement.

On the Greek stage, whatever may have been the case on the Roman, the representation was never interrupted, and the division by acts was totally unknown. The word 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 distress. In this manner, music and representation support each other delightfully: the impression made upon the audience by the representation, is a fine preparation for the music that succeeds; and the impression made by the music is a fine preparation for the representation that succeeds. It appears evident, that by some such contrivance, the modern drama may be improved, so as to enjoy the advantage of the ancient chorus without its slavish limitation of place and time. But to return to the comparison between the ancient and the modern drama.

The numberless improprieties forced upon the Greek dramatic poets by the constitution of their drama, may be sufficient, one should think, to make us prefer the modern drama, even abstracting from the improvement proposed. To prepare the reader for this article, it must be premised, that as in the ancient drama the place of action never varies, a place necessarily must be chosen to which every person may have access without any improbability. This confines the scene to some open place, generally the court or area before a palace; which excludes from the Grecian theatre transactions within doors, though these commonly are the most important. Such cruel restraint is of itself sufficient to cramp the most pregnant invention; and accordingly the Greek writers, in order to preserve unity of place, are reduced to woful improprieties. In the Hippolytus of Euripides (act 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.). Alcestes, in Euripides, at the point of death, is brought from the palace to the place of action, groaning and lamenting her untimely fate (act 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 time than by that of place. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, that prince is banished at the end of the 4th plan act; and in the first scene of the following act, a messenger relates to Theseus the whole particulars of the death of Hippolytus by the sea-monster: that remarkable event must have occupied many hours; and yet in the representation it is confined to the time employed by the chorus upon the song at the end of the 4th act. The inconsistency is still greater in the Iphigenia in Tauris (act 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 soliloquy in the first scene, leaves the place of action, and is succeeded by Orestes and Pylades: they, after some conversation, walk off; and Iphigenia re-enters, accompanied with the chorus. In the Alcestes, which is of the same author, the place of action is void at the end of the 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 is still an interruption, and a link of the chain broken: for during the change of the actors, there must be a space of time, during which the stage is occupied by neither set. It makes indeed a more remarkable interruption, to change the place of action as well as the actors; but that was not practicable upon the Grecian stage.

It is hard to say upon what model Terence has formed his plays. Having no chorus, there is a pause in the representation at the end of every act: but advantage is not taken of the cessation, even to vary the place of action; for the street is always chosen, where everything passing may be seen by every person; and by that choice, the most sprightly and interesting parts of the action, which commonly 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, beside breaking the unity of the act, it has a disagreeable effect: after an interval, the imagination adapts itself to any place that is necessary, as readily as at the commencement of the play; but during the representation we reject change of place. From the foregoing censure must be excepted the Mourning Bride of Congreve, where regularity concurs with the beauty of sentiment and of language, to make it one of the most complete pieces England has to boast of. It is 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 act-

§ 4. Of the Opera.

An opera is a drama represented by music. This entertainment was invented at Venice. An exhibition of this sort requires a most brilliant magnificence, and an expense truly royal. The drama must necessarily be composed in verse: for as operas are sung and accompanied with symphonies, they must be in verse to be properly applicable to music. To render this entertainment still more brilliant, it is ornamented with dances and 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 singing and music is so little natural, and has something in it so forced and affected, that it is not easy to conceive how it could come into the minds of men of genius to represent any human action, and, what is more, a serious or tragic action, any otherwise than by speech. We have, it is true, operas in English by Addison, &c., in Italian by Metastasio, in French by M. Quinault, Fontenelle, &c., the subjects of which are so grave and tragic, that one might call them musical tragedies, and real chefs d'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; Biefeld's and who are perpetually applying the rules of logic to Elem. of 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 pipe of a clarinet, To arms! To arms! and in the enchantment; same tone animate his soldiers, and lead them to the assault; or harangue an assembly of grave senators, and sometimes a whole body of people. Nothing can be more burlesque than such exhibitions; and a man must be possessed of a very uncommon sensibility to be affected by them. But as we know not what was the language of the gods, and their manner of expressing themselves, we are at liberty in that case to form what illusions we please, and to suppose that they sung to distinguish themselves from mortals. Besides, all the magic of decorations and machinery become natural, and even necessary, in these kinds of subjects; and therefore readily afford opportunity for all the pomp of these performances. The chorus, the dances, the ballettes, the symphonies and dresses, may likewise be all made to correspond with such subjects, nothing is here affected, absurd, or unnatural. Whoever is possessed of genius, and is well acquainted with mythology, will there find an inexhaustible source of subjects highly diversified and quite proper for the drama of an opera.

We shall not speak here of that sort of music which appears to us the most proper for such a drama, and of the several alterations of which we think it susceptible in order to make it more complete, and to adapt it to a more pathetic, more noble, and more natural expression, as well in the recitatives as in the airs and chorus. (See Music). We have only here to consider the business of the poet. He should never lose sight of nature even in the midst of the greatest fiction. A god, a demi-god, a renowned hero, such for example as Renaud in Armida, a fairy, a 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 sot or a petite maîtresse. The recitative, which is the groundwork of the dialogue, requires verses that are free and not regular, such as with a simple cadence approach the nearest to common language. The airs should not be forced into the piece, nor improperly placed for the sake of terminating a scene, or to display the voice of a performer; they should express some sentiment, or some precept, short and striking, or tender and affecting; or some smile lively and natural; and they should arise of themselves from a monologue, or from a scene between two persons: prolixity should here be particularly avoided, especially when such an air makes part of a dialogue; for nothing is more insipid or disgustful than the countenances of the other actors who appear at the same time, whose silence is quite unmeaning, and who know not what to do with their hands and feet while the singer is straining his throat. The verse of all the airs should be of the lyric kind, and should contain some poetic image, or paint some noble passion, which may furnish the composer with an opportunity of displaying his talents, and of giving a lively and affecting expression to the music. A phrase that is 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 monstrous chaos. It is impossible, however, scrupulously to observe the unity of time and place: though the liberty, which reason allows the poet in this respect, is not without bounds; and the less use he makes of it, the more perfect his poem will be. It is not perhaps impossible so to arrange the objects, that, in changing the decorations, the painter may constantly make appear some part of the principal decoration which characterises the situation of the scene, as the corner of a palace, at the end of a garden, or some avenue that leads to it, &c. But all this is liable to difficulties, and even to exceptions; and the art of the painter must concur in such case with that of the poet. For the rest, all the operas of Europe are at least one third too long; especially the Italian. The unity of action requires brevity, and satiety is inseparable from a diversion that lasts full four hours, and sometimes longer.

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

Sect. II. Of Lyric Poetry.

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 feasts, festivals, and on other solemn occasions. Nor was this practice confined to the Israelites only: other nations had their songs of praise and petitions of this sort, which they preferred to their 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 scorns above rule, though not above reason. This freedom, however, consists chiefly in sudden transitions, bold digressions, and lofty excursions. For the ancient poets, and even Pindar, the most daring and lofty of them all, has in his sublimest flights, and amidst all his rapture, preserved harmony, and often uniformity in his versification: but so great is the variety of his measures, that the traces of sameness 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-resounding main?

Or who can Theron's gen'rous works express, And tell how many hearts his bounteous virtues bless? Ode to Theron.

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

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

West's Pindar.

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

Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms Adria's black gulf, and vexes it with storms, The stubborn virtue of his soul can move; Nor the red arm of angry Jove, That flings the thunder from the sky, And gives it rage to roar, and strength 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, Entretien dans vers commerce avec les Dieux. Aux Athletes dans Fise elle ouvre la barriere, Chante un vainqueur poudreux au bout de la carrière; Mène Achille sanglant au bords du Simois Ou fait flechir l'Éscaut sous le joug de Louis. Tantôt comme une abeille ardente à son ouvrage Elle s'en va de fleurs dépoiller le rivage: Elle peint les festins, les danses & les ris, Vante un baiser cueilli sur les levres d'Iris, Qui mallement résiste & par un doux caprice Quelquefois le refuse, afin qu'on le ravisse. Son style impétueux souvent marche au hasard. Chez elle un beau desordre est un effet de l'art, Loin ces rimeurs craintifs, dont l'esprit phlegmatique Garde dans ses fureurs un ordre didactique: Qui chantant d'un heros les progres éclatans, Maigres historiens, suivront perdre des temps. Apollon de son feu leur fait 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 Pisa's wrestlers tells the sinewy force, And sings the dusty conqueror's glorious course;

To To Simois' banks now fierce Achilles sends, Beneath the Gallic yoke now Escant bends: Sometimes she flies, like an industrious bee, And robs the flowers by nature's chemistry; Describes the shepherds dances, feasts, and bliss, And boasts from Phillis to surprise a kiss, When gently she resists with feign'd remorse, That what she grants may seem to be by force.

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

Plate CCCCIV.—CCCCVI. to face page 32 CCCCVII. 92 CCCCVIII. 114 CCCCIX. 128 CCCCX.—CCCCXV. 184 CCCCXVI. 336

PART II.

CCCCXVII. CCCCXVIII. 528 CCCCXIX. 552 CCCCXX.—CCCCXXII. 600 CCCCXXIII.—CCCCXXXIII. 750