From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies, To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.

Formerly, He taught us erst * the heifer's tail to view, When stalk aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue: He first that useful secret did explain, That pricking corns foretold the gathering rain. When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air, He told us that the welkin would be clear. Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse, And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse. I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee, That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

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

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

Lob. My Blouzalinda is the blithest lass, Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.

s the king-cup that in meadows blows; Fair is the daisy that beside her grows; Fair is the gilly-flower of gardens sweet; Fair is the marigold, for pasture meet: But Blouzalinda's than gilly-flower more fair, Than daisy, marigold, or king-cup rare.

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

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

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

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

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

Lob. Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear, Of Irish swains potatoes are the cheer; Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind, Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzalinda:

While she loves turnips, batter I'll despise, Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.

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

Lob. As once I play'd at blind man's buff, it hap't About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt: I miss'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouzalinda; True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.

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

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

Cud. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid, And myself pois'd against the tott'ring maid!

eapt the plank, and down Buxoma fell; I spied—but faithful sweethearts never tell.

Lob. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst, explain, This wily riddle puzzles every swain: What flower is that which bears the virgin's name? The richest metal joined with the same?

Cud. Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right, I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight: What flower is that which royal honour craves, Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis strown on graves?

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

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

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

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

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

Sect. V. Of Didactic or Preceptive Poetry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II. Those preceptive poems that concern philosophical speculations, though the subject is so pregnant with matter, affords such a field of fancy, and is so capable of every decoration, are but few. Lucretius is the most considerable among the ancients who has written in this manner; among the moderns we have little else but small detached pieces, except the poem called Anti-Lucretius, which has not yet received an English dress; Dr Akenside's Pleasures of the Imagination, and Dr Darwin's Botanic Garden; which are all worthy of our admiration. Some of the small pieces in this department are also well executed; and there is one entitled the Universe, written by Mr Baker, from which we shall borrow an example.

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

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

Unwise! and thoughtless! impotent! and blind! Can wealth, or grandeur, satisfy the mind? Of all these pleasures mortals most admire,

here one joy sincere, that will not tire? Can love itself endure? or beauty's charms Afford that bliss we fancy in its arms? Then let thy soul more glorious aims pursue: Have thy Creator and his works in view. Be these thy study: hence thy pleasures bring: And drink large draughts of wisdom from its spring; That spring, whence perfect joy, and calm repose, And blest content, and peace eternal flows.

Observe how regular the planets run, In stated times, their courses round the Sun.

heir bulk, their distance, their career, And different much the compass of their year: Yet all the same eternal laws obey, While God's unerring finger points the way. First Mercury, amidst full tides of light, Rolls next the sun, through his small circle bright. All that dwell here must be refin'd and pure: Bodies like ours such ardour can't endure: Our earth would blaze beneath so fierce a ray, And all its marble mountains melt away.

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

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

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

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

Farthest and last, scarce warm'd by Phoebus' ray, Through his vast orbit Saturn wheels away. How great the change could we wafted there! How slow the seasons! and how long the year!

One moon, on us, reflects its cheerful light: There, five attendants brighten up the night. Here, the blue firmament bedeck'd with stars; There, over-head, a lucid arch appears.

From hence, how large, how strong, the sun's bright ball! But seen from thence, how languid and how small! When the keen north with all its fury blows, Congeals the floods, and forms the fleecy snows, 'Tis heat intense to what can there be known: Warmer our poles than is its burning zone.

Who there inhabits must have other pow'rs, Juices, and veins, and sense, and life, than ours. One moment's cold, like theirs, would pierce the bone,

he heart-blood, and turn us all to stone.

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

Wondrous art thou, O God, in all thy ways! Their eyes to thee let all thy creatures raise; Adore thy grandeur, and thy goodness praise. Ye sons of men! with satisfaction know, God's own right hand dispenses all below: Nor good nor evil does by chance befall; He reigns supreme, and he directs it all.

At his command, affrighting human-kind,

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

Of those preceptive poems that treat of the business and pleasures of mankind, Virgil's Georgics claim our first and principal attention. In these he has laid down the rules of husbandry in all its branches with the utmost exactness and perspicuity, and at the same time embellished them with all the beauties and graces of poetry. Though his subject was husbandry, he has delivered his precepts, as Mr Addison observes, not with the simplicity of a ploughman, but with the address of a poet; the meanest of his rules are laid down with a kind of grandeur; and he breaks the cloke, and tosses about the clung, with an air of gracefulness. Of the different ways of conveying the same truth to the mind, he takes that which is pleasantest; and this chiefly distinguishes poetry from prose, and renders Virgil's rules of husbandry more delightful and valuable than any other.

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

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

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

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

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

With regard to the style or dress of these poems, it should be so rich as to hide the nakedness of the style, subject, and the barrenness of the precepts should be lost in the lustre of the language. "It ought to be bound in the most bold and forcible metaphors, the most glowing and picturesque epithets; it ought to be elevated and enlivened by pomp of numbers and majesty of words, and by every figure that can lift a language above the vulgar and current expressions." One may add, that in no kind of poetry (not even in the sublime ode) is beauty of expression so much to be regarded as in this. For the epic writer should be very cautious of indulging himself in too florid a manner of expression.

especially in the dramatic parts of his fable, where he introduces dialogue; and the writer of tragedy cannot fall into so nauseous and unnatural an affectation, as to put laboured descriptions, pompous epithets, studied phrases, and high-flown metaphors, into the mouths of his characters. But as the didactic poet speaks in his own person, it is necessary and proper for him to use a brighter colouring of style, and to be more studious of ornament. And this is agreeable to an admirable precept of Aristotle, which no writer should ever forget,—“That diction ought most to be laboured in the unsactive, that is, the descriptive, parts of a poem, in which the opinions, manners, and passions of men are not represented; for too glaring an expression obscures the manners and the sentiments.”

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

Sect. VI. Of the Epistle.

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

It is suitable to every subject; for as the epistle takes place of discourse, and is intended as a sort of distant conversation, all the affairs of life and researches into nature may be introduced. Those, however, which are fraught with compliment or condolence, that contain a description of places, or are full of pertinent remarks, and in a familiar and humorous way describe the manners, vices, and follies of mankind, are the best; because they are most suitable to the true character of epistolary writing, and (business set apart) are the usual subjects upon which our letters are employed.

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

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

While you, my lord, the rural shades admire, And from Britannia’s public posts retire, Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please, For their advantage sacrifice your ease;

nto foreign realms my fate conveys, Through nations fruitful of immortal lays, Where the soft season and inviting clime Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.

For wheresoe’er I turn my ravish’d eyes,

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

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

hro’ flow’ry meadows stray, The king of floods! that, rolling o’er the plains, The tow’ring Alps of half their moisture drains, And, proudly swoln with a whole winter’s snows, Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, And show th' immortal labours in my verse, Where from the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with life his blended colours glow. From theme to theme with secret pleasure toss, Amidst the soft variety I'm lost.

Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound With circling notes and labyrinths of sound; Here domes and temples rise in distant views, And opening palaces invite my muse.

How has kind heav'n adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand? But what avail her unexhausted stores, Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart, The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains?

The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The red'ning orange and the swelling grain: Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst, And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst.

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

Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!

oreign mountain may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine: 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, [smile] And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains

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

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

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

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

From Rome, 1730.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nor, when each soft engaging muse is thine, Address the least attractive of the nine. Of thee more worthy were the task to raise A lasting column to thy country's praise, To sing the land, which yet alone can boast That liberty corrupted Rome has lost; Where science in the arms of peace is laid, And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade. Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung, Such was the people whose exploits I sung; Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd, With differ't bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd, Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway, But pleas'd a mild Augustus to obey.

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

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

Copenhagen, March 9. 1709.

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

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing: The ships, unmov'd, the boist'rous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast Leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day: The starving wolves along the main sea sprawl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain: There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. And yet but lately have I seen ev'n here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow, Or winds began through hazy skies to blow, At ev'n'ning a keen eastern breeze arose, And the descending rain unsually'd froze; Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view The face of nature in a rich disguise, And brighten'd every object to my eyes: For ev'ry shrub, and ev'ry blade of grass, And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass; In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While through the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield, Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field. The stag in limpid currents with surprise, Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:

[Continued on next page] The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine, Glaz'd over, in the freezing ether shine. The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When if a sudden gust of wind arise, The brittle forest into atoms flies, The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, And in a spangled shower the prospect ends: Or, if a southern gale the region warm, And by degrees unbend the wint'ry charm, The traveller a miry country sees, And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees: Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads Thro' fragrant bow'rs and thro' delicious meads, While here enchanted gardens to him rise, And airy fabrics there attract his eyes, His wandering feet the magic paths pursue, And while he thinks the fair illusion true, The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air, And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear; A tedious road the weary wretch returns, And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

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

See the wild waste of all devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears! With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish like their dead!

onders rais'd on nations spoil'd, Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd! Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drain'd a distant country of her floods! Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage; Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And papal piety, and Gothic fire. Perhaps, by its own ruin sav'd from flame, Some bury'd marble half preserves a name: That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care

rom the town to wholesome country air; Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh, From the dear man unwilling she must sever, Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever; Thus from the world fair Zephyrinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew: Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent; She sigh'd, not that they stay'd, but that she went. She went, to plain-work, and to parling brooks, Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: She went from op'ra, park, assembly, play, To morning walks, and pray'rs three hours a-day; To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea, Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;

Divert Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire; Up to her godly garret after seven, There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.

Some 'squire, perhaps, who take delight to rack; Whose game is whisks, whose treat's a toast in sack; Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries,—no words! Or with his hound comes howling from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things—but his horse.

In some fair ev'n'ing, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recal the fancy'd scene, See coronations rise on every green; Before you pass th' imaginary sights Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights, While the spread fan o'er shades your closing eyes: Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies. Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!

So when your slave, at some dear idle time, (Not plagu'd with headaches, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he seems to study, thinks of you: Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes, Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite, Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my sight; Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow, Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now.

SECT. VII. Of Descriptive Poetry.

Descriptive poetry is of universal use, since there is nothing in nature but what may be described. As poems of this kind, however, are intended more to delight than to instruct, great care should be taken to make them agreeable. Descriptive poems are made beautiful by similes properly introduced, images of feigned persons, and allusions to ancient families or historical facts; as will appear by a perusal of the best of these poems, especially Milton's L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, Denham's Cooper Hill, and Pope's Windsor Forest.

Every body being in possession of Milton's works, we forbear inserting the two former; and the others are too long for our purpose. That inimitable poem, The Seasons, by Mr Thomson, notwithstanding some parts of it are didactic, may be also with propriety referred to this head.

SECT. VIII. Of Allegorical Poetry.

Could truth engage the affections of mankind in her native and simple dress, she would require no ornaments or aid from the imagination; but her delicate light, though lovely in itself, and dear to the most discerning, does not strike the senses of the multitude so as to secure their esteem and attention: the poets therefore dressed her up in the manner in which they thought she would appear the most amiable, and called in allegories and airy disguises as her auxiliaries in the cause of virtue.

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

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

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

SHAKESPEARE.

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

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

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

There must likewise be a justness and propriety in the fable, that is, it must be closely connected with the subject on which it is employed; for notwithstanding the boundless compass allowed the imagination in these writings, nothing absurd or useless is to be introduced. In epic poetry some things may perhaps be admitted for no other reason but to surprise, and to raise what is called the wonderful, which is as necessary to the epic as the probable; but in allegories, however wild and extravagant the fable and the persons introduced, each must correspond with the subject they are applied to, and, like the members of a well-written simile, bear a due proportion and relation to each other: for we are Allegorical; to consider, that the allegory is a sort of extended or rather multiplied simile, and therefore, like that, should never lose the subject it is intended to illustrate. Whence it will appear, that genius and fancy are here insufficient without the aid of taste and judgment: these first, indeed, may produce a multitude of ornaments, a wilderness of sweets; but the last must be employed to accommodate them to reason, and to arrange them so as to produce pleasure and profit.

But it is not sufficient that the fable be correspondent with the subject, and have the properties above described; for it must also be consistent with itself. The poet may invent what story he pleases, and form any imaginary beings that his fancy shall suggest; but here, as in dramatic writings, when persons are once introduced, they must be supported to the end, and all speak and act in character; for notwithstanding the general licence here allowed, some order must be observed; and however wild and extravagant the characters, they should not be absurd. To this let me add, that the whole must be clear and intelligible; for the "fable (as Mr Hughes observes) being designed only to clothe and adorn the moral, but not to hide it, should resemble the draperies we admire in some of the ancient statues, in which the folds are not too many nor too thick, but so judiciously ordered, that the shape and beauty of the limbs may be seen through them."

But this will more obviously appear from a perusal of the best compositions of this class; such as Spenser's Fairy Queen, Thomson's Castle of Indolence, Addison and Johnson's beautiful allegories in the Spectator and Rambler, &c. &c.

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

Some of the ancient critics, as Mr Addison observes, were fond of giving the works of their poets this second or concealed meaning, though there was no apparent necessity for the attempt, and often but little show of reason in the application. Thus the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer are said to be fables of this kind, and that the gods and heroes introduced are only the affections of the mind represented in a visible shape and character. They tell us, says he, that Achilles in the first Iliad represents anger, or the irascible part of human nature; that upon drawing his sword against his superior, in a full assembly, Pallas (which, say they, is another name for reason) checks and advises him on the occasion, and at her first appearance touches him upon the head; that part of the man being locked upon as the seat of reason. In this sense, as Mr Hughes has well observed, the whole Aeneis of Virgil may be said to be an allegory, if you suppose Aeneas to represent Augustus Caesar, and that his conducting the remains of his countrymen from the ruins of Troy, to a new settlement in Italy, is an emblem of Augustus's forming a new government out of the ruins of the aristocracy, and establishing the Romans, after the conclusion of the civil war, in a peaceable and flourishing condition. However ingenious this coincidence may appear, and whatever design Virgil had in view, he has avoided a particular and direct application, and so conducted his poem, that it is perfect without any allegorical interpretation; for whether we consider Aeneas or Augustus as the hero, the morals contained are equally instructive. And indeed it seems absurd to suppose, that because the epic poets have introduced some allegories into their works, every thing is to be understood in a mystical manner, where the sense is plain and evident without any such application. Nor is the attempt that Tasso made to turn his Jerusalem into a mystery, any particular recommendation of the work: for notwithstanding he tells us, in what is called the allegory, printed with it, that the Christian army represents man, the city of Jerusalem civil happiness, God by the understanding, Rinaldo and Tancred the other powers of the soul, and that the body is typified by the common soldiers and the like; yet the reader will find himself as little delighted as edified by the explication: for the mind has little pleasure in an allegory that cannot be opened without a key made by the hand of the same artist; and indeed every allegory that is so dark, and, as it were, inexplicable, loses its very essence, and becomes an enigma or riddle, that is left to be interpreted by every crude imagination.

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

The ancient parables are of this species of writing: and it is to be observed, that those in the New Testament have a most remarkable elegance and propriety; and are the most striking, and the most instructive, for being drawn from objects that are familiar.—The more striking, because, as the things are seen, the moral conveyed becomes the object of our senses, and requires little or no reflection:—the more instructive, because every time they are seen, the memory is awakened, and the same moral is again exhibited with pleasure to the mind, and accustoms it to reason and dwell on the subject. So that this method of instruction improves nature, as it were, into a book of life; since every thing before us may be so managed, as to give lessons for our advantage. Our Saviour's parables of the sower and the seed, of the tares, of the mustard-seed, and of the leaven (Matthew xiii.), are all of this kind, and were obviously taken from the harvest just ripening before him; for his disciples plucked the ears of corn and did eat, rubbing them in their hands. See the articles Allegory, and Metaphor and Allegory, in the general alphabet. Sect. IX. Of Fables.

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

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

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

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

But greater art is yet required whenever we personify inanimate beings. Here the copy so far deviates from the great lines of nature, that, without the nicest care, reason will revolt against the fiction. However, beings of this sort, managed ingeniously and with address, recommend the fabulist's invention by the grace of novelty and of variety. Indeed the analogy between things natural and artificial, animate and inanimate, is often so very striking, that we can, with seeming propriety, give

passions and sentiments to every individual part of existence. Appearance favours the deception. The vine may be enamoured of the elm; her embraces testify her passion. The swelling mountain may, naturally enough, be delivered of a mouse. The gourd may reproach the pine, and the sky-rocket insult the stars. The axe may solicit a new handle of the forest; and the moon, in her female character, request a fashionable garment. Here is nothing incongruous; nothing that shocks the reader with impropriety. On the other hand, were the axe to desire a periwig, and the moon petition for a new pair of boots, probability would then be violated, and the absurdity become too glaring.

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

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

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

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

The authority of Fontaine justifies these opinions in regard to style. His fables are perhaps the best examples of the genteel familiar, as Sir Roger l'Estrange affords the grossest of the indelicate and low. When we read, that "while the frog and the mouse were disputing it at swords-point, down comes a kite powdering upon them in the interim, and gobbles up both together to part the fray;" and "where the fox reproaches a bevy of jolly gossiping wenches making merry over a dish of pullets, that if he but peeped into a hen-roost, they always make a bawling with their dogs and their bastards;" while you yourselves (says he) can lie stuffing your guts with your hens and capons, and not a word of the pudding?" This may be familiar; but it is also coarse and vulgar, and cannot fail to disgust a reader that has the least degree of taste or delicacy.

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

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

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

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

Sect. X. Of Satire.

This kind of poem is of very ancient date, and (if we believe Horace) was introduced, by way of interlude, by the Greek dramatic poets in their tragedies, to relieve the audience, and take off the force of those strokes which they thought too deep and affecting. In these satirical interludes, the scene was laid in the country; and the persons were rural deities, satyrs, country peasants, and other rustics.

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

Roscommon's Horace.

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

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

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

A good satirist ought to be a man of wit and address, sagacity and eloquence. He should also have a great deal of good-nature, as all the sentiments which satire are beautiful in this way of writing must proceed from that quality in the author. It is good-nature produces that disdain of all baseness, vice, and folly, which prompts the poet to express himself with such smartness against the errors of men, but without bitterness to their persons. It is this quality that keeps the mind even, and never lets an offence unseasonably throw the satirist out of his character.

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

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

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

f Bucks's Essay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Duke of Bucks's Essay.

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

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

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

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

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

Sect. XI. Of the Epigram.

The epigram is a little poem, or composition in verse, Character treating of one thing only, and whose distinguishing of the epigrams are brevity, beauty, and point.

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

Its usual limits are from two to 25 verses, though sometimes it extends to 50; but the shorter, the better it is, and the more perfect, as it partakes more of the nature Epigram, nature and character of this kind of poem: besides, the epigram, being only a single thought, ought to be expressed in a little compass, or else it loses its force and strength.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On a Flower, painted by Varelst.

When fam'd Varelst this little wonder drew,

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

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

Venus Mistaken.

When Chloe's picture was to Venus shown; Surpris'd, the goddess took it for her own. And what, said she, does this bold painter mean? When was I bathing thus, and naked seen? Pleas'd Cupid heard, and check'd his mother's pride: And who's blind now, mamma? the urchin cry'd.

'Tis Chloe's eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast: Friend Howard's genius fancy'd all the rest.

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

To Chloe Weeping.

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

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

On a Fan.

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

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

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

On a Company of bad Dancers to good Music.

How ill the motion with the music suits! So Orpheus fiddled, and so dance'd the brutes.

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

To a bad Fiddler.

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

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