An essay on Pope's Odyssey: in which some particular beauties and blemishes of that work are consider'd.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- THE PREFACE.

- An ESSAY &c. EVENING the FIRST.

- An ESSAY &c. EVENING the SECOND.

- An ESSAY &c. EVENING the THIRD.

- [titlepage]

- [index]

- The Natural Order of the Passages quoted from the ODYSSEY.

- An ESSAY &c. EVENING the FOURTH.

- An ESSAY &c. EVENING the FIFTH.

AN ESSAY ON Pope's ODYSSEY: IN WHICH Some particular Beauties and Blemishes of that Work are consider'd.

—Each finding, like a friend,

Something to blame, and something to commend.

Pope's Miscel. Vol. I.

Le choix des grans mots donne aux choses une espece d'ame & de vie; les beaux mots sont la lumiere propre et naturelle de nos pensées: mais un discours tout simple exprimera quelquefois mieux la chose, que toute la pompe & tout l'ornement.

Boileau.

Printed for James and J. Knapton, R. Knaplock, W. and J. Innys, J. Wyatt, D. Midwinter, Booksellers in St. Paul's Church-Yard, LONDON: And S. Wilmot, Bookseller in OXFORD. 1726.

THE PREFACE.

THERE is no Person more Odious than the Man who makes himself greatly Eminent. It is a sort of tacit Reproach on the rest of the Species: and every one feels his own meanness the more sensibly, when he looks toward those exalted Genius's, who have gain'd a Superiority over the rest of mankind. This may make it obvious to imagine, that the following Dialogues are partly design'd as Invectives; and produc'd chiefly from that Blind-side in Selflove, which makes Men willing to d•rogate from every one, who has merit enough, to provoke; and fame enough, to make others think themselves lessen'd by the overgrowth of his Character.

Tho' this reasoning be exceedingly true in general, it ought to be consider'd at the same time, that any dislike to the Eminence of others naturally arises, only among such persons, as are got into the same paths of Fame. The Gentlemen of the Sword cannot bear to have others rise over their head; the Men of Genius look maliciously on a prevailing Poet: But Pope, I presume, never envied Marlborough the Battle of Blenheim, any more than that Hero envied him his Translation of •he Iliad.

'Tis for this Reason I might almost sa•, that I cannot envy Mr. Pope. So •ar at least I am unbiass'd; I can hear •he Applauses, which are given that Gr•at Man; I can admire the Passages, which contribute to the deserving them; but I cannot be uneasy at those, or detract from these, out of any prejudices arising from this Passion. Give me leave to say farther, that in reading that Work of his, which occasion'd this Essay, no one cou'd be more delighted, than I was, in several parts of it. Many Beauties I saw in it; and I imagin'd I saw some Faults: In some particular Conversations on this Head, I have found my self indifferent in the Case: and now I have here flung the Thoughts on both together, I hope, with some degree of Impartiality. But if some things shou'd be blamed without sufficient Reason, or others commended too highly, and in a manner disproportion'd to what they deserve, I submit each to the many better judges, who may happen to meet with these sheets. I ask pardon for any Errors in them: I beg to be set right.

Prefaces, I think, are the only places in which a Man may be allow'd to talk freely of that worst of subjects, Himself: I hope no body will deny one the use of so aukward a Privilege; and shall therefore go on without any farther Apologies.

To many it may perhaps seem arrogant to find fault at all with so distinguish'd and so noble a Poet as Mr. Pope. Indeed here are some things proposed as faulty from his Translation; but they are only proposed: the World is to judge of them. Where I have been mistaken in any of these Points, it is not for want of a due deference to the merits of this Writer; but from the shortness of my own sight. On the contrary, if any such Criticisms happen sometimes to be right, the Eminence of the Poet will be so far from being a reason against them, that it makes any true Cautions the more proper, and in some sense perfectly necessary.

Besides: The learned World, as I take it, have ever allow'd a Liberty of thinking and of speaking one's sentiments. That serene Republick knows none of the distance and distinctions which custom has introduced into all others. There is a decent familiarity to be admitted between the Greatest and the Meanest Person in it. This has often raised a Thought in me, which has something wild and agreeable in it• when indulged to any degree: 'Tis in Relation to the peculiar happiness of Men of Letters; in that they can sit down in their closets and converse with the greatest Writers of every Age, or of any Nation; and that in as much freedom and intimacy, as their nearest Friends cou'd ever use toward any of them, when living. What an illustrious Assembly is there on those Shelves? The Courts of Augustus, Lewis the Fourteenth, or Charles the Second, never beheld such a frequency of great Genius's, as stand round a Man in his own private Study. How large an Happiness is it for a Person to have it in his Power to say at any time, That he is going to spend the Afternoon with the most agreeable and most improving Company, he will chuse out of all Ages? If he is in a gay Humour, perhaps with Horace and Anacreon, and Ld Dorset; or if more solid, either with Plato, Mr. Locke, or Sir Isaac Newton.

'Tis this ease of access, 'tis the liberty arising from it, which constitutes and preserves the felicity of the Republick of Letters. The meaner sort, which compose it, are all Freevoters; and may speak their real Opinion without reserve: at the same time the Characters too, even of the greatest and first Men in it, must be form'd and establish'd on this openness of Judging, and that freedom of Observation.

But waving whatever has been said of this Liberty in the Learned World, most people will be apt to help one to an Excuse of another kind: for most, I think, are very ready to agree, that Mr. Pope is only the Master-hand in this Translation; and that he has been obliged with the assistance of some other Gentlemen in several parts of it. Tho', I believe, I am acquainted with this affair more than many who speak of it with a great deal of Confidence and Assurance, any mention of it in the Piece is purposely avoided. Mr. Pope has recommended the whole with his Name; He gives the finishing stroke to every thing: and the Dialogues speak of him, as if he were really the Author of the whole. It wou'd have been a confused thing, and often not practicable, to have spoken at every turn to the right Person. This has occasion'd several applauses of the Poet, which may seem too high for a stranger: But as I have since had the greatest reason to be perswaded, that Mr. Pope is not the sole Translator; I have at the same time equal reason to think, that the other Gentlemen engaged are persons of establish'd Characters in the Poe•ick World.—After this, perhaps, those Compliments may still be allow'd to stand, as they are: I hope they are never wrought too high for Mr. Pope himself; and I believe they may generally be spoken very justly of his Seconds in the Work.

One word more, and I have done. As to the manner of these Dialogues; 'Tis the old Platonick way, which Cicero brought from Greece, and used so happily in the Latin Tongue. It has had its Successes too among the Moderns: Fontenelle will always be read with the greatest Pleasure, where he has follow'd it; That Writer is peculiarly happy in all his Dialogues, of whatever sort; and, in general, may be said to talk as well with Pen and Ink, as any Man in the World. Mr. Dryden and Mr. Addison have recommended it among us by their Example. Indeed the method it self is more capable of variety, and (which makes it particularly proper for the present Case) it hath something of Action and Reality in it. Besides that the common way among us of merely keeping up a Discourse between two blind Names, is perhaps not very Commendable: the Persons of the Dialogue in such Cases are generally like those Actors, who have no Character in the Play; and who only come in to talk upon the Stage. They have no more distinction, no other marks by which you may know one from another, than the two Capital Letters, which usually stand for them. It is much otherwise, and and much better, among the Persons introduced by the Writers in the other method: their Great Names I use only to authorize this manner of Dialogue, as that is all which I can pretend to imitate in them.

As I ought to beg pardon of the Reader, for troubling him with so long a Preface; I shall at the same time take the opportunity of begging Pardon of Antiphaus and Philypsus, (the two Gentlemen who are disguised under the Persons of these Dialogues) for giving to the World, what was chiefly their Thoughts, in a manner so much inferiour to what either of them might have done themselves. I wish I might have leave to mention their real Names in this place: That would add a weight to every thing they say. Tho' indeed the Sentiments of those Gentlemen, were they fully represented, would not want the lustre of any Authorities to set them off; except that of the the Reasonableness with which they both think and speak; and for both which they have made themselves so remarkable in the World.

An ESSAY &c.
EVENING the FIRST.

ANTIPHAUS manag'd his Affairs so as to get this Winter sooner than usual to the Country-seat of his Friend Philypsus. It is there that he passes his time, when ever he can clear himself from the hurry of Business, in a retirement every way agreeable; and in a full enjoyment of those Pleasures, which attend on a particular Friendship, in an open and improving Conversation. The Conversation there does not run in the present polite way of saying and saying nothing; when alone, they usually fall into some Points of Learning; and as bo•h of them are particularly fond of Poetry, their Disputes turn more frequently on that Subject, than any other. Indeed their differing in Sentiment can scarce be call'd Disputes; for whenever their Thoughts do not meet, each of them shews a diffidence in his own Opinion, and a willingness to submit to the Judgment of his Friend.

It is by this means that they fall into each others Sentiments, more than cou'd well be expected from Men of so different a Turn. The enlarged Genius of Philypsus always led him to dwell upon the most beautified Parts of a Poem with the greatest Pleasure; while Antiphaüs, who has a very clear Head, and has given much into a strict way of thinking, is taken most with just Descriptions, and plain natural Ideas: The one was so possest with the Pleasure which he felt from fine Thoughts and warm Expressions, that He did not take a full Satisfaction in low Beauty, and simple Representations of Nature; the other, on the contrary, had such an aversion to glitterings and elevation, that he was distasted at any the least appearance of either. If the latter was prejudiced for the Ancients, from the Purity and Justness, which we find in most of their Works; Philypsus had his foible too, and was sometimes caught by the Flourish and Colouring of the Moderns. In a word, if Philypsus wou'd sometimes contemn a Point as low and mean, tho' in reality proper enough, and naturally express'd; Antiphaus, in his turn, might happen now and then to blame a Passage which requir'd a good degree of Ornament, as being too glaring and artificial.

Among several other Topicks, one Evening, they happen'd to fall into a discourse on Mr. Pope's new Translation of the Odyssey. As they both found Beauties in that Piece agreeable to their particular Tastes, they had read it over with a great deal of Pleasure: however Philypsus was the Person who admired it the most. "There are some Lines, says he to Antiphaus (pointing to the Odyssey which lay before them) there are some Favourites of mine in that Poem, which you must not look upon with your usual severity: Prithee Antiphaus, be more sensible to the Flame and Spirit of a Writer, who is evidently Our present Laureate in Genius, and the most enliven'd Translator of the Age. "I will very readily allow what you say of that Great Man, return'd Antiphaus; and shall always pay a deference to your more lively taste of the Fine and Sublime in Poetry; but you must give me leave to dissent from you in some Particulars: if I do not agree with your Sentiments, in relation to several Lines and Passages of that Translation, 'tis perhaps because I fall so much short of you, in your inward sense of the high and elevated Beauties of Language. As I cannot imagine that to be the reason, says Philypsus, I beg to hear those Particulars you talk'd of; I am perswaded, several of the Passages, which I have observ'd you to be less taken with in reading the Translation, will upon a closer view appear to be really Beauties; to tell you the truth, I long to make a Convert of you; and beg you wou'd be full and large in communicating whatever Remarks you have made on this Performance. The Evenings are long; we have sufficient time upon our Hands; and I know not how we can pass it away more agreeably.

Antiphaus paus'd for some time, and seem'd to be taken up in recollecting his Thoughts on this Point: at last taking a Tablet out of his Pocket, ‘Since you desire it (says he) I will shew you what Observations I made as I went over the Work; they are the Thoughts which struck me en passant, and many of them will perhaps appear little and trifling.’

You will allow me, I believe, in the first place, That Lines very good in themselves, may be bad when consider'd as a Translation. The aim of a Translator is to give us the Spirit of the Original; and where the Original is just, the very manner is to be observ'd. By the Manner, I would not intend the express words, or the meer turn of a Period; but that the Imitation ought to be easy, simple, and unadorn'd, wherever the first Writer uses either of those Styles with Judgment. You are well acquainted with that plain humble manner of Homer, which is more particularly kept up by him in the Odyssey: And as much as I admire several parts in this Translation, I cannot but think there are places in it, which differ from the Manner of Homer, without sufficient reason for a Change. The Poet, in several parts of that Work, seems to me to have let fall some Lines that are forc'd; some of too much flourish, and ornament; and a few, even swelling, and unnatural; where the Original is with good reason plain, and natural, •nd unadorn'd.

Where we admire the Simplicity of Homer with Justice, we cannot avoid blaming the want of it in his Translator. Mr. Pope intimates in one of his [a] Notes, That no Reproach has ever fall'n upon Homer, in relation to his sinking too Low, or being too Familiar; That as to these Particulars he preserves an Universal Justness: and that there is not any one place in his Poem, which can be justly censur'd upon this account. If so, a Translator of Homer has no occasion for raising any thing, beyond what it is in the Original; If he follows his Master it is sufficient: All additional Flourish and Glitterings, where we should meet with the plain and the familiar, are at best so many beautiful Excrescencies.

There is one Case, which seems more particularly to lead Mr. Pope into a glaring Stile: 'tis almost ever to be found in his Descriptions of Day, of Light, and of the Morning. 'Tis true, these are subjects which in themselves may require some brightness in the language; but there is a great difference between giving one Light, and dazling ones Eyes. Beside the conformity to the Original, there is another certain and easy way of judging, whether the Brightning in these or any other Points, be proper or not: that Light, we may be sure, falls in a wrong manner, or an undue proportion, which does not make the thing more visible.

There are of these Descriptions, Philypsus, which seem both to refine too much upon the Original, and to err according to this Rule. Did you ever observe those lines on one of the most agreeable Images in the World, The break of Day? they are in the beginning of the third Book: If you will give me leave, I will read them to you.

The sacred Sun• above the Waters rais'd,

Thro' Heaven's eternal, brazen Portals blaz'd;

And wide o'er Earth diffus'd his ch•aring Ray,

To Gods and Men, to give the golden Day.

Several of these Expressions seemed to me at first sight to take from the Nature and Simplicity of the Description; and when I turn'd to the Greek, I found those very Expressions to have no Foundation there. 'Tis the same Case in the following Lines:

[a] Soon as the Morn, in o•ient Purple drest,

Unbarr'd the Portal of the roseate East &c.

[b]—When the Morning-Star with early Ray

Flam'd in the front of Heaven, &c.—

You will find these short Sketches in Homer to be much more simple and natural: I leave it to your Judgment, whether they appear better with these Colourings, or not. To add one Instance more of the same thing. Is it more proper for Circe to tell Ulysses, That he should stay that Night with her, and set sail the next Morning? or to hear her giving him leave, to

[a]Spread his broad Sails, and plough the liquid way,

Soon as the Morn unveils her Saffron Ray.

I must own, says Philypsus, this would have been more fit for the Description of a Voyage, than for a Speech: in a Place too, where we only find Orders given for setting Sail at such a time.

To me, proceeded Antiphaus, Mr. Pope seems to Beautify too much in several other Points, beside those Topicks we have been talking of: as where he calls the Nobles of Phoeacia, [b] A radiant Band of Noblemen; and where he introduces Helen with [c] a Gale of rich Perfume breathing before her. If Homer mentions Cups of solid Gold; in Mr. Pope,

[d]The Gold gives lustre to the purple Draught:

[e]And in the dazling Goblet laughs the Wine.

You cannot but observe, by the way, that the Original here is designed to signify the real intrinsick Value; while only the outside and more glittering Circumstances are what the English dwells upon entirely: but to go on.—The Horns of a Bullock are in this new Language, [a] Budding Honours; and those of a Ram (if I am not much mistaken) [b] translucent Crescents. Pallas is well known to have had Blue Eyes given her by the Ancients; now it is

[c] Celestial Azure brightning in her Eyes.

This heightning of things, by a severe Critick might be thought blameable; and indeed whenever it interferes, where the Passions ought to be touch'd, it certainly is so in an higher degree. The Reader is delighted when, after a melancholly Scene, he sees Penelope reviv'd by a Message from the Gods; and [d] secretly enjoying the Satisfaction of her Soul: but what Passion, what Idea has he, when instead of this he is told of her [d] Hearts dilating and glowing with florid Joy?—Paint to him that unhappy Princess in her Distress, retiring silently, and crying herself toS leep; only shew the Circumstances, and the Reader must be moved: Does her Behaviour and her Sufferings strike him so forcibly, when he finds it embellish'd into

[a]—Echoing Grief, and Silver-streaming Eyes?

But however these Passages may seem to be weaken'd by the finery and luxuriance of the Language, this certainly is not so much the fault of Pope, as of the Age: We give much into an airy way: If a Verse runs off smooth, 'tis no matter for depth or clearness; and as the Ancients valued Thoughts more than Sound, we seem to be taken with Sounds more than Thought. To speak out, we are got into an idle manner of Versifying; and if Mr. Pope sometimes falls into it, we are not so much to blame him for those Particulars, as to wonder, that he does not do it more frequently, in so general a debauch of Taste among us.

Hold (interrupted Philypsus) if You go on at this rate, You will seem only to be got into the old Cant of running down our own Times: I do not believe, but that I cou'd name some Poet among us, to answer any of those who flourish'd in the Augustan Age. As to the present Point, we rarely hear of any such thing as Translation among them: In Satyr, we have the great Names of Rochester, Dryden, and Oldham: (not to mention the new kind of Satyr, introduc'd among us by Butler.) In Critical Poems, there are (You know) two or three very good, beside that incomparable Piece by Mr. Pope, all to weigh against poor Horace. As for miscellaneous Subjects; think of Cowley, Pope, Waller and Pryor, to mention no more of them. In the Epick, Milton may dispute the Laurel with either Virgil, or Homer; and in Dramatick Pieces, of either kind, we have Writers that indisputably exceed any of the Ancients.

Antiphaus was not inclin'd to enter into a dispute of this nature. "I was only speaking, says he, of our present Taste in Poe•ry, and the prevailing manner of those writers who are now upon the Stage. As to this, Philypsus, give me leave to say, that the language of our Writers, and the practice of the World, is much infected with the Finesse. I think 'tis Mr. Locke observes, that the humours of a People, may be learnt from their usage of words. This symptom of the disease is very strong in the pre•ent Case: thus to say that a verse is bien tourné is the highest commendation among the French Criticks: in general, the Beau Monde is the only name now, for what was call'd by a very different one formerly; as a fine Scholar, polite Literature, and the Belles Lettres are the leading expressions, when we would speak of Learning in the best sense. And I appeal to you, who are so well acquainted with all our Poets, whether their practise, in particular, does not fall more and more into the Finesses, we have been complaining of. We may partly judge of this from some Lines in the Best of them, the Writer whose Works lye before us: I was just going to give you a few more instances of it, from the Odyssey.

Is there any Figure so much abus'd by the Moderns, as what they call the Antithesis? they run it into a down right playing upon Words. Cowley's Poetry cou'd not live without it: Dryden uses it almost perpetually, in his Translation o• Virgil; and was ridicul'd, You know, o• that head by the late Duke of Buckingham. I have observ'd with pleasure, that Mr. Pope, in his Translation, very much avoids this little beauty, which the other affected so excessively; yet I have a place before me, where one of this kind ha• slipt from his Pen: It runs thus. (He is speaking of a Stranger's Arrival at the Court of Penelope, disorder'd so much by the riot of the Suitors.)

—When, to taste her hospitable board,

Some Guest arrives, with rumours of her Lord;

[a]And these indulge their want, and those their woe;

And here the t•ars, and there the goblets flow.

Pardon me, says Philypsus, there you do not seem to do the Translator Justice; the Figure is countenanc'd by Homer himself: You see here is an Antithesis in the Original. "That (answer'd Antiphaus) seems rather to be a Contrast, to set the riot of the Suitors in a stronger light: But call it what you please, it is only single there, whereas you see it multiplied, and worn to Rags in the Translation. This over-doing a Point is observable in many other Cases, as much as in the former; and in some, is carried on to a degree which borders upon the Forc'd, and Unnatural.

Telemachus, bursting into Tears at the Name of his Father, end•avours to hide his Sorrow from Menelaus, who was then talking with him. Homer says only, that [b] Menelaus observ'd him; which words Mr. Pope draws out into this Couplet:

The Conscious Monarch pierc'd the coy disguise,

And view'd his filial love with vast surprize.

For an humble natural Description o• a Tripod (or Caldron) set upon the Fire, I wou'd recommend you to the following lines:

The Flames climb round it with a fierce embrac••

[a]The fuming Waters bubble o'er the Blaze.

But above all, in my Opinion, are these on a Person tired and quite spent•

—Lost in lassitude lay all the Man,

[b] Depriv'd of Voice, of Motion, and of Breath;

The Soul scarce waking, in the Arms of Death.

Or these:

[c] Ye Gods! since this worn frame refection knew,

What scenes have I survey'd of dreadful view?

Wou'd you Imagine, that all which countenances this in the Original, is a Passage in Ulysses's Speech after his Shipwreck, in which he intimates, That he had not bath'd for a considerable time?

I find it so, (says Philypsus) and own the Lines to be somewhat forc'd and unnatural; indeed those you have repeated seem generally to draw too near to that Character. But I cannot conceive by what means they sound so harsh to me at present: when I read the Piece, there was scarce a Line of them which gave me any offence.—Yes; it must be by your tearing them from the Body of the work, that they now seem not so agreeable. Really, Antiphaus, this is not sair usage of an Author; You rob them of their Order and Connection; and 'tis thenc• that they perfectly lose the Beauty, which they had in the Whole. Very true, r•∣ply'd Antiphaus; the warmth of Reading, the thread of the Story, and a general tunableness in the Verse, will carry• a Man on strangely; and may sometimes cheat him into a •alse Pleasure. But then it is for this very reason, that I shou'd think, the justest method of forming a judgment on Particulars is, to consider them apart. However, let us try it for once in a more entire Passage, than any of the former. Let me see; The place I have dipt upon, is where Minerva tells Ulysses that she will transform him into the figure of an Old Man; that he may view the posture of his Affairs unsuspected and unknown: The Lines in Homer may be thus read into English:

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 397, to 403.

I will make you (says that Goddess to the Hero) entirely unknown to all Men; the beauty and smoothness of your Skin shall be taken away, your Limbs bent, and the Hair of your Head turn'd grey. I will then fling a Garb over you that shall make you frightful and odious to those that see you. All that flame and life in your Eyes shall be lost; I will so far deform them that you shall look contemptible to all the Suitors, to your own Penelope, and to your Son, whom You left yet an Infant in your Palace.

You know that Mr. Pope, in comparing some Passages in the Prophesies of Isaiah with the famous Eclogue of Virgil, turns the latter into Prose; If we follow that Example in the present case, his Translation of these Lines runs thus:

Od. 13. V. 453, to 464.

It fits thee at present, to wear a dar• disguise, and walk secret, unknown to the Eyes of Mortals: For this my Hand sha• wither every Beauty, and every eleganc• of Form and Face, Spread a bark of Wrinkles over thy smooth Skin, turn the auburn honours of thy Head hoar, disfigure with coarse attire every Limb, and extinguish all the Fire in thy Eyes; add all the decays of Life, and all the wants of it, •strange thee from thy Own, thy Son and thy Wife; every sight shall turn from the loath'd object, and the blind suitors scorn their destruction.

Give me leave to go out of my way a little, to try the same Experiment on a single Passage from the Iliad, which is flourish'd, and set off in an extraordinary manner. It is in the Nineteenth Book, where we have a poetical account of a fine Breed of Horses; The Original runs thus:

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 221. 225.

Three Thousand Mares graz'd these Meads, with their young Foals running by them; Boreas was enam•ur'd of them as they •ed there, and turning himself into the shape of a fine black Horse, accomplish'd his desires: Of this breed, were twelve of the Colts.

Mr. Pope's Translation, (only allowing equivalent Expressions to blind the Rhimes) runs thus:

Iliad, B. 20. V. 262. 270.

His spacious Pastures bred three Thousand Mare•, and three Thousand Foals •ed beside their Mothers: Boreas enamour'd of the sprightly train, conceal'd his Godhead in the Locks of Hair that flow'd over his Shoulders; he neigh'd to his Loves with dissembled Voice, and cours'd the dapple Beauties o'er the Meadow: Twelve others of unrival'd sort sprung hence, swift as their Mother Mares and Father Wind.

This, if over-wrought, is the more blameable, because the matter is carried very far even in the Original, and so is the less capable of being stretch'd any farther. Mr. Pope, in his note upon the Place observes, That Homer has the happiness of making the least Circumstance considerable; and that the plainest matter shines in his dress of Poetry. It is true, it shines sufficiently in that. Some brightning is necessary in Poetry: but an excess of it, Philypsus, may dazle, or may blind our Eyes; it can never assist, or delight them.

By comparing these Passages, You will see that which I intend; the difference of Manner in the Ancient and Modern Poetry: In the latter we find Expressions added, which seem to be added for beauties, and which in reality perhaps only turn the Plainness and Strength of the Original, into the Fine and the Artificial.

Upon• Philypsus's acknowledging that he thought the Point too much labour'd, and the Translation unequal; Yes, says Antiphaus, the Translator himself seems to be sensible of it in the present Case; for soon after, when the former Passage is repeated in the [a] Original, he gives an entirely new [b] Turn to it; And I believe, upon hearing the Lines, you will be of opinion that (excepting a word or two) it is render'd with a better grace and with more Justice, than we find inthe former.

She spake, then touch'd him with her powerful Wand:

The Skin shrunk up, and wither'd at her Hand:

A swift Old-Age o'er all his Members spread,

A sudden Frost was sprinkled on his Head.

Nor longer in the heavy Eye-ball shin'd

The glance Divine, forth beaming from the Mind;

His Robe with Spots indelible besmear,

In Rags dishonest flutters with the Air.

Mr. Pope without question is happy in a great share of Judgment, as well as Vivacity and Spirit in Writing: but it is next to impossible, in so long a Translation, especially as it is in Rhime, not to give sometimes into Sound and Ornament; when to crown all, the Vogue of the World goes so strong for both. Do not ask, whether I should desire to see both of them banisht out of Poetry; far from it: Expressive Sounds are of use in the most natural, and Variety in the management of them, is necessary to keep up Attention in the Reader: That, and Ornament, is what sets Poetry above Prose. All I wou'd say is this, that Sound is not sufficient where we might expect Sense; and that in humble Passages, in natural Descriptions, or in moving most of the Passions, additional ornaments are so many blemishes. Dressing up the expressiveness of Homer, in such fineries, is much the same as if one shou'd throw a very gay modern dress over the Hercules of Farnese, or any of the most Nervous Statues of the Ancients.

But You will allow Ornament, where the subject will bear it, and where the Original leads the Way?—In a translation (answer'd Antiphaus) it is proper perhaps, only in the latter Case; but allowing it in both, it shou'd never be over-wrought in either. Too much Finery is always Affectation: and I wish our Writers at present were not so generally given to elevate and surprize, and all that, as Mr. Bayes calls it.

The running into this excess so much, is what has unsinew'd our Poetry. 'Tis with Poetry, as it is in Buildings; the being vastly Studious of Ornament does not only take away from the Strength of the Work, but is a sure token of a vitiated taste in the Designer.

You are always blaming the Modern Refinements, says Philypsus; but will you not allow that this taste of the Age is a sufficient justification at least of Mr. Pope, in those cases where he complies with it?—We must write so as to please the World, and speak so as to be most easily understood: Custom will often wear away the propriety of things of this Nature; and as for the propriety of language, that depends upon it entirely. I allow, to u•e your own thought, that a profusion of Lace and Embroidery wou'd be a disguise upon an Old Hero; but they are so far from being improper, that they are becoming on the Heroes of our Age.—

They may become the Heroes of our Age (replied Antiphaus smiling) perhaps on a far different account: there is another Character now wove into and blended with that of a Soldier, to which these things are very agreeable: How many are there of these Heroes, as you call them, whose Courage reaches no farther than their Sword-knot, and whose Conduct is taken up wholly in their Dress? But consider a Man barely as a Soldier; think of him in the midst of some warm Action, and these little Ideas of him will disappear: Then it is that posture, that pressing on the foe, that grasping of his Sword, that fierceness in his Eyes, that serenity and that eagerness on his countenance, which strike us wholly, and take up all our attention. Yes, Philypsus, if you view a real modern Hero in a true light, those fineries do not set well upon him: and I think, I never saw any thing more truly ridiculous, than the Piece we were laughing at the other Day, in your Picture-Gallery.—Good Heaven! The Duke of Marlbrough in the heat of an Engagement, with a full-bottom'd Wigg, very carefully spread over his Shoulders!

But to return to the present taste in Poetry.—If this Corruption of the Age cou'd excuse a Writer for what he composes now, must it be carried down as far as Homer's Days? must his Heroes love, and talk, and fight a-la-mode? must his strong, sententious lines, be set to the new polite airs of Handel and Bononcini? Yet, were what you wou'd alledge of any force, it wou'd carry the matter thus far; and the whole Iliad and Od•ss•y ought to be enervated down to the present taste. No, whatever may be allow'd to any of the proper genuine productions of this Age, it ought not to make an inrode upon all others: let Homer's energy and pathos be violated as little as is possible; Nature ought to rule in his Works, and those of the Antients: as ornament, and surprize, and elevation, have in their turn the Empire of the Modern World.

You see I beg into shew the old heat, that this subject (I think) always betrays me into.—I beg pardon, Philypsus; and will attend more to what I am about for the future.—I shou'd have given you some instances of this Elevation from the translation before us. A-propos, What a glaring description of a Sword have we in the Eighth Odyssey?

—Whose blade of Brass displays

A r•ddy gleam; whose hilt a Silver blaze;

[a] Whose ivory sheath inwrought with curious pride•

Adds graceful terror to the wearer's side.

Homer says, that Hermione was as beautiful as Venus: this is low and humble in comparison of Mr. Pope's Hermione,

[b]On whom a radiant Pomp of Graces wair,

Resembling Venus in attractive state.

Where a prodigy is sent to the Ithacensians in Council, Homer says that they were struck at the sight of it, and revolv'd in their Minds what it might presage to them• this Mr. Pope renders after the following manner,

[a] The wondring rivals gaze with cares oppres•

And chilling horrors freeze in every Breast.

How mean is it, and how much lik• prose, to tell us, that Penelope heard t•• mirth of the Suitors? to elevate this sufficiently, You must say

[b] The shrilling Airs the valuted Roof rebounds,

R•flecting to the Queen the Silver Sounds.

This false way of animating Poetry, a• no doubt many will be pleas'd to call i• grows particularly prejudicial and absur• in any case, where the Passions are to b• rais'd in the Reader, or describ'd in th• Persons of the Poem. Where we wou'• move Pity, in particular, nothing is (• m••e odious than a shew of Eloquence. Nature has provided a Sympathy in o•• Souls; She has put a biass into our Temper, that inclines us forcibly to Compassion; [26] and we shou'd [a] leave her to her own work in such points, without any of the impertinent assistances of Art.

The lines You have just repeated, interrupted Philypsus, are such as I cannot admire: but I think you carry the point too far against Art in general. Is there not the greatest Art required in moving the passions? why then have Cicero, and all the Criticks of old, given us so numerous rules in this Case? Yes, reply'd Antiphaus, great Art, or rather a great Genius, is very necessary toward any excellence this way. But what I have said was intended not so much against the Use of Art, as the Appearances of it. 'Tis the greatest of Arts, to conceal the Art you use; and to have it very evident, is the greatest of Blemishes. The Criticks, and Cicero in particular, speak with the greatest plainness against any thing of that kind. Where the passions are to be touch'd, apparent art is apparent fraud; so that here particular care should be taken, that nothing be over-wrought.

'Tis on this account, that when You compare the following lines to the Original, You will not, I dare say, be over •ond of them:

The Soul of Friendship to my hope is lost,

[a] Fated to wander from his natal coast.

He said: chill horrors shook my shivering Soul,

[b] Rack'd with Convulsive pangs in d•st • roll.

And that entire passage of Penelope.

Rolling Convulsive on the Floor, is seen

The piteous object of a prostrate Queen.

Words to her dumb Complaint a pause supplies,

And breath, to waste in unavailing Cries:

Around their Sovereign wept the menial Fair,

[c] To whom she thus addr•ss'd her deep despai• &c.

I wish this false elevation and profusion of Ornament does not carry Mr. Pope, in some few Cases, into down right Fustian. [d] A Man's being lost in Lassitude, and a Soul scarce waking, in the Arms of Death, look'd very much that way. Do You remember where he talks of [e] Princes on Princes roll'd, and [f] Gods being heap'd on Gods? Or how in another place we are told, that

[g]—Th• Pharian Isle

Fronts the deep Roar of d•s•mboguing N•le?

You know the Character of some o• Sir John Falstaff's Attendants, in the Merr• Wives of Windsor; a sort of Men, who are industrious in talking hard Words; and whose Humour, is to be unintelligible. One wou'd almost Imagine, the humble Account of shutting a Door, in the end of the First Odyssey, to be copied from those illustrious Originals.

—The Door reclos'd;

The Bolt, ob•dient to the si•ken Cord,

[a]To the strong Staple's inmost depth restor'd,

S•c•r•d the Valves.—

I own (says Philypsus) I cannot but give up those lines to you, and several of the other You mention'd before. The first lines, when You repeated them, I took tobe the very worst, You could pick out of the Od•ssey: But I know not how i• comes about, You rise gradually in your demands upon me; and are got insensibly from lines in that piece, which were forc'd and too much beautified, to things unnatural, and shocking. When I thought of making a Convert of You to an entire admiration of Mr. Pope, I fancy, I was much mistaken; at this rate, you will turn the Tables upon me: and to tell You the truth, I cannot but confess, that the Poet has, in some Cases, fallen into each of the faults You mention.

In some Cases doubtless (reply'd Antiphaus) that Gentleman is not to be commended: I take his Translation to be as good, as any Translation of Homer, into English, and in Rhime, cou'd be expected to be; In all probability, we might safely add, that no other Writers of the Age cou'd, in the whole, have perform'd such a task so well. But a perfect Piece of this kind cannot be expected: If Homer himself is allow'd to Sleep a little, his Translator certainly may Nod sometimes.—

One thing I observ'd (interrupted Philypsus) in the lines you have repeated that the faultiness of several of them was owing to an Excess in one of the greatest Beauties of Poetry, I mean, the Metaphors too frequent in them. I observ'• the same (says Antiphaus) as I was collec•∣ing these little Remarks: it occasion'• my using a particular Paper for that sin¦gle point: If it did not grow so late, • wou'd shew it to You; but—No, le• us have it now, cry'd Philypsus: I neve• knew any thing of yours too long, and 〈◊〉 it be that Paper in your Hand, I shou•• think it much too short; were it not fo• my concern for the Poet, and the desi•• I have of finding as few Faults in his Writings as possible.

Metaphor, says Philypsus, is certainly the most universal enlivener of Poetry. At the same time that it adds to the dignity of Verse, it gives it an agreeable variety; together with a power of Painting out all its Images, in the boldest and strongest manner in the World. 'Tis this which animates those objects, which must otherwise be still and unaffecting: it •lings every thing into Motion, Life, and Action: By this the Arrow is eager and on the Wing, by this the Sword thirsts for Blood, and the Spear rages in the Hands of the Warriour. Metaphor raises each subject out of the heavy narrative way: it creates new Beings; it represents the passions of Men, and even meer Names, as animated and imbodied; and shews them in the posture and attitudes of Agents. Thus when the Battles are going to join, You see Rage stalk amidst the Combatants; pointing with one Hand to the Enemy, and in the other, shaking the Torch of War. By this, the Valleys and Mountains rejoice, when Peace once more spreads her downy Wings, and Plenty descends from Heaven upon the happy climate. 'Tis Metaphor which makes the Woods and Caves answer to the voice of the Poet, and the murmuring Stream compassionate his complaints: 'Tis this which makes the Nile know Caesar; and the Sea, its present Monarch.

If Mr. Pope manages this powerful Figure frequently to the best advantage, sometimes he happens not to be so happy in the use of it. The force of Metap•or is to make things strong, clear, and sensible: any confusion destroys the very end of it; and yet a little inaccuracy may occasion gross errors this way. Sometimes what is just with the Figurative• may disagree with the Proper: sometimes again, an idea which might stand with the proper expression, will be inconsistent with the figurative. A misapplication either way is very obvious, and yet it gives a jar to the Ideas, and makes the sense of a line to be perplexed and in confusion.

It sounds but oddly to talk of a Person, and of his Picture, without any manner of distinction: To say, that the piece, drawn by Sir Godfrey Kneller for Mr. Pope• is an excellent Poet and Writes with th• greatest Command imaginable; Or, that Mr. Pope is a very good piece, and his fac• very well colour'd, tho' he is but just recover'• from a fit of Sickness; either of them w•u'd carry a mixt incoherent sense with them: This I take to be partly the Case in the following Lines,

[a]Now from my fond embrace by Tempests torn,

Our other Column of the State is born;

Nor took a kind adieu.—

[b] They sweep Neptunes smooth Face.

[c] Declining, with his s••ping Wh•els

Down sunk the Sun.—

To say the Go• of Light was driving his Car, down the Steep of Heaven (as Mr. Pope somewhere expresses it) is metaphorical; To say the Sun is setting, is proper: but shou'd one say, The Sun is setting with s•oping Wheels, This would be neither Metaphorical, nor Proper; nor cou'd it raise any thing in the Mind, but a confusion of Ideas.

Again:

[d] As some lone Mountain's monstrous grow•h he stood•

Crown'd with rough thickets and a noddingwoo••

Again:

[e]Hear me, Oh Neptune! thou whose Arms are h•rl'd

From Shore to Shore, and gird the sol•d World.

I think, Neptune has the luck of it; for 'tis the same Deity, that in another place makes just such a Figure, as I have seen him in some Mortlock-Hangings:

[a] The raging Monarch shook his •zure Head,

And thus in secret to his Soul he said• &c.

[b] This said, his Sea-green Steeds divide the Foam.

Such confusions of the Metaphor and the Proper have a great resemblance to that absurdity (of mixing Fable and Reality together) which appears so grosly in Mr. Dryden's Hind and Panther; and which was the very thing, that provoked Lord Halifax to ridicule that Piece, with such infinite humour and good sense. The Noble Author's Words on that subject, may give a Side-light to what I mean in the present Case. Speaking of the Ancient Fabulists,
They wrote (says he [c] in Signs, and spoke in Parables: all their Fables carry a double meaning: The Story is one and entire; The Characters the same throughout; not broken, or chang'd, and always conformable to the nature of the Creatures they introduce. They never tell you that the Dog, which snapt at a shadow, lost his Troop of Horse; that wou'd be unintelligible.—This is his (Dryden'•) new way of telling a Story, and confounding the Moral and the Fable together.
After instancing from the Hind and Panther, he goes on thus. ‘What relation has the Hind to our Saviour? or what notion have we of a Panther's Bible? if you say, he means the Church, how does the Church feed on Lawns, or range in the Forest? Let it be always a Church, or always the Cloven-footed Beast, for we cannot bear his shifting the Scene every Line.’

I had almost forgot to tell You, that upon consulting the Original there was no Metaphor at all to be found, for either of the Lines, I last repeated from the Odyssey. We have now Metaphors perpetually; the Translator is vastly fond of them. I need not say that an Excess this way is very blameable; You know the Criticks speak against it in a high strain, and one of them goes so far as to say, that this [a] Figure, when frequent, obscure• the Piece, and fatigues the Reader; when continual, 'tis no longer a Poem, 'tis all Allegory and Enigma.

As a •alse Mixture of the proper and the figurative confuses the sense; The joining Metaphors together, which do no• agree, makes it still more dark and perplexed. These are like (what they call• Medley-Pieces; a huddled kind of Pictures• which shew a Variety of Objects, flun• together without any order or design• As that in the beginning of Horace's A• of Poetry, they join the Limbs of on• Creature to the Body of another; an• confuse all the properties and circumstances of an Action.

If the Poet be not very careful he ma• by these means tye not only things improper, but even contrarieties, together• Do not the following Lines border o• this? to me the Metaphors in them see• to be improperly united.

From Elateus's strong Arm the Discus flies,

And Sings with unmatch'd Force along the Skies:

And Laodame whirls High, with dreadful sway,

[a]The Gloves of Death.—

At the same Time, nothing can b• more Proper and Narrative than the Original in that place. Again:

[b] From his Eyes pour'd down the tender Dew.

[a] But Anticlus unable to controul,

Spoke loud the languish of his yearning Soul.

In these the Action is describ'd in words, that import a violence; while the Act to be express'd, is plainly something still and gentle.

Nothing is more known in relation to the Metaphor, than that rule of Cicero's; [b] That it shou'd be so modest, as to seem to have been handed into the place of the proper Word, not to have forced its Way thither: it shou'd fall into it in a free, voluntary manner. Otherwise it will make the sense dark and intricate; and that absolutely destroys all the use of it: for as Metaphor shou'd be the [b] greatest Light and Ornament of Language, Obscurity is the most absurd thing, and the most to be avoided in Metaphor.

If so, I wou'd ask whether it be very natural to talk of [c] the Womb of a Vessel? What congruity is there? What Idea have You of the Forehead of Night, of a Star, or of the Heavens? yet in the Translation we meet with Metaphors of thi• kind: and tho' it may be tolerable to talk of the [a] Front of Heaven; the othe• two, [b] The blazing Forehead of a Sta•, and [c] the Matron Brow of Night, ar• scarce to be born with. For my part, I shou'd not have expected these Expressions from Mr. Pope: They rather pu• me in mind of another Gentleman, wh• in a Poem of his speaking of the Churc• of England, says that

[d] Divinely bright her Frontlet-Stars appear'd,

While up towards Heaven her ravish'd Eyes sh• rear'•

I desire you would give me your Sentiments on another passage: what do yo• think of the Images in the followin• Line?

They cuff, they tear, their Che•ks, and Necks 〈…〉

Do You remember whom 'tis spoke of? Really, says Philypsus, I cannot we• determine, whether it is spoken of Me• or of a couple of Beasts fighting.—(• neither, answer'd Antiphaus: 'tis used 〈◊〉 Eagles in the [e] Odyssey; and in the (• Iliad, of a couple of Vultures.
[56]
There is an Observation arising from this, which ought to be consider'd, in transferring Metaphors: it may be said, that the word Cheeks in this Verse, is justified by the Original. Custom, Philypsus, is the great Rule of Words: and what is easy in one Language, will not bear in another; because usage may have soften'd in one, what in the other is yet harsh and unwarrantable. This is evident from the very Word in debate. Thus we use •Cheeks in English of some Creatures beside Men; the Term is so far familiarized, and sounds very well: Yet to talk of the Cheeks of a Pheasant, or the Cheeks of a Vulture, will by no means sound the softer for it's prevailing in those other particulars.

However, this is agreed on all hands; that a Metaphor is not to be used, unless it gives a greater light, and makes the thing more sensible to us. Are the Borrow'd terms, in this Case, more expressive than the Native? Nay, do they give you as clear Ideas, as the Native would? Do they give you as clear, where the Poet talks of [a] asswaging Thirst with a generous •intage, or of Polypheme's doing the same thing with a [b] Milky deluge? What do you think of an [a] Ozier-fringed Bank, of a Voice (just heard) [b] wounding the Ear, or of the Seas being call'd the [c] howling desart of the Main? Mr. Pope [d] questio•s whether the nodding of a Mountain be a natural Image; shou'd not You be apt to think too, that a Mountain [e] shaking the Forests on his sides, is fitter for an Earthquake, than a Metaphor? What sort of Idea have You of a [f] well-fought Wall, or a [g] thrice-ear'd Field? in a Word, have You any Idea at all, when he tells us of Jove's [h] rearing a Tempest, or of the [i] whistling Winds waking the Sky?

Philypsus consulted his own Mind all along as these points were offer'd; and endeavour'd very fairly to discover, whether the Images were as clear and evident, as they ought to be: He knew that the great use and [k] beauty of Metaphor, was to give Light and Perspicuity to a description; to cloath Words (as he us'd to say) with Substance; and to make Language visible: But as, upon this View, he cou'd not answer fully what had been produc'd, he was willing to evade it as much as he cou'd. These Instances, says he (turning to Antiphaus) tho' few for so large a Piece, when laid together, are apt to incline ones judgment to the prejudice of the Translator: it will not be •air to look only on the worst side of him; We owe it to Justice, and to the Excellencies of that great Man, to give one Evening to his Beauties, as well as this to his Defects.—Be so good then (interrupted Antiphaus) as to undertake that part for the next: You know me so well I need not assure you, that I shall be as much pleas'd with hearing the Beauties, as I am uneasy in repeating the Faults of this Writer.

After some other discourse, Antiphaus, going for his own apartment, and reflecting upon what had pass'd between him and his friend, took occasion to observe; ‘How impossible almost it is for thegreatest Genius not to fail sometimes, in an undertaking of this Nature: and how unavoidable it will be •or the Reader, (in a Poem generally well wrote) not to be led away from observing those faults, by the vast Power of Ornament, the easy Fluency of the Verse, and his Engagements to the Beauties of a favourite Piece.’ The best qualified (added he) will thus err, when ever they write for Fame; and the most judicious will be thus deceiv'd, when they read for Pleasure.

An ESSAY &c.
EVENING the SECOND.

BETWEEN company and business, it was some time before Philypsus and Antiphaus cou'd get an Evening to themselves; the latter had waited for it with some impatience; and did not fail, pretty early in it, to remind Philypsus of his promise. I long, says he, to see your Remarks: such a method of viewing a Poem, is something like the way of our favourite Vertot in writing History: we have the material Parts of it, without passing thro' the dead Lines, which go toward the Narrative; or the less significant Passages, which are to fill up the Chain of Events. You must not expect any great Matters, answer'd Philypsus: Tho' I have had longer time than we talk'd of at first, it has been sufficient only for collecting some of the scatter'd Beauties of this excellent Translation.

Some of the Lines which you repeated the former Evening, shew'd that the Greatness of his Genius, had led Mr. Pope sometimes into an Excess: if things can be too much beautified, that fault does certainly belong to him. In a few lines, I confess, he discovers a greater love of Ornament, than is becoming. This is the fountain of all the several Peccadillo's which you observ'd from his writings; whatever there is to be found in them either too glaring, or forc'd, or figurative, or too much elevated, may fairly be accounted for this way. You, Sir, produc'd some Passages, as I remember, under each of these Characters: But how pardonable is it, for so exalted a Genius, to run sometimes into an excess of Ornament? And how admirable for such, to excell often in the just, handsome, natural Manner? As Mr. Pope, in the former, may possibly want some favourable Allowances; He must certainly command the highest Esteem in the latter.

Is not almost the entire [a] Episode of Menelaus and Proteus particularly just, and beautiful? What can have a greater share of Nature, without any excesses, than the Adventure with [a] Nausicaa? How justly are the Passions preserv'd in [b] The Descent into Hell; and before, in all the Speeches [c] of Circe and Calypso?

Tho' these Passages are generally of too great a length to bear repeating in a single Evening, you will indulge me with the reading some of the most finish'd Parts of them.

The whole Episode is particularly well wrote; but the things chiefly to be admir'd in it are, the Metamorphosis of Proteus;—His Speech on the unhappy Curiosity of Men;—the account immediately after, of the Deaths of Ajax and Agamemnon; and, above all that enliven'd Conclusion, in Relation to Elysium, and, the future Happiness of Menelaus. You remember the various Transformations of Proteus; and, I believe, will allow them to be exceedingly well express'd:

A Lion now, he curls a surgy mane;

Sudden, our bands a spotted Pard restrain;

Then arm'd with tusks, and lightning in his eyes,

A Boar's obscener shape the God belies:

On spi•y volumes there a Dragon rides;

Here, from our strict embrace a Stream he glides:

And last, sublime his stately growth he rears

[a] A Tree, and well-dissembled foliage wears.

The Lines are extremely good, says Antyphaus; but I had a Thought came into my Head, that possess'd me, all the time, you were reading them: I cou'd not forbear thinking, what an happy Contrivance it wou'd be in the Managers of the Old House, to bring this Deity upon the Stage, in the same manner, that he appears in these Verses. Such a Performance wou'd set their Character in the most eminent Light: They wou'd infallibly get the start of their ingenious Rivals; and poor Doctor Faustus, and his Dragon, wou'd no longer be the highest Entertainment of the Beaux Esprits of this Age.

I am got into another Part of the Poem (says Philypsus) which might serve, in some measure, to arm their Rivals of Lincolns-Inn-Fields, against so formidable an Undertaking. There are Passages in the Descent into Hell, capable of furnishing out a great deal of the Wonderful, and Surprizing, in this way. But to return: can any thing be more Pathetick, than this whole Book? especially, the latter part, when the Heroes come to make their Appearance. Tho' I am always lost in the Variety of Beauties, which we find in it; I must single out the Speech of Agamemnon, and read (at least) the Conclusion of it to you:

When War has thunder'd with its loud est Storms,

Death thou hast seen in all her ghastly forms;

In duel met her, on the listed Ground,

When hand to hand they wound return for wound:

But never have thy Eyes astonish'd view'd

So vile a deed, so dire a Scene of Blood.

Ev'n in the flow of joy, when now the bowl

Glows in our Veins, and opens ev'ry Soul,

We groan, we faint; with Blood the dome is dy'd,

And o'er the pavement floats the dreadful tyde—

Her breast all gore, with lamentable cries,

The bleeding innocent Cassandra dies!

Then, tho' pale death froze cold in ev'ry vein,

[a] My Sword I strive to wield,—but strive invain.

Surely nothing in Nature can be conceived of greater Strength and Emotion, than this Circumstance. We see the Hero weltring on the Floor, all cover'd with Blood, and in the last agonies of Death. It was then, that he heard the Cries and Shrieks of the Daughter of Priam, pursued by the Traytors, and stab'd to the Heart by the barbarous Clytemnestra: expiring as he was, he endeavours to raise up his Arm, and at last gets his Hand upon the hilt of his Sword; which he had strength only to grasp, with a look full of Rage, Compassion, and Revenge. Methinks, Antiphaus, I see him now expired, and dropt upon the Floor: but tho' expired, there is still that Rage and Passion in his Countenance; he still grasps his Sword, and seems to threaten the Traytors and the Adulteress with his looks.

I know nothing finer (says Antiphaus) than these last Efforts of dying Heroes. They affect the Soul wonderfully: And the weakness of their Body, which will not permit their acting at such times, in my Opinion sets off their Courage, and their Desire of Action, in the strongest Light imaginable. There is nothing unnatural in this; tho' indeed it follows Nature to its last Pitch: The best Historians, as well as the first Poets, make use of such Circumstances very finely; and I remember Instances of it [a] in Livy and [b] Sallust, that carry this Matter as far as [a] Virgil or Homer. But some Moderns, as usual, stretch it so immoderately, that they go beyond nature; and the Moment it is so, it must be ridiculous. How often have we laugh'd at those Rants of Tasso, and Ariosto? It wou'd be very well if their Heroes only threaten'd in Death, but they must die [b] away, without being at all the Weaker: some of them (in the heat of Battle, you may be sure) forget that they are [c] kill'd, and so keep on fighting: like Strada's Soldiers, who after they are cut in Two, [d] survive themselves; and fight on with that half of their Bodies, that is left them; to revenge the other, which was knock'd on the Head, an hour or two before.

Such things as those (answer'd Philypsus) are not Blemishes in a piece; they are downright falsities; meer outrages against Truth, as well as common sense. Nothing can be invented more ridiculous: they are like the incomprehensible Lies of Sir John Falstaff; and put one in mind of his fighting with Blount, an hour by Shrewsbury Clock, after that Gentleman had been kill'd before very heartily by Princ• Henry.

On the contrary; Homer is as great a friend to Truth and Nature, as he is to Poetry: He knows how to raise, every thing, as far as it will bear; he ha• always a Command of whatever is prope• to be said; and, which is yet greater• always understands when he has sai• enough.

But we forget our selves, Antiphau• this Digression has carried us so far, th•• if we do not soon go on with this Spee• of Agamemnon's which occasion'd it, w• shall not know where it left off: Aft• that pathetick account of his Death an• the barbarity of his Queen, he proceed•

Nor did my traitress Wife these Eye-lids ck•

Or decently in Death my Limbs compose.

O Woman, Woman! when to ill thy Mind

Is bent, all Hell contains no fouler Fiend.

And such was mine! who basely plung'd her sw•

Thro' the fond Bosom, where she reign'd ado••

Alas! I hop'd, the toils of War o'ercome,

To meet soft quiet and repose at home;

D•lusive hope!—O Wife, thy deeds disgra••

The pe•jur•d Sex, and blacken all the race;

And shou'd posterity one virtuous find,

[a] Name Clytemnestra, they will curse the ki••

The turn of Expression in this, is much more lively and passionate, than the language of Homer himself. As you cannot value any delays, where we meet with such Improvements; I am sure you will give me leave to read you the Speech of Ulysses just after: That I mean, in which he gives Achilles an account of his Son Pyrrhus's behaviour in the War.

—Hear with pleas'd Attention the renown,

The wars and wisdom of thy gallant Son:

With me from Scyros to the Field of Fame,

R•diant in Arms the blooming Heroe came.

When Gr••ce assembled all her Hundred States,

To ripen Counsels, and decide Debates,

Heavens! how he charm'd us with a flow of sense,

And won the heart with manly Eloquence!

He first was seen of all the Peers to rise,

[a] The third in wisdom, where they all wer• wise.—

Give me leave (says Antiphaus, interrupting him)—that very Verse I have formerly taken notice of; the Translator seems to me to have used an unnecessary Caution in it: He is tender of making Ulysses commend himself by Name, where Homer does it with the greatest bluntness.—

I know it, says Philypsus; but that I should have put to the account of his Improvements on this Speech. Cou'd any thing have been more gross, than to have imitated that line in its own coarse, rustick Dialect? Is it not better on all Hands for such a Sentiment to be imply'd than to be express'd?

Custom and Prejudice (answered Antiphaus) have now render'd it unpolite, and even shocking, for a Man almost in any Case to commend himself: But it was not thus anciently. It is certain, that it was not thus in the times of those Heroes, whom Homer describes; and Home• therefore acts with Propriety, in making Ulysses say, that Nestor and Himself wer• the wisest of all the Grecians. Now, is the Translator in this Case to follow his Author, or not? Is he to preserve the Manners of the Ancients in the characters or his Heroes? or is he to modernize them and to make Ulysses and Achilles appear the most accomplish'd, finest Gentleme• in the World?

That will be carrying the Matter to• far, replied Philypsus; I speak it only as to this particular; and I own I am yet to be convinc'd, that this Humour o• commending themselves, was really s• prevalent among the Ancients. Perhap• this is one of the Places where Home• nods: it might be a slip of haste or inat¦tention.—

No, interrupted Antiphaus, nothing can be more certain, than the freedom and honesty of Speech us'd among the Ancients, in this particular; not only before Homer, but very long after his time.—If Homer's Ulysses here calls himself the wisest of the Grecians, his Achilles does not stick at calling himself the Best and most Valiant of them; and that too, in a Council of all the Princes: Virgil has given us his Approbation of both the one and the other, in making Aeneas talk frequently of his own piety and valour. I cou'd tire you with Quotations of this kind: Socrates, in Plato, is always brought in to his advantage; and yet there he does just the same thing with Ulysses in the present case: he himself quotes the Oracle, which pronounc'd him to be the Wisest of Men. Xenophon represents Cyrus, upon his Death-bed, as taking notice of the greatest Beauty of his own Character, his Humanity; in a Piece which, every one knows, was designed for the Character of a perfect Prince. In a word, whole Treatises •ave been wrote of this very thing, and •n this very strain. Ca•sar, and the great •ewish writer of his own Life, frequently •ommend themselves: the greatest Cri •ick, as well as the greatest Orator, among the Romans, who so often recko•s Modesty among the things which are most necessary toward rendering a Man great in his Profession; how open and frequent is he in praising himself, and in setting his own Merit in a true Light? But what puts this beyond dispute (and shews at the same time, that a just Commendation of one self, may by very consistent with the greatest Modesty) is to be found in the sacred Writings, in which Moses says of himself, that he was the Meekest Man upon Earth.

Thus free were the Ancients in commending themselves; and not to consider here, whether we, or they were in the right; (whether their Behaviour may not be thought to have had more of Veracity in it; and our Method to have been grounded, in a great degree, on a false Estimate of things: however that be) I think enough has been said, to shew that Homer was not drowsy, when he wrote this line; and that Ulysses might use it, without any thing of a vitious Arrogance.

To confess the Truth (says Philypsus) I was really ignorant in this point of the Usage of the Ancients, and had modelled their Manners too much by our own. I now see my error; and think the Translator might have spared the excuse, which he [a] makes for this Indecency in Ulysses behaviour: 'tis plain, it wou'd not have been so improper, before a People, less noted for Vain-glory, than the Phaeacians. I thank you, Antiphaus, for this new Light; and shall go on with the Heroe's Character of Pyrrhus, without thinking him so assuming, as he formerly appear'd to have been. After placing the Son of Achil•es next to Nestor and Himself in Wisdom, he proceeds to give an account of his Courage; and in that, sets him above all the Grecians, without Exception.

But when to try the fortune of the day

Host mov'd tow'rd host in terrible array,

Before the van, impatient for the •ight,

With martial port he strode, and stern delight.—

When Ilion in the horse receiv'd her doom,

And unseen armies ambush'd in its womb;

Gr••ce gave her latent warriors to my care,

'Twas mine on Troy to pour the imprison'd war:

Then, when the boldest bosom beat with fear,

When the stern eyes of Heroes dropp'd a tear;

Fierce in his look his ardent valour glow'd,

Flush'd in his Cheek, or sally'd in his Blood;

Indignant in the dark recess he stands,

Pants for the battle, and the war demands;

His voice breath'd death; and with a martial air

[b] He grasp'd his Sword and shook his glittering Spear.

How well is the earnest Spirit of a young Heroe described throughout this whole Passage? How does the impetuousness of his Soul appear, in these previous Actions of the warrior? Had one the poetical Liberty of making comparisons, I shou'd not stick at sa•ing, that this has a great resemblance to that admirable description of a War-horse, in the most finisht Poem in the World.

—[a] T•m, siqua sonum procul arma dedere;

Stare loco nescit, micat auribus, & tremit •rtus•

C•ll•ctumque prem••s volvit sub naribus ignem.

I am apt to believe, that Mr. Pope had this behaviour of Pyrrhus in his Eye, when he gave those lively Strokes in the entrance of his Ode for Musick. We see the Heroes there in the same Postures when animated by the martial strains o• Orpheus.

[b] Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,

And half unsheath'd the shining blade;

And Seas, and Rocks, and Skies re•ound

To arms, to arms, to arms!

By the sudden flow of their Spirits• and the rapidity of their Imagination• they prevent the War• They shew a noble forgetfulness of the Place and Circumstances of things about them, and think themselves already engaging with the absent Enemy.

There is one Speech more of those I mention'd at first, which I cannot forbear repeating to you; tho' I am sensible, that I have been too long upon this Head already. It is that of Circe to Ulysses, in the tenth Odyssey:

Then wav'd the wand, and then the word was given•

Hence to thy fellows! (dreadful she began)

Go, be a Beast!—I heard and yet was Man.

Then sudden whirling like a waving Flame

My beamy faulchion, I assault the Dame:

Struck with unusual fear, she trembling cries,

She faints, she falls; she lifts her weeping eyes.

What art thou? say! from whence, from whom you came?

O more than human! tell thy race, thy name.

Amazing strength these poisons to sustain!

Not mortal thou, nor mortal is thy Brain.

Or art thou he? the Man to come (foretold

By Hermes powerful with the Wand of Gold)

The Man from Troy, who wander'd Ocean round,

The Man, for Wisdom's various Arts renown'd:

[a]Ulysses?—Oh! thy threatning fury cease.—

What starts? what terror, and a •azement? What passionate breaks are •here in these lines? How solemn is the beginning? how emphatical the account of the action? and how lively the surprize and con•usion of the Inchantress, upon finding the inefficacy of her Charms? Nature here appears in every Word that she says; if the Disappointment is great and shocking, the lines too are all impetuous and abrupt: if the passions strong and various, the Expressions in the Translation are instant and pressing, and the stile often chang'd: How great and swift is the Alteration, from an imperious cruel Tyrant, to a poor weak helpless Woman? And how is it equal'd by that judicious shifting of the scene in this piece? There the change is as sudden and immediate; and nothing can be greater than the fall from the haughtiness of

Go, be a Beast!—

to the meanness of the line, just after,

She faints, she falls; she lifts her weeping Eyes.

You cannot but observe farther, my Antiphaus, that the lines in this description, are every where improv'd with those Figures, which the Ancient Criticks have always look'd upon as the most proper to express an hurry of Passion. The Transposition, the Omission of Words, the pressing use of Exclaiming and Interrogation, and the general Inconnection which runs through it, are all apply'd in the most natural and poetical Manner. There is a Note of the Translator on a Passage not long before this, which gives us in one view several excellent Observations of this kind, and which no doubt he had in his Eye here; for the rules of it are exactly follow'd in the present case. This Poet is the best Commentator on himself; give me leave therefore just to look back for his [a] Note on the Speech of Eurylocus; that you may see how exactly those Observations tally with his performance here, in every particular Article.

‘We have here (says he) a very lively picture of a Person in a great fright:—the very manner of speaking, represents the disorder of the speaker; he is in too great an Emotion to introduce his Speech by any Preface, he breaks at once into it, without preparation, as if he could not soon enough deliver his thoughts.’—Again:

There is nothing, which gives more life to a Discourse, than the taking away [b] the Connections and Conjunctions; when the discourse is not bound together and embarass'd, it walks and slides along of it self. Periods thus cut off, and yet pronounc'd with Precipitation, are signs of a lively Sorrow; which at the same time hinders, yet forces him to speak.
—Again (in a like case)

He speaks short, and in broken and interrupted Periods, which excellently represent the agony of his thoughts.—Afterwards we see he breaks out into Interrogations, which, as [a] Longinus observes, give great motion, strength, and action to Discourse. If the Poet had proceeded simply, the Expression had not been equal to the occasion; but by these short Questions, he gives strength to it, and shews the disorder of the speaker, by the sudden starts and vehemence of the Periods.

All these animated Figures, all those Arts of expressing the Passions, are beautifully wo•e into this single piece of Poetry: But there is one peculiar Excellence in it yet behind, which I admire beyond all the rest. It is a power almost unknown even to Poetry before, and the Criticks have not as yet found out any Name for it. The extraordinary Beauty I mean, is that Insight which the Poet gives his Readers into Circe's Mind: We look into her Soul, and see the Ideas pass there in Train. At first she is ignorant, then dubious, and at last discovers gradually in her Thoughts the Character, and very Name of the Heroe. Circe, skill'd as she was in all the arts of Magick, is limited in her Knowledge and Discovery of things: and in the present Discovery of the Person of Ulysses, her Mind acts with Tumult and Rapidity, but at the same time with a series and gradual Collection of Truths, at first unknown. Every one may perceive the Tumult, and the successive Enlightnings of her Mind. We are led into a full View of the shifting of her thoughts; and behold the various openings of them in her Soul.

What art thou? say! from whence, from whom you came.

Or art thou He? the Man to come foretold—

T•e Man, from Troy?—

The Man, for wisdom's various arts renown'd,

Ul•sses?—

I never read any thing which sets the actings of another's Mind so distinctly to the view. Circe's very Thoughts are made visible to us; they are set full in our Eyes; and we see the different degrees as it were of Light, breaking in upon her Soul.—'Tis a most charming piece of Poetry! and upon turning it every way, and considering all its several perfections, I believe one might venture to pronounce it, the most finisht Piece, the most compleat Beauty in the whole Translation.

These are the productions of a Sublime Genius, and speak an uncommon Spirit, together with a firm extensive Judgment, and an exact Sense of things. But you Antiphaus chiefly complain of this Writer for his Refinements and Elevation: there is too much of the Enflure (as the French call it) in his Works; and you cannot bear with such a profusion of Glitter and Embroidery in the Language. I do not deny, that the Passages you repeated, are generally blameable on these accounts; but beg leave to produce some instances, which may shew the Translator, to be a master in the just and proper stile; as the former convince us of his Excellence in the polish'd, and enliven'd, and pathetick.

How humble are the lines in particular, [a] where Ulysses meets with Minerva in Ithaca, and how rural the (•) [92] [a] Scene between him and Eumaeus in that Island? So far, that for my own Part I must confess, I shou'd be more apt to imagine, that Mr. Pope on these Occasions sinks now and then into Lownesses, beneath the dignity of the Epick; than that he soars too high, or uses any false Elevation.

As for the just and chaste Manner of expressing things, it is very frequent in these Passages: There is a place just come into my Head, in which this very way of speaking is describ'd; the lines are close and expressive; and, according to Mr. Pope's Method in his incomparable Essay, are themselves the best example of the thing they treat of; they are [b] in the Eighth Book:

With partial hands, the Gods their gifts dispense;

Some greatly think, some speak with manly sense.

Here Heaven an elegance of form denies,

But Wisdom the defect of form supplies:

This Man with energy of thought controuls,

And steals with modest violence our Souls;

He speaks res•rv'dly, but he speaks with force,

Nor can one word be chang'd but for a worse.

The Conclusion of Tiresias's Speech to Ul•sses (proceeded Philypsus) I dare answer for it, you will think excellent in this way:

—Peaceful shalt thou end thy blissful days,

And steal thy self from life• by slow decays:

Unknown to pain, in age resign thy breath,

When late stern Neptune points the shaft with death;

To the dark grave retiring as to Rest,

[a] Thy people blessing, by thy people blest.

By this we see, how Mr. Pope can enliven any thing of this kind with the greatest Justice and Beauty: Such (to mention but one more) is that single Passage, as I take it, in all Homer's Works, which describes the Regions of the Blest. The Lines are very beautiful in the Original; and the Translation has express'd all the beauties of it, in a lively proper fluency of Verse:

Elysium shall be thine; the blissful plains

Of utmost Earth, where Rhadamanthus reigns:

Joys ever-young, unmix'd with pain or fear,

Fill the wide circle of th' Eternal Year.

Stern Winter smiles on that auspicious clime;

The Fields are florid with unfading prime:

From the bleak pole no Winds inclement blow,

Mould the round Hail, or flake the fleecy Snow:

But from the breezy deep, the blest inhale

The fragrant murmurs of the Western gale.

This grace peculiar will the Gods afford

[a] To thee, the Son of Jove, and beauteous Hel•n's Lord.

What can be more Just and Beautiful? The Thought proper and adequate; the Words glowing; and the Language alive: To me, the Verses themselves seem to run on with joy, and pleasure. The delightful Softness of those lines in Homer 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 is diffus'd thro' the whole Description by Mr. Pope; and the latter has the advantage of the Original, in concluding with a full elastick line, that carries a Spring with it, instead of the heaviness of—〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

I entirely agree with you (says Antiphaus) as to the turn of the Lines; 'Tis very fine and vigorous: but methinks even in these, what answers the two particular Greek Verses you have repeated, are too much flourish'd, and more remarkable for their Sound, than for any other Idea they may give the Mind. The Sense seems to be almost overlaid by the Finesse of them.

I shall not stand with you for that Couplet, answer'd Philypsus: what I chiefly admire is the general •low of the lines in the whole Passage.

This manner of writing, Antiphaus, is very assistant in expressing the nature of the Subject: and indeed, tho' Mr. Pope does sometimes go too far in the Florid and Artificial, we may say in general, that he is a very natural Writer. His Imagination is lively, his Colours strong, and his Hand masterly in most of his strokes. We shou'd lose our selves in endeavouring to observe all that variety of Beauties of this kind, which are to be found in his Translation: one Point I have particularly admir'd in it; The Poet's peculiar Air, and Happiness in drawing Landscapes; especially hanging Woods, Slopes, and Precipices: Thus,

—High Ithaca o'er-looks the Floods,

[a] Brown with o'er-arching Shades, and pendent Woods.

What Reader will be so unconcern'd, and so little taken with this Prospect, as Ulysses is represented to be in another Part of the Poem? For 'tis the same place, that we have a description of afterwards, when we are told, That he

—Deep-musing, o'er the Mountains stray'd,

Thro' mazy thickets of the woodland shade,

And cavern'd ways, the shaggy coast along,

[b] With cliffs, and nodding forests over-hung.

In Ulysses's first adventures on Phaeacia, we are led on successively, thro' several very beautiful Descriptions. First we have a [a] rocky Coast, excellently pictur'd in two lines only: thence we are carried into a [b] thick dark Wood, for that Night. The next Morning, we have a [c] View of the City; The first things which offer to the Eye are the Castle, and the Senate-house, rising above the other Buildings; at a distance, across the great Road, appears the Port with the Ships at Anchor, and their Sails fluttering in the Air: on the Shore, just by the Temple of Neptune, you see the Phaeacians busied in the Dock, all in their several Employments. After this View, you pass thro' a [d] delicious Range of Groves, and Meadow-ground, up to the Walls; while on this side, [e] appear the Gardens all in bloom; and the Vineyards of Alcinous close the Scene on the other.

There can be nothing better imag'd, and more natural, than these Descriptions are in Mr. Pope's Translation: they exceed even the Original it self.

I beg leave to repeat another Description to you, which lies not so diffus'd as the former; 'tis one single View of Calypso's Grotto; and what an exact and beautiful Draught of it does it give us?

—A various Sylvan scene

Appears around, and groves of living green;

Poplars and Alders ever quivering play'd,

And nodding Cypress form'd a fragrant shade;

On whose high branches, waving with the storm,

The Birds of broadest wing their mansion form,

(The Chough, the Sea-mew, the loquacious Crow)

And scream aloft, and skim the deeps below.

Depending Vines the shelving Cavern screen,

With purple clusters blushing thro' the green•

Four limpid fountains from the Cliff distill,

And every fountain pours a sev'ral rill,

[a] In mazy windings wandring down the Hill.

Nothing can be more beautiful to the Eye, than these Landscapes are in the Poem: they make every thing present to us; and agreeably deceive us into an Imagination, that we [b] actually See, what we only Hear: As the Poet may improve all his Circumstances at pleasure, what the Criticks have observ'd in this Case, is not so extravagant, as one wou'd imagine; we really see things more fully and with greater delight in the Poem, than we shou'd in the reality; The Picture improves upon Nature: and we might look on the Prospect it self with [a] less pleasure, than we hear it describ'd.

Whoever is shock'd at this, may be pleas'd to consider the Cave of the Nymphs, in the Thirteenth Book: That alone may serve to shew, how largely Circumstances may be added, in describing the works of Nature; or in drawing poetical Prospects.

Mr. Pope shews an excellent Hand in several other Places; as in the first View of Circe's Palace at a distance, and constantly in the appearance of Land off at Sea.

Ulysses gives us an account of the former at his landing upon the Island of that Goddess.

[b] From the high Point I mark'd in distant view

A stream of curling Smoke ascending blue,

And spiry tops, the tufted Trees above,

Of Circe's Palace bosom'd in the Grove.

The other is very frequent: take a Description or two of it, that come into my Mind at present.

[c] Like distant Clouds the Mariner descries,

Fair Ithaca's emerging Hills arise.

Again;

[a] The distant Land appear'd—

Then swell'd to sight Phaeacia's dusky coast,

And woody Mountains half in vapours lost;

That lay before him, indistinct and vast.

Like a broad Shield amid the watry waste.

Nothing hath furnish'd Homer (as well as Virgil) with such a variety of natural Images, as this Element; and in nothing has Mr. Pope more finely copied his Original. But all these Beautiful Pictures, are only Pictures of still Life; this Gentleman's Excellency reaches farther; he is as masterly in all his Motions, and Actions; he can teach his Pencil to express Ideas yet in the Mind; and to paint out the Passions of the Soul.

Sometimes we have all the Imagery in Motion: If a Ship is to set sail, the Canvas swells to the Eye, the Streamers float in the Air, and the Sailors are all full of Noise and Business: [b] We see the Vessel move on, and here the rushing sound of the Water.

—The attending train

Load the tall bark, and launch into the main.

The Prince and Goddess to the stern ascend;

(c) To the strong stroke at once the rowers bend

Full from the West she bids fresh breezes blow;

The sable billows foam and roar below.—

With speed the Mast they rear, with speed unbind

The spacious sheet, and stretch it to the Wind.

High o'er the roaring Waves the spreading Sails

Bow the tall Mast, and swell before the gales;

The crooked keel the parting surge divides,

And to the stern retreating roll the tides.

At another time, you behold the Rowers, drawing [a] the Oar to their broad Breasts; and the different attitudes of them, as they [b] bend, or [c] stretch to the stroke.

[d] At once they bend and strike their equal oars,

And leave the sinking hills and less'ning shores.

This Idea of the Land seeming to sink and recede, is very beautifully added, in another Place, where we have the Description of a Person driving, very swiftly, in a Chariot: I believe you will hear the entire Passage with Pleasure, as it is all very Just and Natural:

With hasty hand the ruling reins he drew:

He lash'd the coursers, and the coursers flew.

Beneath the bounding yoke alike they held

Their equal pace, and smoak'd along the field•

The Tow'rs of Pylos sink, its views decay,

Fields after fields fly back, till close of Day;

[e] Then sunk the Sun, and darken'd all the way.

Along the waving fields their way they hold,

[a] The fields receding as the Chariot roll'd.

Give me leave (interpos'd Antiphaus) to observe one thing, by the way. Mr. Pope (possibly, to make this the more sensible to us at present) deviates a little from the Truth; and chuses rather to shew the Poet, than the Antiquary. As I take it, the Horses in the Chariots of the Ancients were not beneath the Yoke. Do not their Medals, and all the Pictures of them represent it otherwise? And does not the Verse, here in the Original, shew its Position in respect of the Horses, very particularly and distinctly?

However, this is a slip of a small Nature: and had the thing been express'd in exact Conformity to the Grecian fashion in this particular, it might not have struck the Reader so strongly, as it does now, by its Agreement with the present Idea of the same thing.

I am not concern'd, says Philypsus, either in defending, or giving up that particular: I only instance this Passage, in general, for its expressiveness of such an Action; and of the Ideas, arising in the Mind upon it: As to that End, I believe it will hold very well. The Description and Sentiment is very Natural, (reply'd Antiphaus) I beg you to go on without observing any little breaks for the future, which may be occasion'd by such Circumstances, as do not affect the chief Aim and Design of a Quotation.

If the Poet, proceeded Philypsus, can paint out the Ideas in the Mind with so much Justice, as he appears to do by this instance; and more particularly by another mention'd before (of the successive openings and unfolding of an unknown Truth, in the Mind of Circe) we shall find him to have been equally Happy in expressing the Passions of the Soul. Something of this has been mention'd already, and almost an infinite variety of Beauties of the same kind might be added. They •bound every where in the Translation, and are generally well touched. But there is the Description of one Passion in particular, which is perserv'd throughout the whole Piece: It is Ulysses his Love for his Country. Give me leave to repeat some of the first, and last Passages, in which it is exprest. How strongly does Minerva represent this, even in the •ery entrance of the Poem? She says the Hero is detain'd from Ithaca, by a Goddess (nothing human cou'd have forced him into so tedious an absence: by a Goddess)

Who sooths to dear delight his anxious mind—

Successless all her soft caresses prove,

To banish from his breast his Country's love;

To see the Smoke from his lov'd palace •ise,

While the dear Isle in distant prospect lies,

[a]With what contentment wou'd he close his eyes?

The first Appearance of the Hero is most excellently imagined. Calypso has just receiv'd orders to detain Ulysses no longer from his Country; she finds him sitting alone upon the Rocks, the Tears trickling down his Cheeks, and his Eyes fixt upon the Sea. It was thus that he pass'd his Hours, in the Island of that Goddess: He constantly,

In slumber wore the heavy Night away;

On Rocks and Shores consum'd the •edious Day:

There sate all desolate, and sigh'd alone,

With echoing sorrows made the mountains gro•n•

And roll'd his eyes o'er all the restless main,

[b] Till dim'd with rising grief, they stream'd again

Pardon me, says Antiphaus; even her• (tho' the Passion be strongly set out yet) the Language of the two Passages which you repeated last, is not entirel• free from the old Fault: the Enflure is still discernible. That soothing an anxious Mind to dear delight, falls short of the plainness, and energy of the Original:—To make the Mountains groan with echoing Sorrow, is yet more over-wrought.—And the streaming again of his Eyes, is not exactly right in the Translation, which does not mention, his weeping before; at the same time, that it varies from the Original, which says that he never ceas'd from weeping.

We meet with another Image of this (reply'd Philypsus) in the Evening before Ulysses sets sail for Ithaca; which, I believe, you will allow to be better express'd. He was then in so delightful a Place, as the Court of Alcino•s. They had a multitude of Diversions there: the Phaea•ians were the happiest People in the World; Races and Entertainments, Mirth, Wine, and Musick were the chief Business of their Lives. Ulysses appears among them with a quite different ••ce: he looks like a Creature of an higher Make, of an Order above them; and his Mind is taken up with farther Views, and other Desires.

All, but Ulysses, heard with fixt delight:

He •ate, and ey'd the Sun, and wish'd the Night;

Slow seem'd the Sun to move, the hours to roll,

[a] His native Home deep-imag'd in his Soul.

We are continually put in mind of this fondness of the Hero for his Country: and in the last Case, it is particularly fixt upon the Reader by a very expressive [b] Simile. We may imagine the ardency of Ulysses's Love for his Ithaca, his own proper Country, when we consider his Affection for his Country-men, the Grecians in general. Upon an occasional revival in his Thoughts of the Destructions and Misery they underwent before Troy, the Hero's Dissimulation (great as it was) is overcome; his Passion breaks through every restraint: we immediately see him all in Tears. This tenderness of his, is painted in another Simile, the most pathetick that can be conceiv'd, and the most expressive of his Affection for his Country-men.

—Ulysses's griefs renew;

Tears bath his cheeks, and tears the ground •edew:

As some fond Matron views in mortal fight

Her Husband falling in his Country's right;

Frantick thro' clashing Swords she runs, she flies,

As ghastly pale he groans, and faints, and dies;

Close to his Breast she grovels on the ground,

And bathes with floods of •ears the gaping wound;

She cries, she shrieks: the fierce insulting foe

Relentless mocks her violence of woe,

To chains condemn'd as wildly she deplores,

[a] A widow, and a slave on foreign shores.

It wou'd be endless to repeat every thing of this Nature; There are a Thousand sketches of it in the Odyssey. 'Tis sufficient at present to observe, that Mr. Pope generally gives them to us in very lively Colours; and excells almost every where in the Pathetick. 'Tis certain (says Antiphaus) that he has an excellent Hand; his Images, which you have set before me, are as strong as any of the Works of the Pencil. They are so, answered Philypsus; and, on that account, you will Pardon me for borrowing so many Metaphors from Painting in this Case; 'Tis unavoidable. The designs of Painting and Poetry are so united, that to me the Poet and the Painter seem scarcely to differ in any thing, except the Mean they make use of, to arrive at one and the same end. Both are to express Nature: but the Materials of the one are Words, and Sound; of the other, Figure and Colours. Poetry can paint more particularly, more largely, and with greater coherence• Painting is the more concise, and emphatical. If This may excell in shewing one View distinctly, That can shew several in succession, without any manner of Confusion. Any figure in Painting is confin'd to one Attitude; but Poetry can give as great a variety of Motion and Postures, as the reality it self. What seems a Paradox of Art in either, is their Power of expressing two opposite Passions in the same face. Of this sort (among a Multitude of like instances) is the Mother of Lewis the Thirteenth, in the Gallery of Luxembourg; and every Piece in that fine Episode, which conc•udes the sixth Iliad. In that Picture, the Queens Face strongly expresses the Pain and Anguish of her Condition, mix'd with a regard toward her Son, full of the greatest Pleasure and Complacence. In the Poem we have the greater variety, and each piece is perfectly just and finish'd. Hector shews a sierceness for the War, and a tenderness that inclines him to stay for a last interview; little Astyanax has a Fondness and a Terror in his Eyes, a• the sight of his Father; while Andromache's Face is all soften'd into a tende• Smile; and at the same time, wet with the Tears, that fall for her Hector.

I remember (says Antiphaus) it was to you that I was oblig'd for the first Observation, I ever met with, on these Double Passions. I have since read several things, (in the Aeneid, as well as in the Works of Homer) with a pleasure perfectly new, on account of the light, you then gave me, into this particular: And out of a Thousand Places, that I have observ'd it in since, I know none so beautiful as that of Achaemenides in Virgil; which you mention'd to me, the first time we ever talk'd of this Subject.

That you know (reply'd Philypsus) to have been always my Favourite: I have read it over in Dryden so frequently, that I believe I can now repeat you his Translation of it:

—From the Woods there bolts, before our sight,

Somewhat betwixt a Mortal and a Spright;

So thin, so ghastly meager, and so wan,

So bare of Flesh, he scarce resembled Man:

This thing, all tatter'd, seem'd from far t'implor•

Our pious Aid and pointed to the Shore;

We look behind; then view his shaggy Beard:

His cloaths were tagg'd with thorns, and •ilth his limbs be•mear'd:

The rest in mein, in habit, and in face•

Appear'd a Greek; and such indeed he was:

He cast on us from far a frightful view,

Whom soon for Trojans and for foes he knew;

S•ood still, and paus'd• then, all at once, began

To stretch his Limbs, and trembled as he ran;

Soon as approach'd, upon his knees he falls,

And thus with tears and sighs for pity calls:

"Now by the Pow'rs above, and what we share

"From Natures common gift, this vital Air,

"[a] O Trojans, take me hence.—

'Tis but too evident (continu'd Philypsus) that Mr. Dryden falls as much •hort of [b] Virgil in the chief turn, that relates to our present purpose; as Virgil has exceeded that [c] Passage in the Iliad, which seems to have given him the hint for drawing this admirable Image.

This Distraction of Achaemenides between several Passions at once, puts me in mind of the dubiousness and shifting of thoughts, which is illustrated by Homer by a very apt and expressive Simile; than which (says Mr. Pope)
There [d] is scarce any thing, in the whole compass of Nature, that can more exactly represent the State of an irresolute mind, wavering between two different Designs; sometimes inclining to the one, sometimes to the other, and then moving to that Point to which its Resolution is at last determin'd:

As when old Ocean's silent surface Sleeps,

The Waves just heaving on the purple Deeps;

While yet th' expected Tempest hangs on high,

Weighs down the cloud, and blackens in the sky,

The mass of waters will no wind obey:

Jove sends one gust, and bids them roll away.

While wavering counsels thus his mind engage,

Fluctuates in doubtful thought the Pylian sage;

To join the host, or to the General haste

[a] Debating long, he fixes on the last.

There is something of this Mélange of Passions, (and those too, the most beautiful in this Case, I mean of opposite Passions) in that line of Milton, where he says that Death

Grin'd horrible a ghastly smile—

One wou'd almost be perswaded, that Homer is the dernier Ressort of all the finest Thoughts in Poetry; for this likewise is copied from him, tho' it fails very much (as to the Point in hand) both of the Original, and of Mr. Pope's Translation of it.—Juno makes a very mutinous Speech in an assembly of the Deities: The Infection took, as much as she cou'd desire: and that success, provok'd and inflamed as she was, forced her to be somewhat pleased, in spite of her self: Upon this she shews a sort of [a] uneasy satisfaction, and such a Smile, as Ovid [b] gives to his Envy in the Metamorphosis.

To see the gath'ring grudge in every breast,

Smiles on her lips a spleenful joy exprest;

While on her wrinkled front, and eye-brow bent,

[c] Sate stedfast care and lowring discontent.

This struggle of Passions has been imitated by some Moderns: The first of the French Writers in Tragedy has a fine Occasion for it in the Wife of one of the Horatij; she was Sister at the same time to the Curiatij; so that you may imagine, how she must be distracted between the Interest of the two Cities, and that eminent contest which so particularly involv'd the two Families: She is introduc'd upon that Occasion, speaking to this purpose [d]:

Alba! my dearest Country! Why cou'd fate

Mark ou• no other foe for Rome, but Alba?

From our Defeat what Terror must I feel?

And yet—I dread our Victory.—

There are many things in Virgil's fourth Aeneid, which might be produc'd on this Occasion: but 'tis more to our present Subject to consider that part of the Odyssey, from which some of its finest strokes are borrow'd. Calypso, when she acquaints our Hero with the design of his departure from her Island; upon his doubting her sincerity, swears very solemnly, that her Resolutions are real: the next moment, she falls into a Speech full of Insinuations and Arguments to detain him: both these speeches may rather be said to be enliven'd and improv'd, than to be well translated by Mr. Pope; this only wou'd be too narrow a Commendation of them:—The first runs thus:

How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise?

But hear, Oh Earth, and hear, Ye sacred Skies!

And thou, Oh Styx! whose formidable floods

Glide thro' the shades, and bind th' attesting Gods;

No form'd design, no meditated end

Lurks in the counsel of thy faithful friend;

Kind the perswasion, and sincere my aim;

The same my practise, were my fate the same.

Heaven has not curst me with a heart of steel,

[a] But giv'n the sense to pity and to feel

One wou'd think now that the Goddess was to do nothing but to advise about his Voyage, and the Conveniencies for it: but her Passions immediately veer about; and the very next Page, the very next time she speaks, is all in a strain entirely opposite to what she has been saying in this:

Ulyss•s! (with a sigh she thus began)

O sprung from Gods! in wisdom more than Man!

I• then thy home the passion of thy heart?

Thus wilt thou leave me? are we thus to part?

Farewel! and ever joyful may'st thou be;

Nor break the transport with one thought of me.

But ah Ulysses! wert thou giv'n to know

What fate yet dooms thee, yet, to undergo,

[a] Thy heart might settle in this scene of ease &c.

I must not forget here, that the fines• of the modern Italian Poets has express'd this Melange, on an occasion which is attended with such a Circumstance, as exceeds any of the other: The particular in which he shews it, shews at the same time the swiftness of the intervening passion; and expresses the strongest of any how immediately one flow of Spirits succeeds upon a former and quite contrar• emotion. Armida, deserted by her Rinaldo, breaths nothing but fury and revenge; she pursues him in the heat of the battle; forgetful of her former passion, she aims an arrow at his heart: but see, while it is yet in its flight, how the passions vary on her face! her rage and fury soften into tenderness and apprehensions of his danger! in an instant her Love is too strong for her Resentment: in an instant, she dreads least her Design shou'd be effectual, and longs to be disappointed in her aim:

(a) Swift flies the shaft: as swiftly flies her pray'r,

That all its vehemence be spent in air.

How finely are the Passions blended in this piece? the Transition from the extremity of fury to an excess of love, is manag'd in such a manner, as to be wholly •nsensible: as when two Colours are lost •n the Shades of each other, the Eye is •greeably deceived; and we are delight •d with the delicacy of their Union, ••o' unable to discover where one com •ences, or the other ends.

In this particular there is not any •ing that can equal Poetry, or bear to 〈◊〉 compared with it, except its sister-••t of Painting; that might copy every [133] instance, I have mention'd here: And certainly what makes so beautiful a Figure in the finest Poets, might deserve the imitation of the best Painters. Was not the Dolon and Calypso of Homer worthy the hand of a Zeuxis or Parrhasius, a Protogenes or Apelles? Wou'd not the Aruns or Achaemenides of Virgil have been a fine design even for Raphael and Angelo to have work'd upon? If our Shakespear can give us the struggle of Passions in the Breast of Coriolanus, Thornhill might trace the same, and speak them as well with his Pencil: And if Corneille expresses the contrary desires of the sister of the Curiatij, his Country-man Le Brun might have had a much finer Subject in the various Passions of the Sabines, rushing in amidst the two contending Armies; to prevent those fatal Consequences, in which the Victory of either party must necessarily involve them.

But what I have often thought of as the finest Subject of this kind, either for Poetry or Painting, is the first Bru •us on the Judicial seat; just before the act of giving Sentence on his own Sons• for their treachery to the Common-wealth• What a noble strife was there betwee• natural Affection, and the Love of one'• Country? between Duty, and Desire between common Humanity, and the Spirit (perhaps the Pride) of a Roman? What a fine Groupe of Figures wou'd the Suppliants for the Criminals compose in such a Piece? On one side of the Tribunal, the Wife of the Judge and Mother of the Offenders; and all the Relations divided in the same manner, between a desire of moving Pity, and an abhorrence of the very Crime, for the Pardon of which they wou'd intercede: The People of Rome, on the other side, with looks full of mixt Passions; some struck with Pity amidst all their severity, some almost condemning and yet approving at the same time, the rigid justice of the Father; while others commiserate the Youth of the Sons, and seem incens'd at the unnatural impartiality of the Judge.

'Tis a Misfortune, that Virgil's Hand was withheld from launching farther, [a] where he has touch'd upon this Subject: but it wou'd be well made up to us, if any eminent Person, in the other Art, wou'd undertake it: It might certainly make a finisht Piece: and Painting in this particular wou'd have the advantage of Poetry; as it could express this Mélange of passions directly, and wou'd strike the mind with them in their proper Union, all at once: whereas, when taken from the Poetical Picture, the combination is not so easy; and we scarce ever conceive it, so closely as we ought.

Were you to give me full scope, I shou'd carry the r•semblance between these Arts much farther than it has ever yet been carried: There is scarce a Figure or Manner in Poetry which I shou'd not imagine to have its tally in the Schools of the Painters: I cou'd find it even in the very next point, which comes in my way, in the Emphatical. Natural Descriptions, as they are Pictures which take in the various Circumstances of a place or action, give us generally several Groupes of finisht Figures: This, on the contrary, is a way of expressing Nature in Poetry, not unlike Out-lines and Sketches in Painting: and as the lines in Sketches are fewer, but the more distinct; this must be always concise, and very expressive.

There are several masterly strokes of the Emphatical kind in the Odyssey: Such is that Speech of Telemachus, where he says

Prepar'd I stand. He was but born to try

[a]The lot of Man: To suffer, and to die.

Such is Circe's whole speech [b] which I repeated to you before, on account of its Pathos. Such, in an high degree, is the first rencounter of the Hero with that Goddess,

Hence to thy Fellows (Dreadful she began)

[a] Go, be a Beast.—I heard; and yet was Man.

This Manner is necessary in all Sententious passages, and moral reflections; 'tis often strong in expressing the passions: and peculiarly useful in the Sublime. Take an instance of each, from Mr. Pope.

[b]—Pyrates and conquerors, of harden'd mind,

The foes of peace, and scourges of mankind,

To whom offending Men are made a prey

When Jove in vengeance gives a land away;

E•'n these, when of their ill-got spoils possess'd,

Find sure tormentors in the guilty breast:

Some voice of God close whispering from within,

"Wretch! this is Villany, and this is Sin."

The reflection upon seeing Agamemnon in Ades, is of this kind.

[c] Now all Atrides is an empty shade!

Just after Atrides speaks thus passionately in the account of his own Death, by the treachery of Aegisthus:

[a] But not with me the direful Murther ends;

These, These expir'd!—Their crime, they were my friends.

In the Sublime, nothing can be higher than the language of his Gods, Neptun• and Jupiter:

[b] If such thy Will—We will it, Jove replies,

This latter is that short full way of Expression, so frequent in [c] Virgil and [d] Homer, copied perhaps by both from the admired Example of it in [e] Moses, and grown since into an [f] Axiom among the Criticks. It is the more to be commended in Mr. Pope, because the turn, •e gives the Line, is perfectly his own: Indeed in every one of these instances, as I take it, the Chief of their strength and emphasis, is owing to the Improvements in the Translation.

Antiphaus cou'd scarce imagine, that these were all clear improvements upon Homer: He immediately consulted the passages in the Original; and was surpriz'd to find, how far they fell short of the Translation; especially, in the line• that answer Circe's threat, and the complaint of Agamemnon. I am pleas'd (says he) beyond measure, in consulting these parts of the Poem, to see how much strength and force there is added to them; have you not observ'd more instances of this kind? impart them to me, good Philypsus: 'Tis no matter for method or regularity; Give them to me immediately.—Had I time (answer'd Philypsus) I cou'd find out several other places which have all their proper improvements; at present, I shall refer you to the beginning of Menelaus his speech to Telemachus in the Fourth Odyssey, Nestor's [a] in the Third; and in the Tenth, the speeches between Ulysses and Circe.—I was going to point out some passages in the [b] Descent into Hell: but 'tis difficult to single out particular beauties from that book; The whole of it is so excellently Translated, and (I believe I may say) so generally improv'd.

The mentioning Circe just now, puts me in mind of another passage: 'Tis where Homer describes the Metamorphosis of the companions of Ulysses. They had (says he) the Shape and the Voice of Beasts, [a] but their Mind remain'd firm and unalter'd: this Mr. Pope improves into the following lines.

[b] Still curst with sense, their mind remains alone,

And their own voice affrights them when they groan.

The addition here is very Natural, and full of Beauty; in such changes, particularities of this kind strike us very much: Virgil touches them on this Occasion [c] with his usual happiness; and [d] Ovid, who has shown a particular talent for such subjects, has left us the very same thought with this of Mr. Pope.

I remember that Mr. Pope appear'd to me, upon my first reading his Translation, to have improv'd much upon the Original in his Poetical Repetitions of the same word, the Figure in which he is most frequent. Thus is it us'd in the following lines:

A Scene, where if a God shou'd cast his sight.

[e] A God might gaze, and wander with delight.

[a] Never, Never wicked man was wise.

[b] Here, or in Pyle.—In Pyle or here, your foe.

And in these other very Pathetical,

[c] Then stay, my Child!—Storms beat, and rolls the Main,

Oh beat those Storms, and roll the Seas in vain!

'Tis yet more beautiful, when the Repetition holds farther; as in this Passage:

[d] Transported with the song, the listning train

Again with loud applause demand the strain:

Again Ulysses veil'd his pensive head,

Again unman'd, a show'r of Sorrow shed.

This sometimes gives an additional solemnity, and rises stronger and stronger each Line:

Celestial as thou art, yet stand deny'd:

O• swear that oath, by which the Gods are ty'd,

Swear, in thy soul no latent frauds remain,

[e]Swear, by the vow which never can be vain.

This is sometimes carried yet farther; and in Virgil particularly there is a fine Instance of this sort of Repetition [f] being doubled.

But in nothing is this figure more beautiful, than in the [a] Siren's Song: That Piece of antient Musick, is greatly enliven'd in the Translation; the whole flows on in a peculiar Harmony, and the Chorus is very happily added in the Conclusion of it:

Celestial musick warbles from their tongue,

And thus the sweet deluders tune the song.

O stay, oh Pride of Greece! Ulysses, stay!

O cease thy course, and listen to our lay!

Blest is the Man ordain'd our voice to hear,

The song instructs the soul, and charms the ear.

Approach! thy soul shall into raptures rise!

Approach! and learn new wisdom from the wise.

We know whate'er the Kings of mighty name

Atchiev'd at Ilion in the field of fame;

Whate'er beneath the sun's bright journey lies.

O stay, and learn new wisdom from the wise!

The peculiar justice and propriety of this, is the manner in which these Goddesses apply to Ulysses; [a] by offering him knowledge; a thing the most opposite to their own Complexion; and a motive, the most likely to obtain upon that Hero. Mr. Pope has shewn his taste, and his judgment, very much in improving so finely upon this Circumstance: but what runs through the whole, is that musical enliven'd turn of the Verses. This is [161] the happiness, which of all things I admire in this writer: either in prose, or verse, he has the finest flow that can be imagin'd. I have often heard a very good Critick say, That whenever he is reading any Prose of Mr. Pope's, he cannot help thinking that he should never have wrote any thing else: and whenever he reads his Verses, he is angry with him, for losing any time from them, for Prose. How often has the same Gentleman apply'd to this writer those Lines in Milton, in which he speaks of the first Poet, as well as the first of Men?

—[a] Such prompt Eloquence

Flows from his lips: In Prose or numerous Verse

More tuneable, than needed Lu•e or Harp

To add more sweetness.—

Among so many excellencies, the repeating those Lines, which make the Chorus of this Song of the Sirens is not the least beautiful Circumstance: there are a Multitude of other passages, which deserve to be mention'd on account of the fine Repetitions in them: these are what fell into my thoughts at present; and you have them in the same scatter'd manner, that they appear there: But one method of Improvement in this Translation, I took particular notice of, and in that, I can be a little more full and distinct.

Mr. Pope has a very great happiness in Transferring Beauties. He often guides his Translation of Homer by some fine thought, or good expression in any other eminent writer; and this has been the occasion of several improvements in that work.

Have you never observ'd how he introduces the Elegance of Virgil, into the Majesty of Homer? There are two [a] speeches of Circe, which have much of the air of that of Proteus, in the fourth Georgick• and that of the Sybill's in the sixth Aeneid. The speech of [b] Tiresias is improv'd, from another of the Sybill; so also is the Prophetical speech, in the [c] second Odyssey.

There are several Imitations (in a shorter compass) of natural Images, and the like, introduc'd into Homer from the same treasury: Thus the following Lines

[d] Down-sunk the Heavy beast.

[e]Laestrigonia's gates arise distinct in air.

[f]—The shores like mists arise.

[g] And all above is Sky and Ocean all around. &c.

Although the Translator adds these fine strokes from other Hands, they are brought in so naturally, that they seem to spring out of Homer's sentiment: And if an Instance or two shou'd be found among them which may vary a little from the Original, it is only to add some apposite Thought, that is not only finer, but at the same time perfectly agreeable to the Subject. In such cases a Translator may demand the greater liberty of enlarging: as a Flattering Resemblance is always allow'd to Painters. I like that •ery ingenious Friend of yours, who calls •he French Translation of Tacitus, La ••lle Infidelle: That piece, you know, •ho' not very precise and constant to its •uthor, is the more beautiful, and the •ore engaging.

However 'tis seldom that Mr. Pope va •es much in these additional Beauties; •s Translation is generally faithful, even •here it improves upon Homer: And he •eps the chief mark steadily in his Eye, •o' at the same Time it admits the side •ances of Light, from other objects. •hus you will scarce ever find him de •ting from his Author in such cases: •o' this manner of improving him by •itation from others is vastly frequent; •d often so plain, that one may trace it thro' whole scenes together: In particular, I cou'd almost be positive that Mr. Pope read over the Eclogues of Virgil, before he set about that Part of the Story, which lies between Ul•sses and Eumaeus; and indeed I should be apt to conjecture that he usually read those Pastorals, before he sat down to any rural Scene in this Piece: If I am mistaken in this, 'tis the [a] resemblance of their beauties, which has deceiv'd me.

Sometimes we find the Diction beautified by such Resemblances, or the Sentiment improv'd from other hands. From the [b] Sacred Writings frequently; from parallel places in [c] Homer himself: From Ovid, Seneca, Horace, &c. among the Ancients; And from [d] Dryden, Addison, Milton, and several others of the most celebrated Moderns. In his Speeches, we meet with improvements from the Examples and Rules of the Orators of old; and many, from our own Dramatick pieces. It wou'd not be difficult, for a Man of a good Taste, to discern the Air sometimes of Dryden, sometimes of [a] Shakespear, and at others of Otway, among the speeches in the Odyssey. I shall only point out to you those of Agamemnon, which are so very pathetick, in the [b] Eleventh Book: You will easily see that they have a new manner, which exceedingly resembles the hand of the most moving of all our Tragick Writers, since Shakespear.

Antiphaus, upon consulting the passages, immediately perceiv'd the spirit of O•way in them; He then desired Philypsus to direct him to the other imitations he had mention'd: at first he did not think they deserv'd so much commendation; but when he came to Compare the original Lines from the Odyssey, with those of Mr. Pope, he was convinc'd of their [176] beauty: It delighted him to see, what Foundation the Original gave for such a turn, and yet how new that turn was in the Translation; he found almost in every one of them some addition for the better, and scarce in any a deviation from the sense of Homer: It was Homer's sense, but the Expression of it was improv'd. I thank you, (says he turning to Philypsus) I thank you for this clearer view you have given me of the beauties of this Translation: beside these last, how many things have you repeated to me that are extremely just, pure, close, and emphatical? how many perfectly true, and natural? how many handsomly beautified, and enliven'd? what Pictures of Things? what Descriptions of Actions? and what beautiful Expressions, both of the thoughts, and of the passions of the soul? in a word, what improvements, in some strokes, upon the greatest Genius of the World?—Yes, added Philypsus, upon the greatest Genius of the World, assisted by the native use of the most Noble, and most Poetical of all Languages. Then were we to consider the inconveniences on the other side; the general difficulties of Translation• and the difficulty o• this in particular: How hard is it for • Poet to keep up his spirit and flame in another's Work? and how natural to •lag in representing Thoughts not our own? To maintain the vigour of Language and the poetick warmth thorough so long a work, and to express the Soul of Homer, what a Genius does it require? what Spirit wou'd not sink under so large an undertaking? Yet does Mr. Pope hitherto sustain his Character in an handsome equal manner: and we may safely promise ourselves the same of the remaining part of this work: As he enter'd upon this stage with the greatest expectations of all Men, I doubt not but he will leave it with an Universal Plaudite.

But however great and handsome his performance is in the whole, I own with you that it has its faults, the common marks of Humanity: Yes, my Antiphaus, you convinc'd me the former Evening, that it is unavoidable for the greatest Genius not to fail sometimes. For my •art (says Antiphaus,) I shall make no Apologies for the freedoms with which I then us'd this excellent writer: Any •hing of that kind might look odd to you •rom one, whose constant Sentiment you •now to be this; that the kindest way of ••mmending a writer, is to find fault with •im now and then, at proper intervals. •oes not this evince an Impartiality in your views, and add an air of Sincerity and Justice to those Commendations, which you give him? Your Criticks, who extol a Man Universally, and will not be satisfied with any thing under a •er•ect Character, without any the least defect, are a kind of Romantick Criticks; they are rather making an Hero, than describing a Man: They give you a Picture of something, which exists no where but in their own Minds: and a compleat Poet, according to their representations of such, will after all be only (what the Earl of Mulgrave calls it;)

A •aultl•ss Monster which the world ne'er saw.

Very true, says Philypsus; that sort of Criticks •ail as much on one hand, as •u• more Modern Criticks have excee•ed usually on the other: Indeed the former err on the good-natur'd side; yet both of them are very much to blame: For as it shews a mischievous sort of Frenz• to start errors, where there are really none• so an Obstinacy not to see •aults, where they are very evident, requires either a good degree of Ignorance, or a most inveterate Fondness.

I am entirely of your opinion, says Antiphaus, and since I find you in such a temper for it, I cou'd almost of•er to shew you some farther remarks on that side of the Question,—Have you any other then? (says Philypsus.) A Few, answer'd Antiphaus; but I beg one Evening more on this Topick. At present I shall only add my wishes, that we may constantly use thisfair method, in reading all the celebrated Pieces, which come out among us: Let us keep up the true ballance; and not suffer ourselves to be prejudic'd either by too great fondness, or too violent dislike. This is the great Rule of Antient Criticism: Always to keep our Hearts open to the beauties of a Poem; and never to shut our Eyes against the defects of it.

An ESSAY &c.
EVENING the THIRD.

ALMOST all the next day Philypsus was taken up in reflecting on what had been said at the close of their last meeting: he began to be not so uneasy, as usual, in thinking that the faults of a favourite Poet were to be lookt into that Evening; he did not value Mr. Pope less than formerly, but he was throughly convinc'd that there was not so much of severity in this Method, as he had once imagin'd. "No: (says h• to himself) Let us view impartially, that we may rationally admire: Where before I was immediately in love with his •eauties and fond of the Work, I now feel an equal Pleasure and an equal Esteem; but it is in a different manner: I now seem to see the causes that move me to be pleas'd with those fine Passages, and feel a more just and manly Satisfaction in them: 'Tis true, the Soul is not hurried away with that vehemence of delight, as formerly; but the agreeable Sense I now have from them, is both more refin'd, and more lasting. How much is this rational way of admiring to be prefer'd to the common, vulgar passionate one? This is as a flash of Lightning; but the other is like the Light of the Day: 'Tis a serene, dif •us'd, steady light, which at the same time that it discovers all Objects to us, is it self the most beautiful of any.

But then (continued he) how blind was I to the defects of this Poet. Has not Antiphaus shown me several, which before I had no sense of, and which now appear evidently to be such? Indeed that over-sight was more excusable in reading the Works of this celebrated Writer, than it wou'd have been in any other: Reason may well lose something of her Liberty, when she is taken up with an Object every way so agreeable and engaging: However, for the future, I resolve to keep my self obstinately from being over-pleas'd with any thing; and to read his, as all other the best Pieces, in spight of all their Beauty, by that Rule which Antiphaus has laid down.

With these Thoughts he open'd the Translation which lay on his desk; and was very busy in considering it, when Company came in, and interrupted him for that Night: The next Day he employ'd himself in the same manner; This sort of view was new to him, and of course the more agreeable: Sometimes he met with a line or two, that disgusted him a little; but much more frequently was he struck with the Beauties of the Poem; and those he enjoy'd with a full Delight, as he found that Delight to be rational and just. This search drew him on strangely; he did not know how to leave off: And tho' Antiphaus stay'd for the Evening before he wou'd disturb him, he found him still closely employ'd at it: "My Philypsus, (says he) I'm glad to see you engag'd thus in the Odyssey: What new light shall we have into the excellencies of this writer? Have not you been collecting other Beauties out of the Translation?—I have met with several other, reply'd Philypsus: So many indeed, that it wou'd be almost endless to collect them. But to tell you the Truth, my business was quite contrary to what you imagine: I was upon a more difficult task; I was endeavouring to try what Faults I cou'd discover in it. That is by much the more difficult, says Antiphaus: The few Faults of that Piece are scarce discernible among such a superiour number of Beauties: How seldom do we perceive the disagreeableness of a single feature, in a Face that is very taking in the whole? Well; but have you been able to overcome this Difficulty? can you discover any thing farther of this kind in the Odyssey? Very little, answer'd Philypsus: There is but one point yet, that has afforded me any number of Instances; And that is a Fault, directly opposite to what you particularly insisted upon, in our first Conversation on this Subject.

It was then, you know, that we consider'd several Points in which Mr. Pope appears to Elevate and Flourish too much: Have you never observed, on the contrary, that there are a few Lownesses in his Writings; and that he sometimes sinks into a Diction, which borders on the Mean and Vulgar? I have, reply'd Antiphaus, in some few lines: but if you have made any remarks of that kind, I beg rather to see those of your observation.

The two Friends were always ready to comply with the desires of each other• Philypsus, as usual, without prefacing or debating the matter, immediately shew'd him the following Lines.

[a] A Gallant leader and—a man I lov'd.

[b] The old man early rose, walk'd forth, and sate

On polish'd stone before his palace gate.

[c] Or has Hell's Queen an empty image sent,

That wretched I might even my joys lament.

[d] Struck at the word my very heart was dead.

[e]Euryclea, who great Ops thy lineage shar'd,

And watch'd all Night, all Day: a faithful guard.

[f] They led me to a good Man and a wi•e.

[g] And sure he will, for wisdom never lies.

In the note upon this line (says Philypsus) we have a couplet repeated from the Iliad, which I fear is of the same stamp.

[h] Who dares think one thing and another •ell,

My soul detests him as the gates of Hell.

I must confess, says Antiphaus, that the Lines you have repeated, carry a mean ai• with them; but possibly what looks like a fault, may really be a beauty in some of them.

Some subjects require a simplicity of stile: Beside Mr. Pope is to follow Homer; and shou'd Homer use an humble stile in these places, even to appearance improperly, yet one should be apt to look upon it, as a sufficient justification of his translator.

For my part (reply'd Philypsus) I have always thought, that there is a wide difference between an humble and a mean stile; but (not to urge any thing of that kind) in the greater part of the instances just repeated, I am certain, there is not a sufficient likeness between the manner of the Original and the Translation.

I shall only except the two last, which •re indeed plain and proverbial in the •reek. There is a simplicity, as Mr. P•pe tells us in his notes, a noble simpli •ity in the diction; and which, in my •pinion, is not Equally kept up in the English: but those I shall not insist upon.

As for the rest, that mean close of the ••rst of these Lines, is in Homer an [a] Handsome sentiment, deliver'd in a sounding verse: and the meanest Expression in the second, [a] is poetical in the Original. The same will hold, in some degree, of the other Lines. As it happens Mr. Pope in his [b] Note upon one of them,

They led me to a good Man and a wi•e;

has given us this prose translation of the same words;

The Gods guided me to the habitation of a person of wisdom:

Now it might be thought a rude question, to ask whether is the more poetical, his prose or verse Translation of this Line?

Indeed where Homer leads the way, the case is very different: I cannot say how far it might be justifiable, to blame a Translator for following his Author: and it was for that very reason, that I shou'd not have taken any notice of the delightful History of the Coat and Cloak, which is given us in one of the longest speeches in the Fourteenth Odyssey.

But we have several instances of additional Lownesses: I observ'd particularly that they were pretty frequent, when the Scene is in Ithaca: Thus;

His task it was the wheaten loaves to lay,

[a] And from the banquet take the bowls away.

Again;

But if, to honour lost, 'tis still decreed

[b] For you my bowl shall flow, my flocks shall bleed.

Again;

[c] Is this, returns the Prince, for mirth a time?

When lawless gluttons riot, mirth's a crime. &c.

The meanness here (interpos'd Antiphaus) is occasion'd by a just design; that of writing in a stile, agreeable to the simplicity of the subject: In several other places, it has a less excusable rise; I mean, the labour and difficulty of Rhime. The Poet's being in haste to get this drudgery off his Hands, sometimes draws him into the use of Expressions, which are flat and contemptible. Thus I believe, we may account for the Lownesses in these Couplets:

While with my single ship adventurous •,

[d]Go forth the manners of yon Men to try.

Mean-while the Gods the dome of Vulcan throng;

[e]Apollo comes, and Neptune comes along.

—When great Alcides rose•

[f]And Euritus, who bad the Gods be fo•••

You need only read over one single passage, to guess how frequently the sense may be lessen'd and broke by this means; and how often we are put off with low, wretched words, merely for want of a more generous Rhime.

You remember the Speech of Ulysses, when ship-wrack'd in his voyage from Calypso's Island; 'tis transfer'd, you know, by Virgil into his storm; and both are very strong, and animated. This is the passage which I beg lea•e to read to you from Mr. Pope:

Happy! thrice happy! who in battle slain

Prest in Atrides' cause the Trojan plain:

Oh! had I dy'd before that w•ll-fought wall,

Had some distinguish'd day renown'd my fall;

(Such as was that, when show'rs of j•v'lins—fl•d

From conquering Troy around Achill•s—d•ad)

All Greece had paid my solemn fun'rals—th•n,

And spread my glory with the sons of men.

A shameful fate now hides my h•pl•ss head,

Un-wept, un-noted, and—for ever dead.

A mighty wave, rush'd o'er him as he spoke,

The raft it cover'd, and the mast it broke;

Sw•pt from the deck• and from the rudder torn,

Far on the swelling surge the chief was born:

While by the howling tempest rent in twain,

Flew sail and sail-yards ratling o'er the main.

Long press'd he heav'd beneath the weighty wav•,

Clog'd by the cumbrous vest Cal•pso gave;

A• length emerging, from his nostrils wide

And gushing mouth, effus'd the briny tide. &c.

The meanness of this passage, in comparison either of the original Greek, or of Virgil's imitation of it (which the English Translator, I doubt not, had in his eye) appears to be in a great measure owing to a poverty of Rhime. It has given a low turn to the whole passage; and that lowness is still most evident in the terminating of the Lines.

There are a Thousand other things (resum'd Philypsus) which contribute to the meanness of stile; even a desire to avoid it, will occasion it: 'Tis not uncommonly seen that the straining to elevate a point, will make it really the more mean and ridiculous: as nothing shews the littleness of a dwarf, more than strut ••ng.

One wou'd be apt to suspect this to be the case in the following verses:

[194] There fi•s Sky-dy'd, a pu•ple hue disclose—

There d••gling pears exalted scents unfold•

And y•llow apples ripen into gold.

And in these other:

[195]Lur'd with the vapour of the fragrant feast

〈◊〉 rush'd the suitors with vor•cious h•ste

Sometimes one single word will lessen the sentiment, and break in upon the dignity of verse. Thus where the Greek call's Memnon, The glorious Son of Aurora, we find it in the Translation only [a] Swarthy Memnon. This, by sinking below the Original: it may be as faulty, to stick too close to it. [b] Hogherd and Cow •eeper, (says Mr. Pope in one of his Notes) are not to be used in our Poetry, tho' there are no finer words, than those which answer them, in the Greek language: for the same reason I shou'd think that the use of the word [c] S•y, which occurs so often in the Tenth Book, might be varied; and in t•e Sixth,

[d] 〈1 line〉

In general, what do you think [e] of Scudding before the gales to Pylos? of a [f] sore Soul? and of [g] Sacrificing throngs? are not these Expressions to, low for verse? and is it not too low and rustick even for prose, to talk of the [h] swelling loins of a Goddess, or of a Nymph's [i] pacing along the Sand?

Your Instances, reply'd Antiphaus, sufficiently shew, that (beside the inconvenience of Rhime) Mr. Pope does sometimes, without that wrong Biass, deviate into a meanness of Expression: They are directly contrary to his usual Spirit. There is a case (says Philypsus) just come into my Head, which ought not to be forgot; we may see by it, on the other hand, how much this Gentleman can improve upon expressions in the Original, beyond the other translators of Homer. That venerable old Poet uses a phrase which, tho' I do not believe it to have been mean in his times, does most certainly sound so in the present: In speaking of a Person entirely lost in melancholly, he says that he was continually [a] eating up his own Mind: So great a Man, as Cicero, has endeavour'd to give this in [b] Latin; but with that usual unhappiness, which attended him in all his Poetry. In another part of Homer, we have the same manner of Expression; and it is as meanly translated by several Hands. The Passage is a part of Ju •iter's Speech to Juno; in which, to set out the violence of her hatred to Priam and his family, the God says, that she wou'd [a] eat them, or swallow them up quick. Actius Labeo, a wretched tho' a Court writer, translated several Books of the Iliad into Latin; and if we may guess at the rest, by the only Verse left us of that Work (which, as it happens, answers this very Line) we have no great Reason to lament the loss of it: This an old Scholiast has preserv'd, for a taste of the Performance:

Crudum manduces Priamum, Priamique pisinnos.

Labeo, as Mr. Pope observes in his Note upon the [b] place, is equal'd by Ogilby;

Both King and People thou woudst eat alive:

As is Ogilby by Hobbs;

And eat up Priam and his people all.

Such a general meanness in giving us this Expression of the Greek Poet, must make us look upon Mr. Pope with the greater regard, if he can keep it from sinking in English: This he has not only done, but gives it to us in an handsome poetical turn:

Let Priam bleed! if yet thou thirst for more,

[b] Bleed all his sons, and Ilion float with gore!

This expresses the full sentiment; and that, with an air of greatness, and majesty in it: 'Tis now Language not unfit to be put into the mouth of Jupiter.

Antiphaus was extremely pleas'd to see so great a change in Philypsus; and that (suddain as it was) it had not affected him in the usual manner. As Men generally run from one extreme to the other, he was afraid, that the making him sensible of the Faults of the Translator, might give him some distaste to his beauties: but as he found he was fall'n into the Indifferent just manner of Reading, he thought he might now safely go on with him farther in the same way. "The defect (says he) which you have prov'd in some particulars on Mr. Pope, is sufficiently recompenc'd by his Flame and Spirit, and the general beauty of his diction: 'Tis from this Quarter that I am still the most apprehensive of Faults, in that Gentleman's compositions. Surely, says Philypsus, you have nothing more to produce on that head? Yes (reply'd Antiphaus) I have a word or two to add, to what we observ'd upon it, the other Night. There are a sort of Verses, very frequent in our modern writers, which run very smoothly off the Tongue; the stream is easy, but there is neither depth nor clearness in it: The truth of it is, they are undisturb'd with Meaning; And their calmness is as the calmness of the Night, which is dark withal. If I might have leave, I should call such verses as these, Un-ideal Verses; and I fear there are some few of them to be met with in the Odyssey.

Pray observe what an unthinking harmony there is in this couplet, which comes first into my Head;

[a] Soft he reclines along the murm'ring Seas,

Inhaling freshness from the fanning breeze.

And what a Panegyrick in this?

—Every Eye

[b] Gaz'd as before some brother of the sky.

I will read you but a few more:

[c] The Royal Palace to the Queen convey.

And

[d]—Plan with all thy arts the scene of fate•

[e] Of deathful arts expert, his Lord employs

The ministers of blood in dark surprise.

But among all of them, upon comparing the Original and the Translation, this seems to be the non-pareil:

[a] Then warp my voyage on the Southern gales

O'er the warm Lybian wave to spread my sails.

Mr. Pope has had a Critique on some Lines of his Iliad, which is chiefly taken up in discovering, or making False English of them: If this can neither darken the Line, nor affect the Sense considerably, it seems to me not to be of any concern in Comparison of the former finesses. The antient Criticks were much kinder on this head: and 'tis hence that we owe many of our Figures in Rhetorick, to Peccadillo's against Grammar. I am the most unfit in the World to determine in this Case, because I have alway found my self 〈…〉 aver•e to t•e Grammatical •ort of Criticism, as I am fond of the Poetical: but I am apt to think, that there are not many faults of this kind justly chargeable on the Odyssey. Of the few which I have by chance observ'd, the chief are to be met with in the close of his verses; Thus it occurrs, if I remember right, twice or thrice in that short passage, which I re •eated to you the other Evening, on the Transformation of Ulysses. This Rhime Philypsus, is a terrible Thing: it has •poil'd more Lines—Good Antiphaus (cry'd Philypsus hastily) be not so inveterate against Rhime: does not it soften and beautify verse? and turn poetry into a sort of musick, to a good Ear?—I am not Universally an Enemy to Rhime, you know; (return'd Antiphaus) It does very well in Odes and Sonnets to Armida: But for any thing very solid or pathetick, surely 'tis an Ornament too comtemptible, as well as too much abus'd. The first Piece of Latin Rhime I know of, that famous Stanza of Adrian, does well enough; 'twas spoke out of pure Gaiety and good Humour: but to introduce it gravely into poetry, as it was the effect of a miserable de•rav'd taste• so will the productions of those Ages shew how happily it succeeded. The Runick Lays (answer'd Philypsus) I do not pretend to admire: but surely you will allow it to hav• succeeded better in our Language, than it did in the hands of that monkish Cla• of Poets. 'Tis true (says Antiphaus smiling) we have not improv'd it yet int• middle Rhimes, and some other of their excellencies. Perhaps it wou'd have bee• happy too for our Poetry, if we had confin'd this Musick, as you call it, to it• proper subjects. How wretchedly doe• it sound in some of our Tragedies? i• such, all the Actors to me seem rathe• to be playing at Crambo with one another, than endeavouring in the least to affect the Audience. With all the violence that Mr. Dryden wrote in this cause, you •ee he was forc'd to recant at last; The •only true reason of his persisting in it at •ll is, I believe, very obvious, tho' the •as• he wou'd have given us: It was then •he Humour of the Age; Dryden, every •ne knows, wrote for Money; and his •usiness was to please his Customers.

And now I have mentioned Mr. Dryden, 〈◊〉 may be worth the enquiry, to consider 〈◊〉 little more particularly, what that •riter has said on this subject; as he must 〈◊〉 allow'd, on all hands, to have been •e of the nicest Judges of Harmony, one 〈◊〉 the greatest Masters of Versification, •d one of the best Poetical Criticks in •neral, that our Nation has ever pro •ced.

In reading what he has given us, in •fferent places, on this head, 'tis easy 〈◊〉 •ee, that he very much observes a ••erence between Rhime, in the genuine ••e of the word, by which he always •ends the true Harmony of Verse; 〈◊〉 Rhime, in the lowest sense; or that •gle, and playing with sounds, in which 〈◊〉 Moderns have exceeded all the other 〈◊〉 of the World; and which indeed, since the last revival of Letters, has bad fair for the Universal Monarchy in Poetry.

Tho' Dryden understood Rhime in the first sense, as well as most Writers, and yet generally stoop'd to the use of it in the other: Nevertheless I am inclined to believe, that he always saw thorough the Defects and Inconveniencies, not to say the Barbarity and Childishness, of it. Indeed one might be justified in saying even this; for Dryden himself follows Vossius in calling it expresly, [a] A Childish sort of verse; and says that some Rhiming Hexameters, which may be discover'd in Homer, were probably the remains of a Barbarous Age: ‘Virgil (add• that writer) had them in such abhorrence, that he would rather make • false Syntax, that what we call a Rhime—The nicer Ears in Augustus his Cour• cou'd not pardon him for a Line, i• which he had only dropt something like it: so that the principal Ornament of Modern Poetry, was accounted deformity, by the Latins, and Gree• ’

After observing that the Greek tongu• falls naturally into Iambicks, and th• Latin into Heroick verse, he calls all o• little arts of Rhiming, Barbarities: An• adds, that ‘As Age brings Men back i•to the state and infirmities of Childhood; upon the fall of their Empire, the Romans doted into Rhime. ’

What you have now read to me (interpos'd Philypsus) shews sufficiently, that Mr. Dryden cou'd give up an old Friend, and abuse him heartily behind his back; That writer cou'd speak the severest things of Rhime, when he was got into a vein of Prose-writing: But the present ill treatment he gives to it, may perhaps be on some particular Occasion; and in some Cases, I cannot deny that Rhime may be a very improper Ornament.

No (return'd Antiphaus) he is here speaking of Rhime in general, and on a general occasion: If you wou'd know his sentiments of Rhime, more particularly in relation to the present purpose, and its use in translating an Heroick Po•m; as it happens, there is a remarkable •assage, wrote by him on this very occasion: it was in his more advanc'd Judgment; and particularly, as he himself informs us, when he was in his great Climaterick. He is speaking of Han ••al Caro's Translation of the Aeneid:
The performance, [a] says he, is very mean, tho' that Poet took the advantage of writing in Blank-verse, and freed himself from the shackles of Modern Rhime. I will not make a digression here (proceeds that Writer) tho' I am strangely tempted to it; but will only say, that he who can write well in Rhime, may write better in Blank-verse. Rhime is certainly a constraint even to the best Poets, and those who make it with most ease:—What it adds to Sweetness, it takes away from sense; and he who loses the least by it, may be call'd a Gainer. It often makes us swerve from an Author's meaning: as if a mark be set up for an Archer at a great distance, let him aim as exactly as he can, the least Wind will take his Arrow, and divert it from the White.

Thus far Mr. Dryden. And his opinion weighs the more with me in this case; because, if any thing, we might expect that he shou'd be prejudiced in favour of Rhime, but the reason of the thing, You see, prevailed over all other considerations: He goes sofar as to condemn his own manner of Writing, rather than suffer such a corruption to pass without a severe Censure; and to that end, very generously gives up his Practice, to his Judgment.

Indeed I know of but one argument (and that the meerest Circle in the World) to support the present practise of writing in rhime; we must use it, because 'tis all the fashion. We who were never so far infected, can laugh heartily at some of the French, for rhiming thoroughout their Comedies; yet Rhime in Tragedy was very becoming among us, in an Age, not the least knowing and polite. Disuse has made us see the flatness and inconvenience of that Ornament; and nothing reads more insipid, than the best Pieces left us in that way. Tell me Philypsus; why do we so much dislike those Beauties of their kind in our Age?

I believe, says Philypsus, 'tis as you observe. Now the taste is alter'd, and the sashion worn off; we can look back, •nd perceive with ease the prejudice of that beauty; where the End is to stir up the Soul, by true representations of Nature: To raise [a] Terror or Compas ••n, is the business of the tragick Poet; and •o endeavour to raise either with Rhime and all its Harmony, seems to me more proper for an Italian Opera, than an English Tragedy.

Very true, says Antiphaus; and do •ou not judge it as absurd, where any other Passions are to be mov'd, as well as Terror and Compassion?—Undoubtedly, reply'd Philypsus.—And is it not the business of the Epick, to awake the S•ul? to raise in it an esteem for Vir •ue, and an hatred to Vice? in a Word, to move the Passions, particularly those very Passions you have mention'd? Why then is Rhime, which you disallow in Trag•dy, to be thought useful and com •••dable in the Epick?—As for mo ••ng the Passions (says Philypsus) Rhime, I •llow y•u, is of no use in either; bu• it is a fine Ornament, which may b• more proper in the one, than in the other: In Dramatick Pieces the Persons should be suppos'd to speak extempore but there can be no such thing conceiv'd in an Epick Poem—I beg your Pardon (says Antiphaus) Tho' not so strongly• yet this is o•ten suppos'd in an Epick• as well as in Tragedy: Do you thin• that Homer is telling you a story, o• Ul•sses, when we are got into Phaaci• In the 2d Aeneid, have you not sever• intermediate Ideas, which agree not wit• a Reader, but a Spectator?—Yes, Sir; in all active Poems, as well as Tragedy, The Author is to disappear, as much as possible: the greatest Art of them is to deceive us into an imagination, that we hear the very Persons speaking, and see them acting before us. In ipsis Omnia •unt oculis. Every Poem the nearer it comes to this, the more perfect it is. Consider too, how much of any good Epick piece is purely Dramatick: 'tis •carce to be imagin'd, for Instance, how •mall a number of Lines in the Aeneid are properly Virgil's: they almost all belong to the Persons engag'd in the Poem; and where the Lines are spoke, we see the attitudes and behaviour of the particular Persons, and receive the words from their Mouth.

Much of what you urge is true; (answer'd Philypsus:) but yet you must allow, that Rhime sounds unnatural in Tragedy, and agreeable in pieces of the other kind. That is, as we were just •aying, (reply'd Antiphaus) because in these 'tis at present all the Mode: let the fashion alter, and this beauty will •ook as false in one, as it has already in •he other. This Italian Taste of your Tasso's and Ariosto's led away the first Poet of our Nation, who attempted any thing toward an Epick; and probably we shou'd to this Day have thought it the only proper for our Language, had it not happily been disdain'd by the great Genius of Milton, who chose rather to follow the true old Roman manner. It was Milton who flung off our Fetters; and we may venture to say in the prophetical manner of a very good Poet now living, that [a] He shall for ever be honour'd as our deliverer from that bondage. What a pity it is, he did not suffer us still to continue in it, since we are so fond of our Chains? How happy wou'd it have been, to have given up the Nervousness and Majesty of his Poem, for Pryor's Ease, or the Sweetness of Waller? I know not what they world may say to it; but, for my part, when I read in the Bishop of Sarum's History That Paradise Lost is a noble Piece [b] tho the Author affected to write it in blank verse it always puts me in mind of the Gentleman, in the monkish Ages of Poetry who said of Virgil's Aeneid, that it wa• really a very good Poem; and wanted nothing, but the (c) Sweets of Rhime, to mak• it, the most perfect Work in its kind.

Well, (says Philypsus) I own, there is the greater majesty in Blank verse; but you will own too, that the other is the more beautiful. Yes, (reply'd Antiphaus) but for that very reason is Blank-verse undoubtedly the more proper for the Epick; as that is the most majestick kind of Poetry imaginable. And even as to the Sound, Those musical returns (if allow'd to be true Beauties) are more than ballanc'd by the Dead Manner, introduc'd with them into Poetry; What I mean, is that perpetual likeness in the cadence, and turn of the Periods: How frequently do they fall in several repeated Couplets, without any variety, or relief to the Ear? You will sometimes meet with a Rhime-Poem, all the Lines of which run off entirely with the same pauses; the stream always equal, and so level that you can scarce perceive it to move: What do you think of each Couplet, chiming on in the same stops and measure, with the most tedious uniformity of sound imaginable?—That is the fault of the Poet, not of the use of Rhime, says Philypsus: I could name you • Poem of this kind, which has almost •s great a variety in the Periods, as any Piece in Blank-verse. Possibly you mean a piece with Mr. Oldisworth's Name to it, (says Antiphaus) which I have heard you commend particularly on that score. 'Tis true our Poets of late have endeavour'd to diversify the sound, as much as possible: We see great improvements of this kind, in the excellent Translator of Vida's Poeticks; and several in the most nervous and vigorous of all our Translators, both in his Manilius and Lucretius: Mr. Pope seems to have thought of this much more frequently in his Odyssey, than in the former Translation of the Iliad; and gives us an admirable [a] Observation upon it, toward the conclusion of his last work. But after all, let our Poets manage the cadence and structure in Rhime-verse never so artfully, it will fall vastly short of Blank in these particulars; Indeed Rhime is a natural Enemy to them: it breaks and disturbs both the structure, and the cadence. The very sound of any periods the best contriv'd will convince one o• this: when a person of a good Ear is reading them, you may observe, that he endeavours to drop the Rhime, and lose the gingle of it, as much as possible: and when the sound of it is not sufficiently kept under; you will find, that it spoils the continuance, and occasions too great a break in the period.

You may see by what I have been saying, that this charge is not design'd against single Couplets; The corruption in this respect evidently ceases, where there are no periods to be varied. To determine precisely where it will grow prejudicial, wou'd be difficult, and is not very material: Tho' I know not but what it might be uneasy to a very nice Ear, to have only four Lines together with regular Rhime: and possibly on this very account, the Stanza but of two Couplets has generally unequal Rhimes, (the Second Line answering the Fourth) and that of Three, varies in the last Couplet. However forc'd or delicate this observation may be thought, one thing I cou'd assert with some degree of Confidence: I dare say, any one of a good Ear, who reads only ten Lines of the best Rhime-Versification, and an equal number of Milton's true harmonious Verses, upon this view; will find a nobler sound, and that variety (which is necessary to the beauty of periods, and to the pleasure of a Reader) much stronger and much •uller in the latter.

What has been said of Couplets, may in a great Measure be said of Odes, which consist of proper Stanzas: As these come next to Couplets for shortness, they have scarce room, singly, for the tedious Uniformity, we have been complaining of: and unless the Ode be long, they do not produce it by their Number. There may be a variety too of singular use in this sort of Poetry, where a person can run these Stanzas artfully into one another; if the interweaving of them be not so frequen• and equal, as to bring in that very Satiety we wou'd avoid. Thus qualified Rhime is, at least, very tolerable in Odes: And even in Pindaricks, the most extensive and lofty of any, the prejudice of it is not so pressing; There is so great a Liberty (I mean, in our modern Pindaricks) of varying the Numbers, and of fixing or deferring the Rhime at pleasure. But above all, in single Couplets, Rhime is most allowable; and in them indeed, I should think, it deserves the preference to Blank-verse: it may please the Ear more, and cannot do that mischief, for which it is chiefly to be avoided in all large Pieces, and all compositions of a nobler sort. In this respect, i• is with Poetry, as it is in Building: A Pile compos'd of Stones, cut just alike all equal and uniform; and disposed alike, without any thing either great or beautiful in the whole; will yield to one of a good design, form'd of materials various and unequal, and perhaps ruder, or less exactly polish'd: At the same •ime, the particulars of which it is made •aken singly, will evidently exceed the •thers. Thus we find, in a walk of Trees, •hat the two Opposites, when cut to •nswer each other, look better, than if •hey were in disagreeing Figures; but a Wood, or a Garden full of Trees, all • one Figure, wou'd be rather displea •ng to the Eye than otherwise: In the ••o similar Figures, we should have a •easing Uniformity; but in this large •peated view of the same thing, we •ou'd lose that Variety, which a late •ry ingenious Writer has shewn to be •eparable from the Idea of Beauty; and •hich the mind seems to require the •re, as the number of Objects is en •eas'd.

It is a known Rule in versification, •t the Second Rhime ought not to re •ble the sound of those in a preceding •uplet. When it is carried to the far •st, it will not bear beyond the Third •e; and even that is run generally in •an Alexandrine, that in some degree the turn of the Period and the Numbers may be varied. Now why shou'd it not be as disagreeable to have a perpetual uniformity of Periods, as a continued likeness of Rhime? The latter no Man in the World will allow to be proper: nay, it cou'd not be born with, only for three Couplets together.

But supposing Rhime a real beauty in Poems of an higher kind, which I am perswaded it is not; (to speak nothing of its uniform returns, and the havock which it makes in the Periods; nor even of the diversion it gives the thoughts of the Reader, and its general disservice to pieces that shou'd be solid and pathetick: to omit all this) the single reason which introduc'd this question is, as I take it, sufficient to determine it. If Rhime is exceedingly apt to mislead a Writer, often to cramp, and sometimes to spoil his sentiments; its benefits, as being only benefits of Sound, will be far from ballancing those inconveniences of so much superiour a nature. This at least is the Case with Rhime: it gives either an impertinent pleasure, or an unnecessary trouble to a writer; and at the same time, that it distracts his attention• it encreases his difficulties: in a word• 'tis a false bent put upon the thoughts of the Poet; and, in the best, proves frequently a counter-biass too strong for their good Sense.

I own, it is with a strange readiness, that people fall generally into this taste; it has almost universal consent on its side: and the few Asserters of the Liberty of Verse meet with little Praise, or even Countenance, from the World. How many Persons would fly into unreasonable Heats upon hearing half that I have said to you? I should beg the favour of any such Person, who wou'd please to be disobliged in it, to ask himself what argument there is for this practise, which has so generally obtain'd in the modern World: If he can find none, 'tis easy to bring the matter more home, and to ask farther, whether he thinks Rhime wou'd be proper in the Odyssey or Aeneid; and then, what single reason can be assigned, why it should be improper in a Latin or Greek, and not so in an English Epick.—Yes, Philypsus, I am perswaded it is nothing but use, which makes it supportable at present; and whenever the world recovers it self from this agreeable Stupor, it will then appear as ridiculous to the Reader, as it has been inconvenient to the Poet. This I really imagine, that in fu•ure, and perhaps far distant Ages, the Criticks, when they look back on any the best Poem of this sort, (which may be deliver'd down to them from their Ancestors) will be at a loss to give any account of their Manner of Writing. When they read Mr. Pope's Iliad or Odyssey, they will often applaud the greatness of his thoughts; and often admire the happiness of his diction, as far as the present Language shall be preserv'd to them. They will honour his remains, and when they look toward his Ashes with veneration, ‘There (will they say) lies the Great Man, who in ancient Days, is said to have shewn the noblest Genius to Poetry in the World: what beauties do we discover in him, thro' all this rust of time, and so much obsolete language? He is every way to be commended as far as any of our ancient Poets are; Only he fell into the common fault of those Ages; and always shews that trifling labour of making the last syllable of every alternate line, sound like the close of th• foregoing: Bating this insignifican• tas•e of those times, how much is he to be praised, and how much to be admired?’

It wou'd have been much better, and much more for their honour, for Mr. Dryden in his time, or Mr. Pope in ours, to have broke thorough this tedious Slavery; and to have •reed the World from a taste so irrational, and barbarous.—I own it to you; I have something of an Impatience in me to see this great Reformation in Poetry set on foot: I wish it cou'd be brought about in our Time: and if not, almost envy those, who in future Ages shall be so happy, as to see Men awake from this Lethargy of Verse: when all the Poets shall conspire to restore strength to their Sentiments, and nerves and variety to their Numbers: when the Writers shall throw aside all those idle Arts and Tricks, which we now play with Sounds; and true Harmony shall flourish, without incroaching upon true Sense.

[a] O might I live to hail the glorious day,

And sing loud Pae••s thro' the crowded way,

When in triumphant state the B•itish Muse,

True to herself, shall barbarous aid refuse;

And in the Roman Majesty appear,

Which none know better, and none come so near!

Philypsus began to be moved by what his friend had urg'd on this head: I confess (says he) You are a powerful adversary to Rhime; but you must allow one some time to get a thorough dislike of a thing, which has once been so agreeable. There are some allowances too to be made in the present case; I believe, no man is less embarass'd by the use of Rhime, than Mr. Pope; and his command in Writing will take off much of your objection at present: tho' I own y•ur reasoning against this Fashion in general, to be very strong and forcible. However, this Writer has a peculia• happiness in it, and his Language flows with the greatest ease in the World: I believe you can scarce instance a verse in the whole Work, which does not ru• off smooth and handsomely. 'Tis tru• (says Antiphaus) there are very few in i• that are harsh, or any way faulty, eithe• in Sound, or Composition: two or thre• which I remember of that kind are scar• worth repeating—Yes (interrupted P•lypsus) if you have observ'd any such, l• us have them. What do you think • this? says Antiphaus:

[a] And to the deaf Woods wailing breaths •• woe

Or of these;

[a] Rich Tapestry, stiff with in woven gold.

[b] By what strange fraud Egysthus wrought, relate,

(By force he cou'd not) such an hero's fate.

No bird of air, no dove of swiftest wing

Shuns the dire rocks: in vain she cuts the skies,

[c] The dire rocks meet, and crush her as she flies;

[d] I climb'd a cliff—

To learn if ought of mortal works appear,

Or chearful voice of mortal strike the ear.

[e]Deem not un justly by my doom opprest, &c.

These Lines are somewhat faulty in the sound, or posture of the words: but I only mention them; it wou'd be frivolous to make particular remarks on them: You may see, Philypsus, that my stock is quite out when I sink so low: my task this Evening was difficult enough to me; and indeed 'tis not easy for any one to find many faults in a Piece, which comes from such excellent hands. Have you nothing farther to observe on it? (says Philypsus) I think I have heard you speak formerly of some Contradictions—That particular I had forgot, lays Antiphaus; there are indeed some seeming Contrarieties in this work: these are of two sorts; one, in which the Translator is contrary to his Original: and the other, when the Translation seems to have some little Circumstances in it contradictory to one another.

Since you mention the thing, I believe I can recollect a passage or two, in which the sense is press'd so far, or so much altered from what it was, that they seem directly opposite to the Original. When the Grecian Commanders were drawn into Troy, in the famous Wooden Horse; the Enemy upon suspicion of the design, us'd an artifice to make them cry out by surprize, if there were really any persons conceal'd in it. Homer tells us, that all of them sat very silent: only Anticlus, one of the Officers, was just ready to answer; when Ulysse•, who sat by him, stopt his mouth by force• prevented his making any noise, and s• preserv'd all their Lives. Instead o• which the Translation says, that thi• Anticlus,

[a]—Unable to controul,

Spoke loud the languish of his yerning soul.

In another place, where in Homer w hear of an Hero, falling in the defence o his Country, under the Walls of his native City; Mr. Pope, in drawing out the Circumstances of it, speaks as if it was [a] on a foreign shore. In the Second Book, we meet with three or four particulars of this kind.—There Telemachus desires the suitors (as it is in Homer) to leave him, and be quiet; as in Mr. Pope, to [b] rise in his aid.—There the same Prince is said to draw his hand gently out of that of Antinous; instead of which the Translation, I think, tells us that he frown'd; caught away his hand [c] sternly; and strode away in a passion. 'Tis the same Case with Mentor in the Council: he rose to make a speech to them, with (as the Greek signifies) a wise or friendly air; but in the English,

[d]Stern as he rose he cast his Eyes around

That flash'd with rage; and as he spoke, he frown'd.

These look like contrarieties between Homer, and his Translator; there seem to be a few others, between passages in the Translation it self.

There is a part of Mercury's speech in the Fifth Odyssey, and another point in the description of Lachaea, an uninhabited Island, which (I remember) I mention'd to you formerly, as Examples of this Inconsistency. Such indeed they appear'd to me, even after a second and third Reading: but upon consulting the Original, I at last found them to be capable of a consistent Meaning. However it is to be wish'd, that the Translator had set them in a clearer light: for in one, the reader will be apt to imagine, that the Poet speaks of [a] Inhabitants in a desart Country; and in the other, that Mercury is said to have been [b] vastly delighted with the sight of Calypso's Island, and not t• have been delighted at all with the sight of it.

In another place (I take it to be in the very first Book of the Odyssey) Telemachus says, that his Father is [c] Dead, and that he is wandering from Country to Country, at the same article of time: Thus too we hear the Sea, call'd the [d] foaming Flood, in one Line; and in the very next, 'tis the Level surface of the deep.

As for meer Mistakes (where a Verse carries something of Blunder in the sound of it) I have taken but little notice of them; and shall only mention two or three, just to shew, that the greatest Writers are capable of falling into such Errors, as will be discernible to the meanest Readers.

[a] I answer'd, Goddess! human is thy breast—

—is a Line of this kind: and the Expressions in it will appear to every one that looks upon it, to be improperly put together, on the same account, as those in the following Couplet:

[b] Some other motive, Goddes•! sways thy mind,

Some close design, or turn of Woman-kind.

There is a Verse just come into my head, in which Mr. Pope may be thought to talk of [c] seeing a Sound; and in another we are told of a place so [d] deep, that you cou'd not shoot to the bottom of it.

I know not whether a severe Critick would not think that there is a jar between the Expressions, where Ulysses is said, to be

—Doom'd to mourn,

[a] Bitter Constraint, erroneous and forlorn.

And where Halitherses speaks of
[b] Deeds then undone.
but these, and such like trifles, I shall leave to those, who are fond of finding faults; and whom I can own without envy to have a greater Niceness, and Curiosity in Verbal Criticism, than ever I desire to have.

These, tho' less considerable blemishes in a poetical Character, are much more obvious to every Eye, than the greater defects of a Poem: and will be always observ'd upon, with more scorn and contempt, than any other: they border on Ridicule; and that is a thing, which will ever be agreeable to little Minds. That Verse of Sir Richard Blackmore's, in which he describes [c] the Vest of a naked Pict; and that in one of Mr. Dryden's Tragedies, which speaks of [d] Silence invading the Ear, has probably been repeated many times more, than the best Line he ever wrote. This is low enough o' conscience, tho' it has been a very fashionable way of Criticising of late Years: it shews how ill-natur'd the World is; but people will have their Laugh: and 'tis vastly easier to Ridicule, than to Admire.

It is this sort of Men, Philypsus, and a clan of others, equally malicious and more gloomy than the former, who have brought the name of Critick into such contempt among us: While those have imagined, that Sneering and Malice are the best titles to Wit; and these were of opinion, That to find fault is to Criti •ise. How different from this was the •ethod of the Antient Criticks of Greece •nd Rome? Indeed Criticism, as first in ••tuted by Aristotle, was design'd for a ••andard of judging well; to give an in •ght into the Excellencies of Authors, •nd to discern their Faults. There was 〈◊〉 time, when it was a study highly ra •onal; far from borrowing its force from •idicule and False Wit, it shou'd pro •ed upon known Rules and establish'd •easures. I do not say but what the •st Criticks may have approved of par •ular Lines, without being capable of ••gning the Reasons why they pleas'd •m so greatly. You often see a Face •ch is very taking, without any regularity of Features: such an one as pleases every body, tho' no body can give the Reason of his being pleas'd with it. Eloquence has its Je ne scai quoi's, as well as Beauty. However most commonly we can specify the particular features, which are so agreeable; or know that our pleasure is founded on the Symmetry of the whole.

But it is not enough that Criticism is rational; it shou'd ever be Human and Good-natur'd. Where the Design is great, the Disposition just, the Descriptions lively, and the Language generally good and poetical, that work is in general to be commended; tho' the Poet, in particular Points, may have fallen into many faults; nay into some, which look very gross, when they are consider'd singly. The greatest Critick among th• Roman Poets lays it down for a Rule That where there are more Beauties tha• Faults in a Poem, that Piece is to be pronounced good: And one of the greate•• Criticks among the Greek, carries it farther; He shews at large, [a] That ther• is often a negligence, that is becoming—That a greatness of Soul will carry Man above the observation of little Circumstances;—And That a Poet of a generous Spirit with faults, is greatly preferable to a low wary Writer without them.

Agreeable to this was the behaviour of these great Men in laying down rules, or making observations: their intention was to distinguish the beauties of Language or Sentiments, from the defects and vices of either. You find them to have been in Love with the Charms of Eloquence, and the true Spirit of Poetry, wherever they meet with them. They •ake not that snarling Satisfaction in finding faults, which many of their pretended Successors are so full of in their writings. Indeed they very freely pointed out the mistakes and vices of the greatest Writers: but their chief design in this was, that such of their remarks might •erve as Buoys to shew where former •entures had miscarried, and to prevent •thers from running upon the same Shalows. This was the Spirit of the Anti •nt Criticks. Their Fate was according • their Merit: they still remain among •s, and are read with pleasure and ap •ause: whilst Zoilus, the only Modern •itick of the Antients, has left nothing behind him, except the odious memor• of his Impotence and his Malice.

Our modern Zoilus's (interpos'd Philypsus) are very easily known. They ru• down the performances of the best writers with heat and noise: every thing is a fault with them. They will go regularly thorough a Poem, with a constant frown upon them; and think themselves obliged to find mistakes or nonsens• in every Line of it: they condemn b• Tale, and censure by the Sheet. Nothing is more probable, than that from th• Poem, they come to quarrel with th• Person of the Author. Blemishes in his moral Character, and even natural Imperfections, have a share in their observations: and in a word, they labou• hard to convince you, that they are bad Christians as well as bad Criticks. The best of it is, their attacks are as weak• as they are violent; they have but little of Courage, tho' they make so great a Noise with it: and are like a sort o• Currs that bark most, and run the soonest. The Character that was given o• the French, as Warriors, is true of these People, as Writers: They behave themselves fiercer than Men, in the onset• and in the shock, are feebler than Women.

I think you cannot be too severe upon them, resum'd Antiphaus: they are a Contradiction to true Criticism; as they always shew the greatest malice against every thing, that deserves the most to be commended. Mr. Pope has had the fate to be attack'd by these Animals: and indeed I do not see how he could avoid it. He has too many excellencies to let them sleep in quiet.

'Tis certain that the faults of a Writer (and never was any Writer without faults) ought to be observed; and the more excellent an Author is, the more necessary is such a Work. But this is the Drudgery of Criticism: the Pleasure and the Profit are on the other side.

We ought to shew faults, but we ought •ever to shew malice. And beside the •eneral good Nature which is owing to •••se Great Men, who have eminently •blig'd the World by their Labours; •here are particular allowances to be •ade in this last work of the greatest •oet of our Age. Nothing in the World •s more laborious, than Translation; ••d especially when the Piece is engag'd ••r, and must go on. 'Tis extremely •fficult to keep up the Spirit of Poetry •another's Compositions, tho' you catch all the [a] aptest Moments; and neve• employ the Mind, but when there is a• Impetus comes upon it toward that particular business: and this Difficulty i• greatly encreas'd, where a Man canno• well set down to it, only at such time as his Muse is in a good Humour; bu may be obliged, in a manner, to Writ• by the Hour, and upon fixt returns. know not how •ar this was the Case wit• Mr. Pope, in this performance: b• wherever it was, the Poet will be litt• more than a common Man: He is, a such times, much the same as a Proph• without his Afflatus.

Beside this, I must repeat, what I ha• sa•d s• often: The constant returns 〈◊〉 Rhim• unavoidably unnerve a P•em The Age is in Love with this Weakne• and Mr. Pope, in indulging their humo• has taken much from the strength of h Genius: had he been less obliging to t• taste of his Readers, his performan• might have been more sinewy, and mo• compleat. This ought certainly to 〈◊〉 taken into the account: and wherev• the Translation falls short of the for• and nervousness of Homer, we ought co•stant• to ask our selves this question; Whether Homer himself cou'd have carried it farther, had he wrote (as Mr. Pope does) in English, and in Rhime?

'Tis true, all this may be said of his Translation of the Iliad; but if that Piece exceed this of the Odyssey, it is very natural upon other Accounts that it shou'd do so. Homer exceeds himself in that Poem.—Great Actions strike the Soul with rapidity; while all the things that relate to lower Life, are less vigo •ous and affecting:—The description of Warriors and moral Precepts have a very different effect, on the writers them •elves; those assist the Poetical flame, while these •ling the Mind into a more •edentary Posture. 'Tis natural almost •or People to sleep at Sermons: But a •attle rouzes and animates the Specta •ors, as well as those who are engaged 〈◊〉 it. Thus there must be less spirit in •he Writer, as well as less attentiveness •n the Reader of the Odyssey: and a Tran •ation of it, even from one and the same •and, cou'd not fairly be expected to •qual a Translation of the Iliad. The Rea ••r and the Poet have both of them the dis •dvantage of a cooler and more unactive ••bject: A Poet (as Age always is) vastly ••kative; A Fable laid infinitely lower; and a Diction, almost perpetual in moral Sentences and Reflections, give a pattern very different from Homer, in all his vigour, describing the Passion of Achilles; and sounding out the Wars of the Greeks, with an air the most martial and animated, that can be imagined.

Here Antiphaus rose up from his seat, and as Philypsus perceiv'd that he had finish'd; "I was unwilling to interrupt you (says he) otherwise I shou'd have observ'd on a verse or two, which you repeated, as rough, and of a bad turn. What were those Lines of the Roc•s, which you mention'd just now?—Of the Rocks? (says Antiphaus) let me see—Oh, I remember them;

No Bird of air, no Dove of swiftest wing

Shuns the dire rocks: in vain she cuts the skies,

The dire rocks meet and crush her as she •lies.

The same says Philypsus: these and that other verse,

Rich Tapestry, s•iff with inwoven gold,

•ound indeed rough; but to me their roughness, is their beauty: the turn o• them seems design'd; and their manner to be expressive of their sense. If that be the Case, I beg pardon, says Antiphaus Were I the greatest enemy in the World to meer harmony, and the stated returns and gingle of syllables; I shou'd be one of the first among the admirers of Sound, whenever it is made serviceable to nature and true sense. That is the Art (says Philypsus) and the Mastery, for which I particularly admire Mr. Pope: It is he who took up that great Rule of the Sounds being a comment on the Sense, and enfor•'d it beyond any of the Criticks who went before him. To this Writer we chiefly owe the revival of the nobler art of Numbers; and the method of signifying motions, and actions, and all that vast variety of our own passions by Sounds. In his incomparable Essay on Criticism, this Writer has given us the best Advises, and interwove the most beautiful Examples into them, in a manner that will always be admired. The first Stanza, in his Ode on St. Caecilia's Day, is the fullest Piece of this kind perhaps extant in any Language: 'tis it self a perfect Consort. In the Translations of Homer we find him very frequent, and very just, in the same manner of Expressing things: I call it so; and cou'd almost be perswaded to think it a better way of Expressing, than in the common way of Words. These have a Sense affixt to them by Custom; while the other speaks by the Ideas of things; That is a flowing, variable help; this is the Voice of Nature, and a sort of Universal Poetical Language.

Mr. Pope affords us infinite Examples of this Beauty in his Translation of the Odyssey; it wou'd be endless to repeat them all, or to admire them as they deserve. But amidst all this variety, there is a single Point, which I have observ'd more than any of the rest: Whenever the Poet is speaking of the watry Element, or any thing belonging to it, his management of Sounds is particularly frequent and beautiful.

Tho' it might not be much observ'd at the first view, I know no place where a greater variety of things are express'd this way, than in the Twelfth Odyssey; 'Tis where Ulysses is giving an account of his setting sail from the Island of Circe:

[a]—We rush'd into the Main;

Then bending to the stroke, their oars they drew

To their broad breasts, and swift the galley flew.

Up sprung a brisker breeze: with freshning gales

The friendly Goddess stretch'd the swelling •ails;

We drop our oars: at ease the pilot guides;

The vessel light along the level glides.

Then rising sad and slow, with pensive look,

Thus to the melancholly train I spoke.

The objects shift perpetually in these Lines; and yet there is not a single period or pause in them, the sound and turn of which does not agree perfectly with the sentiment: I do not intend to enlarge much upon them; but had it been wrote in the Days of Dionysius Halicarnassaeus, I doubt not but he wou'd have given us a Dissertation, on a passage which so variously expresses that Art, of which he was particularly fond. That is the Critick, I think, says Antiphaus, who first [a] observ'd this Beauty in the noted Description of Sisyphus his Stone? Yes, answer'd Philypsus; and every one knows how perfectly well the excellence of that Passage is preserv'd [b] in Mr. Pope's Translation.

Words give us the bare Ideas of things; but words, thus managed, impress them •ery strongly and sensibly upon the mind: Do you not perceive the Storm rising [c] W•en the wild Winds whistle o'er the main? and are you not in the midst of it when [d] East, West together roar, and South and North roll mountains to the Shore? Then are we hurried o'er the Deep, and see all the rocks and dangers of it:

[a] Dire S•ylla there a scene of Horror forms,

And here Charybdis fills the sea with storms;

When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves

The rough rock roars; tumultuous boil the waves;

They toss: they foam.—

The next moment if the Poet pleases (like the Daemon he speaks of) He can make all as gentle and serene, as it was before rough and boistrous.

[b] Sunk are at once the winds• the air above

And waves below, at once forget to move:

Some Daemon calm'd the air, and smooth'd the deep,

Hush'd the loud winds, and charm'd the waves to sleep.

Did you ever see a more perfect Calm? Yet smooth and hush'd as these Lines are, you may easily perceive a difference between the description of a still Sea, and the easy beautiful current of a River.

[c] Smooth flows the gentle stream with wanton pride,

And in soft mazes rolls a silver tide.

How happy is the hand of the Poet, and what a Command has he of Nature, to make the numbers of his verse speak his Sentiments; Thus to paint even sounds; and to draw by Measures, what does not come under the power of the Pencil? In this Writer, Sir John Denham's Wish is effected: His Lines always flow as his Subjec•;

Tho' deep, yet clear; tho' gentle, yet not dull•

Strong, without rage; without o'erflowing full.

I thank you (says Antiphaus bowing) I thank you, my dear Philypsus, for this unexpected view of one of the greatest Beauties in Poetry. I cou'd willingly ••ay to hear you farther on this Head, •nd am perfectly angry with the Night •or wearing away so fast. I hope we ••all soon find an opportunity of resu •ing the Subject (answer'd Philypsus) I •eed not tell you how agreeable it is to •e, even to be convinc'd of my Errors 〈◊〉 Antiphaus; and I'm satisfy'd that 〈◊〉 take a delight in any occasion of •miring Mr. Pope. I beg you would 〈◊〉 me Antiphaus; do you not approve 〈◊〉 him in some points, more than you ••e formerly? I do not know how it ••ays Antiphaus) but I seem to be both •re pleas'd, and more displeas'd with 〈◊〉 than I was before this enquiry: 〈◊〉 Excellencies, from the light in which 〈◊〉 have set them, strike me more agreeably than ever; but then this looking so closely into his Defects has made those too the more gross and visible. However (concluded Philypsus) you will still acknowledge with me, That his faults are the faults of a Man, bu• his beauties are the beauties of an Angel.—You don't seem to like the word: it may sound perhaps too high; but I mean only of a Great and Uncommon Genius.

FINIS.

Notes

a
B. 14. 1.
↵

a
Translat. Book 4, V. 411. Orig. δ' 306.
↵

b
B. 13, 112.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
93.

↵

a
B. 12, 35. μ' 24.—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
—

↵

b
B. 6, 306. ζ' 257.
↵

c
B. 4, 158. δ' 121.
↵

d
B. 1, 188. α' 142.
↵

e
B. 3, 601. γ' 472.
↵

a
B. 3, 493. γ' 384.
↵

b
B. 4, 107. δ 85.
↵

c
B. 1, 408. δ' 314.
↵

d
B. 4, 1096. α' 840.
↵

d
B. 4, 1096. α' 840.
↵

a
B. 1, 462. α' 363.
↵

a
B. 14, 416. ξ', 376.
↵

b
B. 4, 154. δ', 116.—.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

a
B. 8, 474. θ', 437.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

b
B. 5. 585. ε', 456.
↵

c
B 6, 162. ζ', 220.—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, 430.

↵

b
B. 13, 497.
↵

a
B. 8, 437. θ' 403.
↵

b
B. 4, 19. δ' 14.
↵

a
B. 2, 18
•
. β' 156.

↵

b
B. 1, 425.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
3

•

↵

26
Odi reum cui esse diserto vace
•
. Quin

•

Lib. 11. c. 1.
↵

a
Quicquid meris adjicietur affectibus, omnes eorum diluet vires, & miserationem secu
••
∣tate laxabit. Quintil. Instit. L. 11. c, 1.

↵

a
B 4, 248. δ', 182.
↵

b
B 4, 726. δ', 539
↵

c
B. 4, 957. δ' 721.
↵

d
See p. 14.
↵

e
B. 11, 151.
↵

f
Obs. 27 on B. 11, Ver. 38
•

↵

g
B. 4, 480.
↵

a
B. 1, 555. α', 441.—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
,—

↵

a
B 4, 962. δ', 727.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
—

↵

b
B. 9, 210 ι', 180.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

c
B 2, 437. β', 388.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

d
B. 9, 224. ι', 192.—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

↵

e
B. 9, 618. ι', 528.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
—

↵

a
B. 5, 365
•
ε', 285.

↵

b
B. 5, 480. ε, 380.
↵

c
Preface to the Hind and Panther Transvers'd
•

↵

a
F
•
equens (M•taphorae usus) & obscurat

•

&
•
aedio complet
•
continuus vero in allegoriam & aenigma exit. Quintil. Instit L. 8. c 6.
↵

a
B. 8, 140. θ', 130.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
—

↵

b
B. 11, 486. λ', 390.—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

a
B. 4, 388. δ', 286.
↵

b
Verecunda d
•
bet esse Transl

••

io, ut deducta esse in alienum locum, non irruisse; atque ut precario, non vi venisse videa
•
ur.—Est hoc magnum ornamentum orationis, in quo obscuritas fu
•
d
〈◊〉
st. Cicero de Oratore. Lib. 3.
↵

b
Verecunda d
•
bet esse Transl

••

io, ut deducta esse in alienum locum, non irruisse; atque ut precario, non vi venisse videa
•
ur.—Est hoc magnum ornamentum orationis, in quo obscuritas fu
•
d
〈◊〉
st. Cicero de Oratore. Lib. 3.
↵

c
B. 2, 439.
↵

a
B 13, 113.
↵

b
B
•
5, 352.

↵

c
B. 1,
〈◊〉

↵

d
Tate's Mausolaeum.
↵

e
B. 2,
〈◊〉

↵

56
(f) Iliad 16, 524.
↵

a
B. 6, 298.
↵

b
B. 9, 353.
↵

a
B
•
14, 533.

↵

b
B. 5, 515.
↵

c
B. 4, 748.
↵

d
B. 14, 510, Notes.
↵

e
B. 13, 400.
↵

f
B. 5, 395.
↵

g
B. 5, 159.
↵

h
B. 5, 391.
↵

i
B. 3, 213.
↵

k
Modus nullus est florentior; nec qui plus luminis afferat Orationi. Cicero de Oratore. Lib. 3.
↵

a
B. 4, 493. to Verse, 776.
↵

a
B. 6.
↵

b
B. 11.
↵

c
Books 5, and 10.
↵

a
B. 4, 615. to 622.
↵

a
B. 11, 528. λ', 423.
↵

a
Etiam quos vires sanguisque desereret, u
•
intra vallum hostium c•derent, nitebantur. Liv. vol. 3. p. 145. per H•arne.

↵

b
Catilina vero longe a suis inter hostium cadavera repertus est, paullulum etiam spirans, ferociamque animi quam habuerat vivus, in vul
•
u retinens. Sall. Bell. Cat. juxta finem.

↵

a
G. 4, 526. Aen. 9, 444.
↵

b
Minacciava morendo, e non languia. Tas.
↵

c
Il pover' huomo, che non sen' era accorto Andava combattendo, ed era morto. Ariost.
↵

d
Dimidiato corpore pugnabant sibi superstites, ac peremptae partis ultores. Strad. Dec. 2. Lib 2.
↵

a
B. 11, 540. λ', 433.
↵

a
B. 11, 626. λ', 511.
↵

a
Note on Ver. 626, B. 11
•

↵

b
B. 11, 650. λ', 531.
↵

a
Virgils Georgicks. 3, 83
•

↵

b
Stanza. 3.
↵

a
B. 10, 395. χ', 330.
↵

a
No
•
e on B. 10, Ver. 295.

↵

b
from Longinus
•
e Subl. c, 17.

↵

a
De Subl. c, 17.
↵

a
B. 13.
↵

92
(b) B. 14.
↵

a
B. 14.
↵

b
Verse, 185. θ' 170.
↵

a
B
•
4, 776. δ', 564 to 569.

↵

a
B
•
4, 776. δ', 564 to 569.

↵

a
B. 3, 96. γ' 81.
↵

b
B. 14, 4.
↵

a
B. 5, 520, 521. ε', 402.
↵

b
B. 5, 613, to 622. ε', 480.
↵

c
B. 6, 310, to 320. ζ', 262, 269.
↵

d
B. 6, 350. ζ', 291.
↵

e
B. 6, 355. ζ', 293.
↵

a
B. 5, 92. ε', 71.
↵

b

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Longin.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

.
↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Dionysius Hal.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

.
↵

b
B
•
10, 173. χ', 150.

↵

c
B. 13, 115, ν', 95.
↵

a
B. 5, 356, ε', 279.
↵

b
B. 2, 459. β', 419.
↵

a
B. 12, 183. μ', 147.
↵

b
B. 12. 216.
↵

c
B. 12.
•
65.

↵

d
B. 13, 94, ν', 78.
↵

e
B. 3, 618. γ', 435.
↵

a
B. 3
•
628. γ', 495.

↵

a
B. 1, 77. α', 59.
↵

b
B. 5, 204. ε', 154.
↵

a
B. 13, 38. ν', 30.
↵

b
See Mr. Pope's Note on the Place.
↵

a
B. 8, 580. θ, 530.
↵

a
Dryd. Transl. Aen. 3, 788.
↵

b
Aen. 3, 592
•

—Subito è sylvis macie confecta supremà,

Ignoti nova forma vi•i, miserandaque cultu

Pr•ced•t, supplexque manus ad litora tendit—

—U•i D•rdanio• habitus & Troia vidit

Arma p•ocul; paullum aspectu conterritus haesi•,

Continuitque gradum: mox sese ad litora praec•p•

Cum fletu precibusque tulit.—

↵

c
Ιλ', χ', 358.
↵

d
Note on I
•
. 14, 21.

↵

a
Iliad 14, 30.
↵

a
Il.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, 103.

↵

b
Risus abest; nisi quem visi movere dolores B. 2, 778.
↵

c
Pope's Iliad, B. 15, 113.
↵

d

Albeoû •'ay commencè de respirer le jour,

Albe, mon cher pais, & mon premier amour,

Lors qu' entre-nous & toy je voi la guerre ouverte,

Je crains nostre victoire au•ant que nostre perte.

[Corneille.

↵

a
B. 5, 246. ε', 191.
↵

a
B. 5, 265. ε', 208.
↵

133
Lo stral volo; ma con lo strale un voto bito usci, che vada il colpo a voto. Tasso.
↵

a
Aen 6
•
821.

↵

a
B. 3, 119. γ', 96, 95.
↵

b
B. 10, 387, to 392.
↵

a
B. 10, 382. χ', 321.
↵

b
B. 14, 110. ξ', 88.
↵

c
B. 11, 490. λ', 392.
↵

a
B. 11, 512. λ', 412.
↵

b
B. 13, 177. ν', 154.
↵

c
Naviget. Aen. 4, 237.
↵

d

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

146.
↵

e
The great Fiat.
↵

f

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Dem. Phal.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

.
↵

a
V. 125, γ', 103.
↵

b
Book 11.
↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, 240

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

↵

b
B. 10, 281.
↵

c
—Qu
•
mvis collo timuisset aratrum, E

•

s
••
pe in laevi quaesisset cornua fronte. E•l. 6, 51.
↵

d
—Conata queri, mugitus edidit ore, Pertimui
•
que sonos, propriaque ex••rrita voce est. M•t.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

, 638.
↵

e
B. 5, 96. ε', 73.
↵

a
B. 2, 320. β', 282.
↵

b
B. 2, 356. β', 316.
↵

c
B. 2, 415. β', 370.
↵

d
B. 8, 90. θ', 92.
↵

e
B. 10, 410. χ', 343.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

f

Saevus amor docuit natorum sanguine matrem

Commaculare manus; Crudelis tu quoque, mater:

Crudelis mater magis, an puer improbus ille?

Improbus ille puer; crudelis tu quoque, mater.

••. 8. v. 50.

↵

a
B. 12. 220. μ', 184.
↵

a
B. 12. 220. μ', 184.
↵

161
(b) See Pope's Note on the Place.
↵

a
Paradise lost. B. 5, 152.
↵

a
B. 10, 385.
↵

b
B. 11, 130. Aen. 6, 87 &c.
↵

c
V. 203.
↵

d
B. 14, 572.
↵

e
B. 10, 93. Aen. 3, 206.
↵

f
B. 12, 201.
↵

g
B. 12, 474. Aen. 3, 193.
↵

a
From Virgil B. 14, 76. B. 5, 96. See also B 2, 26. Aen. 3, 627. B. 2, 55. B. 3, 126. B 4
•
509. B. 6, 197, B. 10, 569. B. 11, 433, 434 &c

•

↵

b
Scripture. B. 1, 483. B. 3, 424 451. B. 4. 145
•
438. B. 5, 288. B 6, 235. B. 10, 591. B. 11

•

239. B. 14, 109. And frequently in other pl
•
ces
•

↵

c
Iliad. B. 11, 415.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, 41. &c. Ovid B. 4, 808. B. 10, 282. B. 13, 193. B. 14, 224

•

S•neca• B 5, 573. Horace. B. 10,
•
56, 557. B. 14, 519.
↵

d
Dryden. B.
•
, 80. B. 11, 531

•

&c. Addison. B. 4, 371. B. 11
•
684.
↵

a
Shakespear. B. 9
•
420. B. 10, 410. &c.

↵

b
See Book 11. V. 531. And 537. to 54
•
.

↵

176

〈◊〉
B.

••

, 725 And frequently in other places.
↵

a
B. 10, 259. χ', 225.
↵

b
B
•
3, 523. γ', 40

••

↵

c
B. 11, 258. λ', 212.
↵

d
B. 10, 588 χ', 496.
↵

e
B. 2, 393. β', 345.
↵

f
B. 14, 392. ξ', 359.
↵

g
B. 3, 25. γ', 20.
↵

h
Iliad 9. 412. ι' 313.
↵

a
—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

a
—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, 405.

↵

b
B
•
14. Observation XVIII.

↵

a
B. 14, 507 ξ', 455.
↵

b
B. 1, 482. α', 378.
↵

c
B 2, 347. β', 310.
↵

d
B. 9, 202. ι', 174.
↵

e
B. 8, 362. θ', 322.
↵

f
B. 8, 256. θ', 225.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

•

↵

194
B. 11, 727. λ', 588
↵

195
B. 1, 190. α', 144.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.—

↵

a
B 4, 256.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, 188.

↵

b
B 14, Note 1.
↵

c
B. 10, 277. 338. 459 &c.
↵

d
B. 6, 370. ζ', 306.
↵

e
B. 3, 221. γ', 180.
↵

f
B. 3, 252.
↵

g
B. 3
•
17. γ', 12.

↵

h
B. 5, 296.
↵

i
Ibid. 192.
↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Il.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

, 202.
↵

b
Ipse suum cor edens. T•sc. Quaest. lib. 3.
↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
Il. δ', 35.

↵

b
Il. B. 4, 56.
↵

b
Il. B. 4, 56.
↵

a
B. 6, 284. ζ', 236.
↵

b
B. 8, 18.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, 17.

↵

c
B. 2, 378. β, 336.
↵

d
B. 13, 442. ν', 386.
↵

e
B. 4, 708.
↵

a
B. 4, 104 δ', 85.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

a
Preface to V•rgil's Pastorals, p. 95.
↵

a
Dedication to his Aeneid. p. 417.
↵

a
La Tragedie roulât sur deux passions:
•
cavoir la terreur que doivent donner les suites

••

nestes du vice; & la compassion, qu' inspire la
•
ertu persecutèe & patiente Arch
•
ev. de Cam •ay. Sur l'Eloquence. Dial. 1.
↵

a
Mr. Watts's Horae Lyr. Pref. p. 31.
↵

b
B
•
∣shop Burnet's History of his own Times. p. 163

•

(b) See the Spect•tor. V. 1. Numb. 60.
↵

a
Od. B. 14; Observ. 2.
↵

a
Conclusion of the Earl of Roscommon's Essay
〈◊〉
Translated Ve

•

se.
↵

a
B. 6, 138.
↵

a
B. 4, 406.
↵

b
B. 3, 311.
↵

c
B. 12, 78.
↵

d
B. 10, 172.
↵

e
B. 1, 86.
↵

a
B. 4, 388. δ', 287.
↵

a
B. 8, 580. θ', 524.—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
—

↵

b
B 2, 77. β', 70.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.—

↵

c
B. 2, 362. β', 321.—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
,—

↵

d
B. 2, 259. β', 228.
↵

a
Book 9. Compare Verse 143, with 147.
↵

b
Book 5. Compare Verse 98, with 124.
↵

c
B. 1, 299, and 309.
↵

d
B. 5. 65.
↵

a
B. 10, 451.
↵

b
B. 5, 224.
↵

c
B. 6, 40. See, from their thrones thy kindred Monarchs sigh.
↵

d
Nor the fleet arrow from the twanging bow, Sent with full force cou'd reach the depth below. B. 12, 102.
↵

a
B. 1, 300.
↵

b
B 2, 201.
↵

c

A painted Vest Prince Voltigern had on

Which from a Naked Pict his Gransire won.

↵

d
What horrid silence does invade my Ear?
↵

a
Longinus
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
&c.

↵

a
Mollia tempora fandi.
↵

a
B. 12, 189.
↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
p. 29. Ed. R. Steph.

↵

b
B. 11, 735. λ', 593.
↵

c
B. 12, 379.
↵

d
B. 5, 380.
↵

a
B
•
12, 280.

↵

b
B. 12, 202.
↵

c
B. 11, 286
•

↵

AN ESSAY ON Pope's ODYSSEY: IN WHICH Some particular Beauties and Blemishes of that Work are considered. PART. II.

—Each finding, like a friend,

Something to blame, and something to commend.

Pope's Miscel. Vol. I.

Le choix des grans mots donne aux choses une espece d'ame & de vie: les beaux mots sont la lumiere propre et naturelle de nos pensées: mais un discours tout simple exprimera quelquefois mieux la chose, que toute la pompe & tout l' ornement.

Boileau.

Printed for S. Wilmot, Bookseller in OXFORD; and Sold by J. and J. Knapton, R. Knaplock, J. Wyatt, D. Midwinter, W. and J. Innys, and T. Astley, in St. Paul's Church-Yard; W. Mears, without Temple-bar; J. Crokat, in Fleet-Street; and J. Roberts, in Warwick-Lane, LONDON. 1727.

Price One Shilling and Six-Pence.

INDEX OF Figures, Passions, &c.

- AF•ectation 1• 23

- Allegori•s 2, 78

- Amazement 2, 189

- Ambiguity 2, 25

- Anger 2, 42

- Anti-climax 2, 139

- Anti thesis 1, 12 2, 116, 159

- A•chaism 2, 13

- A•••milation 2, 185

- A••onishment 1, 55. 2, 47

- •••v•lence 2, 102

- •••bast 1, 23, 47

- •••ism 2, 1•0

- Ir•aks 2 42

- Co•pounds 2, 9

- 〈◊〉 2, 126

- C••••rn 2. 44

- C•••is•ness 1, 88, 2, 113

- 〈◊〉 2, 41

- 〈◊〉 2. 65

- 〈◊〉 1, 137. 2, 22

- •••rast 2, 169

- •••age 1, 53

- 〈◊〉and Criticism,〈◊〉 100, 143, &c. 2, 5, 36, 143, &c.

- Delay 2, 125, 203

- Description 1, 6, 16, 6•

- Descriptions of Elysium 1, 627.—Tartarus, 2, 130. Phaeacia, 1, 65.—Ithaca. 1, 64.—of the Royal Palace, 2, 167.—•f the Country• ib.—of Laert•s his Gardens, ib.—of the Cave of the Nymphs, 1, 67.—of Calypso's Grot, 1, 66.—of distant Prospect•, 1, 67

- Shield of Achilles, 2, 193• Hercules Belt, 2, 194• Ces•us of Venus, 2, 1935. -of a Ship u•der Sail, 1, 68.—of Rowing, 1• 69.—o• driving a C•ariot, ib.—of the War•horse from Virgil, 1, 54.—of Fish expiring •n th• Shore, 2, 169

- Virgil's Troilus, 2, 194. his Achaemenides, 1, 77—of Herces going to an Engagement, 1, 53—•f dying Heroes, 1, 46—H•rce of the Odyssey, his first App•arance in that P•em, 1• 72.—of a malicious Smile, 1, 80.—an une•sy Smile, 2, 180.• an horrid one, 1, 79

- D•s•riptions from the Turn and Management of the Numbers, Sailing 1, 153—a T•mpest, ib. a Calm at S•a, 1, 154.—a Smooth-stream, ib. See, Versification.

- Distraction between Hope and fear 1, 77.

- Double-passions 1, 76, 84. 2, 181

- Doubt 2• 50

- Elevation 1, 6. 2, 153

- Emphasis 1, 86, 2. 20, 115. 120

- Epithets thei• uses 2. 16 to 22.—abuse, 2, 28 to 35.—in Allegories 2, 83

- Exclamation 2, 40

- Fable 1, 32

- Fear 2, 187, to 1•0

- Figures, whence and what 1, 117. 2, 38, 39, and 17•

- Finesses 1, 11

- Fustian 1• 2•

- Grammar 1, 117, 2, 13

- Hirmu• 2, 12•

- Hyperbaton 2, 11, and 9•

- Hyperboles 2, 188

- Hy•ernianism 1, 141

- Idea's, or actings of the Mind'describ'd 1, 59, 6•, 83, 2, 189.—Assimilation of Idea's 2, 185.—〈◊〉 of Idea's 2, 21

- Imitation 1, 94. 2, 8•. 2, 161

- Indignation 2, ••

- Infinitude 2, 131

- Insertion 2, ••

- Insulting 2, 63, 6•

- Intimation 2, 11•

- Joy, 2, 40. Excess of J••• 2, 50• 51, 53

- Love in Calypso 2, 48.—m Penelope 2, 51.—of one's Country 1, •4

- Lownesses, from excess o• defect, 2, 135.-from th• Characters of the Person 2, 137.—from 〈◊〉 2, 146. or nauseou• Ideas 2, 147.- from br•∣tishness 2, 1•1.—fro• thoug•t• being false a• the bottom 2, 155- from improper Mixture o• Ideas 2, 136.—fr•m 〈◊〉 too g•eat 〈◊〉 2, 138.—from 〈◊〉 2, 153.—from t•• much Ornament 1, 111. 2, 154.—from aimin• 〈◊〉 Simplicity 1, 10•, 109.—from the use o• ••rds too vulgar, or debased 1, 112. 2, 142.—or burlesque 2, 143.—from a prosaick Diction 2, 14—from the Rhime 1, 110-from Monosyllables 1, 2, 141. from sporting upon Words 2, 157. from imitating a lower Writer 2, 161

- Lownesses in Homer 1, 106. 2, 145

- M•lancholy 2, 40, 55

- Metaphor 1, 29, to 38. 2. 60 and 61.—the emphatical 2, 62.—the animating 2, 66.—the audacious 2, 63.—confused with the •ro••r 1, 31. 2, 29 and 77—forced and ill chosen 1, 36. 2, 84.—disagreei•g 1, 34.—disproporti ••ed to the Occasion 2, 75.—too frequent 1, 33.—continued too far 2, 77—dark or un-ideal 1, 38

- ••otony, general 1, 27.••rticular 1, 137〈◊〉 Heroism 2, 106 〈◊〉 a poetical Trea ••• of Morality 2, 164. 〈◊〉 such preferable to all 〈◊〉 (human) Poems 2, 101

- 〈◊〉 English. one great •••ty of it 1, 136—••ticular inconvenien•• in translating it 1• ••—improves on the Original in several Passages I. 49, 58, 63, 65, 88, 90, 95, 98. ••, 19, 38, 41, 48, 53, 73, 90, 104, 149, 170

- Opposition 2, 116

- Orientali•m 2, 56

- Passions 1, 56—the most eminent in the Hero of the Odyssey 1, 71, to 75.—contrary passions 1, 76. 2, 181

- Poetry and Painting 1, 75 86. 2, 191

- Precipitation 2, 51

- Prevention 2, 54

- Prophecy 2, 54

- Prosopopeia 2, 72

- Rage 1, 45

- Rants 1, 47

- Rhime 1, 119, to 130.

- Repetition 1, 90. 2, 125, 203

- Sanchoïsm 2, 111

- Scene of th• Odyssey 2, 167

- Self-praise 1, 52

- Sentences 2, 99 to 109

- Silence 2, 45 to 49

- Similie pathetick 1, 74. Exact 1, 78—short and expressive 2, 170—adapted to the Place, Pe•son, or Circumstances 2, 171, 172—unusual 173—agreeable and free 174—the continued 176—the multiplied 177, 175—the contrary 176.

- Similies from calm life 2, 169.—Elevating 2, 69

- Sound, significant of the sense 1, 151 to 154. 2, 63 Faults from affecting this or carrying it too far, 2, 213

- Speeches of Calypso, wavering and tender 1, 81. of Circè, confused 1, 55—of Agamemnon violent and enraged 1, 45, 48—of Penelope, tender and amorous 2, 179 -of Ulysses Narrative 1, 49, 53.—dit. neat and beautiful 1, 61.—of Tiresias 1, 62.—of Theoclymenus 2, 56—other, prophetical 1, 94

- Starts 1, 55. 2, 41

- Stile, the passionate 1, 57. the flowing 1, 62—the just and simple 1, 61—the fabulous 1, 32—the raised and ennobled 1, 114.—the elevated and over-wrought 1; 6, 23, 2• 153.—the Un-ideal stile, 1, 116

- Suspence 2, 43

- Threats 2, 42

- Transferring 1, 94• 2, 87

- Turns 2, 162

- Versification musical 1, 92—too rough and embarassed 1, 137—similar 1, 63. adapted to large images 2, 124—how to roughen it 2, 198—how to smoothen it 2, 198—the rapid 2, 199—the heavy and embaras'd 2, 200—the horrid; and the delightful 2, 202—the joyous and the melancholy 2, 203—its great Excellence 1, 151—particular faults in it 2, 213—it's grand fault 1• 12•

- Words debased by the Vulgar 2, 9—sporting upon them, mean 2, 157, 160• appropriated to particular uses 2, 27—technical, to be avoided 2, 26—new Supplies necessary 2, 9—old ones reviv•d 2, 13—borrow'd from other Languages. 2, 14•

The Natural Order of the Passages quoted from the ODYSSEY.

- Od. B. 1. V.75 Ess. II p 115

- Od. B. 1. V. 77 p 72

- Od. B. 1. V. 86 p 137

- Od. B. 1. V. 188 p 8

- Od. B. 1. V. 190 p 111

- Od. B. 1. V. 214 Ess. II, p 213

- Od. B. 1. V. 219 Ess. II, p 27

- Od. B. 1. V. 292 Ess. II, p 25

- Od. B. 1. V. 300 p 14•

- Od. B. 1. V. 309 p 140

- Od. B. 1. V. 389 Ess. II, p 20

- Od. B. 1. V. 408 p 9

- Od. B. 1. V. 425 p 24

- Od. B. 1. V. 449 Ess. II, p 22

- Od. B. 1. V. 462 p 10

- Od. B. 1. V. 482 p 109

- Od. B. 1. V. 483 p 96

- Od. B. 1. V. 534 p 36

- Od. B. 1. V. 553 p 27

- Book 2. V. 26 p 96

- Book 2. V. 28 Ess. II, p 77

- Book 2. V. 54 Ess. II, p 113

- Book 2. V. 55 p 96

- Book 2. V. 77 p 139

- Book 2. V. 179 p 36

- Book 2. V. 183 p 24

- Book 2. V. 201 p 142

- Book 2. V. 203 p 94

- Book 2. V. 259 p 139

- Book 2. V. 320 p 91

- Book 2. V. 347 p 109

- Book 2. V. 356 p 91

- Book 2. V. 362 p 139

- Book 2. V. 378 p 116

- Book 2. V. 393 p 106

- Book 2. V. 415 p 91

- Book 2. V. 437 p 31

- Book 2. V. 439 p 35

- Book 2. V. 459 p 68

- Book 3. V. 1 p 7

- Book 3. V. 17 p 112

- Book 3. V. 25 p 106

- Book 3. V. 96 p 64

- Book 3. V. 119 p 86

- Book 3. V. 126 p 96

- Book 3. V. 190 Ess. II, p 24

- Book 3. V. 213 p 38

- Book 3. V. 221 p 112

- Book 3. V. 252 p 112

- Book 3. V. 311 p 137

- Book 3. V. 424 p 96

- Book 3. V. 435 Ess. II, p 136

- Book 3. V. 451 p 96

- Book 3. V. 493 p 9

- Book 3. V. 523 p 106

- Book 3. V. 601 p 8

- Book 3. V. 618 p 69

- Book 3. V. 628 p 70

- Book 4. V. 19 p 23

- Book 4. V. 47 Ess. II, p 27

- Book 4. V. 104 p 117

- Book 4. V. 107 p 9

- Book 4. V. 116 Ess. II, p 62

- Book 4. V. 145 p 96

- Book 4. V. 154 p 14

- Book 4. V. 158 p 8

- Book 4. V. 199 Ess. II, p 27

- Book 4. V. 227 Ess. II, p 143

- Book 4. V. 248 p 26

- Book 4. V. 256 p 112

- Book 4. V. 320 Ess. II, p 21

- Book 4. V. 371 p 96

- Book 4. V. 388 p 35, & 138

- Book 4. V. 406 p 137

- Book 4. V. 411 p 7

- Book 4. V. 438 p 96

- Book 4. V. 480 p 26

- Book 4. V. 509 p 96

- Book 4. V. 543 Ess. II, p 147

- Book 4. V. 547 Ess. II, p 213

- Book 4. V. 548 Ess. II, p 147

- Book 4. V. 587 Ess. II, p 80

- Book 4. V. 615 p 44

- Book 4. V. 708 p 116

- Book 4. V. 725 Ess. II, p 213

- Book 4. V. 726 p 26

- Book 4. V. 748 p 38

- Book 4. V. 776 p 62

- Book 4. V. 794 Ess. II, p 27

- Book 4. V. 808 p 96

- Book 4. V. 951 p 26

- Book 4. V. 962 p 31

- Book 4. V. 1096 p 9

- Book 5. V. 65 p 140

- Book 5. V. 80 p 96

- Book 5. V. 85 Ess. II, p 18

- Book 5. V. 92 p 66

- Book 5. V. 96 p 90, & 96

- Book 5. V. 124 p 140

- Book 5. V. 159 p 38

- Book 5. V. 192 p 112

- Book 5. V. 204 p 72

- Book 5. V. 213 Ess. II, p 84

- Book 5. V. 224 p 141

- Book 5. V. 227 Ess. II, p 17

- Book 5. V. 246 p 81

- Book 5. V. 265 p 82

- Book 5. V. 288 p 96

- Book 5. V. 296 p 112

- Book 5. V. 305 Ess. II, p 48

- Book 5. V. 3•2 p 36

- Book 5. V. 356 p 68

- Book 5. V. 365 p 32

- Book 5. V. 380 p 153

- Book 5. V. 391 p 38

- Book 5. V. 393 p 110

- Book 5. V. 395 p 38

- Book 5. V. 417 Ess. II, p 173

- Book 5. V. 420 Ess. II, p 1•0

- Book 5. V. 480 p 32

- Book 5. V. 515 p 38

- Book 5. V. 521 Ess. II, p 12•

- Book 5. V. 529 Ess. II, p 126

- Book 5. V. 573 p 96

- Book 5. V. 585 p 14

- Book 5. V. •30 Ess. II, p 173

- Book 6. V. 40 p 141

- Book 6. V. 67 Ess. II, p 2•

- Book 6. V. 138 p 13•

- Book 6. V. 197 p 96

- Book 6. V. 204 Ess. II, p 71

- Book 6. V. 235 p 96

- Book 6. V. 245 Ess. II, p 102

- Book 6. V. 247 Ess. II, p 112

- Book 6. V. 262 p 14

- Book 6. V. 284 p 116

- Book 6. V. 298 p 37

- Book 6. V. 306 p 8

- Book 6. V. 370 p 112

- Book 6. V. 374 Ess. II, p 71

- Book 7. V. 42 Ess. II, p 172

- Book 7. V. 54 Ess. II, p 25

- Book 7. V. 117 Ess. II, p 27

- Book 7. V. 123 Ess. II, p 153

- Book 7. V. 135 Ess. II, p 170

- Book 7. V. 193 Ess. II, p 137

- Book 7. V. 228 Ess. II, p 137

- Book 7. V. 256 Ess. II, p 103

- Book 7. V. 264 Ess. II, p 105

- Book 7. V. 296 Ess. II, p 137

- Book 7. V. 428 Ess. II, p 27

- Book 8. V. 18 p 116

- Book 8. V. 68 Ess. II, p 141

- Book 8. V. 78 Ess. II, p 142

- Book 8. V. 90 p 91

- Book 8. V. 140 p 34

- Book 8. V. 185 p 61 & Ess. II 2•

- Book 8. V. 256 p 10•

- Book 8. V. 362 p 109

- Book 8. V. 380 Ess. II, p 22

- Book 8. V. 437 p 23

- Book 8. V. 4•4 p 14

- Book 8. V. 580, p 7•, & 139

- Book 9. V. 67 Ess. II, p 19

- Book 9. V. 147 p 140

- Book 9. V. 202 p 109

- Book 9. V. 210 p 31

- Book 9. V. 217 Ess. II, p 124

- Book 9. V. 224 p 31

- Book 9. V. 321 Ess. II, p 102

- Book 9. V. 329 Ess. II, p 103

- Book 9. V. 330 Ess. II, p 20

- Book 9. V. 353 p 37

- Book 9. V. 354 Ess. II, p 124

- Book 9. V. 420 p 97

- Book 9. V. 443 Ess. II, p 147

- Book 9. V. 4•9 Ess. II, p 75

- Book 9. V. 469 Ess. II, p 124

- Book 9. V. 514 Ess. II, p 25

- Book 9. V. 515 Ess. II, p 81

- Book 9. V. 550 Ess. II, p 189

- Book 9. V. 581 Ess. II, p 71

- Book 9. V. 604 Ess. II, p 185

- Book 9. V. 618 p 31

- Book 10. V. 93 p 94

- Book 10. V. 131 Ess. II, p 136

- Book 10. V. 144 Ess. II, p 136

- Book 10. V. 172 p 137

- Book 10. V. 173 p 67

- Book 10. V. 204 Ess. II, p 24

- Book 10. V. 205 Ess. II, p 157

- Book 10. V. 227 Ess. II, p 144

- Book 10. V. 259 p 106

- Book 10. V. 281 p 90

- Book 10. V. 282 p 96

- Book 10. V. 285 Ess. II, p 147

- Book 10. V. 288 Ess. II, p 46

- Book 10. V. 291 Ess. II, p 20

- Book 10. V. 382 p 87

- Book 10. V. 385 p •4

- Book 10. V. 387 p 86

- Book 10. V. 395 p 5•

- Book 10. V. 410 p 91, 97

- Book 10. V. 451 p 141

- Book 10. V. 556 p 96

- Book 10. V. 569 p 96

- Book 10. V. 588 p 96

- Book 10. V. 591 p 106

- Book 10. V. 593 Ess. II, p 153

- Book 11. V. 109 Ess. II, p 126

- Book 11. V. 130 p 94

- Book 11. V. 151 p 26

- Book 11. V. 169 p 62

- Book 11. V. 239 p 96

- Book 11. V. 258 p 106

- Book 11. V. 286 p 154

- Book 11. V. 373 Ess. II, p 126

- Book 11. V. 388 Ess. II, p 201

- Book 11. V. 408 Ess. II, p 43

- Book 11. V. 415 p 96

- Book 11. V. 433 p 96

- Book 11. V. 486 p 34

- Book 11. V. 487 Ess. II, p 161

- Book 11. V. 490 p 87

- Book 11. V. 512 p 88

- Book 11. V. 528 p 45

- Book 11. V. 531 p 96

- Book 11. V. 537 p 97

- Book 11. V. 540 p 48

- Book 11. V. 626 p 49

- Book 11. V. 650 p 53

- Book 11. V. 665 Ess. II, p 47

- Book 11. V. 684 p 96

- Book 11. V. 725 p 97

- Book 11. V. 727 p 111

- Book 11. V. 735 p 153

- Book 11. V. 736 Ess. II, p 200

- Book 11. V. •38 Ess. II, p 200

- Book 11. V. 740 Ess. II, p 159

- Book 11. V. 7•6 p 194

- Book 11. V. •82 Ess. II, p 213

- Book. 12. V. 32 Ess. II, p 155

- Book. 12. V. 35 p 8

- Book. 12. V. 52 Ess. II, p 22

- Book. 12. V. 78 p 137

- Book. 12. V. 102 p 141

- Book. 12. V. 183 p 69

- Book. 12. V. 189 p 152

- Book. 12. V. 201 p 94

- Book. 12. V. 202 p 154

- Book. 12. V. 216 p 69

- Book. 12. V. 220 p 92

- Book. 12. V. 245 Ess. II, p 189

- Book. 12. V. 265 p 69

- Book. 12. V. 280 p 154

- Book. 12. V. 300 Ess. II, p 169

- Book. 12. V. 379 p 153

- Book. 12. V. 474 p 94

- Book. 13. V. 13 Ess. II, p 8•

- Book. 13. V. 38 p 74

- Book. 13. V. 94 p 69

- Book. 13. V. 112 p 〈◊〉

- Book. 13. V. 113 p 36

- Book. 13. V. 115 p 67

- Book. 13. V. 156 Ess. II, p 138

- Book. 13. V. 164 Ess. II, p 139

- Book. 13. V. 167 Ess. II, p 24

- Book. 13. V. 177 p 88

- Book. 13. V. 193 p 96

- Book. 13. V. 400 p 38

- Book. 13. V. 442 p 116

- Book. 13. V. 453 p 16

- Book. 13. V. 497 p 19

- Book. 14. V. 4 p 64

- Book. 14. V. 76 p 96

- Book. 14. V. 109 p 96

- Book. 14. V. 110 p 8•

- Book. 14. V. 224 p 96

- Book. 14. V. 392 p 106

- Book. 14. V. 416 p 13

- Book. 14. V. 473 Ess. II, p 213

- Book. 14. V. 499 Ess. II, p 75

- Book. 14. V. 507 p 109

- Book. 14. V. 519 p 96

- Book. 14. V. 533 p 38

- Book. 14. V. 572 p 94

- Book. 14. V. 740 Ess. II, p 159

N. B. All the following References belong to the Second Volume of the ESSAY.

- Book 15. V. 145 p 24

- Book 15. V. 151 p 168

- Book 15. V. 250 p 88

- Book 15. V. 295 p 139

- Book 15. V. 319 p 166

- Book 15. V. 435 p 22

- Book 15. V. 560 p 141

- Book 16. V. 35 p 150

- Book 16. V. 189 p 88

- Book 16. V. 208 p 41

- Book 16. V. 217 p 50

- Book 16. V. 237 p 88

- Book 16. V. 243 p 46

- Book 16. V. 249 p 52

- Book 16. V. 380 p 80

- Book 16. V. 381 p 81

- Book 16. V. 420 p 88

- Book 17. V. 47 p 172

- Book 17. V. 49 p 84,85

- Book 17. V. 55 p 53

- Book 17. V. 200 p 25

- Book 17. V. 227 p 88

- Book 17. V. 230 p 167

- Book 17. V. 400 p 141

- Book 17. V. 471 p 104

- Book 17. V. 506 p 72

- Book 17. V. 523 p 88, 107

- Book 17. V. 549 p 135

- Book 17. V. 550 p 143

- Book 17. V. 613 p 88

- Book 17. V. 621 p 33

- Book 17. V. 625 p 146

- Book 18. V. 121 p 88

- Book 18. V. 158 p 88

- Book 18. V. 171 p 106

- Book 18. V. 194 p 180

- Book 18. V. 207 p 24

- Book 18. V. 229 p 173

- Book 18. V. 250 p 19

- Book 18. V. 282 p 146, 11

- p 212

- Book 18. V. 284 p 22, 189

- Book 18. V. 299 p 115

- Book 18. V. 308 p 61

- Book 18. V. 412 p 150

- Book 18. V. 427 p 190

- Book 18. V. 443 p 113

- Book. 19. V. 22 p 85

- Book. 19. V. 85 p 42

- Book. 19. V. 99 p 88

- Book. 19. V. 110 p 20, 151

- Book. 19. V. 131 p 76

- Book. 19. V. 143 p 85

- Book. 19. V. 149 p 84

- Book. 19. V. 155 p 29

- Book. 19. V. 245 p 161

- Book. 19. V. 247 p 181

- Book. 19. V. 268 p 193

- Book. 19. V. 286 p 77

- Book. 19. V. 461 p 91

- Book. 19. V. 500 p 81

- Book. 19. V. 547 p 91

- Book. 19. V. 554 p 41

- Book. 19. V. 565 p 76

- Book. 19. V. 605 p 173

- Book. 19. V. 694 p 88

- Book 20. V. 19 p 77

- Book 20. V. 256 p 63

- Book 20. V. 335 p 72

- Book 20. V. 358 p 27

- Book 20. V. 370 p 88

- Book 20. V. 439 p 188

- Book 20. V. 430 p 56

- Book 20. V. 432 p 27

- Book 21. V. 104 p 59

- Book 21. V. 240 p 46

- Book 21. V. 449 p 1•7

- Book 21. V. 461 p 197

- Book 22. V. 2 p 136

- Book 22. V. 13 p 157

- Book 22. V. 3• p 157

- Book 22. V. 3• p 59

- Book 22. V. 41 p 744

- Book 22. V. 81 p 42

- Book 22. V. 8• p 135

- Book 22. V. 13• p 31

- Book 22. V. 136 p 75

- Book 22. V. 166 p 41

- Book 22. V. 167 p 27

- Book 22. V. 186 p 〈◊〉

- Book 22. V. 226 p 11•

- Book 22. V. 292 p 198

- Book 22. V. 417 p 190

- Book 22. V. 430 p 169

- Book 23. V. 47 p 15•

- Book 23. V. 212 p 46

- Book 23. V. 215 p 1•9

- Book 23. V. 217 p 2•

- Book 23. V. 240 p 5•

- Book 23. V. 322 p 8•

- Book 23. V. 337 p 1••

- Book 23. V. 369 p 12•

- Book 23. V. 387 p 1••

- Book 24. V. 6 p 1••

- Book 24. V. 14 p 1••

- Book 24. V. 131 p 〈◊〉

- Book 24. V. 201 p 18•

- Book 24. V. 237 p 16•

- Book 24. V. 272 p 6•

- Book 24. V. 309 p 8•

- Book 24. V. 339 p 4•

- Book 24. V. 376 p 〈◊〉

- Book 24. V. 404 p 4•

- Book 24. V. 411 p 5•

- Book 24. V. 498 p 〈◊〉

- Book 24. V. 499 p 1••

- Book 24. V. 504 p 1••

- Book 24. V. 513 p 〈◊〉

- Book 24. V. 540 p 〈◊〉

- Book 24. V. 547 p 1••

- Book 24. V. 558 p 〈◊〉

- Book 24. V. 561 p 1••

- Book 24. V. 610 p 1••

- Book 24. V. 612 p 〈◊〉

- Book 24. V. 618 p 〈◊〉

- Book 24. V. 622 p 〈◊〉

- Book 24. V. 632 p 〈◊〉

An ESSAY &c.
EVENING the FOURTH.

AFTER having engag'd themselves so far, we may imagine that Antiphaus and Philypsus waited with a good deal of Impatience for the remaining Part of ••e Odyssey. As it happen'd, they were •oth in Town, before it appear'd in Pub •ck; and Philypsus, who was the warmer 〈◊〉 the two, us'd to enquire almost every ••y at Lintot's how the Press went on. •e grew still the more eager, as the •me drew nearer: and the first moment 〈◊〉 cou'd procure it in Sheets, he set down 〈◊〉 them with all the Pleasure, and all the •verity, that Antiphaus had preach'd up to •m in their former Enquiries.

In the time that was taken up by this agreeable Search, he call'd often upon that Friend, with whom he shar'd his Studies, as well as his Affections. This was rather a Dividing, than Leaving his Pursuits: for he scarce ever saw Antiphaus, without mentioning something of the Odyssey, and hearing his Sentiments in return. When he had gone entirely thorough the Poem, he went immediately to desire a Meeting, in some place where they might talk more at large upon that Head. By good luck Antiphaus was perfectly disengag'd: ‘'Tis a fine Evening, says he; and if you please we will take a turn together in the Gardens of Horatio: since we cannot enjoy his Company, at least let us make use of that Liberty he has left with us. There we shall be retir'd from the Noise, and Bustle of the Town; and safe from every sort of Interruption.’ Philypsus was extremely pleas'd to find him so ready: they stept together into his Coach, which drove immediately to Horatio's, and set them down at the Gates which lead into the Great-Walk of the Garden.

After a turn or two there, they sat down by the side of a Fountain, full in •ight of the Thames, which passes at the bottom of the Walk. The Walk itself makes a fine Visto in its Descent to the River: at a distance, you see the Fields and Hills; at first in an easy Ascent varied into Pasture and Arable, and then rising unequally, and cover'd here and there with Woods, till they are insensibly lost in a bluish Cast of the Clouds. The agreeableness of the Place made Philypsus forget himself for a few Moments: he was taken up wholly in wandering with his Eye, sometimes over those beautiful Gardens, and sometimes over the irregular Prospect that lay before them. At last recollecting himself and turning to An•i ••aus, ‘There is a difference (says he) in the agreeable Sense I •eel at present •rom the delightful Views on all sides of us, which may partly confirm what we were talking of just before we sat down.’ Does not this Master-piece of Art, with all its Symmetry and Justness of Proportions, strike the Mind in a fee •ler manner, than that Landskape of Nature in its infinite Irregularity? These measured Rises and Falls, in Slopes answering each other, Those Groves terminating every way in an exactness of •igure, These Walks intercrossing with •ut confusion, and uniting •o happily, cannot fail of pleasing the Eye very much: Yet that Wildness and Variety abroad, the River, Lawn, Fields and Woods so beautifully interspers'd, compose a Scene much finer and more engaging. For my part, I shou'd be apt to prefer that single Grot yonder, and the hanging Precipice over it, to a whole Scenary of natural Objects laid out in the most regular order imaginable. There is something of this in the Pleasure which is given us by the greatest Writers. A Noble natural Genius, however irregular and unconfin'd, delights us in a much higher degree, than the most uniform and correct: And the Writer who enjoys this freedom of Soul, amidst all his Starts and Errors, is greatly to be prefer'd to the Justness of one, who is too severe to commit a Fault, and too cool and phlegmatick to be a P•et.

Such a temper (reply'd Antiphaus) can never produce any thing truly Great. The noblest Poet in the World has not the fewest Faults: and the same Spirit which qualified Homer to be so, is what at the same time might hurry him away from a nicer Observation of some little Particulars. The very Negligencies of Homer shew the Greatness of his Spirit: and where there may be any like Negligencies in the Version of Homer, methinks, it wou'd be but Justice to attribute them to the same Cause: at least where the Spirit of that Poet is so discernible, as it is in this late Translation.

I cannot but smile sometimes, when I hear a severer Reader very gravely condemning a Poem for a few Faults, which may be evident in it here and there. Nothing can be plainer than that our Judgments ought to be form'd upon the Whole, and not upon Particulars: the Superiority of Beauties or D•∣fects is the only thing that can determine the Character of the Piece. 'Tis possible that Mr. Hobbes may have express'd a word or two correctly, where the New Translation has deviated into a Metaphorical or licentious Expression: but what a strange method of Comparison would it be, to settle our opinion of the Writers from hence? By such a way of proceeding we might prefer one, who loses the Life and Vigour of Poetry throughout, to others who preserve it so strongly in the general Turn of their Compositions.

As we go on, Philypsus, with our usual freedom of speaking our Sentiments on each particular Passage; I dare say, that even all those, which may seem faulty to us, will make but a small figure, when compar'd to the several Excellencies of this Piece. As for my part, after a Research of some care thro' the whole Translation, I find no reason at all to alter my Opinion, ‘That the Beauties of it are far more numerous, and far more considerable, than its Blemishes: even taking all those things for real Blemishes, which we may only imagine to be such.’

If the fashionable Choice of Verse be justly blameable; it may as justly be said that no one moves with more freedom in his Fetters. In particular Lines, there may be some farther disagreeable Likenesses of Sound; but the Variety of Numbers in general is great and handsome: What Smoothness and Harmony do we find thro' the course of the Poem; and how seldom are they interrupted either by the Littleness, or the Vastness of the Words? by the Openness of the Vowels, the Clashing of Consonants, or any other Roughnesses whatever: Not to mention against these, that Significance of Sound, which is more frequent, and more happily practis'd by Mr. Pope, in particular, than by any other of the Modern Poets.

As to the Diction; not only the Poem but our Language itself is enrich'd by it. Where it is once Mean, it is in many instances Great, Noble, and Solemn. Where a Simplicity beyond our Taste is to be preserv'd, we may expect some Flatnesses: And it may be to these perhaps we owe that Justness and Purity, which in so many places makes us imagine, that we are conversing with Persons of those First Ages of the World, in all their Plainness and Honesty of Behaviour. At other times the Narration is rais'd, and the Images strengthen'd by a figurative way of speaking, tho' no doubt, in some cases, to excess: but these Excesses may well be pass'd over, when we consider, that they proceed from Liberties, which are highly useful in rendering the Stile the more various and poetical; so far, as frequently to improve upon Homer himself.

Above all, is that flame and spirit diffus'd thro' the whole Poem; and oftentimes so well kept up, as to make us forget, that we are reading a Translation. When we are engag'd in the Piece, do not the great and generous Sentiments we meet with perpetually, make a few Thoughts, which have something cold or little in them, appear inconsiderable upon the first Comparison? What Eclaircisements have we, and how little Obscurity? What a number of natural Thoughts, Images, and Descriptions might be produc'd, to over-ballance such Lines in it, as may seem to be Affected, or too Artificial?

Thus which ever way we turn ourselves, whether we consider the Poetical Spirit, the Language, or the Versification; in each of them the Beauties far exceed the Defects. It is with this Notion we ought to proceed in our Enquiries: we must carry this Thought all along with us. Let us remember Philypsus, ‘That all human Excellence stands merely on Comparison: that no one is without Faults, and that very few arrive in any tolerable degree towards Perfection: That Mr. Pope does not only appear among the Few, but that his Superiority is every way visible: If we compare his Compositions in general with those of our other Poets, the Disproportion is as great, as when we compare the Blemishes of his own Poetry, with the Beauties which every where abound in it.’

Some of these we are now to consider; and we may enter on this View with the greater Pleasure, as we have the advantage of Mr. Pope's own Observations in several Points, both as to those things, in which he met with the greatest difficulty; and the Methods he has taken of raising his Language, and improving the Versification.

One of the greatest Sources of raising, as well as enlarging the Poetical Language, is by inventing New Words, or importing old Ones from a foreign Soil. Words, when they are us'd vulgarly, grow mean: Like other Fashions, when their use is once got among the Populace, they soon begin to be rejected by the politer Part of the World. This it is (as [a] the Gentlemen of Port Royal very justly observe) which necessitates the introducing of New Words into every Language; it occasions a continual Decay, and demands continual Supplies. Thus whoever has a Felicity this way, is a Benefactor to the Publick: he adds so much to the Bank; and gives his Assistance in supporting the present Credit of Language among us.

It wou'd be equally trifling and laborious, to give all the particular Instances of this Version's enriching our Language. It is every where visible; there is no reading a Book in the Odyssey, without observing it frequently. You will almost constantly find his new Words to be apt, easy, and poetical. Sometimes he introduces the Expressions, and even the Peculiarities of other Languages into our own: These, when unforc'd, please us very particularly, by the Variety, and Novelty, they bring along with them. We admire the Stranger in our Habit; and are extremely taken to see him look as free and easy as if he were a Native, and had been always truly English.

The Poet has the same Art and Delicacy in Connecting two Words into one, a thing much more difficult than Inventing: The Union is proper and insensible; there is no Knot, where they are ingrafted: in short, they [a] may be said rather to grow into one another, than to be brought together by Art. I do not say, that this hits so naturally in all the Instances; there may be [b] some Words less tractable, or less harmonious than others: But in general we may affirm, that as his Translation is wrought off from a Language, which in this Respect greatly exceeds all that ever were; So the Imitations of it, this way, are unusually Beautiful and Harmonious.

To deviate from the strict Rules which Grammarians wou'd impose on Words, either single, or as they stand in their relations to one another, gives an agreeable uncommon Air to Language; but in the very Notion of it carries something of difficulty, and niceness along with it. Mr. Pope seems to have thought it the safest way in such Cases to follow or resemble those Deviations, which have been already Authoriz'd by some Masterly hand: and where he strikes more boldly into any new Freedom, he is generally careful of giving things such an Openness, that they may neither perplex the Sense, nor embarrass the Period.

A thing more useful and agreeable than either of these, is to turn the stream of Words out of their common Channel.—There is a good deal of Stiffness, which yet attends our Language, from the stated order of Words in such a repeated Succession: and tho' we are much freer than our Neighbours the French in this particular, I shou'd be glad to see our Poets, at least, go yet farther towards the Liberties of the old Greeks and Romans. Mr. Pope has some strokes toward this: he is sometimes bold in varying the expected range of Words, to give his Sentences a new and agreeable air: he transposes their order, often by his own Judgment, and often in imitation of some of our best Poets, who have succeeded in it before.

I wou'd not have a certain Grammarian, or two, over-hear me commending these Liberties so freely: it wou'd certainly cost one a Dispute. You know the Men: they are as strict in the Punctilio's of Words, as some formal People are in the little Points of Behaviour. I warrant you, your Neighbour, The Doctor, wou'd stand as strictly upon the Nominative Case's going before the Verb, as Wicquefort wou'd for the Precedence of an Embassador: 'Tis certain he can settle all the Rules of Place from undeniable Authorities; disposes of the Upper-hand with perfect Oeconomy; and, upon the whole, would make an Excellent Master of the Ceremonies among Words and Syllables.

However, with this Gentleman's leave, there are several just Liberties which may be allow'd for varying the Poetical [a] Stile: and many Aids, proper to enliven and elevate it in the more noble Parts of a Poem.

Among the latter, Mr. Pope has made very good use of Antiquated Words; and no less of Expressions borrow'd from our Translation of the Sacred Writings. The Language of Scripture, as it is receiv'd from the first with a certain religious Awe, will still retain something venerable, and august: it may therefore be of signal Service in giving to the Heroick Muse that Majesty, which so well becomes the Sublime Air she ought to assume. 'Tis much the same in the revival of old Words: Antiquity always carries a sort of Solemnity with it, in its very Roughnesses and Decays: The Rustick strikes the Mind, as strongly, as any thing in Architecture; and Ruins themselves have often something awful and majestick in them.

I wou'd not willingly interrupt you (says Philypsus) but the humour of heaping superannuated Words in some late Poems, is too provoking to be pass'd by. How have our Miltonick Writers, in particular, prostituted them on all occasions: in what an undistinguishing manner do they labour to draw into their Works, any word which their great Master has adopted into his Paradise Lost?—Erst, Nathless, Behests, Welkin, and a Thousand other Expressions of equal beauty and agreeableness of Sound, are repeated ten times in every Sheet of theirs: in short, these Gentlemen have made me quite sick of People's going two Hundred Years backward for their Language; and furnishing out half their Poems from the Vocabularies annex'd to Spencer and Chaucer.

As for some of those Writers (reply'd Antiphaus calmly) You have reason to be angry with them; but if we may reject any thing meerly for the abuse of it, there is nothing of the greatest use, that we may not fairly reject. Virgil made particular use of this method in his Poems, and was [a] admired by his Countrymen on that account: What is your Opinion of our Milton? Are you displeas'd with the antiquated Words in his Writings? No, Philypsus, I know your Taste too well to imagine any thing of that nature. And even of those, that have follow'd his Example, there is one or two who make good use of them. This we see in Philips's pieces; not to mention the new [a] Poem we were reading the other Day: the Author of which, beside several other Beauties, is by no means unhappy in his Management of this sort of Words. I agree with you, the Abuse of them is frequent, and much to be condemn'd: If perpetual, they run into a meer Barbarism; and indeed where-ever they are thrust in, without any other reason except their being Ancient, they give a Roughness and Disorder, instead of the proper Solemnity: But when they are plac'd here and there with Judgment, they support the greatness of our Ideas, and reflect a venerableness on the subject. Were the Old Oaks, that are left standing in the Gardens of Blenheim, more numerous, that Design might have too much of the Forest in it: but as they •re, they serve to communicate the nobler •ir of Antiquity to the things about them; •nd appear in a Majesty of Years, equal •o the Grandeur of the Place.

I wou'd desire you to commend the in •rtion of Solemn Words, only as they are proper to the Places in which they are us'd. We see by Mr. Pope's Observations on this Head, that he understands the Benefit of them perfectly well; as his Works shew that he practises up to his own Rules; and scarce ever inserts either the Words of former Centuries, or the Language of Scripture, but where the Subject demands a solemn and venerable Turn.

As these are the chief Methods of ennobling the Poetick Stile; so the chief to enliven it, is the free and various use of Epithets. No one thing is of greater service to the Poets for distinguishing ••eir Language from Prose. This has occasion'd that [a] large and unrestrain'd use of them, so much beyond what we ••nd in Oratory: And tho' Homer is more bold and frequent in this, than any of the Poets who have wrote since; I know not any of the Ancient Criticks who have ever blam'd him on that account. 'Tis partly from his uncommon liberties this way, that Mr. Pope looks upon his Epithets, as one of the [b] Distinguishing Marks of that Poet. In Homer they have on several accounts a peculiar air: and this Translation not only preserves their proper beauties, but shews many Methods of improving upon them. Sometimes the Old are set in a stronger light, and sometimes New ones added with a peculiar grace: Sometimes several are applied to the same thing, without [a] that strictness of connexion, which wou'd [b] flatten the energy of them; and where the poverty of our Language will not convey their full Sense in the Conciseness of the Original, they are enlarged upon in the Translation, and laid more open to our view.

Epithets, Philypsus, like Pictures in Miniature, are often entire descriptions in one Word. This may be either from their own significance, or by their immediate connexion with some known object. We see the thing, when the Poet only mentions the Nodding Crest of an Hero; and form a larger Idea of Jove from the single Epithet of Cloud-compelling, than we might find in a description more diffuse. It was chiefly from [c] two Poetical Epithets, that Phidias design'd the countenance of his Olympian Jupiter; as, in Reverse, we often see the Person in his Epithet, from our being acquainted with some Statue, or Picture, to which it refers: Thus when Apollo is call'd the Archer-God, it recalls to our memory the representations we have so often seen of that Deity: the compleat Figure is rais'd up in the Mind, by touching upon that single circumstance.

'Tis by the same means, that one single Epithet gives us the Idea of any Object, which has been common and familiar to us. Meadows, Fields, Woods, Rivers, and the Sea itself, are often imag'd by one well-chosen word. Thus in that [a] beautiful Description of Calypso's Bower, you see the Groves of living green; the Alders ever quivering; the nodding Cypress, and its high Branches, waving with the Storm: 'Tis by Epithets that the ancient Poets paint their Elysian Gr•ves; and the Modern, their Windsor-Forests.

Where our Language will not admit of this conciseness, we find the Image preserv'd by a Description more full and diffusive; thus,

—The Morning Sun encreasing bright

[a] O'er Heavens pure Azure spreads the growing light.

I shou'd think that the Opening of the Sense in a larger Compass may often be approv'd, even where we are not driven to it by the poverty of our Language. Homer himself, who has the advantage of single Words so much stronger and more significant, often chuses to draw out his Sentiments, into several Lines: and sometimes [b] the very same Sentiment, which upon other Occasions he has express'd in one word only. May not the same Liberty be allow'd to his Translators? Is it not a fine Enlargement for Instance, where Homer is speaking of Penelope's Veil with the Epithet of Pellucid only, to say that the Transparent Veil

[c] Her beauty seems and only seems to shade.

Tho' these imaging and descriptive Epithets are the more Beautiful, those which add Strength and Emphasis are by no means to be contemn'd. This way they are of great Service in all Satire; and particularly in that Abusiveness, which Homer is not over nice in bestowing upon his Gods: they appear well in the Ridicule of the Suitors; and are strong and vehement in any Arrogant Character, particularly in all Contemners of the Gods. I shall give you only one instance of the latter; from Polypheme's Answer to Ulysses:

Fools that you are! (the monster made reply,

His inward fury blazing at his eye)

Or strangers distant far from our abodes,

To bid me reverence or regard the Gods.

Know, that we Cyclops are a race above

[a]Those air-br•d people, and their goat-nurs'd Jov••

You must have observ'd (Philypsus) several other Methods of using Epithets poetically. I need not mention the peculiar fitness and strength, which they may acquire, from the [b] occasions on which they are us'd, or the Light they are set in: That [c] Substantives are sometimes us'd as Epithets; and sometimes [d] Epithets as Substantives: Sometimes the [e] Metaphor is convey'd this way with a good Grace; and at others, two Thwarting Ideas are mixt together in a very agreeable manner. Mr. Addison is the first I know of, that observ'd upon these, and gave them their Name, and of this kind is the [a] Vegetable Venom in the fourth Odyssey, which answers [b] his Instance of Aurum Frondens from Virgil.

I know not whether I perfectly apprehend you, or not (interpos'd Philypsus): Do You not mean that particular sort of Metaphor, when some strange quality in a thing, is turn'd into an Epithet, and directly applied to it?—Either that; or else some strange Circumstance applied in the same manner: in both 'tis the Novelty and the Surprize, that please us.—I take you, says Philypsus; and believe I now see a farther Reason, why a very natural Passage (in another Poem by Mr. Pope) has always been so agreeable to me. 'Tis where he speaks of the odd Appearance of things from their inversion in a River: I think I can repeat it:

Oft in the Stream—The musing Shepherd spies

The head-long Mountains and the downward Skies,

The wa•ry Landskip of the pendant Woods,

And absent trees that tremble in the floods;

In the clear azure Gleam the Flocks are seen,

[c] And floating Forests paint the Waves with green.

These are of the kind I mean, says Antiphaus; they are bold, but they are natural: Indeed with due caution, greater Contrarieties than these may be join'd, under some particular Circumstance, to justify so unexpected an Union. Thus all Epithets, which contradict the general Sense of the Thing, but agree with the particular Occasion; Thus is Grief call'd pleasing; there are Kindnesses which are terrible [a]: And in many cases Death and even Disgrace may be desirable. Instances of this kind, are very frequent, especially among our modern Poets. There are [b] many in this Translation: in particular, 'tis this which gives a new Air to that gay [c] Speech of Mercury in the Eighth Book.

Tho' the Latins us'd this agreeable Clash of Ideas, the Greek Poets (as Mr. Addison [d] observes on the former Head) wanted Art for it; They, at least the more Ancient of them, never join things that seem to disagree, in so close an Union. Unless where Nature her self has led the way in an [a] actual mixture of Contrarieties: in any point, except that single one, these must be entirely Improvements on the Original.

The Misfortune is, that in all Human Excellencies there will be an Alloy: Faults spring out of our Improvements themselves; and the very methods of Beautifying lead often into Blemishes. The way to any Perfection is full of Difficulties and Windings on each side; and every step out of the right Path (tho' they cross each other every Moment) is a wandering from our Design. In a word, Philypsus, 'tis much the same with Errors and Improvements, as it is with Pleasure and Pain in the Philosopher's Fable: they are blended together in such a manner, that it is impossible to come at the one, without touching upon the other.

All the Methods which are us'd in Mr. Pope's Translation, and which are so often of great Efficacy towards beautifying and improving the Diction, may sometimes fall under a different Character.

Among the Words which are introduc'd from other Languages into our own, there may be [a] some, which still retain too much of the air of Foreigners: As antiquated Words may [b] look too Grotesque, or have a rough disagreeable sound. The very Solemnity of Scriptural Expressions may sometimes require that they should not be [c] alienated: at least it may make them look [d] too high for the Passages in which they are inserted.

Next to the importing of Words New to the Poetical Stile, is the varying the use of the Old. To deviate from the strictness of Grammar, is what gave a rise to Rhetorick; and surely there are few who wou'd not prefer all the beautiful Forms and Figures of the latter (at least for Poetry and Oratory) to that bare correctness, which alone is the Province of the former: Yet there may be Innovations on this too harsh or daring; and Figures, that may look more like Patchwork, than true Ornaments in the Dress of Poetry.

The greater danger is, when the Poet assumes [a] any common Word in a new unusual Sense. The worst Fault of any Language is, Ambiguity; that great cause of Darkness in Verse, and the continuer of every Dispute that has been kept up for any time in Prose. The various Appearances of words, Philypsus, should not be multiplied unnecessarily; the Reader is apt to be distracted between so many Lights: and in such a Variety may follow the false, as well as the true.

I have observ'd this particularly in Words deriv'd from other Languages: These, you know, often prevail among •s very differently from their native signification. The Latin sense perhaps is •ne thing, and the English use another: When this has obtain'd universally, we •ught not to run back to the Latin [b] •ense of the word, in our use of it. If •ou should, the Learn'd themselves may •ot readily fall into your meaning, and •he Unlearn'd will inevitably mistake it.

It may be enquir'd too, how far this Translation, may make a wrong use of Terms borrow'd from any of the Arts •nd Sciences: As where we read of Architraves, Colonnades, and the like. I would not produce these as undoubted faults in the Poetical Stile: tho' the banishing all Technical Words, be laid down by some Criticks as a Rule never to be transgress'd; I should imagine they might be admitted in some Cases; even where there is not that absolute necessity, either of using them, or losing the Sense of the Original.

Will not the very thing, on which the Rule is founded, allow the departing from it sometimes? "That the Poet writes to all Mankind in general; And "That h• should avoid all appearance of Labour, a• well as Affectation, is very true; and very good reasons they are for his not using Technical Words, while they carry difficulty and an Air of Affectation abou• them: But if such words ever happen to be perfectly Familiarized by the Writing of former Poets, or become of commo• Use in the World, I should think the• have the same Right to be admitted int• Poetry (and if not mean, the same propriety) as any other Words, the most obvious and intelligible. Any one may distinguish their greater, or less fitness, o• this Account, in the description of Al•∣nous's Palace: in which there are sever• Instances, both of Terms familiariz'• and of such as are less allowable, under one and the same view:

The Front appear'd with radiant splendors gay,

Bright as the lamp of Night, or orb of Day.

The walls were massy brass: the Cornice high

Blue metals crown'd, in colours of the sky:

Rich plates of gold the folding-doors incase;

The pillars silver, on a brazen base;

Silver the Lintels deep-projecting o'er,

[a] And gold the ringlets that command the door.

Some of these Terms are certainly allowable; And you will think perhaps I carry the matter too far in another Point, which may seem as allowable to the full. You must know, I am apt to imagine, that not only the more difficult Terms of Art, but even such Words as are [b] •surp'd more particularly in any single Province, may become less fit to be used in Common. If so, it may require caution in inserting some, that are appropriated to particular Persons or Things; Many that are us'd much in the Professions, especially in the Scholastick way of Distinctions: and all in general that are perplex'd, or not to be understood without Difficulty.

I'm afraid I have tired you, Philypsus, with such a string of dry Observations; they must have their Turn in a view of this Nature; and to omit what is Necessary, for fear of an imputation of Pedantry, is perhaps the worst Pedantry one can be guilty of.

Give me leave to enlarge more upon the Abuse of Epithets, as I did befor• upon the Use of them. 'Tis the same with these, Philypsus, as with all other Ornaments of Speech; their being so very serviceable, may lead to a large• Use of them than is proper: but there is this Advantage too; the very thing which makes them so strong and beautifull, will help to discover any Error in their Application. They are each connected so immediately to their Subject, that their Impropriety, as well as Agreement, is very easily discern'd.

On [a] this Account, we should be the more cautious how we mix the Epithets of the Proper, with any Metaphorical Expressions: These, for the Time change their Nature, and may signifie things very different from what they stood for before. That Metaphor, which puts the Name of a Place or Country for its Inhabitants, is reckon'd a great and agreeable one; but wherever it is used, we must remember it stands now for Men, and is not to be consider'd in its proper •tate, as a Part of the Earth. If its old Epi •hets are still applied to it, the Sense must •e disagreeing and confus'd.

I fear we meet with something of this •here Penelope complains of the Numbers •nd Importunity of her Suitors: after •his manner:

Zacynthus green with ever-shady groves,

•nd Ithaca, presumptuous boast their loves;

••truding on my choice a second Lord

〈◊〉 They press the Hymenaean rite.—

[38]
Longinus,[a] somewhere in his Treatise on the sublime, gives us an instance of this sort of Metaphor, from Herodotus, where that Historian is speaking of a very moving Tragedy, at the Acting of which, the Theatre burst into tears: This the Critick judges to be so taking, from the surprize that Turn of Expression carries with it. The Metaphor itself has certainly something great in it: But had Herodotus join'd some of its proper Epithets or Description with this Mataphor, and said, that ‘The Theatre, raised all o• Columns of the Corinthian Order, burst into Tears at the deepness of the Tragedy’ Longinus might have thought the passage more Surprizing, but I dare say he would not have thought it so worthy of hi• Commendation.

To mix these things in a Description is really as Absurd, as to paint a River•God, not with his Urn, to signifie wha• he is; but gushing all over into Streams• like some of the odd Figures in Ovid'• Metamorphosis: and by the way, it ma• be a very good [b] Rule that is given, 〈◊〉 try mixt Metaphors at any time; b• forming in one's Mind a Picture, fro• what is said; and considering how th• Parts of it would agree, were they delineated upon Canvass.

There is another disagreement in Epithets, when two Expressions, proper in themselves, are yet join'd together improperly. After a great Slaughter we may very well have a Notion of Heaps, or (as it is in the Poetical language) Mountains of the Slain; 'tis natural on the same Occasion to imagine to ourselves their Wounds, and the blood ebbing out of them: these are very proper separately; but to join them under the Notion of a [a] Bleeding Mountain does not look so reconcileable to the Mind.

An Error yet more frequent is, when we give a word that Epithet, which is proper to it on some Occasions, indifferently at all times, and without any Occasion.

This, in some Measure, has been always allowable in Verse: however such a Liberty is not without its bounds, nor should it be used intemperately. Purple (for instance) is an Epithet very frequent in the Ancient Poets for the Habit of Princes: yet it is not to be given to that of all Great Men; nor of Princes equally, whether [a] young or old; nor of the very same Prince, under several Circumstances: tho' a Remark of this kind may seem insignificant, an Impropriety in this Case might be very gross and shocking.

Again: What is proper in one Language, may not be so in another. Was any one to Translate the purpureis Oloribus of Horace, Purple Swans, would not he be so Literal, as to miss the Sense of his Author entirely?

There may be another Impropriety from the difference of time and circumstances: It may do very well to give the Epithet of browzing, to a Goat; or grazing, to the Ox: it helps to describe them in the Fields, or to distinguish them from some other Creatures; and if neither of these, at least it gives the Language a Poetical Air: Yet these Epithets have some restraints, they belong to Life and Action; they do not suit with those very Creatures, when Dead; and less so, when they are cut out in the Shambles, or serv'd up at a Feast: this is the Case in a Passage relating to Penelope's Suitors; they,

—A Luxurious race, indulge their cheer;

Devour the grazing Ox and browzing Goat,

[a] And turn the generous Vintage down their throat.

As Epithets should be proper to the Things, or Person, they are spoken of; so must we take Care that they are still proper to the Metaphors we add; and in Allegory, not to confound the Epithets of the Real, with those of the Fictitious Person.

In the Preface to the Iliad [b] we have an Excellent Distinction to this Purpose, on a known [c] Epithet of Apollo; ‘Which (as we are there told) is capable of two Explications; One Literal, in respect of the Darts and Bow, the Ensigns of that God; the other Allegorical, with regard to the Rays of the Sun: therefore in such Places, where Apollo is represented as a God in Person, I would use the former Interpretation; and where the Effects of the Sun are describ'd, I wou'd make Choice of the latter.’ You see the justness of the Observation: it may serve to explain my Meaning better than I could express it my self.

'Tis Evident, by the Way, that Mr. Pope form'd this Observation upon his Experience in the Progress of that Translation: This appears from the first Part of that Work, in which we sometimes find the Properties and Effects of the Sun, blended with the personal Act• of Apollo: thus it is in the first Appearance of that Deity in the Poem. I shal• read the Passage to You, tho' something long: it begins with that beautiful line•

Silent [*] he wander'd by the sounding Shore:

Till safe at distance to his God he prays,

That God, who da•ts around the World his rays.

O Smintheus sprung from fair Latona's line,

Thou guardian power of Cill• the Divine,

Thou source of Light• whom T•n•dos adores.

And whose bright presence gilds thy Chrysa's shore•

God of the Silver bow! thy Shafts employ,

[a] Avenge thy servant, and the Greeks destroy.

The Original here does not once Attribute any thing to the Deity but wha• is personal: 'tis certain the Sun and i• Effects are hid under this Allegory but then they must be hid; for so far a it appears, it will cease to be Allegor• Homer never mixes shadows and reality and as Mr. Pope perceiv'd this in his goin• on with the Poem, I presume he bui• upon it that excellent Observation.

Any mixture of this Nature is more evident in Epithets, for that obvious Reason I mention'd before. And thus, you see, there are Inconveniences attend each Method of improving the Poetical Diction; and that the danger bears some Proportion to the Excellence. Where the finest Colourings are most visible, the •aulty strokes of the Pencil are the sooner perceiv'd: and when we meet with the greatest Improvements in a Piece, we must •ot imagine it to be wholly without de •ect. Of all Doctrines, I shall never hold •hat, which supposes any Man to be In •allible: and of all Men, the Poet of a •rue, free, glowing Spirit, must naturally •e incapable of that Character. No, •hilypsus, the most correct Writer is he, •hat has the fewest Faults: and he is the ••blest Poet, that has most distinct Excel •encies.

You need not repeat, says Philypsus, •hat you have throughly convinc'd me •f long since. Yes, 'tis the [a] Condi •on of every human Performance not to •e absolutely perfect. I can allow of see •g Faults in any the most favourite Piece: •nd find a fresh and greater Pleasure every Day in reading an Author without that Biass, which used to make me admire every thing I read. Yet I must own my Infirmity to you; I still find it very Difficult to arrive to that Indifference, you would perswade, in any Tolerable degree.

A perfect Indifference (answer'd Antiphaus) is no more attainable, than a perfect Excellence, by a Creature made up of so many Passions, as is Man. We must poise ourselves with all the Steadiness we •re Masters of; and when those Disturbers will be interfering, the best way is to turn their own Artillery upon them: and to play one Passion against another. If the superiour Merit of a Writer, or his engaging Way, is apt to captivate us so far as to raise any partial regards in us; we must stop, and Consider what we owe to Truth, the most beautifull and commanding thing in the World: On the contrary, where-ever we begin to feel a malicious Pleasure in finding out the Faults of great Men, we must break off that humour as soon as perceiv'd, by turning immediately to some of the finest Passages in their Works, and indulging that Delight and Admiration they raise in us.

I do thus (reply'd Philypsus) and yet it is but too frequently that I find my self more engag'd than I ought to be, after all my Endeavours: How happy should I be, cou'd I have that command of my Temper, which Antiphaus shews upon all Occasions.

If you have observ'd any thing in me of that Nature (says Antiphaus, interrupting him) it is chiefly owing to the Observance of this Rule, ‘When we are thinking of any particular Passage, to forget the Character of the Author: and when we are speaking of the Character of the Author, to forget the Turn of any particular Passage.’ Our Notion of a Poem is not to be influenc'd •y a few Lines, taken here and there •rom it: the only thi•g by which it can •e justly determin'd is the Ballance of the Account, after reckoning up all its Beau ••es and all its Defects against one ano •her. I mean, not only as to their Num ••, but according to the real Value, or •••oy that is in them. But what am I •oing, Philypsus? to talk at this rate, •hile I might be enjoying your Obser ••tions?—The things I have heard you •eak of at Different Times, make me •ng to see them in one collected View. •e are here safe from the Impertinence 〈◊〉 Business, or Visits: and may enjoy •r selves at Large, without being inter •pted by either.

I am sensible (answer'd Philypsus, after a short pause) that what you particularly mean, is the Improvements in Mr. Pope's Translation, from the many Figures and Variations added in that Work: but as I am not prepared for a regular Account of them, You will give me leave to mention them just as they come into my Thoughts. My happiness is, that I spea• to so generous a Friend: I know Antiphaus too well to make Apologies fo• the Weakness of my Observations, o• the loose manner in which I may lay my Thoughts before him.
[a]
To be Clear and not to be Mea• is the great Excellence of Languag• A Stile that is made up wholly of proper Words, will be the clearest of any but at the same Time it will necessaril• be mean: On the Contrary, the i•∣prov'd figurative Stile is great, but 〈◊〉 it be Crowded every where with F•∣gures and new Terms, it must gro• dark and barbarous.

If this Rule be just, as it has ever be• allow'd to be (quite down from the Gre• Father of Criticism at Athens, to tho who Flourish now in the Academy 〈◊〉 Paris) all Additional Figures in th• Translation, which neither darken nor perplex the Sense, are so many new Beauties and Improvements upon the Original.

For my part I should not stick at carrying this Point farther. I should imagine, That Figures are the Language of the Passions. The Body it self is agitated, and our Features discompos'd, when the Mind is struck violently with any Object: and if we speak upon such Occasions, 'tis with rapidity and disorder. We •ourst out into Exclamations: our Senti •ents are quick and violent; and our Language interrupted frequently with •uddain Starts, and as suddain Pauses. Things appear then more strong and •argely to the Mind; and we paint them 〈◊〉 more expressive Colours, with a greater •nergy of Words. 'Tis this way of ••eaking, that gave rise to what the Cri •cks afterwards call'd Figures. These •re the beautiful Disorders of Language; ••ey are in our Words what suddain Agi •tions are in our Minds; and tho' we •ay think them chiefly the effect of Art, •ey are really the most natural things 〈◊〉 Poetry.

When we are struck suddainly with •y or Sorrow, Hopes or Fears, we •eak out in a short quick manner of Expression.—Ulysses, in the Habit of a stranger, finds the good old Laertes ever sorrowing for his Absence, and bu •ying himself in his Garden, to divert the melancholly of his Thoughts. The Hero does not discover himself immediately; only just mentions to him, that he had seen Ulysses in his Travels. That is the point Laertes fixes upon: This Island you are landed upon (says he) is Ithaca;

But tell me Stranger, be the Truth confess'd,

What years have circled since thou saw'st that guest?

That hapless guest, alas! for ever gone!

Wretch that •e was! and that I am! my Son!

If ever Man to misery was born,

[a] 'Twas his to suffer, and 'tis mine to mourn•

Ul•sses in his Answer informs him where he had met with his Son; and that when the• parted, he •latter'd himself with ho•es of seeing him again; but now, he found, he must despair of that happiness This was too much for Laertes to bear 〈◊〉 we see him overcome with Sorrow. 'Tis now Ulysses's turn to be agitated, and t• speak his Passions in the same impetuou• manner:

He ran, he seiz'd him with a strict embrace•

With thousand kisses wander'd o'er his face•

"I, I am he; Oh Father rise! Behold,

"[b] Thy son!—

I can scarce leave the pleasure I take in repeating these Passages only to tell you, that they are extremely improv'd by Mr. Pope. No one will imagine how much, that has not compar'd them with the Original.

You see these Passions break out in short violent Flashes: sometimes they are so strong as to permit no more than one word or two. When Euryclea by accident discovers Ulysses, she can only cry out [a] My Son!—My King!—And where any go farther, they rather hint at things, than mention them: Their Thoughts are •ull of starts, and hurry; they speak with vehemence; and often end abruptly. Thus Ulysses, when he discovers himself •o Telemachus:

I am thy Father. O my Son! my Son!

That Father, for whose sake thy days have run

[b] One scene of woe. &c.—

And in another place, from a different Passion:

O curst event! and Oh unlook'd for aid!

•anthius, or the women have betray'd—

〈◊〉 Oh my Dear Son!—

These passionate Breaks are one of the finest things in Poetry. They are as natural in Anger, as they are in Sorrow or Suprizes; and indeed in the former are proper sooner, and upon less motives far, than in these. I know not how it is, they have a particular aptness in all Threats; and either intimate very strongly, or are very well fill'd up with som• menacing Action:

This choice is left you to resist or die;

[a] And die I trust, Ye shall.—

Or, as in the Nineteenth Book,

Vagrant be gone! before this blazing brand

[b] Shall urge—and wav'd it hissing in her hand•

You have puzzled me, says Antiphaus Now for my Life can't I tell which to approve of most, the expressing, or the i•∣timating the Action in such Cases: th• requires the greatest strength in the Poe• and the other has greater force in h• Performance. Oh, give me leave to me•∣tion one thing—Have you not observ• a Larger sort of Break, which is us• artificially in a Poem, to incite the A•∣tention of the Reader? I mean, wh• the Narration is dropt in the most engaging parts of it, or just before some very material Incident: This adds a double desire of hearing: the Audience generally make it their Request, that the Speaker would go on, and inform them of the Sequel. Thus it is in the Eleventh Odyssey. Ulysses in the midst of his Account of the Infernal Regions [a] makes a feint of concluding: we are immediately told, that the Phaeacians were eager to hear him on; and 'tis observable, that the very [b] same Break, and the very same Sentiment after it, is imitated by Virgil. 'Tis indeed improv'd in the latter: he has all the Use of Homer's suspence, without the Tediousness of it.

I have often taken notice of this Arti •ice, says Philypsus. 'Tis very usual in the Close of the particular Books, not only of this Poem, but equally of the Iliad and Aeneid.—Were it not a thing pretty obvious in itself, I should be apt to imagine, that it was from this practice of Homer and Virgil, that those prudent Authors, who write for Sale, had learnt what is so common among them: Thus in our Books of Adventures and Romance, we seldom meet with a First Part, which does not break off in such a point of the Story, as may be most apt to engage the Expectation of the Reader; and to draw him in for that most tedious thing in the World, vulgarly call'd, A Second Part.

There is yet another sort of Breaks, Antiphaus, which proceed not from the Artifice of the Writer, but the Passion he feels upon some great or unexpected Calamity. There might be Instances of this given from the Poem before us: but we must go to another Piece of Mr. Pope's for the finest that ever I met with in my Life. 'Tis in his Charming Ode on Musick, where he is speaking of that great Master of it, Orpheus:

[a] See wild as the winds o'er the mountains he •lies,

Hark Haemus refounds with the Bacchinals cries!

—Ah, see! he dies.

Those Passions, which break off our Language in this manner, and confine it to short catches and starts; when they are wrought up to the highest pitch, or croud in many of them together upon the Mind, are best exprest by Silence. Such Silences as these (pardon me a Paradox as old as [a] Pythagoras his times) are the voice of Nature. 'Tis true in the common Method of speaking, there are only a few particular Organs concern'd: but in stronger Emotions, in the violence of any Passion, the whole Body may be talkative. Every Look, and Turn, and Motion is significant; and each Nerve can have its share in making up (what our Shakespear calls) A kind of Excellent Dumb Discourse.

To be more plain: Our Passions are often too strong to be express'd immediately by words; they often choak up the passage for them: and yet at the same time they are most apparent. The more any one is a stranger to art and disguises, the more is he moved on these Occasions: these Silences are the pure effects of Nature; and the Descriptions of them are some of the most natural, as well as most beautiful Passages in the whole Poem.

The Recovery of Ul•sses is the Incident of the greatest concern to all his Friends, and must be attended with the strongest flow of Passion in them: accordingly they are each too much mov'd with the discovery, to utter their Sentiments on that Occasion. Telemachus is the first to whom Ulysses makes himself known: He falls on his Father's Neck, and they continue embracing each other, without speaking [a] for a considerable time.—We have a like Scene, [b] when he discovers himself to two or three select Friends: Good old Laertes, on the same Occasion is not only silent, but scarce [c] able to support himself, under such an excess of Passion, And the fond, tender Penelope, is quite overcome with it:

[d] She sickens, trembles, falls, and faints away.

A Great Surprize, or Extraordinary Fright, has the same Effect: as in Homer's [e] Eurylochus, and the Sir Trevisan of Spencer, which the [e] Notes mention as a Parallel to Eurylochus. Never was any Image set in a fuller Light than this of Spencer's: 'tis presented to our View with all the strength that Poetry is capable of. I must beg leave to read it to you.

He answer'd nought at all, but adding new

Fear to his first amazement, staring wide

With stony eyes, and heartless hollow hue,

Astonish'd stood, as one that had espy'd

Infernal furies with their chains unty'd:

Him yet again, and yet again bespake

The gentle Knight; who nought to him reply'd

But trembling every joint, did only quake.

Admirable Imagery! and admirable Silence! cry'd Antiphaus. But I hope you will not be so possess'd with the excellence of our Poet, as to forget [a] the Ajax of Homer; whom Ulysses bespeaks again, and yet again, without any Answer at all? Or perhaps this has been observ'd upon so often, that you think it needless to repeat its Beauties: I don't question but you admire it very much. I do so (answer'd Philypsus) and agree entirely with the Observation. [b] ‘That Ajax has more the air of Grandeur when he says nothing, than when the Poet makes him speak.’

Mr. Pope does not only follow Homer very finely, wherever he has led the Way •n these beautiful Figures; he sometimes heightens, and sometimes adds them with a great deal of Propriety. Every one sees how unwilling Calypso is to part with Ulysses: But the Command of Jove must be obey'd: and the same fondness which makes her look on the departure of that Hero with extreme regret, engages her, at the same time, to assist him in the conveniences for it. She is always directing him, when employ'd; and when not, secretly disswading him from his Voyage. We see her busy, even to Officiousness, in bringing him the Instruments for his Work: guiding him to the Forest, and shewing what Trees are fittest for his Purpose:

[a] On the lone Islands utmost verge there stood

Of poplars, pines, and firs, a lofty wood,

Whose leafless summits to the skies aspire,

Scorch'd by the sun, or sear'd by heavenly f•re.

Already dry'd.—These pointing out to view,

The nymph just shew'd him, and with tears withdrew.

This is much better express'd than in the Original: indeed there we scarce discern that it is a passionate Silence. Improvements of this kind, Antiphaus, are the more to be valu'd, because there is not any one thing in Poetry of greater Beauty and Energy. The Criticks look upon it as the most [a] sublime, unusual part of Eloquence: and 'tis none of its least Advantages, that it hits that excellent Rule they give us, Of [b] Leaving some things for the Audience to perceive of themselves: Tho' it be not told him, every Man very easily finds out the heightning of such a Circumstance; and is sure to value it the more, because he finds it out himself. In short, these are Masterly s•rokes, and few hands arrive to them in their true Excellence. Tho' it requires the greatest Art and Judgment to introduce it, the Writer when he has chose the proper Point, seems to be put to no pains to rule our Affections: he governs all our Passions without the Labour of Words; and looks as Archimedes would •o one's fancy, moving the whole Wor•d, while he sits still himself.

Suspence and Doubt have something of this Figure intermixt with them. A Speaker hesitating and unresolv'd, is in • State of Half-silence: As we see the former poetical Silence is observ'd in H•mer every time Ulysses discovers himself to any of his nearer Friends; so is there a mixture of this Doubtfulness also in each of those Interviews: Thus Telemachus, on that Occasion;

Thou art not—no, thou can'st not be my Sire;

Heaven such illusion only can impose

[a] By the false joy to aggravate my woes.

The Unravelling of the Doubt is what strikes us most, both in Laertes and Penelope: in the latter Case, this is deferr'd for too long a time: However as they are, they afford us some of the most pathetick Passages in the whole Poem. In what an affecting Manner does Laertes appear to us just at the point of his being convinc'd, that the Stranger he is conversing with, is his Son?

Smit with the signs which all his doubts explain,

His heart within him melts; his knees sustain

Their feeble weight no more• his arms alone

Support him, round the lov'd Ulysses thrown•

He faints, he sinks with mighty joys opprest:

Ulysses clasps him to his eager breast.

Soon as returning Life regains its seat,

And his breath lengthens, and his pulses beat;

Yes, I believe, he cries: Almighty Jove!—

Heaven rules us yet, and Gods there are above.

[b] 'Tis so.—

As to Penelope: Where a modern would have been overjoy'd, and caught immediately at an Occasion for so many raptures, the Greek Poet chuses rather to shew her Prudence, than her Passion. I believe every body will agree, that this still Interval is not ill-chosen: the fault of it is, its being carried through too many Lines. The Queen, no doubt, struggled hard all the while; She had difficulty enough in restraining herself; And the moment she is convinc'd, she is all Tenderness and Passion.

While yet he speaks, her powers of life decay,

She sickens, trembles, falls and faints away:

At length recovering to his arms she flew,

And strain'd him close, as to his breast she grew;

The tears pour'd down amain: And oh, she cries,

Let not against thy Spouse thine anger rise!

O vers'd in every turn of human art,

Forgive the weakness of a woman's heart—

O let me, let me not thine anger move,

That I forbore—thus—thus—to speak my love;

Thus in fond kisses, while the transport warms,

Pour out my Soul, and die within thy arms!—

[a] I yield, I yield! my own Ulysses lives.

This unravelling of a Doubt is generally follow'd by what is the most contrary to it of any thing in the World, Precipitation. To doubt of any happy Circumstance, is to fear that it should not prove true. When we are agitated by the Expectation of some Bliss, we long to indulge that Flow of Spirits which it Occasions; only some particular Caution forces us to restrain them in the midst of their Career: The moment our Doubt is clear'd, and the Obstacle remov'd, they rush on with the greater Violence and Impetuosity. Then are our Words quick and vehement; We speak short, and fast; A Thousand things We want to say, and are so eager we don't know which of them to say first. I know nothing in Musick that strikes me equally to those sudd•in Pauses, when the Consort stops at •nce; and after the still Interval breaks out unexpectedly into a full Tumult of Harmony. This Pause, and the Impetuousness that succeeds upon it, 〈◊〉 the case (to carry on a Scene, which w• have touch'd upon twice or thrice already) when Telemachus recognizes his Father: Telemachus wants to know ever• thing at once; and Ulysses wants to te• him every thing as fast:

All, All, Ulysses instant made reply,

[a] I tell thee All, my Son!—

Such an Hurry of Spirits, the more violent it is, makes us speak in the more broken and interrupted manner. You always see that a Croud is the longest in getting out of a place, where they are in the greatest Haste, and press most. When the Passions are less disturb'd, they go in Train, and follow one another easily; but if they move all of them for a Passage at the same time, they hinder one another: This sort of Precipitation, •s very well express'd in Penelope, upon •eceiving Telemachus after his Voyage:

Few words she spoke, tho' much s•e had to say,

••d scarce those few for tears cou'd force their way.

•ight of my Eyes! He comes!—Unhop'd-for Joy!

••s Heaven from Pylos brought my lovely Boy?

•snatch'd from all our cares! Tell, hast thou known

[a] Thy Fathers Fate, and tell me all thy Own.

You cannot imagine, Antiphaus, the •ll heightning of this Passage, without •omparing it with the Original: 'Tis •e same case in most that I have menon'd; They are some of the justest Im •ovements in the Poem; as well as In •nces of the best sort of Figures, such 〈◊〉 shew the Passions of the Mind in a •ong and lively manner. There are other, which the Poet makes use of, sometimes to raise and diversify his Language; sometimes to give stronger Colours to the things he describes; And sometimes to engage or possess his Readers. I need not enter into a long Enquiry concerning the more known Figures of either kind; but shall touch upon one or two, which as yet have not been introduc'd by the Criticks into their Systems.

Poetical Prophecy, is when we acquain• the Reader before-hand of some Events which will happen in the Progress of th• Poem: Prevention is when we speak o• such things, yet to come, as if they we• already present. Prevention gives an u• common Greatness and Energy to th• Language: It places distant Actions fu• before our Eyes; and carries a certa• Boldness and Assurance with it, that very becoming: The other is of gre• Strength in possessing and captivating t• Reader; We love to look on into Fut•¦rity: Thus it flatters the Powers a• Capacity of our own Minds, at the sa• time that it gives an Air of Super• Knowledge and Authority to the Poe•

From the Invocation of the Muse the entrance to his Poem, the Poet h• a Right of Prophecying; and it mig• be ••rtly from this, that the Name Prophet and Poet has in some Languages been us'd in common. But tho' he may, and does, prophecy in Person, things of this Nature are usually introduc'd from others: as from Superior Beings; from Priests and Augurs; from [a] Persons in the other State, or just at the [b] Point of Departing from this. This latter Method perhaps may carry the greater Sanction with it; but the other is the more Poetical.

Some of the strongest Speeches in Homer and Virgil are deliver'd after this manner, by Men of the Prophetick Character; It is to this Figure (if you will give me leave to call it so) that the Sixth Book of the Aeneid, and the Fourth of the Odyssey owe the greatest share of their Beauty. Even the frightful Raptures of Theoclymenus, and the Harpye of Virgil, engage the Reader with a sort of pleasing Terrour. There is something horribly delightful in these Lines.

Floating in gore, portentous to survey!

In each discolour'd vase the Viands lay:

Then down each cheek the Tears spontaneous flow

And suddain Sighs precede approaching woe.

In vision rapt, the [*] Hyper•sian Seer

Up-rose, and thus divin'd the Vengeance near.

O Race to Death devote! with Stygian shade

Each destin'd Peer impending Fates invade:

With tears your wan distorted cheeks are drown'd,

With sanguine drops the walls are rubied round•

Thick swarms the spacious hall with howling Ghosts,

To people Orcus, and the burning Coasts•

Nor gives the Sun his golden O•b to roll,

[a] But universal Night usu•ps the Pole!

I beg pardon (says Antiphaus) but the Speech of Theoclymenus is a particular Favourite of mine: and now you repeat it in English, I seem to want something of that strong Pleasure it used to afford me, Where the Greek speaks [b] Of the Su• being perisht out of Heaven, and of Darkness rushing over the Earth; I cannot express the Fulness of the Words—But you know the Original; and I fear will never see a Translation equal it. This whole Prophetical Vision of the Fall of the Suitors is the True Sublime: and, in particular, gives us an higher Orientalism, than we meet with in any other part of Homer's Writings. You will pardon me a new Word, where we have no old one to my Purpose: You know what I mean; That Eastern way of expressing R•volutions in Government, by a Confusion or Extinction of Light in the Heavens. It is this manner of Thinking which works up that Speech the nearest of any to those noble Passages in holy Scripture; [a]
I will shew Wonders in the Heavens and in the Earth, Blood and Fire, and Pillars of Smoak; the Sun shall be turn'd into Darkness, and the Moon into Blood.—[b] I will cause the Sun to go down at Noon, and I will darken the Earth in the clear Day.—[c] All the bright Lights of Heaven will I make Dark over thee, and set Darkness upon thy Land.

I have often wondered, Philypsus, at some particular Persons, who are ever ravish'd with any thing of the Sublime in common Authors, and yet seem to have no taste for the finest touches of this kind, those which are so frequent in our sacred Writings. With what Greatness, and Sublimity, do they abound? Such, as might perswade, that weare not only blest with Instructions, but favour'd too with a Language from Heaven. Those sacred Pages want only to be read with • common regard, that all Men might acknowledge them to contain the greatest Master-pieces of Eloquence. Yes, Philypsus, it is there, that Eloquence sit• beside the Throne of Truth, in all he• noblest Attire, and with a Look, tha• strikes us at once with Reverence and Delight. I long to expatiate on so gloriou• a Subject: but perhaps we may find 〈◊〉 time of joining together in some View o• this Nature: There has been a very goo• [a] Example set the World this last Summer; and if ever we should follow i• and enter thoroughly into this sort 〈◊〉 Criticism, I dare say it will make an• other kind look poor and insipid, whe• compared with it.—But at present 〈◊〉 are in another Sphere; and I have alrea• interrupted you too much.—

Philypsus, desirous as he was to laun• immediately into those noble Depths 〈◊〉 Eloquence, comply'd for the present, a• return'd to the point in hand. ‘My l• Instance from the Odyssey prevents wh• I had design'd for the next; You 〈◊〉 it speaks all along of future things, 〈◊〉 if they were actually present.’ Theo•∣menus has the whole fact passing successi•∣ly before his Eyes: The Destruction 〈◊〉 the Suitors is pictur'd in his Mind; 〈◊〉 sees their blood sprinkled upon the Wa• their bodies floating in Gore, and their •ouls sinking to the Regions of the Dead.

Now I am upon this head of Prophecy •nd Prevention, I should be very defective, •ere I to omit the other Branch of it; •hich takes in all cases where the Poet •orewarns us of Events in his own proper •erson. This is to be found in the very •ame point, the Fate of the Suitors; but 〈◊〉 is not deliver'd with the same Air of •nthusiasm: The Poet is inform'd by the ••u•e of things to come, while the Pro •et is possess'd by Vision: The know •dge of one, is from Instruction; of the •her, from a sort of Frantick Possession 〈◊〉 Mind. The Poet therefore antici •tes Events with less emotions of Lan •age; and seldom rises into any fervor, •ove what we meet with in these Passa •s:

—Incens'd they spoke

•hile each to chance ascrib'd the wondrous stroke;

•nd as they were—For death even now invades

His destin'd prey, and wraps them all in shades.

And before:

—In his Soul fond joys arise,

〈◊〉 his proud hopes already win the prize.

•speed the f•ying shaft thro' every ring,

•etch! is not thine: the arrows of the King

Shall end those hopes• and fate is on the wing.

[85] [86]
You observe, Antiphaus, that this Event which is so often anticipated by the Poet, is the great Point on which the Completion of his Fable turns: and I believe you may have observ'd, that Virgil puts on the Prophetick air, [a] exactly in the same Case. Virgil oftentimes improves upon his Master: the Circumstance that introduces that Passage in the Aeneid, and the greater distance of time, give it a much finer and a nobler Air, than we find in Homer himself.

These Figures (for so I beg leave to call all unusual manners of Speech) are of more difficult Observation, as they lye out of the common road: I am afraid of wandering too far; and shall therefore return very readily to the more beaten Path.

All Passions warm the Imagination, and make its Images more strong and sensible. It is this, in my Opinion, tha• might render Metaphors very proper in the Pathetique: Tho' you and I, perhaps, should not agree entirely on tha• Head.

At least this is certain, that the• strengthen and enliven the narrative Par• of Poetry, beyond any other Metho• whatever; when the Poet treats of the most common things, he does not treat of them in the common manner:

Fame speaks the Trojans bold, they boast the skill,

To give the feather'd arrow wings to kill;

To dart the spear, and guide the rushing car,

With dreadful inroad thro' the walks of war.

[a] Strip these Lines of the Metaphor, and they lose their greatest Force and Beauty. To say barely (as it is in the Greek) That the Trojans are good Warriors, that they lanch the Spear, and handle the Arro• well; that they manage their Horses de•trously, and in general, that they are •e•y Strong and Successful in Battle: This •eclares the whole of the thing; but, with Submission, 'tis more like a Prose, •han a poetical Narration; at least, when compar'd with the same Sentiments in •hose Lines I have just repeated.

There are many Innovations of this ••nd, which make the English Homer ap •ear with Advantage: A naked relation •f Fact is enough for History; but Poe •y requires something more than bare •ruth: It has a thousand ways of rai •g and beautifying its Subject: Phoebu•, 〈◊〉 the Luminary over which he presides, does not only shew, but sets a Lustre too, on every thing he touches: The Poet is not so much to declare Events, as to give its Colours and Life to every Action: in doing this, nothing is so requisite as strong animated Figures; as of all Figures the Metaphor affords the most sensible Strokes, and comes nearest to the Pencil.

Even in common Cases they are not without their Beauty: thus in that Enterview between Ulysses and Laertes:

Beneath a neighb'ring tree, the chief divine

Gaz'd o'er his Sire, retracing every line,

The ruins of himself! now worn away

[a] With age, yet still majestick in decay.

Thus Agamemnon (after all his dangers, murther'd by the hands of Villains in his own Kingdom) is not said barely to die• but to end,

[b] The sad Evening of a stormy life.

When this Figure expresses some strang• Particularity, or includes any magnifying Comparison, one single Word is ver• powerful in raising the Narration, an• enlarging our Ideas up to the Occasion

With dreadful shouts Ulysses pour'd along•

[a] Swift as an Eagle, as an Eagle strong—

Now by the Sword, and now the Jav'lin fall

[b] The rebel Race, and Death had swallow'd all &c.

I know no Case, in which Metaphors of a bold Sound are more proper, than in arrogant Speeches; When Men defy the Gods, or quarrel with the Dispensations of Providence. Philaetius in the Od•ssey is no arrogant Character: Yet in one place (upon considering the Afflictions of his Prince, whose Piety and Virtue he was so well assur'd of) he falls into a Rant against Providence; in which the Language is as lively and vigorous, a• the Sentiment is ill-grounded and absurd:

O Jove! for ever deaf to human cries;

The tyrant, not the father of the skies!

Unpiteous of the race thy will began:

The fool of Fate, thy manufacture, Man,

With penury, contempt, repulse, and care:

[c] The gauling load of Life is doom'd to bear.

These Metaphors (which are of that •ind we may call The audacious) come •ery near the Spirit of Oldham and Dryden; •ho undoubtedly, in their Satirical •orks, flash out into the greatest Bold •esses this way of any of our Writers: •deed, in both, there are some which may come too near to Prophaneness: but we must always take care not to attribute to the Poet, what he speaks under some other Person. A Devil is no longer a Devil, unless he be haughty, impenitent and blaspheming: and Dryden is no more to be condemn'd than Milton, for making such impious Spirits speak according to their true Character.

What y•u assert, I take to be perfectly true, says Antiphaus: but were I blest with any Genius for Poetry, I own that a shocking Impiety should be one of the last things I would chuse to describe. And where it is ch•sen, there is room to be m•derate, with•ut i•juring the Character with t•o grea• a shew •f Go•dness: We see that Milton is not so gross, as Dryden: Nor [a] Virgil so blunt, as Homer.

Well, says Philypsus, there are other Points which you might chuse, and which serve as well for this sort of Metaphor: Thus all pious Fra uds, infamous Priests, or any prevailing Superstition. Here the Figure retains much of the audacious Air, without any thing of Impiety in it. Agamemnon indeed goes too far in the Iliad, where he seems to neglect Apollo, as well as his Priest:

Hence, with thy lawrel crown, and golden rod,

Nor trust too far those ensigns of thy God:

[a] Mine is thy daughter, Priest—

Here is something of Irreverence to the God, and an evident Injustice to Man: •nd the Poet very prudently condemns •he Speech, before he delivers it in his •oem. But there is no such Mark s•t •n one of Hector's; nor does it at all in •ringe that Hero's Character, which is •emarkably Pious all through the Poem: •e is speaking against a very popular •uperstition, the Trade of Augury:

Ye Vagrants of the Sky! your wings extend

〈◊〉 where the Suns arise, or where descend;

•o right, to left, unheeded take your way,

•hile I the dictates of high Heaven obey.

•ithout a sign his Sword the brave man draws,

[b] And asks no Omen but his Country's cause.

This has the audacious Air, because it speaks contemptuously of a Practice, which was vulgarly look'd upon as religious and sacred: and is just, because it shews at the same time the greatest Reverence to the Gods: He obeys the Dictates of Heaven, but he contemns the Artifices of the Priest.

Whatever restraints this kind of Metaphor may deserve, there is another sort which has always been receiv'd with the greatest Liberty. The animating Metaphor, tho' the [a] most Sublime, and the most Daring of any, except what was last mention'd, is very common; and that even in the chastest Poets, and in the foftest Pieces. It is this by which we give Action and Spirit to things that are Still and Insensible. This will raise the meanest Points in the World: it may treat meer Names, as if they were Things and Things still and inanimate, as i• they had Thought and Action. Wha• migh• seem the most surprising is, tha• this method of raising things above thei• Nature, has nothing of ridiculous in it. We easily perceive this to be true: but I own, for my part, I should have been at a loss for the reason of it, had not I met with a [a] fine Observation in Mr. Pope's Appendix to this Work. I wonder now why I cou'd not before perceive, That Ridicule is confin'd to moral Agents, and obtains only where Choice and Freedom is directly concern'd. That this is the Case is the more plain; because, even among moral Agents, the very same thing, which if brought on by our own Folly, is a certain subject for Ridicule; when it proceeds from some inevitable Misfortune (or Necessity) is the farthest from being Ridiculous.

I am pleased to see that this Figure stands on such good reason; for it is the very Life and Soul of Description. And might it not be of a larger Use, Antiphaus, than has commonly been observ'd? It is chiefly mention'd indeed of enlivening things inanimate; Whereas possibly it may hold thro' the whole Chain of Beings in the World, as they rise gradually •bove one another. Thus when we attribute any thing of absolute Perfection to the highest Orders of created Beings, any thing which we think Angelical to Man, or any thing like Humanity or Virtue to Beasts; it might as well be included in this Branch of Metaphor, as when we give the Powers of Motion to things, Still; or Passions, to things Inanimate.

Nay, it may even return from the Lower to the Higher; when the Species of a lower Rank, upon the whole, has any [a] particular Excellence which the higher wants: Or partakes of any [b] Excellence, which is common to them both, in a greater and more excellent Degree.

But it must be observ'd, that where this Figure, in its higher Notion, is applied to Intelligents, it must not be done with the same Indifference; or rather it requires the strictest Caution.

The Poet is at liberty to attribute Action and Passions to any part whatever of the mute Creation: he may make the Woods, or any such Insensible, Sympathize with his Grief, with the same freedom as any inferiour Animals; we find it thus used particularly in all the Pastorol Writers, whether Ancient or Modern. Every Beast may have the Compassion of Man; but few Men can sustain the Properties of an Angel: Nothing would make a common Mortal so mean and ridiculous, as such an Elevation: the same holds in the higher Intelligents; The First of the Angelick Order looks mons•rously ridiculous (as well as monstrously impious,) when he would imagine an Equality, where there was an immutable Disproportion.

However, in some Cases, the Property of an Angel may be given to a Man. The Heathen Poets compare their greater Her•'s to their Gods; And when the Christian Poet extols any superiour Ge •ius, any Character that has something •n it above the common race of Mortals, •e may well draw some Expressions from •he Order of Beings next above the Hu •an. Had not Mr. Addison thought ••is Justif•able, we should have lost one •f t•e finest Amplifications imaginable.

[a] So when an Angel by Divine command

•i•h •is••g •empest• sh•ke• a guilty land,

•uch •s of late o'er pal• B•itannia past,

••m and serene he drives the furious blast;

••d pleas'd th' Almighty's o•ders to perform,

•ides in the whirl-wind, and directs the storm.

But whither am I wandring, my Antiphaus? You will think such Flights as these too Airy; surely, I am got into the Wilds of Criticism!—I don't know what the World might think of You at present, says Antiphaus: but if ever Mr. Dryden's Scheme should take place, and the Poetical Characters of Angels be generally establish'd; what you may think the wildest of your Flights now, might then be of good Service this way in Poetry.—Be that as it will, says Philypsus, I believe I had better draw in my thoughts a little for the present; and keep to things, that are more obvious and secure. All agree, that the giving Thought to things insensible, and human Passions to the brute part of the Creation, is equally just and beautiful: and at the same time nothing is of greater Efficacy in rendring our Sentiments Rais'd and Poetical. That The Sufferings of our Fellow-creatures affec• our Souls by a natural Sympathy, is a very good moral Sentence: but the Poet is to Elevate this effect of Misery; he invest• her with a sort of new Being; and the• gives her Address and Action. In Poetry our Tears [a] speak; our Misfortunes ar• [a] Eloquent; and Misery appears [b] in Person to plead for the distress'd.

When more uncommon things are transfer'd this way, the Metaphor may be safer, if it has some grounds in the Fact; tho' it will bear very often without it. 'Tis allowable to represent the Sea, as flying back, and astonish'd, at the terrible (c) Voice of the Cyclops: but 'tis more close to attribute this Fear and Flight to it, when its Waves are [d] drove asunder by the same Cyclops flinging a Rock into the midst of it.

Another thing, which made this Fi •ure the stronger among the Ancients, •as their Notion of Genii, or presiding •eities. In particular, there was scarce 〈◊〉 River or Brook amongst them, but what •ad its Genius; and in speaking of these •he Poets carry this Metaphor farther •an in any other case whatever. What 〈◊〉 Appearance does Xanthus and Simois •ake in the Battle of Rivers, which •kes up the 21st Iliad? What a bold •raught is that of the Nile, in the Sea •ht at Actium, by (e) Virgil? And how •uch more Sublime than either, is our •ranslation of the Sacred Writings, where it makes the Deep [a] utter his voice, and lift up his hands on high?

You may perceive I am run into another Figure: but it is of a kind, so nearly allied to the animating Metaphor, that one often finds some difficulty in distinguishing the one from the other. Indeed when any of these Personages are introduced distinctly in full State, then it is something beyond Metaphor; but in short Sketches, it may pass very well under that Figure. There is nothing but a stronger Name adapted to the thing, than its strictly proper Acceptation affords. I think, for instance, that we need not seek for a new Figure in this Passage:

Aw'd by the Prince so haughty, brave and young•

[b]Rage gnaw'd the Lip, Amazement chain'd the Tongue:

Or for this:

In every sorrowing soul I pour'd delight,

[c] And Poverty stood smiling in my sight.

In the close of this Poem, the Narration is elevated, by a successive Chain of these Metaphors, or Fictions, call them which you will. When the Ithacen•ians are rang'd in Arms against their Prince, 'tis not said, that they shall Die, but that [a] Death attends them in the Field:—To express Ulysses's aptness to forgive them: [b] Oblivion is ready to stretch her Wings over their Offences: As when they are shockt with their Crime, and fling down their Arms, there is this Voice from Heaven to effect it:

Forbear ye Nations! your mad hands forbear

[c]From mutual slaughter. Peace descends to spare.

These, Antiphaus, are the most remarkable things, I have taken notice of, as to the Figures. I could have produc'd a greater number of excellent Lines from this Translation, had not I •ndeavour'd chiefly to give such Instances •s contain'd, at the same time, some peculiar Improvements in them: You would be surprized to see how many Beauties •hey have, that are wanting in the Ori •inal.

Surely they who are the most rigid •or Close-translating, will allow such beautiful Variations as these; which, without losing the Sentiments of the Ori •inal, only set a finer Turn upon them. Let them call them, if they please, glorious Offences, or beautiful Wandrings from the Letter: these are such Offences as one would wish to see more frequent than they are; and of which the best Translators are the most guilty.

For my part I am particularly pleased, when I see a Translator reflect new Light upon his Original: where-ever this is done justly, it does not alter the Objects; it only makes them more bright and visible.

I believe, Antiphaus, you will not disapprove of some other Methods, us'd in the English Odyssey for this Purpose, which I am just going to lay before you. Sometimes the Language is rais'd and strengthen'd; sometimes the Order transpos'd to Advantage; in several Cases w• have Homer's Thoughts inspirited b• collateral Thoughts from other Authors some little things are omitted, and som• short strokes added, to correct the Sentiment, or to heighten the Colours in th• Original.

Before you enter upon those Point• says Antiphaus, give me leave to mentio some few things, which look like Bl•∣mishes, under the Subject you have ju• concluded.

It is allow'd, that Metaphors are the most useful of Figures to raise the Poetical Stile, to give their Colour to our Descriptions, and a just Swelling and Relief to our Images; 'Tis allow'd, that a Translator may add these Colours, where the Original is less Lively and Expressive, than the Subject may very well bear. The Faults then must lie, either in the Excess, or Impropriety of such Additions. Some things will not bear a strong Light; and others require to be flung into Shades.

Where there is no Occasion for Figures, they are at best only so many unnecessary Ornaments: I cannot see why a Quiver full of Arrows should be call'd [a] A Store of flying Fates; why a Fire should be term'd [b] A burning Bed: or a Libation, [c] The Sable Wave of offer'd Wine.

'Tis not the Disproportion of the Me •aphor to the Thing, which might render •hese Expressions blameable; If any thing, •tis the want of Occasion. When the •oet is to aggrandize small Subjects, we •an bear with much bolder Metaphors ••an these: tho' it may not be proper to call a stream of Wine, by the Title of a Sable Wave, on common Occasions; Yet when the Work requires heightening, we may go so much farther, as to call a [a] small River by the Name of the Ocean.

If we judge by the Occasion, there can be but few liberties for Metaphor in common Conversation; I mean, the common Conversation of Poetry. Not that they are to be banish'd thence entirely; rather it will require them frequently: but it requires only such as are single, and not far remov'd from the Subject. When a Person is speaking to Penelope, in Commendation of Ithaca, he might be allow'd to say, that Its Soil is rich; that it ab•unds in Corn; and that its Trees ar• laden with Fruit: Homer's Expression• scarce carry this so far; and yet I shoul• think them preferable to these in th• Translation:

[b] In wavy Gold thy summer vales are dress'd

Thy autumns bend with copious fruits oppress'd

Where the Original says, that Eur••∣mus was among the Suitors of Penelope, do not it seem better, as well as plain• than this Translation?

—To climb with haughty fires

[a] The royal bed, Eurynomus aspires.

A Metaphor may be continu'd too far, as well as carried too high: a long Chain of them leads us away from the proper Sense; and flings that into Allegory, which we intend for Reality strongly express'd. This is very common, especially in our Pindarick Writers: indeed few of our Poets, but what have [b] faln into it some time or other; but in those, you find the most gross and insufferable Instances of it, that can be imagin'd.

In these strings of Metaphor, nothing in my Opinion is so faulty, as that Point which has been so often touch'd upon: the shifting of Circumstances in the same Description; and representing a Thing confusedly, sometimes in its figurative, •nd sometimes in its proper Appearance. While an Actor is upon the Stage, his •wn private Character must be wholly •aid aside: he must be entirely Booth, or •ntirely Cato. Nay, even in the Scenary •self, things must be of a piece; and ••r. Addison has the justest Occasion for •s frequent Severities upon this (c) contradictory Mixture's prevailing so monstrously in our Theatre: How would the Wits of King Charles's time have laugh'd to see Nicolini sailing in an open Boat, upon a Sea of Past board? What a field of Raillery would they have been let into had they been entertain'd with painted Dragons spitting Wildfire, enchanted Chariots drawn by Flanders-Mares, and real Cascades in artificial Landskips? the making things after this manner, partly real, and partly imaginary, is to join Inconsistencies. Shadows ought never to be mixt with Realities in the same Piece, whether in poetick Scenary, or that o• the Stage.

A Poet is never more apt to fall int• this Confusion, than when he is speakin• of Allegorical Persons; as, particularly the Deities of the Heathens. When 〈◊〉 speak of them personally, we are apt 〈◊〉 mix something of their mystick Characte• this is certainly vicious in Writing; a• 'tis more so, to confuse the Properties 〈◊〉 those things, over which any of th• Deities were suppos'd to preside, wi• the Personal Acts of any particu• Deity.

The Poets are allow'd the privile• of elevating every Subject they take i• the•r management: if they please t• may represent the Sun, as guided by an Intelligence: and 'tis but one step farther with them, to give that guiding Intelligence, a Name; they call him Phoebus; and obviously enough, feign to themselves, that he drives round the World in a Chariot of Fire. By degrees the Allegory is form'd regularly, and enlarg'd with more Particulars: he has so many Horses assign'd to his Chariot: His own Appearance is well known: Beardless and Young, A Glory round his Head, and a Quiver full of Arrows o'er his Shoulder: Thetis is ready to receive him at the End of his Journey; and when he is to set out again, Aurora rises from the Ocean to open the Gates of Heaven, that are kept for him by the Hours.

How very regular can Fiction be upon Occasion? The establishment of this Allegory under these Particulars, has prevented a world of Confusion: this we may see by any Allegory, which is not yet settled on some Uniform Plan. To shew how far, I shall beg leave to enlarge a little on one of the same Nature, That of Aurora, the Goddess of the Morning.

Phoebus is never represented on this Occasion, but in his Chariot I was speaking of; As for Aurora, I know not whether she rides, sits, or walks: Sometimes she is in Heaven, and sometimes upon Earth: In short, the Poets seem to leave it undetermin'd how, when, or for what time she makes her Appearance. I have laid together several Passages relating to this, but they leave the Point as confus'd as it was before:

Now did the rosy-finger'd Morn arise,

[a] And shed her sacred light along the skies:

There, she is plainly in Heaven.

—When o'er the Eastern lawn

In saffion robes the daughter of the dawn

[b] Advanc'd her rosy steps—

And here, as plainly upon Earth.

—With her orient wheels

[c]Aurora flam'd above the Eastern hills•

Here I cannot absolutely determine, whether she be in Heaven, or upon Earth; but 'tis plain, she is got into her Chariot now, as she was pleas'd to Walk the time before.

But when it is evident, that she is not upon Earth; 'tis still difficult to know whether she is near it, or in the higher Heavens: whether she

—Ascends the Court of Jove,

[a] Lifts up her light, and opens day above:

Or, only

[b]—Heaves her orient head above the waves.

There is the same difference in the degrees of that Brightness, which is attributed to her appearance: sometimes she only [c] blushes with new-born Day, and sometimes she is encompass'd with [d] the full splendor of it: When I read one Description, I take it for granted, that the Glory round her Head should be of a [e] glimmering Light; but when we come to another, 'tis of a strong [f] Flame: You are at the same loss to know, whether her Robes are [g] Rose-colour'd, [g] Saffron, or [h] Purple: In fine, It would puzzle the Criticks to answer directly, whether she has a Quiver on her Shoulders; and whether she is to appear in a [i] martial, or in a gentle, peaceable Posture.

This unsettledness in the present Case, runs through almost all the Poets since Homer. The most correct that ever wrote are not entirely free from it. Virgil himse•f often-times [a] continues her Course so far, that his [b] Commentators, to salve the matter, say, we must understand Phoebus by Aurora. In him the very Horses that draw her Chariot are [c] Rose-colour'd; as in Theocritus they are [d] White: sometimes she has the [e] Horses of Phoebus; sometimes [f] Four of her own; sometimes [g] Two; and sometimes she is forc'd to ride only, and that upon [h] the Wings of Pegasus.

It may be left to the Poets themselves to determine, whether this Management be just towards Persons of their own making: I shall only say, that the greatest Criticks have ever thought, that consistency is requir'd in the most unbounded Fictions: And, if I mistake not greatly, Homer is more regular in this very Fiction before us. A Person better vers'd in his Writings, than I have the Happiness to be, might, I believe, form from them a• settled a Scheme in relation to this Goddes• as has been drawn up for any other of his Deities. This is certain, that he has precisely fixt the time of her appearance; 'tis that [a] Interval, which commences after the first Dawn of Light, and ends just before the actual Rising of the Sun. She always ascends [b] from the Sea, to the Eastern extremity, or (as it is in the Language of Poetry) the [c] Gates of Heaven: there she sits in her [d] Golden Chariot, which has two Horses assign'd to it, distinct [e] from those of Phoebus, and there she waits to [f] prepare the way for the Chariot of that Deity.

The Dress, and the Epithets, which Homer gives to this Imaginary Being are, as they ought to be in all such Allegories, at the same time evidently [g] drawn from the Nature of the Thing, and fairly applicable •o the Fictitious Person.

So much for Allegory: 'Tis a danger •us Topick, and we are apt to be lost in the Clouds of it: Either the natural Description, or the Allegory, by it self, may have a thousand Beauties; but when they are dash'd together, every thing is dark and confus'd. They put me in mind, Philypsus, of the two Liquors Sir Isaac Newton speaks of, which from a fine Azure, and a beautiful Red, if you mix them, produce no Colour at all; The transparence and glow, which each had separately, is immediately lost; and their Beauties vanish away into one thick impenetrable Shade.

Before these confus'd Allegories and mixt Metaphors, I should have mention'd some other Instances, in which single Metaphors are faulty, either as they are Improper or Affected.

Is it proper to speak of Penelope's Wi• and Beauty (or her Beauty alone) under the Notion of [a] Drooping Verdure? is i• proper to talk of [b] Raining Kisses? or of [c] Storing a Vessel with prosperou• Gales?

Is not th• Metaphor and the Turn 〈◊〉 Expression somewhat affected, or over• wrought, in this Passage of the Nineteenth Odyssey:

These swarthy arms among the covert stores

Are seemlier hid; my thoughtless youth they blame

[a] Imbrown'd with vapour of the smouldring flame.

And a little farther, in the same:

My woes awak'd will violate your Ear;

And to this gay censorious train, appear

[b] A winy-vapour melting in a Tear.

Again; upon Telemachus's return:

All crowded round the family appears,

With wild entrancement, and exstatick tears.

Swift from above descends the Royal Fair;

Her beauteous cheeks the blush of V•nus wear,

(c) Chasten'd with coy Diana's pensive air.

In the following Lines she hangs o'er him,

—In his embraces dies;

(c) Rains kisses on his neck, his face, his eyes.

You have here (says Antiphaus) what •as appear'd to me as Blemishes in this •oem, under these several Heads. I have •ndeavour'd, Philypsus, to read it with •everity: and when my Regards for the •uthor, or the Influence which such •riters will always have over ones Soul, began at any time to sway my Mind; I have call'd up all the Ill-nature I am Master of to my Assistance; I'm fully sensible how difficult it is to keep the ballance steady: sometimes our Admiration may warm us too much; and sometimes a little Malice will prevail. If any thing I have been saying seems discolour'd with this Temper of Mind, point out my Faults to me, dear Philypsus; Correct me like a Friend; and shew that openness I have deserv'd at your hands.

When I have time to consider the Notes, I see you have taken down (answer'd Philypsus) and to compare some Passages with the Original, You shall know more of my Mind: as yet I see no reason for your Request; but think you have dealt with that Fairness which I so much admire in my Antiphaus.

In the mean time I have a word or two to add on those other Excellencies of this Translation, which I mention'd to you before.

That Method of Improving the Original, by Tran•ferring Beauties from on• fine Writer to another, is carried on thro' this remaining part of the Poem, in the same frequency, as it was us'd i• the former Volumes.

These Foreign Infusions of Thought and Language (to use the Name which Mr. Addison has given them) are very discernible to any one of a tolerable Taste: 'tis true, they must have something of a new Air; but they still 〈◊〉 a distinct Resemblance of the Old, something like that of the Sister N••eids in Ovid;

—Facies non omnibus una,

••c di•ersa t•m•n; qual•m d•c•t •ss• s•rorum.

In pointing out these Resemblances to some People, I shou'd be apprehensive, that they might think me taken up in an Imaginary Chase: but any one of much less D•scernment, than Antiphaus, will perceive immediately, that this Liken•ss is real, and design'd by the Poet himself. There is an [a] eminent Critick, who has wrote a whole Treatise on this single Point, in Praise of a [b] particular Favourite of his: In the present Case, Mr. Pope tells [c] us, ‘That he read the Ancients with this Design; that he serves himself of them as much as he can; and that they have been his chief Inspirers in Poetry.’ I believe the Gentlemen, who are concern'd with him in this Translation, would give me leave to say the same of them: 'Tis too evident to be denied: it appears both in their [a] Observations, and in their excellent Works.

In these last Volumes, how finely are [b]some Thoughts wove into this Translation from the sacred Pages? from the Iliad, and Aeneid; from Dryden, and Milton among ourselves; and from several others, both Ancient and Modern?

The Translator is sometimes as Artsul in adding, of himself, some short Strokes to what Homer has said. We meet with several of these little Insertions, which are very just and improving. I shall mention but one. As Mr. Addison [c] proposes a Correction of Paradise Lost, by cutting off the two last Lines; Mr. Pope improves this Poem, by adding a Line in the Conclusion of it: This Insertion possibly is better chose, than that Alteration so modestly propos'd by Mr. Addison. The Reader, indeed, would willingly go off with some Hopes and Satisfaction, after the Melancholly Scene in Milton's last Book: but it may be said that, considering the Moral and chief Design of that Poem, Terror is the last Passion to be left upon the Mind of the Reader. On the contrary, the Odyssey ought on all Accounts to terminate happily: and Mr. Pope's Addition, in the close of it, is therefore an Improvement, because it forwards the Moral; it gives us a [a] fuller View and Confirmation of the Happiness of Ulysses, and leaves it upon a firmer Foundation.

In the beginning of the Evening, Antiphaus, You were speaking of the Poets transposing Words to Advantage. I believe this may sometimes be of greater Use in altering the Order of Sentences, o• the Succession of some Incidents in the Poem; tho' I own, this must be attempted but rarely, and with the greatest Caution: Difficult as it is, You will find a good Instance of the Former in one of the Suitors ridiculing Speeches; and of the Latter in Euryclea's Transports.

Euryclea, You know, discovers Ul•ss•• by a Scar upon his Leg, while she is Bathing him. The Moment she makes this discovery, she drops the Jarr of Water, and is ready to faint away with Surprize and Joy. Tho' these, in the Nature of the Case, must follow immediately upon one another, Homer has inserted a long Story (how the Scar wa• occasion'd) just after the Discovery, a•• before those Passions, which are the i•∣mediate Effect of it. Thus is a suddai• Event declar'd •ourscore Lines before 〈◊〉 is describ'd—A Succession of time tak•• up in the Narration, contrary to t•• time of the Fact—An Impetuous Pa••••• kept in suspence; in a word, Two thin• inseparable in their Nature, are 〈◊〉 in the Description. I know 〈◊〉 whether I see this in a wrong Light; b• •t present it puts me in Mind of 〈◊〉 fli•ging his Bason down, travell•• to Heaven, seeing the Lord knows what there, and returning again before the Water is run out.

If I mistake not, this Impropriety is avoided very Artfully. Euryclea is not made to discover this Scar before that long Digression. [a] It is rather said (in the Prophetick manner of the Poets) that she would soon Discover it, than that she has actually Discover'd it. 'Tis after the Digression, that it is mention'd directly as Fact: so that in the Translation, This Fact is not dis-jointed from those Emotions which it immediately raises in Euryclea; We are not told fourscore Lines after the Jarr is flung down, that the Water is running out of it.

If this be really the Case, says Antiphaus, I think the Alteration is much to be commended. But why may not Homer himself be understood to speak in the Prophetick manner too? for I suppose that single Point would salve all: You do not blame the Digression itself?

No, says Philypsus, 'tis not the Digression which I blame, but the Point in which it is introduc'd; just between a Fact, and what in Nature must be immediately consequent upon that Fact. If, as you ask, Homer speaks at first, only in the Prophetick manner, then it is all clear'd up: But I fear his Expressions confine it directly to a thing then done, and cannot be taken in the Prophetical way.

Philypsus was so engag'd to this Moment, that he had not once observ'd how the Day wore away: He was surpriz'd to find the Night was just coming on. ‘Why did you suffer me (says he to Antiphaus) to keep you here so long: I did not imagine the Night had been so near us: You know I am an Eternal Talker—However I see the Coach is at the Door; and we may reach our Lodgings, I believe, before it is quite dark.’

An ESSAY &c.
EVENING the FIFTH.

BEFORE they parted the last Evening the two Friends agreed, that their next meeting shou'd be in the same place; and as this was to be the last which they intended to set apart for this Enquiry, they set out for Horatio's earlier than usual. When they alighted, Philypsus order'd his Servant before them to the Dome of Apollo, with a Book or two he had brought in the Coach; whilst He and Antiphaus walk'd on gently to enjoy the Freshness of the Air, and the Beaut•es of the Place. The Sun (which now began to be in its decline) as it shot thro' the Trees, made a thousand wavering Mixtures of Light and Shade: The Birds, on all sides were answering one another in their little natural Airs: every thing look'd Fresh about 'em; and every thing was Agreeable.

Delighted with so many calm undisturb'd Pleasures, they wander'd on from one Walk to another; and chatted, as they went, of a Thousand indifferent Things. Among the rest Philypsus fell into an Account of the Company he had to Dine with him. You know Morfori•, says he?—Perfectly well, answer'd A•∣tiphaus.—He was there too; and made it his Business, as usual, to contradict every thing that was offer'd aga•nst any of our celebrated Poets.—I am very glad, says Antiphaus, that I was not of the Company; his way of arguing is t•• General to be Answer'd, and too Positive 〈◊〉 be B•rn with.—Yes, says Philypsus, it was his old way. If one Person blamed some particular Littleness in Milton, he wou'd immediately ask him how he cou'd blaspheme such a Sublime Poet? and when another mention'd a gross Line from Addison's Works; How absurd is that, say• he, to charge such a thing on the chaste•• and most correct Compositions in th• World?—Right! and I suppose t• very next thing he must ask was, How Yo• cou'd dislike such Glorious Men, as Addison and Milton—You have him exactly. It was in vain to tell him that you disliked only this Line, or that Thought: He would have h•s way: and, I doubt not, but in his Opinion we are all a Set of Hereticks, or at least Free-thinkers in Poetry. What an egregious Fault is it, Antiphaus, with some Men, only to have ones Eyes open?—But there are times (says Antiphaus, assuming as he spoke, the imperious air and manner of Morforio) there are times sure, when they had better •e shut—And therefore I should wink always—Not so neither: Your Betters •ay direct you what to look upon, and what •ot—That's a good Thought, truly: •tis great Pity the Legislator has not consider'd of it. I should be in Love with •n Act of Parliament about the Use of Eyes.—Why where would be the great •arm of the Matter, if you were order'd to •ink hard, or to turn away from every disa ••eeable Object, that offer'd it self?—How •ay I behave, if the Object be agreeable?—Look as long as you please—And How, if there be a Mixture of disagree •ble in it?—You suppose then, that •here may be something disagreeable, in that •hich is beautiful?—Really, Sir, that •s my Notion. Nay, I am apt to think farther, that there is nothing so Beautiful, as to be without Defect; without some Mixture of the Disagreeable. By your Rule then, we must lose the sight of a Thousand fine Objects. How can I look on that Lady, you were admiring so much the other Day in the Ring, without seeing that her Hair is of a disagreeable Colour? Or must I swear that her Eyebrows are Black, because she has a fi•• Shape?—That's over-straining the matter: but I think you might pass by such a Trifle, if it were only in Complaisance. Where there are such exact Features, 〈◊〉 charming a Complexion, and a Make so delicate, 'tis barbarous not to let such a sma• Affair, as the Colour of an Eyebrow, esca•• your Observation.—Depend upon it, I• would not be so blind as to think the Lady was Disagreeable on that Accou••—B•t I cannot allow any thing disagr••∣able abou• her—Where are your Eye• then?—I would not believe them—That's one way—Or what would 〈◊〉 say to the new I•vention—What Invention I beseech you—Only of a •ett 〈◊〉 Glasses, which shall make each favouri•• Object appear exactly the same to every E• —And exactly beautiful?—T•• too—An hopeful project, truly! L• but Morforio be the Designer, and so• things would appear all Glaring and Beautiful; while all the rest, I suppose, only upon turning the Tube, might be nothing but Deformity.

In the midst of this roving sort of Talk, they were got to the Dome, before they thought of it: ‘Well, says Philypsus (as he enter'd) till I meet with the Perspectives you were talking of, I shall not be asham'd to confess, that I find my Eyes at present to be of a different Turn. I cannot help perceiving some little Blemishes in our most delightful Poets; and yet I am far from an Insensible to their Beauty: I view them with delight; I admire them passionately: Nay, I believe, I have all of Morforio's Love, except the Blindness of it. 'Tis there that you have open'd my Eyes, Antiphaus: You have taught me to Love not only with Passion, but with Reason—Rather say (reply'd •ntiphaus) that your own Mind asserted •s true Prerogative; and rose up to guide •our Passions to none, but proper Ob •cts.’—However that be, says Philypsus, •am sensible of an Alteration for the bet •r; and can now indulge a Passion for •y Writer with the greater Appetite, 〈◊〉 I am perswaded it gives the Mind a •fficient Pleasure, without making so great a Fool of it. Do I not love thi• Writer, added he, (taking up one of th• Pieces that lay before him) I read hi• with the same Eagerness, and find ne• Charms in him continually. Nay, 〈◊〉 think my Love of him more secure, tha• ever: Since I can suffer my self to se• his Faults; and by that means, am satisfied that they can never be sufficien• in the least to cloud his Perfections.

I am entirely of your Opinion, (say• Antiphaus) and doubt not, but in ou• finishing this Enquiry, we shall have th• greater Security in admiring Him. 〈◊〉 only speak of our selves. There may b• many other Beauties, and other Fault• visible to Men of better Eyes: but w• may safely fix our own Sentiments o• what we have been able to discover ou• selves. I hope, we have endeavour'• sincerely to hold the Ballance steddy and when we have done what we can we have done what we ought.

I wish you would have left that Sentence for me, says Philypsus; It woul• have serv'd admirably to introduce wha• I am to enter upon this Evening.—I• is at your service (says Antiphaus) an• therefore I beg you would proceed.

Tho' I might begin very well with th• sententious manner in Writing; my Subject, says Philypsus, is so various, that I •o not well know what I ought to chuse •rst: The Prospect widens rather too •uch upon me; and indeed takes in •ost of the Faults and Vertues of any •oem. I own that, in general, the Great •nd First Excellence of a Poet, is to be ••tural: but it will be allow'd me, that 〈◊〉 chief, and distinguishing Beauty of 〈◊〉 Epick Poem, as such, is a true A•r of •reatness, and a Stile that carries weight •d emphasis with it: as the Vice most •pposite to it, is trifling, vulgarity, and ••anness. I wish I may manage these •oints as fully, as I doubt not Antiphaus •ill display the natural strokes that are 〈◊〉 frequent in the Odyssey.

Sentences carry much efficacy with •em in a Poem; they are usually of the •erceptive kind; tho' they seem rather 〈◊〉 insinuate, than to command: As they •e general Truths and Maxims of Life, •ell adapted to some particular occasion 〈◊〉 the Poem, they appear with Autho •ty; and contain the most useful Instru •ions, without the Stiffness and Odium 〈◊〉 personal Advice.

'Tis a Mistake (to use a Maxim of •ord Shaftsbury's) to think that no body ••ws how to take Advice; the Fault is, 〈◊〉 few know how to give it. To do this agreeably, and at the same time with Weight, is the great Art of Sentences in Poetry.

Poetry in its Birth was calculated for the Service of Religion. The design of the Epick Muse was to paint the Successes of Vertue, or the Punishment o• Vice. Hence the Tragick, that follow'• the very same Purposes; and afterwar• the old Comedy, whose business lay in encouraging lesser Domestick Vertues, an• ridiculing the Foibles of Mankind. S•¦tire, the Off-spring of both these, pa•¦takes of either kind; she Smiles in H•¦race, looks Severe in Persius, and Commanding in Juvenal: The Satirist ma• •se different Methods, but whether 〈◊〉 Lash•s or Ridicules, 'tis still the vici•• who are to suffer.

All the other Species of Poetry eit•• •all in with these, or follow the sa• Ends: such, as forget this, deserve 〈◊〉 the Name of Poets: they prostitute t• Muse; and whatever they produce m• be of a Bastard-Kind.

Among many other Excellencies, 〈◊〉 ought particularly to be observ'd in H•¦nour of the true genuine Poets of A•¦quity, that they seem to treat of Mo•¦lity, even better than those who profes• that Study. Were it not for the Wo• of their Poets, we might very well imagine Benevolence, for Instance, That which gives its Life and Spirit to the whole Family of Vertues, was suppress'd •o the last Degree among the Heathens. •n reading their Philosophers, one is •lmost perswaded, that they teach Re •enge; and make it their business to li •it and restrain that Love, which Men •ave naturally to one another. In short, •e that wants to find the true Philoso •hy must go to their Poets. They break •ut into warmer Notions, and more ex •lted Lessons of Humanity. Among them •e Face of Charity is less veil'd, and •ouded; and Goodness appears with a •ountenance more generous and erect.

The Odyssey, as a Moral Poem, exceeds •l the Writings of the Ancients: it is •rpetual in forming the Manners, and •tructing the Mind: it sets off the Du •s of Life more fully, as well as more •reeably, than the Academy or Lyceum. •race, who was so well acquainted •th the Tenets of both, has given (a) •mer's Poems the Preference to e•∣•er.
[160]
Surely, Antiphaus, Men were more Virtuous in the days of Homer, than they were in the time of Plato or Cicero; at least, they were more charitable, and tender to Strangers. How else could the Poet speak in such a Spirit of Goodness, whenever he touches upon this Duty? Nothing is inculcated by him, more frequently; and nothing, with greater Strength and Emphasis.

Homer (in relation to Strangers) does not stint the Charity of his Countrymen to the common Use of Fire and Water: he seems rather to proportion the bounty to the want;

'Tis ours the Sons of sorrow to relieve,

[a] Chear the sad heart, nor let affliction gri•ve.

He scarce looks upon this as bounty, he rather thinks it a debt owing to every one of the same nature with us:

'Tis what the happy to the unhappy owe:

[b] 'Tis what the Gods require.

What is given to them (says he) is paid •o, and will infallibly be rewarded by, the Divine Power.

By Jove the S•ranger and the Poor are sent;

[c] And what to those we give, to Jove is lent.

As the neglect of this will be aveng'd by the same,

To Jove their cause, and their revenge belongs,

[a] He wanders with them, and he feels their •rongs.

I doubt not, but this Notion of the Gods wandering on Earth in a disguis'd manner, was a very common motive to Charity in those times: it is mention'd very strongly in the Original, in this place; and [b] afterwards, when Ulysses appears as a Suppliant among the Phoeacians.

Such high exalted Thoughts of this Duty have carried the Poet so far as [c] to teach, "That we shou'd not value any "labour of our own in assisting others:" but as that is not deliver'd in the Sententious manner, I shou'd go out of my way to repeat it at present.

To us, who have always enjoy'd so clear and steady a Light, in regard to every branch of this Duty, these sentences may appear common and obvious: but I imagine any one, who shou'd compare these Passages, by the rules of Benevolence in the Philosophical writings of the Ancients; would upon such a view allow them to contain thoughts highly noble and extensive.

I shall mention but one more, which tho' it run thro' several lines, is but one entire sentence: and which, by the way, if I forget not, contains a motive to Charity, not to be found even in [a] Cicero's Catalogue.

Who calls, from distant nations to his own,

The poor, distinguish'd by their wants alone?

Round the whole world are sought those men divine,

Who publick Structures raise, or who design;

Those to whose Eyes the Gods their ways reveal,

Or bless with salutary arts to heal:

These states invite, and mighty Kings admire,

Wide as the Sun displays his vital fire.

It is not so with Want! How few that feed

[b] A Wretch unhappy, merely for his need?

I ought not to dissemble one thing; That the Translation is not to be trusted entirely in this Argument: we find these Passages improv'd in the Handling; and those Lines, in which they resemble our sacred Writings, may be drawn more strongly. However, the Original it self may give us a great deal of reason to suppose, either that Homer had borrow'd some lights from thence; or that he cou'd discern the Light of Nature more clearly, than any other of the Heathen Writers.

Before I compar'd Passages, I must own to you, that I was in particular expectation of Improvements from Mr. Pope under this Article. A virtuous generous Soul is certainly as necessary to constitute a Great Poet, as a Great Orator: and in Sentiments like these, we may discover that temper of Mind, which I dare say has contributed much towards making that Gentleman so good a Poet, as well as so good a Friend.

There is one particular more extremely frequent in Homer: it runs thorough all his Works; and is scarce once omitted, where there is any occasion for it. I believe your Thoughts outrun me, and might prevent my saying, that I mean His Reflections on the Miseries of this Life. They are mostly very emphatical; and lead to a very easy and useful inference.

—To his native land our charge resign'd•

Heaven is his life to come, and all the woes behind.

Then must he suffer what the Fates ordain;

For Fate has wove the thread of life with pain,

[a] And Twins ev'n from the birth are Misery and Man!

In another place we have the same Thought as strongly express'd, tho' branch'd out into several other Particulars: Let us suppose Ullysses before us: A Prince, Great for the Ages in which he liv'd, and greatly distress'd: How much does he speak like one, born to Wisdom, and long instructed by Adversity?

Of all that breaths, or grov'ling treads on earth,

Most vain is Man! Calami•ous by birth.

To day with power ela•e in strength he blooms;

The haughty creature on that power presumes:

Anon, from Heav'n, a sad reverse he feels;

Untaught to bear, •gainst Hea'vn the wretch rebels.

For Man is changeful, as his bliss or woe;

Too high, when prosp'rous; when distress'd, too low.

There was a Day, when (with the scornful Great)

I swell'd in pomp and arrogance of state;

Proud of the pow'r, that to high bi•th be•ongs;

And us'd that pow'r to justify my wrongs.

Then let not Man be proud; but, firm of mind,

Bear the best humbly, and the worst resign'd:

[a] Be Dumb, when Heaven •fflicts!—

Of all Sentences, there are none which strike the Mind more forcibly, than those which carry a bold air, a certain nobleness of Thought with them. There is a Moral Heroism, greatly to be preferr'd to that which generally usurps its Name; a Generosity of Soul, that looks beyond the Vulgar, and speaks up to the Truth of things: It is this Generosity, which animates those Lines in Virgil:

Est hic, est animus, lucis contemptor; & istum

[a] Qui vi•d bene cred•t emi, quo tendis, ho•orem.

The same Spirit is in•us'd into this Line:

[b] Death, ill-exchang'd for bondage and for pain!

The noblest Sentiments, are not such as make an Eclat, but those which are solidly generous and good. We have frequent instances of both from two Persons in the Iliad: Hector speaks things, that are great; Ajax often, what is marvellous and surprizing: Both speak loftily: but one is more solid, and the other nearer to a Rant; both shew Courage and Generosity in what they say; but they seem to talk, as they act; Ajax fights merely for fighting sake; while Hector engages always for the good of his Country.

I shall beg leave to close this Head with two Sentiments, as much celebrated as any in the Iliad, and spoke by the two Heroes we have been talking of. The one, in the mere Spirit of an Hero;

If Greece must perish, we thy will obey,

[c] But let us perish in the face of day.

The other, in that of a Patriot too;

Without a sign his sword the brave man draws;

[a] And asks no omen, but his country's cause.

I am sorry, says Antiphaus, you have quitted this Point so soon, methinks you might afford a little more room for a thing of such considerable Use. Sentences are fitted by their Nature to carry on that Chief design of Poetry, to mix the Useful with the Agreeable.—Together with a certain air of Authority, they serve to establish the Poets Moral Character; which, according to a [b] late Hypothesis, may render him at the same time more delightful, as well as more instructive.—Besides this, they often flatter the Vanity of the Reader; And (as the [c] First of Criticks tells us) ‘take the more readily with this or that Person, as they confirm in general, what he has before concluded from his own Observation on particular Occurrences in Life.’

I wonder at one thing, says Philypsus; That so many of the Criticks shou'd blame Sentences, and look upon 'em as particularly unfit for Poems of the Epick Kind: [a] Rapin, I think, condemns them, as they seem to jut out of the Structure of the Poem, and are apt to interrupt the Narration too much: Bossu, who is rather on their side, yet observes there is a kind of Calm Wisdom in them, that is contrary to the Passions. Even the Person, whom you just now call'd the First of Criticks, puts us in mind of your Rusticks, that are always [b] stringing of Proverbs together: and 〈◊〉 very good Critick of our own says, in •o many words, that [c] they are generally •ome of the heaviest pieces in a whole Poem.

Let them add, if they please, says An •iphaus, that they sound aukwardly from •he mouth of a Young Person, and prepo •erously from an Atheist. I own the •harge: the best Writers them•elves seem •o be sensible of it; and where they do •ny thing of this kind, are the first to •orrect themselves. Addison [d] puts a •entence into the Mouth of Portius; but •e corrects him for it, in the next Line, •ho' the Son of a Cato; and when Virgil [a] makes his Atheist sententious, there is still a mixture of the Atheist to be discover'd in what he says.

But grant that Sentences are not proper from Persons that are Young, or Vicious; Grant, that they are not proper in a Mezentius, or a Portius: What then? may they not be proper in Cato himself, or in Aeneas?

'Tis the same Case in every particular you have produc'd from the Criticks: they speak rather against the Abuse of this Ornament, than against the Ornament itself. There can be no doubt of it; Sentences are certainly faulty, when they appear too grossly, and stand off from the rest of the Work: But what is this to Sentences, which are fitly applied, and wove in Artfully with the other Parts? Homer and Virgil are very happy in this particular: they give them a sufficient Fulness; but they never glare so, as to attract the Eye singly to themselves• You admire them as much from their Relation to the things about them, as for their own particular Beauty: in short, they might be Beautiful by themselves, but they are much more so in the Tout-ensemble of the Piece.

We may add to this, that their Sentences are so far from hindering the Narration, that they are almost constantly a part of it, and help to carry it forward: But tho' they are usually wrought into the Speeches of the Poem, we do not receive them from Persons improper; or hurried by any violent Passion: and where the Subject is still and gentle, that •alm Wisdom, that has been objected to them, cannot be very prejudicial. Indeed in any place, or on any Occasion, a long thread of them is insupportable; these are worse than the Sanchoisms of Cer •antes, because they are not so ridiculous: We can laugh at Sancho all the time he is multiplying his Proverbs upon us; but in Poetry, such dry Preachments are, of all other, the greatest Opiates, and have the quickest effect on the Audience. L•can's Poem and Seneca's Tragedies, notwithstanding all their Beauties, are In •ances of this to a great degree.

There is another way of murthering Sentences, for which we are wholly o •lig'd to those ingenious Gentlemen, the •ditors. It is that Art of cutting off •entences from the Body of a Work, and •rcing them to jut out from it, whether •ey will or no, by Printing all such, •here-ever they can catch them, in Italick Characters. Mr. Addison, if I remember, is condemning this Practice in that very place where he says, that Sentences are some of the heaviest Pieces in a Poem: and I imagine nothing could make him speak so severely of them in general, but this Practice that is so destructive of their Beauty.

In short, Sentences that are cold, affected, or ill-placed, such as are either too distinct, or too much throng'd, may be blam'd with a great deal of Justice: but such as are handsomely wove into the Narration, at proper Intervals, and from none but proper Speakers, will not only be safe from the Censure of the Criticks; but are allowed by them in general, to be highly serviceable towards g•ving its proper Weight and Emphas•• to an Epick Poem.

I think you have defended this Beaut• sufficiently, says Philypsus; and shall g• on to the next under this Head, Concise• ness: There is no greater Symptom 〈◊〉 weakness in a Writer, than his being a• to say a little in a great deal; as nothi• is more strong and emphatical, than 〈◊〉 say a great deal in a little.

Hence the Force and Emphasis of th• Line of Mr. Pope.

[a] Oh every sacred Name in one, my Friend!

And of this,

[b] The Great, the Good; your Father and your King.

The want of a scrupulous Connexion, draws things into a lesser Compass; and adds the greater Spirit and Emotion:

(c) He shrieks, he reels, he falls.—

The more Rays are thus collected into 〈◊〉 Point, the more vigorous the Flame: Hence there is yet greater Emphasis, •hen the Rout of an Army is shewn in •he same contracted manner; As that 〈◊〉 the 24th of the [d] Odyssey: which has •me resemblance to Sallust's Description •f the same thing (agreeable to his usual •onciseness) in these four Words only: ••) Sequi, fugere, occidi, capi.

There may be a contraction of many •ircumstances to a Point, which turns •ore on the Sentiment, than the Diction: •s when we place the Success of a Thou •nd important Events on one Effort, or •ne Moment of Time: Thus Antinous, [185] the Chief of the Suitors, to his Companions,

[a] Arise, (or you for ever fall) arise.

Which has such an Air of Milton's Lucifer:

Awake, Arise, or be for ever faln!

Those Lines, says Antiphaus, serve the purpose for which you repeat them very well; but is there not something too much like a Turn upon the words in them? I was sensible of that (answer'd Philypsus) but I follow your Example, Antiphaus, in viewing a thing only in one Light at a time, to prevent the infinite Confusion that would happen in turning each Line every way. This is brought as Emphatical: You allow it to be so; if it answer the end for which it is produced, that is all that I intend: and I beg once for all to be understood under this view in every Instance that I have, or may use, on particular Occasions.

This masculine nervous Conciseness, I am speaking of, is very usual from Generals to their Soldiers: but among a multitude of Instances, I am particularly pleas'd with that Speech of Henr• the Great, before the Battle in the Plains of Ivry, ‘I am your King, You are Frenchmen, and there are the Enemy.’

Sometimes we find an Emphasis and Vigour impress'd on every particular word of a Sentence:

[a] Now, Grief, thou all art mine!

And in these Lines, which we have often admired for their peculiar Strength and Efficacy; They speak of Ulysses's extream Love of his native Country:

To see the smoak from his lov'd palace rise,

While the dear Isle in distant prospect lies,

[b] With what cont•ntment would he close his eyes?

This is not only of use in the Grand or Pathetick: there are excellent Instances of it from Terence [c], in the Tender and Familiar, as there are others from Virgil in the Natural, and even in the Satirical; and that so strongly in the latter, that [d] some have been apt to imagine from them, that Virgil might, if he pleas'd, have made the greatest Satirist that ever wrote.

Sometimes this very Emphasis is encreas'd by a certain Opposition of the words us'd in it: there is a Passage in the Iliad, which I have particularly admir'd on this Account: Give me leave to repeat it from the Original; because the Greek Tongue is particularly Emphatical, and has more Nerves than perhaps our Language is capable of: 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, [a] 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.—

The Emphatical manner in writing flies all Dress and Ornament, all superfluous and descriptive Epithets, all turns and elegancies of Thought. Hence that Conciseness, which generally attends it. The most obvious fault in Conciseness is Obscurity; what is obscure, can never be sufficiently emphatical: This makes the concise way the most difficult of any. 'Tis easy to follow the Stream of one's Imagination, and write on with an unthinking Rapidity; but to express every thing fully, and to say nothing that is needless, requires a great Judgment, and much force in our Expressions. The great Monsieur Pascal had a particular happiness of comprizing much in a few Words: he had a very Mathematical Turn of Thought; and of all things hated an idle Prolixity. You will be pleas'd with an Excuse of his in a certain Case, where he had been guilty of it: 'Tis in the close of one of his Letters, where he begs his Friend to pardon the unusual length of it, by saying, that he really had not time to make it shorter.

Some emphatical Passages are not only so concise, as to contain just as many Ideas as Words; they have often force enough even to intimate several Ideas more than they express.

Thus it is in all Intimations of Power. One of Homer's greatest Excellencies lies in this. In setting off the Hero of his Iliad, he does not say in Words, that he was vastly Terrible to the Enemy; he mentions the effects, and leaves the Reader to collect what Terror must attend him. After the Death of Patroclus, the whole Army of the Trojans is put into Confusion, only [a] at hearing his Voice: They are all trembling, and dispirited: [a] they had seen Achilles. 'Tis not a sudden Panick; it continues upon them: When they pour'd down in such Numbers from the City, it was because [b] they did not behold the Crest of that Hero; and now they are all consulting, whether they should not quit the Field, because [c] he had shewn himself at a distance, and might possibly enter into the next Engagement.

Homer has the same address in intimating the Power of his Deities; when he introduces them as effecting their designs with a [d] Touch, with a [e] Voice, with a [f] single Thought.

It is the same Sentiment that gives their Air of Grandeur to these Lines:

[g] Declare thy purpose; for thy Will is Fate.

Let a•l be Peace.—He said; and gave the nod

[h] That binds the Fates, the Sanction of the God.

And this, of the same import, from our Shakespear;

—What he bids be done,

Is finish'd with his bidding.—

On this turns the Greatness of that Thought in the Sacred History of the Creation: God said, Let there be Light, and there was Light: Tho' I should imagine this to exceed every Instance above; because it intimates, all that they express, and intimates it as fully and strongly, as they express it.

Let the Greatness of this Sentence stand or fall by the Rules of Sublimity. We need not mention, that [a] Longinus chose it for an Instance of the Sublime: whether that great Critick ever saw it or not, is not material: but I wonder, that some later Writers, of very great Name, cannot be perswaded to see any Force or Energy in it. I own, I have never read what Monsieur Le Clerc offers against the Sublimity of this Passage: Surely it would not be very difficult to answer it, if it be of a Strain with what [b] Monsieur Huetius offer'd before him; Where he seems to argue, that [c] This Passage cannot be Sublime, because the Language is Simple.

It is this Art of leaving more for the Reader to collect, than you express in Words, which runs through several of Ulysses's Speeches; both at the Court of Alcinous, and before the Suitors. Whether the Hero tells his own Story, or feigns some other, he is equally carefull in laying before them something of the High Station he once enjoy'd: and hence his Speeches have generally a great Air of that celebrated Answer of Marius to a Message sent from the Roman General: [a] Go, and tell, Sextilius, that you saw Marius, •itting among the Ruins of Carthage.

Intimation is so strong and nervous, that the [b] Ancient Criticks confin'd the Name of Emphasis to this one Point; tho' (as we use the word) the very contrary of this, may be of great Service in making a Discourse emphatical. The Soul is sometimes possess'd by the Number of great Circumstances. Thus in that Passage of Homer, which Mr. Pope translates after the following manner;

M•n, Steeds, and Chariots shake the trembling ground;

The T•n•ult thickens, and the Skies resound:

Victors and V•nquish'd join promiscuous cries,

[c] Triumphant shou•s, and dying groans arise.

We meet with the same tumultuary Figure in the Description of the Field after the Battle:

[a] Thro' Dust, thro' Blood, o'er Arms, and hills of Slain.

This Passage (we are told) is imitated by Xenophon; and I am sure the Historian has not weaken'd it, by drawing it into a greater length, and expressing the Circumstances more fully; Allow me the Satisfaction of reading it to you. [b] When the Battle was over, one might behold thro' the whole extent of the Field, the Ground dy'd Red with Blood, the Bodies of Friends and Enemies stretch'd over each other, the Shields pierc'd, the Spears broken, and the drawn Swords, some scatter'd •n the Earth, some plung'd in the Bodies of the Slain, and some yet grasp'd in the Hands of the Soldiers.

Now we have faln upon an Historian, give me leave to observe one thing; That, both with Poets and in History, [c] There may be some Fraud in saying only the bare Truth. In either, 'tis not sufficient to tell us, that such a City, for Instance, was taken and r•vag'd with a gre•t deal of Inhumanity: There is a Poetical Falsity, if a strong Idea of each particular be not imprinted on the Mind; and an Historical, if some things are passed over only with a general mark of Infamy or Dislike. It was in [a] Quintilian I first met with this Observation; and I wish our Historians, of all Parties, did not give us so many Examples of it, as we find every where in their Works.

'Tis the same in Poetry: when all the Circumstances are laid out in their proper Colours, and make a compleat Piece; its Images strike us with greater Energy, than when the Whole of the thing is only mention'd in general. Thus the diffused Style has its Propriety under this Head; and makes a larger and more continu'd Impression: as the force of its contrary Excellence, a just and emphatical Conciseness, may be more collected, and pierce the deeper. I do not mean when we mention a thing, but when we shew it in a few words. There are just Miniatures of Great Objects in Poetry, as well as in Statuary or Painting. A Hercules, in little, may have all the Nerves of a Colossus: and even that prodigi•us Design of [b] Dinarchus might not have been more Gigantick, than Timanthes [a] his Polyphemus. Noble Images, whether in a large or smaller Compass, ••rike the Mind very strongly. Either must be according to the Occasion. Things sometimes demand to be drawn at full Length, and the Soul requires to expatiate over them: Sometimes they chuse a more contracted Space; But tho' they lose from their Size, they lose no •hing of their Spirit. It fills us with a •oble and enlarg'd Pleasure, to consider •he Heavenly Bodies, their Courses, and •heir immense Distances: at the same •me, we are struck with a very parti •lar Admiration, when we view their •tuation and Measures in the Orrery.

Any uncommon extensive Image causes 〈◊〉 Enlargement of our Ideas, and pos •ses the Mind more compleatly: In •ch Cases 'tis observable, that even •e Turn of the Verse may assist these •ages. I may seem too particular if I •y, that large Words and Lines which •nsist chiefly of long Syllables, may be use to extend our Thoughts in con •ving any Gigantick form: and yet •haps both will be found not unservice •e in Mr. Pope's Description of his Cyclops.

A Giant-shepherd here his flock maintains;

Far from the rest he solitary reigns,

In shelter thick of horrid shade reclin'd;

And gloomy mischiefs labour in his mind.

[a] A Form enormous!—

Or, where we see him

[214]Stretch'd forth in length, o'er half the cavern'd Rock.

Or, when

He sends a dreadful groan; the rocks around,

[c] Thro' all their inmost, winding caves resound.

Whether you think this length and heaviness of the Syllables necessary in the present case, or not; I am sure, you will allow it to be so in Melancholy Images.

Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells,

And ever-musing Melancholy reigns—

And a Thousand more.

Homer too in describing a large Object, makes use of a word, which of it¦self is [d] above half a Verse: and Ovid, on a like Occasion, joins several together of an unusual length. We behold his Aegeon bestriding his Whale, even in the Turn [a] of the Words which are to describe him.

Delay and Repetition are sometimes proper for the same Reasons; There is a Delay almost in every Syllable, where Mr. Pope intimates the vast size of a Stone, as well as the difficulty in heaving it up;

Then heav'd the Goddess in her mighty hand

A stone, the limit of the neighbouring land,

(b) There fixt from eldest times; black, craggy, vast.

Virgil adds a Repetition in his Imitation of this very Passage in Homer: Saxum circumspicit ingens, saxum anti ••um, ingens—And Mr. Pope commends the Beauty of this Repetition, as [c] it makes us dwell upon the Image, and gives •s leisure to consider the Vastness of it.

It may seem strange, that the Vastness, the mere Bulk of an Object, shou'd possess the Mind in the manner I have been •peaking of: but tho' there is no real Ex •ellence in Largeness, 'tis certain that •e are apt to apprehend it as excellent. This puts me in Mind of a Point, that •lways strikes me very much in Poetry; [219] A sort of Comprehension, as I should chuse to call it, for want of some better Name. 'Tis when any Great View is compleatly contracted into a few Lines; but to come up perfectly to my Notion, it should be such a View as is sufficient to fill the whole Mind: We are, in a manner, surrounded with it on all sides; and which ever way we turn our Eyes, we cannot look out of i•. This is the Case, where Ulysses is represented in his Shipwrack on the Coast of Phoeacia;

Above, sharp Rocks forbid access; around,

[a] Roar the wild Waves; beneath, is Sea profound!

If you can fancy yourself in the Place of Ulysses, at that Juncture; you will apprehend what I mean the more fully. You can then see nothing, but what is painted out in this Couplet.

I apprehend you, (says Antiphaus) and indeed have observ'd this Beauty often in Reading. There is a Thought, (if I mistake not) repeated twice in the Eleventh Odyssey, of this kind:

[b] Above, Below, on Earth, and in the Sky.

I know not whether the Image be Total, but it cannot want much of it, in that Description of a shipwreckt Person, just before the Lines you repeated:

Amidst the rocks he hears a hollow roar

Of murm'ring surges breaking on the shore;

Nor peaceful port was there, nor winding bay,

To shield the vessel from the rolling sea;

But cliffs, and shaggy shores, a dreadful sight,

[a] All rough with rocks, with foamy billows white.

If this be not Total, at least it will engross Two of your Senses, whilst you keep in the same Posture; but those, as you say, seem the most compleat, which take up the Eye what ever way you turn.—As this (resum'd Philypsus) to keep to the same Element:

[b] And all above was sky, and ocean all around.

These Total Views are much more vigorous and affecting, when the Objects are not inanimate: or at least, when, some more moving Considerations are annext to them. Thus in the Picture of a rough Sea, terminating in craggy Shores, and Rocks, and a tempestuous Sky, every Object has an additional Terror from our seeing Ulysses painted in the midst of these Dangers, and struggling to make so difficult a Shore.—I remember a Passage of this kind in a Writer of a very strong Imagination, which is heighten'd by the same Method. We have it in a Description of Mount Atlas, tho' I believe the Author took his Ideas from the Alps: 'tis deliver'd in this bold Poetical kind of Prose: [a] ‘See, with what trembling steps poor Mankind tread the narrow Brink of the deep Precipices! from whence with giddy Horror they look down, mistrusting even th• Ground which bears them; whilst they hear the hollow sound of Torrents underneath, and see the Ruin of the impending Rock, with falling Trees, which hang with their Roots upwards, and seem to draw more Ruin after them.—’

In these Cases, our Passions, as well as our Senses, are engag'd: and I take such Views to be then entirely compleat, when all our Passions, as well as all our Senses, may be engross'd by them. Were I to give an Instance of such a View, I should prefer that Passage in Virgil, where he places you in the midst of a City, cover'd with the dismal shades of Night, taken and fir'd in a Thousand places by the Enemy, and every where fill'd with Ruin, Terror, and Confusion:

[a]—Crudelis ubique

Luctus, ubique Pavor, & plurima mortis imag•.

I have dwelt the longer on these Comprehensive Views, as they fill and delight the Mind very strongly. There is another Case, much of this Nature, and of particular Energy: I do not mean, when we surround, but when we carry the Mind out to a vast extent: As in this Sentiment;

[b] By Heaven above, by Hell beneath.

There is a Thought of this Nature, very justly reckon'd among the Sublime, which appears with a perfect Uniformity in [c] Virgil, in Homer, and in the Book of Wisdom, formerly ascrib'd to Solomon: For my part, I do not at all wonder at this exact Resemblance in them. It is such a Thought, that when it is once set before one, it possesses the Mind so strongly, that it will leave its Image behind it: And indeed 'tis obserable, that a great Critick, where he wou'd applaud it in Homer, [a] repeats it himself in the very turn of his own Criticism. Longinus is the Person I mean: who in a thousand Instances, as well as this,

[b]—Is himself the great Sublime he draws.

One of the most common Topicks for this among the Poets, is in speaking of the distance of Tartarus. Homer makes it as far from Hell to Earth downwards, as it is upwards from Earth to Heaven: It has been [c] observ'd, that Two of the best Poets since have enlarg'd it gradually, Virgil to Twice, and Mil•on to Thrice that Depth: but, if I mistake not, Hesiod of old has carried the Mind further than either of them: It wou'd please you to see, how exact he is in his Measures: [d] ‘An Anvil (says he) will be Nine days compleat in falling from Heaven to our Earth; and as many in falling from our Earth to Tartarus. ’—This is the Distance from us to the Gates of Tartarus only: he afterwards carries the Mind much farther, in this Description:

There lye the Treasures of the stormy Deep,

Of Earth, and Water, and extended Darkness.

A dreadful Chasm! squalid, and uninform'd,

And hateful even to Gods. Whoe're, within

The dreadful Opening of its Gates, shou'd plunge

Prone thro' the great abyss; twelve times the course

Of the Pale Moon, should feel it• Storm and Tempest

In dire Descent; still hurried on precipi•ate,

Amidst the various Tumult and Confusion

Of disagreeing Natures. Oft the Pow'rs

Immortal cast their Eyes upon these regions,

[a] And shudder at the Sight.—

This Imagination seems to be imitated in Milton, where Satan meets with that violent shock, in Travelling thro' Chaos; but the Fall here strikes us more, because it has no Bounds: It is still continuing lower and lower; and the Mind, in endeavouring to conceive it, is lost in its desired Infinitude.

When our Bodies are all so straiten'd and confin'd, what must the Soul be made of, Antiphaus? and what might be its Powers, if unrestrain'd? Since even in such dull Company as the Body, with all these Weights and Incumber •ents about it, it betrays on every the ••allest Occasion such an Appetite to •nfinity?

Mr. Addison, in one of his finest Works, •he Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagination, reckons Greatness as first among those things, which give that [a] Pleasure:
Nothing (says he) [b] gratifies the Mind so much, as those large growing Ideas, which lead her on almost to an Infinitude. [c] Our Imagination loves to be fill'd with an Object, or to grasp at any thing that is too big for its Capacity: We are flung into a pleasing Astonishment at such unbounded Views, and feel a delightful Stillness and Amazement in the Soul, at the Apprehensions of them.

Every one may know this Pleasure by Experience: 'Tis not a dry Maxim laid down by the Philosophers: Whoever will consult his own Mind, when he looks only on a Prospect, may say as much as Mr. Addison, or Mr. Locke have on this Occasion. When I had the Pleasure of Conversing with the Gentleman, who design'd these Gardens, (as indeed the Finest in the Nation owe their Beauty to his Directions) I was very much pleas'• with a Maxim which he then mention'd ‘That as the greatest fault in a Prospe• was Confinement; So the meanest thin• too in a Design, was to have th• Bounds and Restraint of it immediately visible.’

There may be several other Points to be consider'd under the Character of Emphatical, whether from the Strength of the Language, the Nobleness of the Sentiment, or the Greatness and Extent of the Object itself: but I am only giving a few Sketches of the Kind: You will give me leave, in the same manner, to take a short View of its Contrary, the Low or Mean Stile.

It has been said, That [a] Lowness •as just as many Causes, as Elevation; since whatever raises the Sentiment or Diction has its Opposite, which is Mean. This has the Appearance of Truth; but if one general Measure must be giv'n, I should think that it is an Excess either way, which causes Meanness. Things over-wrought, as well as things under-wrought, will be Mean.

When the least Object is express'd in just and proper Terms, it will not of itself come under the Character of Meanness: Nay, small things may be manag'd so, as to change their Nature, and to compose the Grand Air. We meet with Dissertations on the late Discoveries in the lesser World of Animals, which have something Great and Sublime in them. Littleness itself may be assistant too in Amplifying a Subject: Homer uses it thus in his Character of Tydeus; and 'tis visible to any one, That bold Martial Atcheivments look greater in a Nassa•, than they wou'd in a Maximin.

Such Considerations as these have induc'd me to imagine, That all Meanness arises from some Disproportion, or other. When a Person is represented in a View beneath himself, or any Action of Force is express'd weakly, the Expressions fall short of the Nature of the Thing: Again, that Meanness, which arises from the Language, may have the same Measure• The Close of a Sentence may fall beneat• the Expectance rais'd in the Beginnin• of it, and then will necessarily have a mean Air. Some sorts of Poetry are o• a nobler kind; and Descriptions of things that would not be Mean in a Sonnet o• Satire, may become so in Epick. In general, all vulgar Terms, and all ver• disagreeable Descriptions, are beneat• the Heroick Stile: as all Triflings, o• any Affectation of Ornament, argu• something beneath the Care of a Poet who has taken upon him to rule the nobler Passions, and to sing of Heroes and of Gods.

When any thing has an Epithet higher, than its own Nature and the Occasion requires; or lower, than the proper Idea of the thing might very well demand; 'tis much the same; in both there w•ll be a Disproportion, and a Meanness. Thus,

•e mindful of yourselves draw forth your Swords,

[a] And to your Shafts obtend these 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.

And this Line,

[b]•is Shoulder blade receiv'd th' 〈◊〉〈◊〉

The same Critick, who observes on a certain Writer, for saying, That some Persons who were Shipwreckt met with •n Unpleasant Death; is equally severe •n those, who carry things too •ar; he •anks any vain (c) Elevations, and the •uerile Stile, under one and the same •ead.

Indeed Both are frigid, and Both are •ean. A little or pretty Thought dress'd •p in grand Words, is like the C•pid, in [239] one of Coypel's Pieces, who is crept into Mars's Armour, and looks as if he was endeavouring to strut about in it: Whilst a great Thought in little Words, puts one in Mind of that tall Gentleman we saw one Night at the Masquerade, dressed like an Infant; and dangling its Hands, as if it were perfectly helpless.

A Mixture of Mean Language with the Grand, makes the Meanness more visible; as possibly in this Line,

[a]Stript of his rags—He blaz'd out like a God

Thus where a Libation to the Gods, i• c••l'd [b] An Holy Beverage in the 〈◊〉 and Mars [c] the Heavenly Homi •••e in the Iliad.

There seems to me to be something •oo mean for the Ide• we form of a Giant, in this Expression;

[d] Her [*] Husband scowr'd away—

And just after;

The Men like fish, they stuck upon the flood,

[e] And cram'd their •ilthy throats with hum•• food

In the same manner we hear of Ulysses's Companions, being [a] dash'd like Dogs by the Cyclops.

I doubt not this was express'd thus, to give us the larger Idea of that Monster: but might not it have been express'd so, as to serve that purpose, without giving us at the same time too low an Idea of the Men?

The Dignity of the Person will make any mean Language appear yet meaner. Whether we consider Ulysses as [b] so great an Hero, or as the [c] Godlike Guest of Alcinous, this Couplet sounds beneath his Character:

[d]—Shrunk with pining fa•t,

My craving bowels still require repast.

Nothing can be more just than Horace's Observation, [e] That a King in Exile, or Dist•ess, must lay aside that Air of Grandeur, and those swelling Words which might ••come him in his Power: Yet must he remember, that he has been a King: •here's a Greatne•s even in D•str•ss; and a due Medium between Words of a •oot-and-a-half Long, and Monosyllable•. Be that as it will, there is certainly muc• Reason, that he should reassume his Style with his Dignity: and (whatever may be said for that Speech of Ulysses in his Wanderings) after he is reinstated, he ought certainly to speak like a Monarch. I am afraid he fails in this respect, in the following Lines:

•e it my care, by loans, or martial toils,

To throng my empty'd folds, with gifts or spoils:

But now I haste to bless L•ertes's eyes,

[a] With sight of his Ulysses e're he dies;

When the God of the Ocean sees Ulysses escap'd from his Dominion, he is so much provok'd, that he flies immediately to the Throne of Jupiter, to lay his Complaints before the Father of the Gods; Let us hear part of his Speech on this grand Occasion:

Against yo• destin'd head in vain I swore,

And menac'd vengeance e're he reach'd the shore;

[b] Behold him landed—careless and asleep.

When an Expectation is rais'd by the preceding Verses, and little or nothing follows upon this Expectation;—We need not quote [c] Horace to prove that it will be Mean; every one will see it; and every one may see, that it arises from the Disproportion.

I have often observ'd, how fatal this Particular is to that sort of People, who are known by the Character of Story-tellers. The greatest baulks these Gentlemen meet with, are occasion'd by their bespeaking Attention too much; and after all, ending in some inconsiderable Circumstance: There is a certain Passage in the Odyssey, which puts me in Mind of this Disaster so common to them:

Pr•pare then said T•lemachus, to know

[a]A Tale, from falshood free, not free from woe.

What follows upon this? No earthly thing, I'gad, as Mr. Bays has it; only that he is the Son of Ulysses, and that he is searching after the King his F•ther.

There is another [b] Instance of this Nature, in that important Dialogue, between Neptune and Jupiter• just mention'd.

Of this kind also is a certain Figure, which Mr. Addison [c] calls an Anti-climax: A Downfall in the Close, where a Passage has been very promising in the Beginning. I remember he quotes a [a] French Couplet upon that Occasion, which I suppose was design'd for Ridicule; but there are many Instances of it, from more serious Writers. Such is what a Grave Doctor has said in his Character of your Miltonick Friend, Mr. Philips: 'tis deliver'd in this grand air of Prophecy. Mr. Philips's Poems (says he) will last, as long as Blenheim is remembred, Or [b] Cyder drunk in England.

I beg leave to mention one thing, says Antiphaus,—What You have been saying, may afford the reason, why that Species of Criticism, which goes upon Ridicule (in the manner of the Hind and Panther) is not to be depended upon: The best Lines that ever were wrote, may be render'd Ridiculous, only by raising too great an Expectation in the Reader, just before they are introduc'd in the Criticism.

There is another kind of Littleness (proceeded Philypsus) when the Language does not become the Poetick Stile; all Prosaick Poetry, or (as Dr. Garth us'd to call it) a Diction loytering into Prose, carries something of meanness with it; something below the Harmony, the Emotion, the Majesty, that is requir'd from the Epick Muse.—Here are two or three Couplets which I think descend too near to Prose;

And now Telemachus, the first of all,

[a] Observ'd Eum•eu• entring in the Hall.

—Let Eurymachus receive my g•est.

[b] Of nature courteous, and by far the best.

His food an herald bore; and now they fed,

[c] And now the rage of craving Hunger fl•d.

It might be thought too trifling to observe, that this Meanness is often owing to an ill-judg'd use of Monosyllables. [d] A Long Run of these little Pigmy Words, beside an unavoidable Air of Meanness, often makes a Line rough, and hobling; and almost ever keeps it from being firm, and compact.

'Tis very rare, that you meet with a Latin Verse terminating in a single Monosyllable; and sometimes, where we do meet with it, 'tis evidently [e] design'd to assist in expressing the Littleness or Ridiculousness of the Subject.

Unless it be thus design'd, or be significant, a Verse (even an Hemistick) may be render'd Mean, merely by consisting of these little Words. I know there are entire Lines of them that are tolerable, nay, that run with some degree of Vigour; as this in the Odyssey,

[a]••re yet he loos'd the Rage of War on Troy.

And that Close in Shakespear,

Cry'd Havock; and l•t s••p th• D•gs of War.

The Sentiments here are so great, that they take us off from observing the Littleness, which the Dictio• might otherwise Occasion: Yet, to speak my Mind, I believe that these very Thoughts wou'd appear more Majestically in large adequate Expressions.

Beside this Littleness from the Nature of words, there is oftentimes a Meanness annex'd in our Thoughts to such particular Words and Phrases. All mere Vulgar ways of •peaking are mean in Poetry.—The Muse shou'd reject any low P•overbs, and the Language of the Croud—Even the Ideas of things, in which they particularly ar• employ'd, are •ullied and debas'd—I believe I may add, that whatever has an Air of Burlesque, or has been markt for ridiculous on any other Occasion, will be apt to retain something of the Mean, where-ever it is us'd.

His Shoulder blade receiv'd th'ungentle shock;

He stood and mov'd not, like a marble rock,

[a] But shook his thoughtful Head.—

I doubt not, I have formerly met with something in Burlesque, to which this Passage has a distant Resemblance: tho' the thing itself be gone out of my head, the distast to such a particular Expression still remains with me. 'Tis true, this wou'd not justify a Criticism; and yet it leads one unavoidably to dislike the Passage.—This sort of Acquir'd Meanness may be sometimes more general: as where Menelaus calls Telemachus, [b] The Mirror of constant Faith; This Expression has been so often us'd in a ridiculous •ort of Writings, that it will sound mean to the generality of those that •ear it.

A Star-light Evening, and a Morning Fair.—

—Is a Line in Dryden's Virgil, [a] condemn'd by a very exact Critick, upon account of its being Low and Mean. 'Tis of the acquir'd kind. Any one, who has been at all conversant with the Poetry of a Belman, will certainly look upon it with something of Contempt: Yet is there nothing Mean in it of itself; and a Critick in France might think it a good handsome Line. But the best Expressions degenerate, when us'd by the Populace, and applied to low things: the use, they make of them, infects them with a low abject Air.

Thus Proverbial Speeches, and all other Expressions very common among us, become unworthy of our Poetry. Foreign Proverbs are often great and emphatical to us; as many of ours may sound great to Foreigners: yet at home, both, if vulgar, will be apt to appear mean; or at least, unfit for Poetry. One Instance, or two will be sufficient: in the Tenth Odyssey we have this Line;

[b] With broken hearts my sad companions stood.

And this in the 22d,

[c]—Dogs, Ye have had your Day.—

I shall not presume to say, how far the Odyssey or Iliad might be blameable for any of these Meannesses in the Days of Homer himself: it is the Priviledge of every dead Language, to be entirely free from them at present. We hear not the Proverbs, nor know the current Ridicule of those Times. His Language is safe enough from the Vulgar now; And as to any Words, that might be vulgar enough then, to seem low, we are in an entire ignorance. This is a considerable Advantage which the Ancients have over every Living Writer; and for which, by the way, there should be a large allowance made in any Comparison between an Ancient and a Modern.

Thus any Meanness that is acquir'd, may be lost again, or worn off by Time and Accidents. It is not so with Meanness in the Things themselves. They have something settled in them; and ar• deliver'd down to us thro' the Stream of Ages, unalter'd and the same. Perhaps, if we would take off the Veil, which Superstition has flung over the Worshippers of Homer, we might discern some traces of this in the Conversation of the Suitors; in the Scene at Eum••us's Lodge; and in Sicily, when we are with the Cyclops. 'Tis true, the Odyssey is built upon an humbler Plan: Homer suits himself to his Design: and it may be very justly said (with Mr. Pope) [a] "That where this Poem cannot support a Sublimity, it always preserves a Dignity, or at least a Propriety. If these Points may fail in Dignity, they have always some Propriet• in the Poem; either from the Speaker or the Audience, or the Occasion.

To return to the Translation. Every Idea that has something aukward in it, has something mean, and ri¦diculous: The first Laugh in the Iliad i• occasion'd by the aukward Behaviour and odd Address of Vulcan; as the only Laugh in the Aeneid is rais'd on the un¦toward figure, which Menaetes makes i• that Poem.

There seems to me to be somethin• Mean and Aukward in this Image:

His loose head tottering as with wine opprest,

[b] Obliquely drops, and nodding knocks his brea•

Perhaps the Sneezing-piece in the 17• Book, [c] borders too much on the sam• Fault; or, if it be no Fault, on the sam• Disagreeableness.

For the same Reason, all Descriptions that have any thing of the Nauseous in them, might be avoided in Poetry, or at least be but slightly touch'd in it: I cannot think 'tis any particular niceness or effeminacy in my Temper, which inclines me to wish, that the Colours had not been laid on so strongly on some [a] Occasions. The worst Image I know of this kind is in the description of the Drunken Cyclops: and what is surprizing •o me, the very same Grossness, on the •ame Occasion, is kept up in (b) several •f the best Poets that ever wrote.—Here •ou will forgive me, if I am ready to •nk under Authority, in a Point where •y very Senses almost contradict it. •ut when such great Names, as Homer, •irgil, Pope, and Add•son may be produ •ed to defend one and the same Descip •on, what are we to think, Antiphaus? •an we say a thing is not offensive, when •e feel the contrary? or must we al •w, that Nature ought to be justly and •lly express'd, even in the most nause •s of Subjects?

It cannot be deny'd (answer'd Anti •aus, after having turn'd the Question. for some time in his Mind) every Description that is just, is poetically good; but then I fancy, 'tis as true, that a Description poetically good, may be the more improper to be inserted, on that very Account. This will be readily allow'd in all Cases of Obscenity: The b••t Description in such Points is certainly the most improper; and surely the same will hold in a great Measure of any Images directly nauseous. We have, you say, the Examples of the greatest Poets that ever wrote, against us: but i• the reason of the thing be against them• no Authority whatever, nor any numbe• of Examples, can be of the least rea• W••ght. I am delighted with the Corre•tness of a Virgil or an Addison; I ad ••re Pope, and reverence Homer. Bu• were there any one piece of Obscenity 〈◊〉 the Works of all these Great Men, wou'• such a description alter its Nature, an• become amiable? 'Tis the same in othe• Cases, as well as in Obscenities: A• things, that have something in the• nature Disagreeable, will still be 〈◊〉 agreeable, where-ever we find 'em.

The Line you hint at in the Drun•• Cyclops cannot but carry a very nauseo• Idea with it: and had Mr. Pope deviat• from the Original, and dropt it in 〈◊〉 English, I am perswaded most people wou'd have look'd upon it, as a commendable Injury to his Author; I remember [a] a Passage (of this Nature, tho' less gross than this) in the Iliad, which Mr. Pope has improv'd by concealing the Grossness of it; and in the Note upon it, he says, 'tis unworthy of Homer; he does not see any Colour to soften •he Meanness of it; it must ever have been •oo nauseous to be describ'd.

What fine Criticks should we make, •ays Philypsus, since we can be both so •eady to wish a Translator had err'd more •requently from his Copy?—But •hatever those severe Gentlemen may •ink, we should certainly have a large •arty on our side in the present Case. •hat would they say to another Prin •ple? That it may be necessary to de •ate from the Words of the Original, to •eserve the Sense of it: And yet this •ay happen; As, for Instance, where •r Notions of things are directly conary to what was thought of them in •omer's Days.

Words are to be consider'd, not as •nds, but as they are Significant: and strict Translator should endeavour chiefly to give us the same Ideas which the Writer he represents, gave to his Readers. It is on this Account I should take [a] The Monarch of the Swains, for Instance, to be a juster Translation of 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, than the Chief Swine-herd would have been. In the present acceptation of things, a literal Translation would have been a Travesty: it would have made that ridiculous and mean, which was not mean or ridiculous in the Original.

Of old, Useful Employments were also Honourable. The chief Courtiers were Masters of the Flocks and of the Herds: A Skill in Agriculture was reckon'd a very handsome part in the Character of a Monarch: Homer [b] places it upon a •evel with Military Science; and looks upon the Reputation it deserves, as equal to the Glory acquir'd by Atchievements in War.

To preserve something of these [c] Primitive Notions of things, at least not to sink into those very low Ideas, which we in the present world entertain of such sorts of Arts and Employments, a Trans•ator of Homer is oblig'd to vary the Expressions in common use for the same things: Nothing wou'd be more ridiculous now, than to call a First Minister, by the Name of a Hog-herd; or to say of Kings, that they overlook'd the Dairy.

There are some other Points, relating to the Manners of Antiquity, which may require some Alterations in the turn of expressing them. I have been too tedious already; Let me only mention one Particular of this kind, and I have done• The Heroes of Old, in rating each other, are very free with the mutual Terms of Dogs, Cowards, Villains &c. In the Odyssey we have a Queen calling one of her Maids of Honour, an Impudent Bitch; and Jupiter, if I mistake not, pays exactly the same Compliment to his Royal Consort in the Iliad. I think no one can dispute which is the better Translation in the former Case, The New, which makes Penelope call her Servant [a] a Loquacious Insolent; or the Literal of Hobbes:

Bold Bitch (said she) I know what de•ds you've done•

This is equally a mis-representation of Fact, and shocking in its very sound; It offends the Ear, and makes one s•artle at the Behaviour of Penelope: A Reader ought to think that Lady well bred: This he cannot do, at least he will be prejudic'd not to do so, by hearing such Language now, however decent it might be thought in those Times.

I am oblig'd to you (says Antiphaus, perceiving that Philypsus stopt here) for the fair account you have given of these Lownesses in an Epick Poem: I know not whether your general rule of Meanness will hold in every Point, that might be mention'd; but in those you have produc'd, it seems to square very well. I imagine too, there is one Particular, of pretty large extent in this Question, not yet touch'd upon.—There may be several; but you have all that I have observ'd, says Philypsus—I doubt not (says Antiphaus) you have observ'd the same thing, and put it under some other Head; You must know, I wou'd rank all Thoughts which border on Puerility, all cold Fancies, all forc'd Antitheses, and any mere turns, and sporting upon words, under the Class of Meannesses in an Epick Poem.—As you have hinted such a Variety of Subjects, says Philypsus, will you not compleat the Favour, and afford some Instances too under these Heads? —What I can recollect (reply'd An •iphaus) is at your Service.

Does not there seem to you to be something Affected and Cold in this Thought, which I doubt not many will be apt to take for a pretty Clash in the Ideas.

Here ceas'd he; but indignant tears let fall;

[a]Spoke when he Ceas'd.—

Such is this Thought;

[b] And my tost limbs now wearied into rest.

Nothing is meaner than what is overwrought: I own 'tis in Poetry, as in Statuary; Figures that are to be set up at such a height must be something larger than the Life; but even then there are exact Rules of Propor•ion, and nothing is to appear too Vast to the Eye.

In giving ones Opinion of an exquisite Statue we may say, it lives or speaks: but when we go to refine on this, we grow affected and mean. Pardon me if I take this to be the Case in the las• Line of this Couplet:

Alive each animated Frame appears;

[c]And still to live, beyond the Power of Year 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

I was formerly pleas'd with the In •cription under a Saint Bruno in Italy; but give it up now as carried too far; it tells us, as you may remember, [a] That He is alive, and wou'd speak, were it not for the Rules of Silence he had establish'd. A Man must understand the History of the Grand Chartreux to take the meaning of this; and after all, it appears too forc'd and artificial.

A Fault of this kind is the more evident, when the Thoughts and Language look noble about it:

There terrible in arms Ulysses stood,

[b] And the dead Suitors almost swam in blood.

You know a late excellent [c] Philosopher has endeavour'd to prove that no Action, which disagrees with truth, can be good; and I shou'd not be new or singular in my Opinion, were I to assert the same of any point in Poetry. Every one knows, the Dialogues of one of the most [d] penetrating Criticks in the last Age, are wrote chiefly in this View. He asserts constantly, that no Thought can be good, which is not Poetically true; and I imagine this that he asserts, may be defended as easily in the Fiction• of Poetry, as in any of the plainest Passages. But such an Enquiry wou'd take up more time• than Cr•ticism deserves; and I mention it at present only as a Measure of such Thoughts as are mean from their being false, i. e. really beneath what they pretend to be.—This Rule, if just, wou'd be of particular service in this kind of Pursuits: I shall give you but one I•s•ance; When Circe mentions Ulysses's descent to the Infernal Shades, she adjoins this Reflection.

O Sons of woe! decreed by adverse Fates,

Alive to pass thro' hells eternal Gates!

All soon or late, are doom'd that path to tread;

[a] More wretched You, twice number'd with the Dead!

Do you not think this last Thought has something Weak and Little in it? according to your general Rule, it fails in its Proportion; That Proportion, I mean, which every Thought should bear to Truth.

If it fails in that, says Philypsus, I must allow it to be Mean by my own Rule; but I do not perceive in what respect that Sentiment is false.

No! says Antiphaus; I beg you would consider the very Word on which the whole of the Reflection turns: It has plainly too Significations widely different. If their being n•mber'd with the Dead, be taken in its strongest Sense, 'tis certain this did not happen twice to Ul•sses, and his Companions; if in its weaker on this Occasion, Their Calamity is put on a Level with something much more terrible and calamitous than it self.

Or thus: If this being twice number'd with the Dead be intended both in the same Sense, the Sentence is directly false• if in very different unequal Senses, 'tis fallacious and false in its Consequence.

I beg pardon for putting on this grave face, and affecting such an air of Demonstration: but you must know this Though• is exactly the same in the Original, o• (if any thing) rather more fallacious ther• than in the Translation: in such a Cas• all ones Gravity is scarce sufficient; an• the Superstitious perhaps wou'd rathe• disbelieve a real Demonstration, tha• allow of any Fault in Homer. I beg Pardon of them, for thus assuming th• Chair of Criticism (as the noblest of [a] human Writers calls it) and am very willing to descend, and act in an humbler Sphere.

All sporting upon Words may seem unbecoming of the Epick Muse: I shall leave you to determine how far there may be any suspicion of this in some particular Lines.

[a] Thy last of Games unhappy has thou play'd—

—To me has some resemblance to the rebellious Angels in Milton, where they run on in such a vein of insulting and punning. I know not how far the Original might help in leading a Translator into the former Turn; but here is another Line which runs into it, without that wrong biass.

[b] They on the future banquet feast their eyes.

I should think this yet more improper on any grave or affecting Circumstance: Do you remember the Death of Antinous in the Odyssey? 'Tis in the Instant of his lifting a Goblet of Wine to his Mouth:

Wretch that he was, of unprophetick Soul!

High in his hand he rear'd the Golden Bowl;

Ev'n then to drain it lengthen'd out his Breath,

[c] Chang'd to the deep, the bitter draught of Death.

I fear that some Points, which generally pass for Elegancies, are of this kind.—A Case, which touches all Readers of a little Taste very much, is, [a] when two very different Ideas are join'd to the same Verb: This is very frequent in Cowley, and he has been often blamed for it; as in that Instance,

[b] Up rose the Sun and Saul.

I know not how it is, there is something agreeable in this management of Words, but it is very apt to •njure the Sense. A thinking [c] French Author lays down a Rule, which is very useful towards discovering Fallacies in Reasoning; It is this: To put the Definition instead of the Thing defin'd. I have often try'd something of this nature in Poetry; If we make the Experiment in the pre•ent Case, and insert the enlarg'd Meaning instead of the particular Words used by the Poet, we shall generally find a Fallacy in this sort of Verse; or, at least, a Lameness in the Sense of it.

It will not be any great trouble to try this in one single Point. The Poet• speaking of Telemachus's Voyage, uses this Turn of Expression:

To distant Pylos hapless is he gone,

[a] To seek his Father's fate, and find his own.

This sounds very well: but what is the meaning of the word Fate, which is of such double Service upon this Occasion? Try it in your own Mind:

To distant Pylos hapless is he gone,

To seek (whether his Father be dead or not) and find—What?

There's no need of trying it, says Philypsus; I allow it to be d•ficient upon the first hearing: But by the way, I wonder you let the Antithesis in it escape so peaceably!

Indeed I am no great Friend to them (reply'd Antiphaus) especially when they are multiplied upon us, as in this Line:

[b] Dust mounts in clouds, and sweat d•s••nds in dews.

I do not fear my Philyp•us should mistake me: it would be too s•rupulous to discard every Antithesis out of Poetry, as it seems affected to run into them very often. Some are of Force and Emphasis, and some agreeable and engaging: Possibly, even the Double Use of the same Word is not absolutely to be rejected. But however these Ornaments may obtain on some Occasions, they •eem generally too little and artificial for the more noble Parts of Poetry. They are of the Ovidian kind, rather than of Homer: and are more apt to hit the Taste of Schoolboys, than of Men.

And now I have mention'd Ovid's manner, give me leave to say that (in spite of his several Beauties, and that peculiar Ease and Address with which he tells a Story) I fear his Writings are one great Reason of the trifling Manner keeping its gr•und so much in the present Age. Ovid is generally made use of to initiate our Youths in Parnassus: We look upon him as soon as ever we open our Eyes to Poetry: He is then, 'tis true, fit for our Taste; but the misfortune is, he is too Agreeable: 'tis odds but this fondness grows up with us; and a false taste of Wit, drawn from him, may inf•uence our Writings many Years after we have flung him from our Bosom. The Boyisms of Ovid, (as Dr. Garth calls 'em) are agreeable enough to infect us to old Age. Mr. Dryden, for Instance, was thus infected by 'em. Ovid, and Cowley our English Ovid, were his favourites at Ten Years old, and his Corrupters at Seventy.

As great Genius's, and more correct Writers, than Mr. Dryden may be touch'd with the same Infection; I will give you an Instance or two of this, with which a Person may be pleas'd, even while he condemns 'em.

[a] She to her present Lord laments him lost,

And views that object which she wants the most.

Again:

His arms he stretch'd; his arms the touch deceive;

[b] Nor in the fond embrace, embraces give.

Any one, the least acquainted with the Manner of the Poets, will readily perceive this to be of the Ovidian kind. It is pretty, and agreeable as Ovid: but to be so, it loses something from the Air of Homer; it sinks beneath that Simplicity and Nature, which is the distinguishing Character of his Writings.

Now you mention Mr. Dryden, and this sort of pretty Writing together, give me leave (says Philypsus) to commend one sort of Turns, which that Critick [c] judges not only pretty, but really good and substantial: I will not defend all his Instances, but I would engage to do it were they all as good as that from [a] Virgil.—A very good Critick since has treated of this more distinctly. His Notions as I remember are, That a dextrous Turn upon Words, is pretty; The Turn upon the Thought, substantial; but the most compleat of all, is when the Turn of the Words and of the Thought concur: [b] When both our Reason an• our Ear are entertain'd with a noble Sentiment express'd vigorously, and beautifull• finish'd. I should be glad to know you• Opinion, Antiphaus, how far a Person might admit these Turns, in Heroic• Poetry?

As for the first (says Antiphaus) I believe one might venture to say, that i• should be rejected universally: I am s• little vers'd in these Particulars, that cannot readily say any thing as to th• second: the other (whether justly or no• takes one very much. I own, for m• part, that I imagine them, not only bea•¦tiful, but useful: I remember an Instan• of [c] one in Virgil, which fixes the Images very particularly on the Mind; and it is this which helps to touch us in those Lines of Mr. Addison, which strike every one who reads them:

The listning Soldier •ixt in sorrow stands,

Loth to obey his Leaders just commands;

The Leader grieves, by generous pity sway'd

[a] To see his just commands so well obey'd.

If you ask my opinion in this Point, rude and unsettled as it is; I should think, that no Turns should obtain in an Epick, or any solemn Poem, except such as have more Strength, than Beauty: That in lesser Pieces, those may be allow'd which have more Beauty, than Strength: but that they can be justified in no Piece whatever; unless they have some share of Strength, as well as Beauty.

The great Art of them is to appear Unartful; as in these pretty Lines from Mr. Philips's Pastorals;

Fair is my Flock, nor yet uncomely I

If liquid Fountains flatter not; and why

Should liquid Fountains flatter us• yet shew

The bordering flowers less beauteous than they grow?

As I take it; The Beauty of this Passage is in a greater degree, than its Strength; and the natural Air of the Sentiments, is more exquisite than either: The Turn of the Lines makes them observ'd by every Reader more than they would otherwise be; and yet that very Turn does not seem to be design'd, but rather to be the natural result of the Shepherd's Thoughts as he speaks them.

If I have said too much, Philypsus, you must blame your self for it, who led me from my chief Design. I was just entering on the several Natural P•eces in the Poem before us.

Some fanciful Writers afford us nothing but Pictures and Descriptions: they continue Image after Image; and put one in Mind of those Americans, who, when first they were discover'd, are said to have us'd Painting instead of Writing.

Homer's Judgment will not allow him, in any of his Works, to be thus Perpetual in his Descriptions; and the design of the Odyssey will not allow near the variety, which he has very justly employ'd in the Iliad. The Odyssey is a Poetical Treatise of Morality: it does not admit of a profusion of Colours: this is not to be look'd upon as a Defect: we might with the same Reason blame a Book of Maxims, or Plato's Moral Dialogues, for not having all the Flourishes and Charms of Rhetorick.

And as the Plan of the Odyssey in general excludes that great variety of Description, which abounds in some Poems; the chief Scene, in the remaining Part of it, is so wholly Domestick, that it scarce allows room for any thing of that Nature. The Action now is confin'd; it lies all between either the Country-House of Eumaeus, and the Palace; or this latter, and the Gardens of Laertes. What a narrow Scene is this for Description? and yet these are the only places capable of any, if you except a two days Journey, and a short Voyage •n the 15th, neither of which could be enlarg'd upon without injuring the main Design. Homer was unacquainted with the modern Affluence of Painting, whereever there may be any fine Object in the way: As these Opportunities offer only in an Episode, he passes them with the utmost dispatch: we see his haste in the very Lines, and indeed in every one of them distinctly:

With speed the mast they rear, with speed unbind

The spacious sheet, and stretch it to the wind:

Minerva calls; the ready gales obey

With rapid speed to whirl them o'er the sea;

Crunus they pass'd; next Chalcis roll'd away,—

The silver Phaea's glittering rills they lo•t•

[a] And skim'd along by Eli's sacred coast.

It might be the indigence of his Subject this way, which induc'd Homer to repeat the view of Hell in the 24th Book; and the wanderings of Ulysses in the 23d. But nothing could make him run into Descriptions on that Occasion. We have the Names of Places repeated in Order; and tho' Penelope has the ful• Relation, the Reader is only tantaliz'• with hearing in general, that,

[b] H• images the rills, and flow'ry vales.

These things, however they had been laid out, wou'd have been only Sideviews. For in the main Scene, as i• now lies in Ithaca, I think there are bu• four Places capable of Description. If 〈◊〉 am not mistaken in this, it will give u• great Reason to admire the Managemen• of Homer; who, as he was too pruden• to run out into any impertinent Descriptions; at that same time, has not omitted any one of those places, that migh• very well allow of a Description without wandring. We have distinct draughts of Laertes's Gardens, [a] Eumaeus's Lodge, of [b] the Royal Palace, and the Road between these and the Palace. These compleat the present Scene of the Poem; and any one by laying them together, may form an exact Picture of it in his Mind.

Some of these have been mention'd already on other Occasions; and the way from Eumaeus's House to the Metropolis deserves very well to be mention'd •ere: I dare say you will think part of •t, the most delightful Road you ever •ravell'd in your Life:

Now pass'd the rugged Road, they journey down

The cavern'd way descending to the Town,

Where, from the rock with liquid lapse distills

A limpid fount; that spread in parting rills,

••s current thence to serve the city brings

An useful work; adorn'd by ancient Kings.

•••itus, Ithacus, Polyctor there

•n sculptur'd Stone immortaliz'd their care;

•n marble urns receiv'd it from above,

And shaded with a green surrounding grove;

Where silver Alders in high arches twin'd,

Drink the cool stream, and tremble to the wind.

•eneath, sequester'd to the Nymphs, is seen

A mossy Altar, deep embower'd in green;

Where constant Vows by travellers are made,

[c] And holy horrors solemnize the shade.

There is a sort of melancholly Pleasure hangs upon the Mind, where-ever we have a View of Laertes in his Retirement. The good Old Prince [a] Labours thorough Life; he [b] longs to lay down the Burthen: And when he is not so overcome with his Distress, as to [c] neglect his Employment in his Gardens, he seems busy rather to [d] avoid Pain, than to enjoy Pleasure. Thus is he engag'd, with something of Diversion, and much of Melancholly, when the Scene changes to his Gardens.

We have not a set Description o• these altogether; but it begins at thi• Point, and is carried on [e] successively, till we may easily form an Idea o• the whole.

Tho' Homer has not wander'd int• any Descriptions of Places that lay ou• of this Scene of the Poem, he has here and all along in the former part of it brought in short Draughts and Side views of things by such Arts, as a• some of them necessary, and all very allowable in Poetry.

Such are all descriptive Similies: Where in some Picture out of the Subject is borrow'd to illustrate any Point that belongs to it. This affords us several occasional Pieces, and some of them very natural: I have just dipt upon one of this sort. 'Tis just after the Slaughter of the Suitors; They are yet gasping, and Ulysses is surveying their Bodies, to see whe •her the Number be compleat:

So when by hollow shores the fisher train

•weep with their arching nets the hoary main,

•nd scarce the meshy toils the copious draught contain:

•ll naked of their Element and bare,

•he fishes pant, and gasp in thinner air;

[a] Wide o'er the sands are spread the stiffening prey.

It's a known Remark, that all Allu •ons of this kind, drawn from calm Life •s Fishing, Hunting, and rural Affairs) •ave a peculiar Beauty: and 'tis as well •own, that they acquire an additional •nergy, when they are introduc'd amidst •y Confusion, or to illustrate Images of •error. Virgil [b] has imitated this •rt of Contrast from a Similie in the •ad; which affords frequent Instances the same kind; nor are they wanting the [c] Poem before us.

The more concise and natural any Image, the stronger the Illustration. How do you approve of this, on a number of Females employ'd at the Loom?

—Their busy fingers move

[a] Like Poplar-leaves, when Zephyr fans the grove•

When these occasional Images hit i• several Points, they are the more descriptive of the things, which they ar• brought to Illustrate. Homer gives u• an Idea of the Spirits in Ades, of thei• still Posture, their Motion, their Confusion, and the odd Noises they utte• all in one single Picture of this kind:

Trembling the Spectres glide, and plaintive ve•

Thin, hollow Screams, along the deep descent.

As in the cavern of some rifted Den,

Where flock nocturnal Bats and Birds obscene;

Cluster'd they hang, till at some sudden shock•

They move, and murmurs run thro' all the rock

So cow'ring fled the sable heaps of ghosts,

[b] And such a Scream fill'd all the dismal coasts•

It seems not improper to point o• these distinct Likenesses; as the Tra•¦slation has done in the present Cas• more plainly than the Original; th• same may be said of [c] some other• This is done sometimes by insisting much on one Circumstance, and [a] repeating it over and over.

Borrow'd Images appear with a particular Propriety and Grace, when they have some near Relation to the Scene, on which the Poem turns at the very Instant of applying 'em. Thus in the Battle of Rivers, in the (b) Iliad, every Similie is •quatick, and adapted to the Place. Thus if the Swiftness of a Deity passing •'er the Land is to be illustrated in this •anner, Homer images it by the Swift •ess of an Eagle: but when Mercury is •ying over the Sea, by that of some [c] •ater-fowl.

The Image of an Angler is us'd in •e Iliad, of a person in the Field of Bat •e; in the [d] Odyssey, of persons at Sea; •oth on Occasions which make that •age proper. But it seems more pro •er in the latter, from the Agreement 〈◊〉 Place. In this, and all like Cases, •rt of the Picture is nearer to us, and •ill be conceiv'd the more readily and early.

There may also be some propriety •om any previous Relation between the Person, and the Thing to which he is compar'd. Any faithless wavering Creature may be compar'd to the Sea; but it strikes one more, when Venus is said to be as [a] Inconstant, as the Waves from whence she sprung. Any rough Man may be compar'd to the Element, in another view; but there is a peculiar fitness in these Lines:

A r•ce of rugged Mariners are these

[b] Unpolish'd Men, and boist'rous as their Seas.

I remember, I us'd formerly to be mightily taken with a Similie in the [c] M•scipula; and I believe now, it was •n this very Account. Ideas, which •ave been alreaded join'd on any other Occasion, will agree the more easily on a new one.

The Picture is less broken also, when the borrow'd Image is adapted to the present Circumstances: Where Penelop• is represented as chast and beautiful, 'tis said she look'd [d] like Diana with all the Charms of Venus; when her Beauty is the chief Circumstance to be insisted on, she is compar'd to [a] Venus, without any mention of Diana.

We may observe, by the way, that the Heathen Poets, in comparing a Person to any of their Deities, had a sure Method of giving their Readers a Picture of that Person. The Statues of their Deities were known by every one; and the Faces of each as well ascertain'd, as the Faces of the Roman Emperors (for instance) can be, by frequently conversing with their Medals; This I take to be one Reason, why this sort of Comparison is so very frequent in the Ancients: The Case is very different in any modern Composition; tho' we seem to be equally fond of the same Comparisons.

If it does not add to the Strength, at least it makes the Piece more agreeable, when these Images are unusual. Thus Ulysses in his Bed of Leaves, to a [b] Coal of Fire preserv'd in the Embers; and before in his raft at Sea, to an [c] heap of Thorns, driven by the Wind.

There may be a Prettiness, as well as a Likeness in these Images; I always us'd to be pleas'd with that Passage, where Penelope is compar'd to a [d] Nightingale; tho' I am more pleas'd with the same Image in [a] Virgil; which, beside its agreeableness, is perhaps the most compleat Instance, that can be given, of such Similitudes as hit exactly in every Point. Virgil certainly excells Homer in these, as we may say that Homer excells him in the Vague Similitude; for both have their distinct Beauties.

'Tis the proper air of Poetry to be unconfin'd and free: The Muse loves a flowing Dress: Her motions are ever Easy, and her very ornaments must be Natural. Such is the Muse of Homer. And hence the Poet, in this sort of• Pictures, does not in the least Scruple• to take in several Circumstances, that do• not affect the main Resemblance. When• a Painter is copying a Piece, he must preserve the Likeness; but he may var• in the Drapery, the Posture, the Under• figures, and the Scene around 'em.

Thus in Homer's Philomel, the main Likeness is very well taken: When the Poet has secur'd this, he touches upon the History of Itylus; and launches out into Particulars, which are [b] so far• from squaring with the Case of Penelope, that they have no manner of Relation to it•

Homer is almost singular in another sort of Similie, the Reverse of the former: when the Principal Figures have in themselves no Likeness, but agree in some one Circumstance of Action. These are very frequent in the Iliad and Odyssey: and I cannot say, whether it be from a true Judgment, or a scrupulous Niceness, that later Writers endeavour to imitate them but very rarely.

Perhaps this is blameable; and so may be that stringing of several Similies together, which we sometimes meet with in Homer. I do not mean when several things are chosen to illustrate the [a] same Point more fully: but when Similies on different things follow too close on the Neck of one another. In the 2d Iliad, [b] we have one of these strings which takes up thirty Lines; And tho' they are all excellently well chosen, and have one common Point of Union between 〈…〉 they may seem something faulty, as they are too numerous for the •lace in which they stand, and too much crouded on one another.

Now I have digress'd so far on two or three Vices in ancient Similies; I shall just mention one or two of a later Date. Such is the continued Similie, which is very liable to the great Fault of mixt Metaphors, when a Writer, to lengthen a comparison, carries it beyond the Likeness. I remember one of Mr. Dryden's in a [a] Dedication, that begins very well. ‘The Greatness of Birth shews a Nobleman with advantage; but if he degenerates, the least Spot is visible on Ermine. ’—This does not seem to be continued so happily, as it is begun. ‘To preserve this Whiteness in its Original Purity, You (my Lord) have, like that Ermine, forsaken that common tract of Business, which is not always clean. ’

The Art of extracting Similies out of a thing directly contrary to your purpose, is I think wholly Modern. Every one knows an Instance of this in that famous Doctor, who to illustrate the Danger of the Church, compares it to one of the Prophets, who was encompass'd with ••••emen and Chariots of Fire—for his ••∣fence.

Nothing is so opposite to the Design of this Beauty in Poetry, as to labour after a vast Number of Likenesses in any the minutest Points; and to multiply them, rather to shew how far the Poets Wit can carry the Resemblance, than to strengthen the Image of the things describ'd. This descends even to playing upon Words; nay sometime to particularize several Points in which they are unlike, as well as those in which they agree. This is the Cowlean Similitude: and I could produce [a] monstrous Instances of it from a very fine Writer, where he endeavours only to imitate Cowley at a Distance. 'Tis the same Person who has introduced Similies into his Prose, in a manner unknown to the Ancients: but he who would blame any of his Writings of this kind, must blame them, as Mr. Locke does Eloquence, with the Tenderness of a Lover.

It is not difficult to judge of any Similie, Ancient or Modern. Their [b] chief Design is to make things clear: Obscurity and Confusion is their great Fault: Poetry may go much farther in them than Prose; but, even in Poetry, none can be good, which do not give us either more distinct, larger Notions of the thing, or at least of some Circumstance of the thing• to be describ'd.

I long to add several things on this Head; but I have wander'd too far already from our chief Design: it is time now to consider a higher Class of Descriptions and Images (which we touch'd upon when we were talking over the former Books of the Odyssey) that Poetical power of expressing the Passions, and even Ideas yet in the Minds of Men.

I am not angry with You, Philypsus, for preventing much of what might have been offer'd here, when you were considering the Starts and Turns, which our Passions occasion in the various manners of Speaking. I know not how such a Notion would appear to the World; but you have thoroughly perswaded me, that all the Figures of Speech, of the [a] Nobler Order, are view'd in a truer Light, when we look upon them, as naturally Expressive of what we feel within us; than when we consider them, only as the Arts and Machineries of Writing.

It was on this Occasion you went thorough the most passionate Scenes in the Odyssey; for such are the several Enterviews in which Ulysses makes himself known to his [a] Friends, his [b] Son, his [c] Father, and his [d] Consort. Penelope's [e] Speech at that juncture is excellent; and indeed all her Speeches in general are of the Pathetick kind, and (under this view) afford us the most beautiful Passages in the whole Poem.

To the many things that have been said on the Double Passions (as you were pleas'd to let me call them) give me leave to add one particular Case more: what I mean, is Dissimulation. We have frequent Descriptions of this in the Odyssey: Every Instance of it (if passionate at all) will fall under this Consideration; and that in the highest Degree, as the Passion assum'd, and the real, are direct Opposites. Every one, who only pretends to Courage, is certainly affected with Fear; and when we put on a false Gayety, the Heart is as dull and oppress'd, as the Countenance is enliven'd.

Could we look into the Breast of one who affects a Liveliness, when his Thoughts are really Gloomy; we should see his Spirits in such contrary Emotions, as are describ'd in the Suitors, under those unaccountable mixt fits of Mirth and Heaviness.—

[a]Pallas clouds with intellectual gloom

The Suitors Souls, insensate of their doom;

A Mir•hful phrenzy seiz'd the fated croud,

The Roofs resound with caus•less laughter loud...

Then down each cheek the tears spontaneous flow.

Such is that [b] Smile of Penelope, which has something very uneasy in it: She seems all the while to struggle with her Tears. 'Tis like a transient Gleam of Light, when the Heavens are overcast: all around is Gloomy; and the Light itself is Dim and Waterish.

This perhaps is an Instance not of the affected, but the natural Kind. 'Tis true, one Passion sometimes usurps the Effect of another: Without tumbling over Des-Cartes for a Solution of the matter, we know, that an Excess of Joy often breaks out into Tears; and that Rage may vent itself in a Smile: These indeed are contrary Appearances; but 'tis very different in all Points of Dissimulation. The Mixture then has something peculiar in it. Contrary to the natural Blending of such Emotions, this has always an Air forc'd and artificial. The Soul was not made to be a Counterfeit: every time we wou'd teach her these new Arts, we fling her off her Biass, and give her an unnatural Motion. There will ever be something aukward in the Passions of the most profound Dissemblers.

Only view Ulysses, when he is struck to the Soul with the Affection and Tears of his Penelope, and at the same time resolv'd to conceal those his Emotions from her, as much as possible:

[a] Withering at heart to see the weeping fair

His eyes look stern, and cast a gloomy stare;

Of horn the stiff relentless balls appear,

Or globes of iron fixt in either Sphere;

Firm wisdom interdicts the soft'ning tear.

Even Ulysses, that Ulysses who is so [b] Celebrated among the Ancients for his Command over his Passions, does not appear without something forc'd and unnatural in his Looks, amidst all his Dissimulation. He can command his Tears; he can command his Tongue; but still his very Features would betray him.

I know not what to say to one thing: That Homer makes Dissimulation one of the greatest Excellencies of his Hero. The Heathen system of Morality was incompleat enough to bear with this proceeding: and even Christians of the greatest Name have border'd much on the same Notions. One of our Ancient Writers, who was as capable as any of them to do it, has [a] launch'd out into a long defence of useful Frauds; and Father Paul, to mention one not inferior among the Moderns, reckons Dissimulation [b] expressly among the Vertues of Pope Clement the Seventh. I do not mention this as any Argument for the thing; but to extenuate the Proceeding of Homer: 'Tis no wonder that he should mistake a counterfeit Virtue in the Dark, which such great Men could not distinguish in the Light.

But whatever Colour Dissimulation may bear in the Schemes of Morality, it is certainly a great Excellence to paint Dissimulation well in Poetry. The pretended Passion must appear most strongly, and yet the real Passion must appear under it. It must be like the Drapery in Pictures, which shews the turn of the Limbs, at the same time that it hides them; and in particular, puts one in Mind of that Veil in Homer, which seems and only seems to shade the Face of Penelope.

There is nothing more difficult in Poetry, than to express justly Ideas in the Minds of Persons whom we describe. But tho' this be the least obvious, 'tis perhaps the most agreeable of all Studies. The Poet must search carefully into the Nature of Ma•, and the Working of his Thoughts in general; He must know what Emotions are natural on each Accident of Life; and on every single Occasion is to consider, not only the Circumstances of Actions, but also the Temper, the Education, and the very make of the Person concern'd in them. These will alter Men's Views of the very same Point; When Nestor talks of Atchievements in War, he will dwell chiefly upon the Prudence and Experience of a General; Hector will mention the great effects of Strength and Courage; T•deus must place the whole on a bold daring Spirit, without taking the Body into the Account; while Polypheme, on the contrary, must speak of nothing but the Advantage of a vast Size and superior Strength.

A Man's Notions of Excellence are form'd generally from some advanc'd Powers of his own. Each Man is apt to make himself the Measure of all the Species; and his Species the Standard of all Perfection. All Beings above him must be exactly like the superior Moyety of his own Being, and all below him must be purely of the Inferior. The Vulgar of Mankind form their Heaven hereafter out of those things which have pleas'd them most in Life; and the very Notions of the Deity in most Men take a Turn from their own Complexions. The God of proud tyrannical Minds is a Being, that delights only in the Glory of being Terrible; as with the soft and pitiful, The Deity is all Mercy: the Gods of Epicurus were mere pleasurable Intelligences; and the Deities of the Irroquois are Mighty Hunters. Commend me to that Philosopher who said, that were his Horse to give us his Notion in this Case; A Broad Chest and a Flowing Mane would certainly be the Principal things in it.

One cannot easily apprehend how general an effect this has in the Actings of our Minds. I know not that it is yet designedly manag'd in any System of Philosophy, (for Mr. Locke's Association of Ideas seems to be something very distinct from it) and as it wants a Name, give me leave to call it for the present, The Assimilation of Ideas.

If you would save me from a Fit of Philosophizing, be so good as to reach that Volume of the Odyssey just by you, That I may read you a Passage which took with me particularly, on this Account. 'Tis where Ulysses has acquainted the Cyclops with his real Name and Character: this is part of the Monster's Answer;

Oh Heavens! oh Faith of ancient Prophecies!

This, Telemus Eurymides foretold:—

Long since he menac'd such was Heavens command,

And nam'd Ulysses as the destin'd hand.

I deem'd some Godlike Giant to be hold,

O• lofty Hero, haughty brave and bold;

Not this weak Pigmy wretch, of mean Design,

[a] Who not by Strength subdu'd me, but by Wine.

Even the Excellence of those things, with which we converse chiefly, is apt to influence our Thoughts in the same manner. Hence the Eastern Writers Image the Height and Stateliness of any illustrious Person, by Cedars: Homer, by the [a] Delian-Palm-tree; and Virgil, by what a British Reader will think the most Noble, a [b] large Lofty Oak.

There's a Passage which, I remember, I was mightily pleas'd with formerly, in reading Cervantes, without seeing any Reason for it at that Time; tho' I now imagine, that which took me in it comes under this View. Speaking of Don Quixot, the first time that Adventurer came in sight of the Ocean, he expresses his Sentiments on this Occasion in the following manner, He saw the Sea, which he had never seen before; and thought it much bigger than the River at Salamanca.

This Turn of Thought is not so commonly observ'd perhaps as it might easily be in Life. There are other occasional Traces in the Mind, which are known and obvious: Things that are common in some Degree to all Men; and such are all those Apprehensions which follow from any Master-Passion. One might expat•ate here very Agreeably on each of them; but I am ever apt to be too Tedious; and will therefore confine my self to one single Passion, that of Fear.

We may see in the Descriptions of the Poets, how this Passion acts on the Soul through all its different Degrees, from a Wavering and Irresolution of Mind, to the Excess of Confusion and Despair.

When a Coward (as most Cowards are Vain-glorious) undertakes any Enterprize of Difficulty, the Moment he is engag'd in it, his Mind turns all upon the Danger of the Undertaking. He immediately wishes himself fairly out of it; His Body begins to tremble, and his Thoughts are all confus'd and irresolute. Thus it is with Dolon. That Wretch engages under the Covert of the Night, to steal to the Camp of the Greeks, and discover their Motions. Before he is got half way, The first tread of Men that he hears, He hoped in his Mind (says [a] Homer) that 'twas a Messenger from Hector to recall him.

The whole Book, where we have this Image, is nothing but one Picture of Fear in different Postures; The apprehensions of distant Danger are very naturally express'd in the Grecian Guard;

—Cautious of surprize,

Each Voice, each Motion draw their ears and eyes;

[b] Each Step of passing feet increas'd th'affright.

This Description seems to have been improv'd beyond the Original from [a] Virgil's Achemaenides.

Any near Danger has more visible Effects; The Motions of a Person, thus affected, are [b] broken and disorder'd; his Colour comes and goes: His Eyes are [c] disturb'd; he cannot bear to look [d] full on the Face of his Enemy: he approaches faintly, and winks even when he strikes.

Fear has another strange Property of Magnifying our Ideas of the Danger. When we are possess'd with it, we are apt, like Sosia in the Play, to take every Shadow for a Man, and every Man for a Giant. If the Danger be present, we think it greater than it is; and to its real Terrors, add a Thousand that are only imaginary. Thus the Suitors view Ulysses, when he is ready to revenge himself upon them: their Fears [a] aggravate every Fierceness of his Actions; they look upon him as more than human, as an incens'd destructive Deity.

If I mistake not, there's a certain great Writer who calls Fear, A natural Inebriation of the Mind: it shews every thing Double: I know not what the Mythologists may teach; But this, in my Opinion, might account for the Multiplicity of Cerberus's Heads, and all the Hands of Briareus.

There is something very Expressive in a Thought of Virgil's, if we might take it under this View:

—Se Turni media inter millia vidit,

[b] Hinc •cies, atque, hin• acies astare Latinas.

This spreading of any Danger in our Ideas may widen so far as to possess the whole Mind. Then it is, that it takes away all [c] Power of Action, even [d] of Flight; it fixes [e] the Eye entirely in one horrid Stare: and even [a] shuts up all the Senses, to any other Object, but that of its Terror and Amazement; It is this Excess of Fear which, in any eminent Danger, makes a Person [b] think it impossible that he should Escape; and it remains so Strong and Lively, that after he is got perfectly out of Danger, he can scarce perswade himself, but that he is still in the midst of it—

—With tim'rous Awe,

From the dire Scene th' exempted two withdraw,

Scarce sure of life, look round, and trembling move

[c] To the bright altars of Protector Jove.

All these are Points which lie in common between Painting and Poetry; I wou'd willingly touch upon one thing more under the same View: I mean, those pieces in Poetry which answer Copying in Painting; and each of which is really the Picture of a Picture.

You will give me leave by Picture here to understand any Artificial Images of things; from Embroidery, Embossing, or any other Method of expressing Nature by Likenesses of Art: And indeed 'tis of this kind, that all the Pictures spoken of in Homer are; and, I believe, all in Virgil. At least, what we call Painting now, was not the Painting of the Homerick Ages.

It is to the Honour of the Art (in this general Sense) that the Poets, when they are copying from Painting, generally exceed themselves. I believe there is not a more masterly Piece in all Virgil's Works, than his Copy of Troilus; Thus the same Hand in the Images of Aeneas's Shield: As in that of Achilles, Homer has all the Life and Expression that Poetry is capable of.

In both of these, the Poets use a way of speaking in relation to Picture, which is very Strong and Emphatical; and which may shew the high Notions they entertain'd of this Art: They do not say, that the Images seem to perform such Actions; but talk of 'em as real Life: They say directly, that they Move, and Act, •nd Speak. The Criticks, who have blam'd some Boldnesses of this kind, shew only their own [a] Coldness, and want of Taste. 'Tis a Figure as just as it is daring: it animates the Description; and where the Poet is
[a]
more cautious, he is less lively on that very Account.

My want of Skill, in this Noble Art, is the same disadvantage in viewing these Poetical Pictures, as want of a proper Light would be to the Real; but with all this Disadvantage, they seem extremely Beautiful: And I cannot resist the Temptation of setting one or two of 'em before you.

The Design on the Shields affords such a variety of Images exquisitely well wrought, and dispos'd so justly, that it would be perfectly Gothick and Barbarous to take them to Pieces. Ignorant as I am; The [b] young Romulus, and Remus, and [c] the Genius of the Nile, strike me particularly in the one; and in the other, The [d] Ambuscade and Engagement, the [e] still rural Prospect; and [a] the Dance, consider'd as a Poetitical Piece of Painting.

To what Perfection must Embroidery have arriv'd in Homer's Days, if its Works could equal his Descriptions of them? How full of Life is [b] that Figure in Ulysses's Robes? And, I suppose, the Cestus of Venus was of the same Nature, in which was—

—Ev'ry ar•, and ev'ry charm,

To win the wisest, and the coldest warm:

•ond Love, the gentle vow, the gay desire,

The kind deceit, the still-reviving fire,

Perswasive speech, and more perswasive sighs,

[c] Silence that spoke, and eloquence of eyes.

Hercules's Belt, and the Description of it in the Odyssey, is the Reverse of this. The Belt it self perhaps was of a different Make, answerable to the Shield of Achilles; which, by the way, may •ntimate something of an Art, that is •ow lost, which (if you will allow me in 〈◊〉 mere Conjecture of my own) seems to •ave been a sort of Mosaick-work of diffe •ent Metals; [d] Brass, Stannum, Silver &c, intermixt with Gold; [e] all varied, •nd [f] shaded, so as to express the differe•t Properties and Actions of the things describ'd: But whatever the materials were, the Workmanship certainly excell'd them greatly. Any one, to be convinc'd of this, need only turn his Eyes on the Hercules in Ades, where

Gloomy as night he stands, in act to throw

The aerial arrow from the twanging Bow.

Around his breast a wond'rous Zone is roll'd,

Where woodland Monsters grin in fretted Gold;

There sullen Lions sternly seem to roar,

The Bear to growl, to foam the tusky Boar:

There War and Havock and Destruction stood;

[a] And vengeful Murther, red with human blood.

These are all Copies: And I have done, if you will give me leave only to set Virgil's Troilus before you; which is certainly as fine a Piece as any drawn by that great Hand:

—Amissis Troilus armis

Infelix Puer, atque impar congressus Achilli,

Fertur •quis, curruque haeret resupinus inani,

Lora tenens tamen: huic cervix{que} comae{que} tr•huntu•

[b] Per terram, & versa pulvis inscribitur hasta.

How beautiful does this look in the Poem and in the Picture? Yes, th• Painter and the Poet have one and th• same Art; or rather one and the same Power of Creating.

Aut utramque credes esse pictam:

Aut utramque credes esse veram.

I am extremely oblig'd to you (says Philypsus) for so various a View of these Beauties. Believe me, I have scarce known for some time, whether I was not got into some strange Picture-Gallery, where one meets every Moment with new Subjects of Admiration and Delight. The Misfortune is, You have only led me thorough by the hand; and given me a transient View of them: when I could have dwelt Hours upon admiring each by itself. 'Tis just like some Travelling Enjoyment of this kind; when we have been forc'd to run over whole Apartments furnish'd with Pieces by the greatest Masters, too numerous to be observ'd •articularly; You have delighted me in •aste; and I know not how it is, I find •y self pleas'd and dissatisfied at the •ame time.

I am sure, says Antiphaus, I have dealt •ith you, like the Connoisseurs, which a Traveller often meets with in places, •here there are the best Collections: Were you left to your self, you would •njoy a thousand Beauties in them; but must be plaguing you all the while with ••inting out the most particular; tho', after all I know only where they stand, who they were drawn by, and what they represent.

But we forget, Philypsus, that we are at present half Travellers in earnest: We are from home; and you see the Sun is just setting—No,—interrupted Philypsus, We have half an Hour good, at least; And if you have any thing farther on this head, I beg you would favour me with it:—As you please, says Antiphaus.—You know, •e have hitherto been viewing those Points in which P•etry and Painting •••ee; there is one Method behind, ••ich P•etry has of impressing its Images, •ecu••ar to itself.—The Poet •an imitate the Colours of the Painter; but the Painter can never imitate the Sounds of Poetry: You may see the Hero •all in Picture; but in the Poem you see him fail, and hear the Clang of his Arms.

Yes, Philypsus, there is a natural fitness in Sounds. Every Passion has its distinct Voice; each Action its proper Turn; and every Motion a particular Sound that may correspond to it.

Only observe the difference in th• Sound of these Lines; 'tis as sensible a• that of the real Sounds, which they describe: Compare this Couplet, of Mr. Pope,

[a] Trembling the spectres glide, and plaintive vent

Thin hollow Screams along the deep descent.

With this of the same hand,

—The string let fly,

[b] Twang'd short and sharp, like the shrill Swallow's cry.

Thus we might [c] compare in reading Virgil several Descriptions of Rivers: There we have the full course of the Po, and the windings of the Tiber, the [d] largeness of Benacus, the [e] slowness of the Mincio, the [f] murmuring of a Brook, and the broken [g] course of a River incumber'd with Men and Arms; in a word, every variety of streams that can be conceiv'd, all imag'd in the various Numbers and Cadence of his Verse.

In Poetry, the Bow twangs; the Arrow [h] whizzes thro' the Air; and [i] the Quiver rattles on the Shoulder of the Warrior; Even the particular difference of the same sort of Actions, is to be distinguish'd in the sound of the Verse; and the Javelin, that [a] flies impetuous from Ulysses, languishes in the hand of the Suitors. This very Circumstance, as I take it, is beautifully describ'd by the Translator of Vida, among several other [b] excellent Images of the same Kind.

We do not only meet with a great Variety of these significant Numbers in the Odyssey; but are instructed too in the Methods of rendering our Numbers proper and significant. Here we are taught how the Poet roughens his Verse to imitate the Subject he is to express. Thus the Note tells us that his Description of the Sea abounds [c] ‘with the harshest Letter our Language affords. It is clog'd with Monosyllables, that the Concourse of the rough Syllable•, might be more quick and close in the pronunciation, and the most open and •ounding Vowel occur in every word.’

On the contrary, a gentle flowing Stream runs as easy and smoothly in the Description: We then hear [a] ‘nothing of those rough Consonants; Instead of them we meet with several Liquids, and those Liquids are soften'd with a multitude of Vowels.’

What a violent and strong Motion does Homer give to Sisiphus's Stone in its fall?

[b]〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

Whence this Rapidity and Violence in the Numbers? [c] If we observe it we find that ‘There is not one Monosyllable in the Line, and but two Dissyllables; Ten of the Syllables are short, and not one Spondee in it, except one that cou'd not be avoided in the close ’(which perhaps too may be of Service towards imaging the stopping of its Course at last) ‘There is no Hiatus or Gap between word and word, no Vowels left open to retard the Celerity of it:’ and yet, tho' the Motion be carried on with such a vehemence, one seems to see the bounding of the Stone, as well as the Impetuosity of its Descent.

I should think (tho' the Notes do not mention any thing of it) that the Translator expresses this double Image in the English; when he makes the Stone

[a]—Resulting with a bound,

Thunder impetuous down, and smoak along the ground.

At least, In both we m•y say of the Versification, as of the Stone it describes;

Ipsa suis viribus ruit.

The opposites to these express a Slowness and Difficulty of Motion; When a Hero strains

—Some rock's huge weight to throw,

[b] The line too labours, and the words move slow•

Thus is Sisyphus describ'd in the former Picture;

With many a weary step, and many a groan,

[c] Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone.

Never was a Translator more just to his Original; The Observation which has been made on the Greek, these Lines answer, will hit equally with the [d] English ‘The Verses are clog'd with long Syllables, and with Vowels open upon one another; the very Words are heavy, and as it were make re•istance in the pronunciation.’

In the same manner Virgil and Homer describe the Labour of the Giants, when they endeavour to scale Heaven.
[a]
Virgil, cheifly by the openness of his Vowels: Homer, by the resistance of his Syllables, and the pauses of his Lines; and his Translator, by slow Syllables, burthen'd with several Elisions, close upon one another.

The Numbers are thus minutely adapted to the Motions describ'd by these great Masters; And we need not wonder if they observe like Rules in Points of greater concern; Such are all Occasions where they speak the Language of the Passions: or endeavour to touch the Soul of the Reader either with Pleasure or Pain.

When Homer describes any terrible Object, [b] ‘He rejects the more flowing and harmonious Vowels, and makes Choice of such Mutes, and Consonants as load the Syllables:’ Then long weighty Sounds, and Words of many Syllables are proper; and often a design'd harshness, unusual pauses, and a broken structure in the verse.

But the Lyre must be new tuned, when the Subject is agreeable or delightful. The Poet then softens every Line [b] ‘with Vowels, and the most flowing Semi-vowels: he rejects harsh Sounds, and the Coll•sion of rough Words:’ The Tone of the Verse must be neither serious, nor majestick; but rather qualified by as great a Frequency of short Syllables, as can well be admitted, without rendring the Lines Weak and Effeminate: The Cadence is soft and gene his Words descend like a kind re•r shing Shower; or like the Snow that melts in falling.

The joyous Ver•ification admits of more sprightly Notes, and a greater Mixture [c] of Energy and Vigour: sometimes she rises even to breakes, and pauses: [403] but they must be always, like those in Musick, pauses of Delight: and the Verse muse spring on again, when it recovers itself, without losing any thing of its Exultation and Vivacity.—Unless some [a] afflicting Theme breaks in, and turns our Thoughts away, to dismal Scenes, where sighs and melancholly Reign: The Muse, compassionate, speaks all in Tears, and moves with the same [b]slow Melancholly Air.

It is scarce to be imagin'd, Philypsus, how great the Powers of Sounds are, when adapted to the Subject and the Passion. For my part, I should think that our very Bodies are dispos'd to receive them; that this Frame of ours is like an Instrument ready tun'd; and when the proper Key is touch'd, our Nerves tremble and answer it with a Kind of Musical Sympathy. How far this may reach in others, I know not; but as for my particular Make, 'tis strangely susceptible of such Impressions. After a Period set to Melancholy, I have been surpriz'd to find my Eyes full of Tears: There are some exquisite Lines which I can never read without a certain Shivering thorough my Blood, that I cannot express to you: I have felt my Spirits Burn within me, upon hearing a Point of War, well wrote; and have been almost ready to start from my Seat at the Poetical Sound of a Trumpet.

This Energy of Sounds, and the great and various Emotions they are capable of raising in our Breasts, may serve partly to excuse those Criticks, who are very particular in laying down Rules, as to this part of Versification; The Ancients, as well as Moderns, have left us whole Treatises upon it: and those who have wrote in a more general way, are very diffusive, when they come to this Part of their Subject. They speak to every the least Circumstance; and Readers, who have never thought over this Point, would be surpriz'd to find the great Cicero very industriously •ettling Quantities, and measuring Words fit for such and such a Period. They would wonder, whence he is so peremptory for •ambicks on this Occasion; and on another, so great a Partizan for Tribrachs, and Dactils.

Why, seriously, says Philypsus, I have often thought him quite tedious on these particulars: The Orator, even the Critick, seem'd to be lost sometimes, and nothing but a mere Pedant appear in their room. I admire the force of Numbers (continu'd he) as much as any one; but when I have been reading the Rules at large in the Criticks, I could not help thinking them too minute and trifling. If a Man must be taken up thus in weighing Syllables and ranging of Vowels, what Elegance of Language can we expect, or what Life in his Compositions?

What you say (answer'd Antiphaus) is what, I believe, most Men think on this Occasion: and were a Poet always to be studying his Rules, such an Objection would be very powerful: But it is with this, which is only the Mechanism of Verse, as it is in the Mechanism of Writing. We must learn to draw the Figure of the Letters, and study how to form the particular Turn of each• before a Man can write down a wh•le Sentence; By use this knowledge gr•ws familiar; We then write by a [a] sort of Instinct; and our Pen runs over each Letter, without our considering, distinctly at each which way we shall direct it. 'Tis much the same in these Arts of Versification. When we have learn't the force of Letters, and the Powers of Sound; when we know what Syllables are proper to express such a Motion, and what run of Verse hits such particular Images, Use makes the Mind ready in applying what is proper; and the Thought is as nimble in suggesting Words of a suitable Sound, as the Hand is in Motions proper to set down those words on our Paper.

But it will be hal• a life, perhaps, before the Poet can come to this Readine•s—I do not say it is to be acquir'd immediately, answer'd Antiphaus, but acquir'd in some Measure it must be, by any one who desires to be a true Poet: In the mean time, a Man may indulge his Vigour, he may compose his Lines with full Spirit, and set them to Musick afterwards; Le• a Man write with Flame, if he will but correct at Leisure.

Besides: this is not so difficult to be attain'd, as one wou'd imagine. The fitness of Sounds to things is natural: Invention itself will go some way in the Work; and where there is naturally (What we call) a Good Ear, Nature will do the Business almost without the help of Art. I do not speak this in a declamatory way, Good Philyps•s; I imagine Fact and Experience will go a great way in proving what I say. A Man, who thinks vehemently, will speak swiftly; and when we are on a grave Point, our Words will of themselves be in a great Measure slow and weighty. This is yet plainer from the Invention of Languages; How many single Words are there in every Tongue, that have been originally cast in a proper Mould, and on the first Heat carried off the Images of things impress'd upon them? I was saying too, that the posture of the Mind at the time of Composing, will assist the turn of the Composition; And is this more absurd in particular Cases, than that the Temper of a People in general should affect their Language in the same manner? Yet has it been often observ'd that the Dispositions of a People are perceivable in that Turn of Words they chiefly delight in. Thus the French Tongue is brisk and voluble: The Germans talk in vast Syllables and perpetual Consonants: English is neither too soft, nor too rough: tho' our Northerly Situation inclines us rather to the latter: And, as the Spaniard is the most haughty of all Nations, their Language is the most Grand; it prides itself in firm Syllables, in a frequency of the fullest Vowel, and the most sonorous Terminations of its Words.

Nature certainly forms us within for fit Sounds: We see every Day that even Brutes can express their Passions by the Tone of their Voice; and is not an Intelligent Being as well qualified by Nature to adapt Sounds to his Senti •ent•?

Indeed they are thus adapted already in a Multitude of Instances; Our Language abounds with such words; and •n many Cases we need only utter our Sentiments in the most common Expressions, to speak with this Significance. What was it that led the first Inventors into this frequency of such words? Was in Art, or the Natural Resemblance, and their Obviousness upon that Account? 'Tis in this Light we must understand our Master Critick, where he calls Nature [a] ‘The great Original and Mistress of propriety in the present Point: It is she that leads us to imitate things by Sound; and to express what we conceive, by Words that are turn'd according to those strong Likenesses, which we form in our Minds.’

'Tis plain the Use of Words is arbitrary: we might if we had a fancy for it, call any thing by any Name: Yet there is something from within, that has influenc'd all Nations so •ar, as to lead them to descriptive Sounds, in their giving Names to things; and that more frequently than one would readily imagine. What Nature has done in single Words the Poet carries on in Composition; Almost all the particular Names of Sounds themselves, for instance, are naturally significant in most Languages; as with us, the Roaring of Waves, the Whistling of Winds &c. Of such Words, assisted by a proper structure of Quantities, and a significant Cadence of Verse, the Poet makes an Hurricane by Land, or a Storm at Sea. Nature first presided in establishing those proper sounds, and still directs in the Assemblage of them.

Hence it is that this Point takes such a Compass in the Doctrine of the Criticks. Some of them, no doubt, carry the Matter too far, when they would require this Natural Significance of Sounds, to be kept up in every thing we write. Such was Vossius. It would make you smile to hear some of his Fancies: He talks as if every Language, like that of hi• Favourites the Chinese, should be nothing but Musick: He would have our very Actions all Tuned: A Soldier can't run the Gauntlet, but he must be [a] slash'd in Time; and his very [b] Barber must Shave him in a just proportion of Dactils and Spondees.

Hermogenes is perhaps more trifling, tho' in a graver manner: He questions whether this sort of Sounds be not preferable to t•e Sentiments in a Poem. This is to oppose two Things, that are in the strictest Amity and Concord. These Sounds do not, like the Modern, pretend to rival the Sense; their whole Business is to make the Sentiments more strongly perceiv'd, and more effective on the Mind.

I have heard it frequently objected to those Gentlemen, the Criticks, that they find out several Beauties of this Kind in the Works of Homer, which he, never so much as dream't of in composing 'em. In many Cases this may be true; and in many the Lines may be justly commended, and really significant, tho' that particular Beauty might not be design'd in composing them: But those, who can perswade themselves, that Homer never design'd any such thing in his Writings, I should think, might soon bring themselves to believe (what has been so frequently produc'd as an instance of Absurdity) that his Poems might be made by chance.

The Notes of Musick in a good Composition are fitted to the Subject: And a good Copy of Verses wrote for Musick will be fitted for Notes. I cannot once doubt, that the first Stanza in Mr. Pope's Ode for St. Caecilia's Day has a design'd Harmony all thorough it. 'Tis just the same Case with Homer's Poems: They were all made for Musick; and have been all sang to the Lyre.

As for my part, says Philypsus, I find Musick enough in them, even now, without the Lyrist. Neither have I any quarrel with the Criticks for giving mepleasure, and pointing out Beauties of this kind, whether design'd by Homer or not. But I wonder at one thing: while they speak of the Defect in this point perpetually, I never yet heard them speak of any Excess in it: 'Tis certain, that the greater Number of Poets err in neglecting the significant Turn of their Verses: but is there no erring too by an Affectation of it?

I thank you, (answer'd Antiphaus) for putting me in mind of this particular. Undoubtedly there may be faults on both sides: Even in the Poem before us I imagine, this is sometimes carried too far, and sometimes us'd improperly: The Infirmness of a Couplet, mention'd on another Occasion, agrees with the thing describ'd, and may perhaps be blameable on that very Account.

[a] His loose head tottering as with wine opprest•

Obliquely drops, and nodding knocks his breast•

Terrible Images have something engaging; and the Mind takes a secret Pleasure even in Melancholly: Disagreeable [a] objects alone are the worse for being well describ'd: A Poet is to reject, as well as to chuse; 'Tis want of Art to set every thing in a strong Light• and there are many Objects, which if they must have a place at all, require at least to be flung into Shades.

If this be true, there are some few Images of this sort, which I think are drawn too strongly, or too lavishly:

[b] Down dropt he groaning—

[c] He said: chill horrors shook my shiv'ring Soul.

[d] They curse their cumbrous pride's unweildy weight.

[e] There wallowing warm &c.

To me the Screaming of the Ghosts, as describ'd at the end of the Eleventh Odyssey, is rather disagreeable than dreadful:

Swarms of Spectres rose from deepest Hell•

With bloodless visag• and with hideous Yell,

They scream, they shriek; sad groans and dismal sounds

[f] Stun my scar'd Ears, and pierce hells utmost bounds

I leave this to your judgment; for it is very difficult, in these Cases, to discern the True from the Faulty: A harshness of Sounds is often proper and significant; but when and how far, is a knot that I will not pretend to untye.

I beg leave to repeat a Passage from the Iliad, in which some of the Lines may be strain'd too much, under this notion of rendering them significant:

First march the heavy Mules, securely slow,

O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crag•, o'er rocks they go:

Jumping, high o'er the shrubs, of the rough ground,

Rattle the clatt'ring cars, and the shockt axles bound.

But when arriv'd at Ida's spreading woods

(Fair Ida, water'd with descending floods)

Loud sounds the Axe, redoubling strokes on strokes;

On all sides r•und the Forest hu•ls her Oakes

Headlong• Deep-echoing groan the thickets brown;

[a] Then rustling, crackling, crushing, thunder down.

This last Verse in particular may be an Instance of employing descriptive Sounds too thick upon one another; but this, if it be a fault, is such an one as in the present state of Poetry, requires an unusual Eminence in the Writer, to be capable of committing it.

'Tis much more frequent among our Poets to neglect the Sentiments in their Versification; to give up the significant Structure of Words, for mere harmony and softness of Verse; and even to make u•e of Numbers contrary to the Image or Passion they are describing; tho' to describe Actions of Rapidity, for instance, in slow solemn Measures, is as absurd, as for an Actor to scold, or rant, with the tone and steadiness of a Philosopher.

We have not time, Philypsus, otherwise I should have ventur'd on some farther Faults of our Versification: but I must not now run out into Complaints on the frequent Consonants and frequent Elisions, multiplied so much in our Verses, tho' both ought to be particularly guarded against, in a Language naturally overladen with them:—On the neglect of Measure, and taking all Syllables whether long or short to be of Equal Time: and the Lameness and Inequality from hence in Verses of the same kind:—The discord of the Emphasis or Accent, and of the Pauses:—the repeated Cadence, and continued Likeness of Sound. I need only mention some other Identities of Sound, as all middle and double Rhimes, and all that are alike for two Couplets together. And methinks, Philypsus, as all these likenesses of Sound would be given up at the first word, unless there be some particular Reason for retaining that fashionable jingle at the close of our Verses, we may even reckon that as bad as the rest. I should have said something on this: but 'tis no great matter; since it stands condemn'd over and over by the greatest Criticks among the Modern. For my part, I'le talk no more of it, that we may go in Humour to our Claret.—I begin to wish my self in your Parlour. The Evening shuts in apace. Come, good Philypsus, let us be going, I beseech You.

FINIS.

Notes

a
Art de bien Parler• Part 1. Chap. 4. Sect. 5.
↵

a
Thus: Mellif•uous, attemper'd; ever-shady, ill-perswading, serpent-mazes, and several others in this Translation.
↵

b
Thus perhaps: Sea-girt, end-long, loved•ttied, woman-state, &c. in the same.
↵

a
Plurimae sint locutiones apud Poetas usita •ssimae, & in primis elegantes, quae scriptis Pro
••
cis usurpatae etiam Grammaticae leges violant.

〈◊〉

Trapp's Prael. Poet. Page 49, &c. to Page 53.
↵

a
Cum sint verba Propria, sicta, translata; Prop
•
iis dignitatem dat Antiquitas: eo ornamento Vi

•

∣g
•
l
•
u
•
u•ice •st usus. Quintil. Instit. Lib 8. Cap. 3.
〈…〉
Lib 9 C
•
p 3.
↵

a
WINTER: by Mr. Thompson.
↵

a
Eo (Epitheto) poetae & frequentius & liberius u
•
untur: Namque illis satis est conveni

••

verbo, cui apponitur; & ita Dentes albi, & Humi•• Vina in his non reprehenduntur. Quintil. Insti• Lib. 8. Cap. 6.
↵

b
Pref. to Il. p. 21.
↵

a
Huge, horrid, vast! Od. 5, 227
••
175.

↵

b

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Dem. Phal.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

.
↵

c
See Mr. Pope's Note on Il. 1, 683.
↵

a
See
〈◊〉
5

•

85.
↵

a
Od. 9, 67—56.
↵

b
N
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
which is beautifully express'd by Horace in three words (nimi•m lubricus aspici) is enlarged by Homer himself, on a fit occasion, into three lines: Compare Ιλ. λ, 16, with ν', 340.

↵

c
Od. 18, 250—209.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

a
Od. 9, 330—276.
↵

b
Od. 23, 217. compared with verse 227.
↵

c
Od. 1, 389—299.
↵

d
Od. 19, 110—91.
↵

e
Od. 10, 291.
↵

a
Od 4, 320—230.
↵

b
Addison's Misc. Vol. 1. p. 245. 120.
↵

c
Windsor-Forest, p. 59. folio.
↵

a
As when the Cyclops, in the height of his good nature, promis
•
s Ulysses, that he shall be the last he will devour. Od. 9.

↵

b
Od. 1, 449—353. 15, 435—399. otherwise 12, 52. 18, 284 &c.
↵

c
Verse 380—342.
↵

d
M•sc. Vol. 1. p. 245. 120.
↵

a
Thus in the Twilight, when we have really a sort of visible Darkness, Homer uses an Epithet of the same contrariety: A
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, i.e. Darkness ting'd every way with Light.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

, 433.
↵

a
Dexter, circumfusile, variegated Od. 15, 145.
↵

b
Seneschal, viands, bev'rage, irefull 3, 179.
↵

c
Jupiter is stil'd, God (simply; Od. 3. 190—158,
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
) Neptune, A God above the Gods. Od. 13, 167.

↵

d
To thee a Son is giv'n—Od. 18, 207. And—Food in the desart land, behold, is giv'n. Od. 10, 204—175.
↵

a
Flown (with Insolence) Od. 1, 292. •ilial
•
or a Daughter) 6, 67.

↵

b
Partial Od. 8
•

•

85.
〈◊〉
17, 200. Objected 7, 54. Impl•cite 9
•
514.
↵

a
Od. 7, 117—90.
↵

b
Thus there is something which does not
•
ound entirely right in these lines:
Full shines the Father in the Filial Frame, Od. 4, 199. He ceas'd: the Filial Virtue made reply. 22, 167. Mean time Arcte for the hour of rest Ordains the fleecy couch—7, 428. The Peers reproach the sure Divine of fate. 20, 432.

Within the Stricture of the palace wall 22, 186. Imposthumate with pride.—20, 358. With Venial freedom let me now demand Thy name.—1, 219. There cling implicite, and confide in Jove. 9, 514.

The Seneshal rebuk'd in haste withdrew, 4, 47. A Cenotaph I raise of deathless fame. 4, 794.

↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Aristot. Rhetor. Lib. 3.

•

p. 2.
↵

38
(b) Od. 19, 155—131.
↵

a
Cap. 24. Ed. Oxon. 1718.
↵

b
Spectator, N. 59
•

↵

a
Od. 22, 135—118.
↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Arist. Rhet. l. 3. c. 2.

↵

a
Od. 17, 621—535.
↵

b
Page 22. 12mo.
↵

c

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

*
Chryses.
↵

a
Il. 1, 60—42.
↵

a
Whoever thinks a faultless Piece to see,
•
hinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. Pope's Essay on Criticism.

↵

a
From Aristotle's Lib. de Poet. Cap. 2
•
.

↵

a
Od. 24, 339—289.
↵

b
Od. 24, 376—
•
20

↵

a
Od. 19, 554—475.
↵

b
Od. 16, 208—189. Od. 22, 166—152.
↵

a
Od. 22, 81—67.
↵

b
Od. 19, 85—69.
↵

a
Od. 11, 408—328.—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, Verse 333

•

And V. 369. Alcinous desires him to proceed.
↵

b
—Donec Calchante ministro—Tum vero ardemusscitari.—Aen. 2,
•
00 and 105.

↵

a
Sta•za the 6th.
↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
(the Disciples of Pythagoras)

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

. Philo •ratus de Vita Apol: Lib. 1
•
Cap. 1.
↵

a
Od. 16, 243—220.
↵

b
Od. 21, 240—226
•

↵

c
Od. 24, 404—346.
↵

d
Od• 23, 212—205.
↵

e
Od. 10, 288—246.
↵

e
Od. 10, 288—246.
↵

a
Od. 11. 665—537.
↵

b
Note ibid. and Longi •••, θ.
↵

a
Od. 5, 305—238.
↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Longinus,

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

•
nd Cicero: Rarum est eloquenter loqui;
••
iu
•
, eloquenter
•
acere. Ep. ad Atticum• L. 13.
↵

b
See Dem. Phal.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

a
Od. 16, 217—195.
↵

b
Od. 24, 411—351.
↵

a
Od. 23, 240—230.
↵

a
Od. 16, 249—226.
↵

a
O•. 17, 55—44.
↵

a
As Tiresias in the 11th Odyss•y; or Anchises in the 6th Aeneid.
↵

b
See Il. π', Ver. 844 and 852. Aen. 10, 739.
↵

*
Th
•
oclymenus.

↵

a
Od. 20, 430—357.
↵

b
—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

a
Joel 2. 31.
↵

b
Amos 8. 9.
↵

c
Ezek. 32 8.
↵

a
Blackwall's Sacred Classicks
•

↵

85

••
) Od. 22, 38—33.

↵

86
(b) Od. 21, 104—98.
↵

a
See Aen. 10, 501.
↵

a
Od. 18, 308—263.
↵

a
Od. 24, 272—232.
↵

b
Od. 4, 116—91.
↵

a
Od. 24, 622—537.
↵

b
Od. 24, 612—527.
↵

c
Od. 20, 256—204
•

↵

a

Virgil seldom descends to particulars: h• c•uses rather to say in g•n••al, Atque D••s, a•q•• a•tra vocat crud•l a m•••r. •v•n his 〈◊〉 i• •ore reserv'd than Hom•r'• Deisrs: He rather •idicules than aff••nts; As• a• me Divum p•ter a•q• Hominum R•x Viderit—Afterwards he grow• 〈◊〉 little Wa•mer, and more Me•apho•ical;

D•xtra mihi Deus, & ••lum quod missile libro, Nunc adsint—

Where he speaks plainest of all, Virgil touch• upon his miserable fa•e in the very next line:

N•c mort•m horremus• nec Divum parcimus 〈◊〉 D•sine. Jam venio moriturus.—Aen. 〈◊〉

↵

a
Il. 1, 39—29
↵

b
Il. 12, 284—243.
↵

a
Praecipuè ex his oritur mira sublimitas, qu
•
•ud•ci• proxima periculo translationis attollitu

•

〈◊〉
T
•
llun
•
ur quum rebus sensu carentibus actu
•
quendam & animos damus. Quintil. Lib 8. Cap. 6. Aristotle and Phala•eus say exactly the same; s
•
e the la
••
er
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.
↵

a
Od. Vol. 5
•
Pag. 238.

↵

a
As when we amplify the Swiftness of a
•
Hero, by comparing it to the Flight of an Eagle

〈◊〉

or
↵

b
the Swiftness of an Eagle, by comparing i
•
to the Swiftness of the Winds.

↵

a
See Addison's Works, Vol. 1. Pag. 78. 120.
↵

a
Od. 10, 291—248.
↵

a
Od. 6, 374—311
•

↵

b
Od. 6, 204—169. As Aen. 3. 672.
↵

d
Od. 9, 581—495. Aen. 8, 712.
↵

a
Habakkuk 3, 10.
↵

b
Od. 20, 335—268.
↵

c
Od. 17, 506—421.
↵

a
Od. 24, 540—470.
↵

b
Od. 24, 558—484.
↵

c
Od, 24, 618—534.
↵

a
Od. 22, 136—119.
↵

b
Od. 9, 449—378.
↵

c
Od. 14, 499—447.
↵

a
As does Virgil, Georg 4, 29.
↵

b
Od. 131—112. See V. 565 ib. 48
•
.

↵

a
Od. 2, 28—21.
↵

b
See Od. 19, 286—251.
〈◊〉
20. Verse 19, to Verse 30—13, to 23.

〈◊〉

See Spectator, Numb. 5.
↵

a
Od. 13, 22—18.
↵

b
Od. 4, 587—431.
↵

c
Od. 16, 380—368.
↵

a
Il. 2, 60—49.
↵

b
Il. 19, 1.
↵

c
Il. 11, 1.
↵

d
Il. 8, 83—66.
↵

e
Od. 9, 515—437.
↵

f
Od. 16, 381—368.
↵

g
Od. 4. 587—431.
↵

g
Od. 4. 587—431.
↵

h
Od. 19. 500—428.
↵

i
Compare Od. 19, 500, with 6, 58.
↵

a
Aen. 6, 536 &c.
↵

b
Thus Donatus, Ruaeus, &c
↵

c
Aen. 7, 26, and 6, 536.
↵

d
—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Idyl. 13.

↵

e
Aen. 5, 10
•

↵

f
Aen. 6, 536.
↵

g
Aen. 7, 26.
↵

h
K
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. L• cophron.

↵

a
The Twilight is reckon'd into the Night.
〈◊〉

•

, 433. And the first direct appearance of
•
ays attributed to the Sun; ibid. 422.
↵

b
Il. τ', 2.
↵

c
See Mr. Pope's Note on Il. 5, 928.
↵

d
Od. ψ'
•
44.

↵

e
See Note on Od. 23, 260.
↵

f

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Il. β', 49, &c.

↵

g
This Eustathius shews
〈◊〉
large in his first Note on the second Book of the

•

dyssey: particularly, as to the Epithet
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.
↵

a
O•. 19, 149—128.
↵

b
Od. 17, 49—39.
↵

c
Od. 5, 21
•
, and 216—167.

↵

a
Od. 19, 22—18.
↵

b
Od. 19, 143—122
•
, O•. 17, 49—38.

↵

a
C
•
saubon.

↵

b
Persius.
↵

c
Preface to his Wo
•
ks, Fol. and Pref. to the

••

storals. p. 10.
↵

a
See Note on Odyssey 11, 152—18,
•
07.

↵

b
From Ss. Book 16, 237. ibid. 420. B. 18, 158. B. 19, 99 &c V•rgil. B. 15, 250. B. 16, 189. B. 17, 227.—Ibid 523. B. 18, 121. B. 24, 131. &c.—Homer. B. 17, 613. B. 24, 513.—Milton. B. 19, 694. B 20
•
370. B. 24, 498. &c.—Dryden. B. 23, 322. B. 24, 309. i•id. 632.—

↵

c
Sp•ctator, Numb. 369.
↵

a

So Pallas spoke: the mandate from above

The King obey'd. The Virgin-seed of Jove

In Mentor's form confirm'd the full accord,

And willing Nations knew their lawful Lord.

Homer himself does not end in so full and compl•at a manner: His last Line does not rest well: and Chapman seems resolv'd to shew the infirmness of it, as much as he could possibly in his Translation, which breaks off in these Lines.

—Twixt both parts the seed of Jove,

Athenian Pallas, of all future love

A League compos'd; and for her form, took choice

Of Mentor's likeness; both in limb, and voice.

↵

a
Od. 19, 461. And 547—392, and 467.
↵

160
Quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, qu
•
d u

•

ile, quid non,
•
nius ac melius Chrysippo & Cran
•
o
•
e dicit
•

〈◊〉
1. Ep. 2.
↵

a
Od. 6. 245—207.
↵

b
Od. 9, 321—269.
↵

c
Od 6, 24
•
—208.

↵

a
Od. 9, 329—271.
↵

b
Od. 7, 265—199.
↵

c
See Od. 7, 256—194.
↵

a
De Officiis• p. 20. In beneficentiâ delectus esset dignitatis &c.
↵

b
Od. 17, 471—387.
↵

a
Od. 7, 264—198.
↵

a
Od. 18, 171—141.
↵

a
Aen. 9, 206.
↵

b
Od. 17, 523—441.
↵

c
See Note on Il. 17, 731—647.
↵

a
Il 12, 284—243.
↵

b
Origin of our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue.
↵

c
See Arist Rhet. Lib. 2. Cap 21.
↵

a
See Note on Od. 7, 379.
↵

b
Arist. Rhet.
•
ib. 2. Cap. 21.

↵

c
Addison's Misc. vol. 1. p. 237. 120.
↵

d
Port. 'Tis not in mortals to command success;
•
ut we'll do more, Sempronius; We'll deserve it

•

•emp. Curse on the stripling how he apes his
〈◊〉

•
mbitiously sententious.—Cato. Act
•
.
〈◊〉

↵

a
Aen. 10, 860.
↵

a
Od. 22, 226—208.
↵

b
Od. 2, 54—47.
〈◊〉
Od. 18, 443—397.

↵

d
V, 610.
↵

185
(e) Bel. Jug.
••
106. Ed. Mattaire

•

↵

a
Od. 24, 499—436.
↵

a
Od. 18, 299—255.
↵

b
Od. 1. 77—59.
↵

c
Haec verba mehercule un
•
falsa lachrumula, Quam, ocul

•

s t
•
rendo misere, vix vi expresserit, Restinguet.—Eun. Act. 1. Sc. 1.
↵

d
Thus Dryden: from his—Non tu in triviis, indocte, solebas Stridenti mis•rum stipula disperdere carmen. Ecl. 3, 27. As others from this Line: Qui Bavium non odit, amet tua carmina, Maevi. ib 90.
↵

a
Ιλ. χ, 48. The Opposition is carried on farther in the next Lines, between
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, &

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

.
↵

a
σ', 224.
↵

a
Ιλ. σ', 248.
↵

b
ib. π', 70.
↵

c
—σ', 262.
↵

d
Ιλ. ν', 60, 75.
↵

e
ib. ξ, 150.
↵

f
ib. ο', 242.
↵

g
Od. 24, 547—475.
↵

h
Od. 24, 561—485.
↵

a
Cap 9. Ed. Ox•n. 1718.
↵

b
See Preface to B•ileau's Works.
↵

c
See Huetij Dem. Ev. Prop. 4. Sect. 53.
↵

a
Plutarch's Life of Marius.
↵

b
See Quintil. Instit. Lib.
•
. Cap. 3. and Lib. 9. Cap 2.

↵

c
Il. 8. 80—65.
↵

a
Il. 10, 356—298.
↵

b
Note on Il. 10, 3
•
6.

↵

c
Minus est totum dicere, quam omni
•
.

↵

a
Instit. Lib. 8. Cap. 3.
↵

b
To form Moun
•
A•h•s into a Statue of Alexander the Great; so desig

•

'd
•
as to hold a City in one hand, and to have a River run thorough the other.
↵

a
His Picture of that Giant in Miniature.
↵

a
Od. 9
•
217.

↵

214
(b) Ibid. 354.
↵

c
Ibid• 469.
↵

d
Il.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, 676.

↵

a
—Balaenarumque prementem Egeona suis immania terga lacertis. Met. 2, 10.
↵

c
See Note ibid.
↵

219

•
) Il. 21, 470—404.

↵

a
Od. 5
•
529—413.

↵

b
Od. 11, 139 and 3
••
.

↵

a
Od. 5, 521.
↵

b
Od. 12, 474.
↵

a
Characteristicks. Vol.
•
. Pag. 389.

↵

a
Aen. 2, 369.
↵

b
Od. 23, 369.
↵

c
Ingreditur{que} solo & caput inter nubilacondit Ae 4, 177.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. Lxx per Grabe.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

, 16.
↵

a
T
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. De Subl. θ'. Edit. Oxon.

↵

b
Essay on Criticism.
↵

c
Note on Il. 8, 16.
↵

d

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. V, 722.

↵

a
Hesiod's
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
. 744.

↵

a
Spectator, Numb
•
412.

↵

b
Numb. 4
••

↵

c
Numb. 412.
↵

a
Eadem fere est ratio minuendi: Nam
•
otidem sunt descendentibus, quot ascendentibus gradus. Quintil. Instit. Lib. 8. Cap. 4.

↵

a
Od. 22, 88—75.
↵

b
Od. 17, 549—4
•
1.

↵

239
L•nginus, Cap. 3
↵

a
Od. 22, 2.
↵

b
Od. 3
•
435—3

•

9.
↵

c
Il. 21 471.
↵

d
Od. 10
•
131—115.

↵

*
Antiphates.
↵

e
Od. 10, 144—124.
↵

a
Od. 23, 337—313.
↵

b
Od. 7, 228.
↵

c
Od
••
19

•

.
↵

d
Od. 7, 296—215.
↵

e
De Arte P•et.
•
95.

↵

a
Od. 23, 387—360.
↵

b
Od. 13, 156—135.
↵

c
De A••e Po••. V. 139.
↵

a
Od. 15, 295—270.
↵

b
See Od. 13, 164 to 172—140 to 147.
↵

c
Misc. Vol. 2, p. 300. 120.
↵

a
All
•
z vous, luy dit-il, s

•

ns bruit chez vos parens
•
Ou vous avez laisse vo
•
re honneur & vos gans ib.
↵

b
D•s. on the Classicks• p. 217.
↵

a
Od. 17, 400—328.
↵

b
Od. 15, 560—517.
↵

c
Od. 8, 68—69.
↵

d
From Vossius de Carm
•
Cantu. p. 45.

↵

e
As in Horace's Art of Poetry, V. 139 and Virgil's
•
Geo•g. V. 181.

↵

a
Od. 8, 78.
↵

a
Od. 17, 550—463.
↵

b
Od. 4, 227.
↵

a
Essay on G••rg• 1. Pref. p. 3.
↵

b
V. 227.
↵

c
V. 41—35.
↵

a
Od. Vol. 5. p 237. 120.
↵

b
Od.
•
282—239.

↵

c
V. 625—541.
↵

a
See Od. 4, 543, and 548—10, 285. &c Od. 9. 443—373. Aen. 3
•
632. Addis•n's

〈◊〉

V. 1. Pag. 61. 120.
↵

a
Il. 9, 612.
↵

a
O
•
. 16, 35—3

•

.
↵

b
See Note on Od. 18, 412.
↵

c
S
••
Od. 4, 974. 14, 122. and 18, 412.

↵

a
Od 19, 110—91.
↵

a
Od. 24. 504—437.
↵

b
Od. 10, 593—499.
↵

c
Od. 7, 123—94.
↵

a
Egli è vivo, e parlerebbe, se non osservasse la ragola del Silentio
↵

b
Od. 23, 47—51.
↵

c
Mr. Wollaston.
↵

d
Bouhours.
↵

a
Od. 12, 32—22.
↵

a
Lord Bacon. De A•gm. Scient. Lib 6. Cap.
↵

a
Od. 22, 32—27.
↵

b
Od. 10, 205—180.
↵

c
Od. 22, 13—10.
↵

a
Addison's M•sc. Vol. 1. p. 239. 120.
↵

b
O
•
14, 454—410.

↵

c
Malbranche. Search after Truth V. 2 p. 74.
↵

a
Od. 14, 209—180.
↵

b
Od. 11, 740—599.
↵

a
Od. 19, 245—209.
↵

b
Od. 11, 487—391.
↵

c
Dryden's Pref. to Juvenal, p. 84. 80.
↵

a

•
gnoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere man

•

↵

b
B••ckwall's Introd. to the Classick•, p. 214.
↵

c
G•org. 1
•
404.

↵

a
Addiso• Vol. 1. Pag. 76. 12
•
.

↵

a
Od. 15, 319—296.
↵

b
Od. 23, 336.
↵

a
Od. 14, V. 8 to 26.
↵

b
Od. 17, 316 and 415.
↵

c
Od. 17, V. 230 to 245.
↵

a
Od. 15, 151.
↵

b
Od. 11, 226.
↵

c
Od. 16, 15
•

↵

d
Od. 24, 285.
↵

e
Od. 24, V. 237, 256, 26
•
and 395.

↵

a
Od. 22, 430—387.
↵

b
Compare Aen. 2
•
303. δ', 455.

↵

c
See Od. 12, 300. and the Note
•
re.

↵

a
Od. 7, 135—106.
↵

b
Od. 24, 14
•

↵

c
S
•
e Od. 5, 420—330.

↵

a
As in Mr. Pope's Iliad 22, V. 257 to 262. Book, 21.
↵

c
Od 5, 64.
↵

d
Od. 12, 300.
↵

a
Guarini's Pastor Fido. Att. 4. Sc. 7.
↵

b
O
•

•

. 42.
↵

c
—Cui saepe suis in montibus hirc
•
Prolixam invidit barbam—De Cambro-Bri• Thus Virgil's Abietibus juvenes patriis & montibus aequos.

↵

d
Od. 17, 47—37.
↵

a
Od. 18, 229—192.
↵

b
Od. 5, 630—488.
↵

c
Ibid 417.
↵

d
Od. 19, 605—518.
↵

a
Georg. 4, 511.
↵

b
Od. τ', 523.
•

↵

a
See Ιλ. ξ, 394.
↵

b
—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, 453 to 483.

↵

a
Before his Translation of the Georgicks.
↵

a
See a Pindarick Ode on Cowley, in Dryden's Misc. (Vol. 4) particularly the whole third Stanza.
↵

b
Ad inferendam rebus lucem repertae sunt Similitudines.—Praecipuè custodiendum, ne id quod Similitudinis gratiâ adscivimus, aut obscurum sit
•
ut igno

•

um. Quintil. Instit. Lib. 8. Cap. 3.
↵

a
Figures either belong to the Diction, or the S•ntiment: the latter is what is here intended.
↵

a
Book, 21.
↵

b
B. 16.
↵

c
B. 24.
↵

d
B. 23.
↵

e
Od. 23, 215.
↵

a
Od. 20, 419.
↵

b
Od. 18, 194—162.
↵

a
Od. 19, 247.
↵

b
See Note, ibid.
↵

a
See Chrysostom. Tom. 6. pag. 5. Ed. Savil.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
&c.

↵

b
Where the Historian says that Pope died
Con allegrezza non mediocre della cor•e: •a quale ben ammirava le vertu di quello, che erano una gravita naturale, et essemplare parsimonia, & dissimulation•; odiava pero maggio•∣mente l' avaria•ia, durezza, & crudelta.
Hist. del Concilio Trid• p. 68.

↵

a
Od. 9, 604—516.
↵

a
Od. ζ', 16
•
—6, 193.

↵

b
Aen. 9, 682 and 1
•
, 700.

↵

a
Ιλ. χ', 355.
↵

b
Il. 10, 22
•
—189.

↵

a
—Vastos a rupe Cyclopas Prospicio, sonitum{que} pedum, vocem{que} tremisco. Aen. 3, 648.
↵

b

—Ex oculis se turbidus abstulit. Ae. 11, 814.

—Tum pectore sensus

Vertuntur varii. Rutulos aspectat & urbem,

Cunctatur{que} met•, telum{que} instare tremiscit. 12, 916.

↵

c
Tum primum nostri Cacum videre timentem Turbatumque oculis.—8, 223.
↵

d
—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.—

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

, 169.
↵

a
Od. 24, 201 to 208.
↵

b
Aen. 9, 550.
↵

c
Od. 12, 245.
↵

d
Od. 18
•
284.

↵

e

—Subitus tremor occupat artus;

Diriguere oc••i: tot Erinnys sibilat hydris,

Tantaque se facies aperit.—Aen. 7, 448.

↵

a

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
&c.—Ιλ. θ', 98. See Note on Odyssey 10, 295.

↵

b
This sort of Idea is strongly express'd in the Odyssey•
Gods! should the stern Ulysses rise in might, Those gates would seem too narrow for thy Flight. 18, 427—6, 385.

↵

c
Od. 22, 417—284.
↵

a
See pope and Dacier on the Shield of Achilles. ••. Book 18.
↵

a
Thus where Europa is said

—Terras spectare relictas

Et comites clamare suas, tactumque vereri

Assilientis aquae, timidasque reducere plantas:

One should forget it was only in Picture, did not the Poet take so much pains to inform us of it;

Ipsa videbatur terras &c—

Verum taurum, freta vera pataras.

Met 6, 107.

↵

b
See Aen. 8, 634.
↵

c
Ibid. 711.
↵

d
See Pope's Il. 18, 595 to 626.
↵

e
Ibid. 677.
↵

a
Il. 18, 683
↵

b
Od. 19. 268—23
•
.

↵

c
Il. 14, 252—127.
↵

d
See Ιλ. σ', 475
↵

e
Ibid 480.
↵

f
Ibid. 549
↵

a
Od. 11, 756—608.
↵

b
Aen. 1, 482.
↵

a
Od. 24, 6.
↵

b
Od. 21, 449—411.
↵

c

Fluviorum rex Eridanus. Georg. 1, 482.

S•xosumque sonans Hypanis. Georg. 4, 370.

Or these—Fluvio Tiberinus amaeno

Vorticibus rapidis, & multa flavus arena

In mare prorumpit. Aen. 7, 32—Fragosus

D•t sonitum saxis & torto vortice torrens AE. 7. 567.

↵

d
Georg. 2, 160.
↵

e
Georg. 3, 14.
↵

f
Georg. 1, 109.
↵

g
Aen. 1, 103.
↵

h
Od. 21, 461.
↵

i
Il. 1, 64.
↵

a
Od.
•
2. 2

•

2.
↵

b
See Pitt's Vida• p. 108. &
•

↵

c

〈…〉

•

2 2
•••

↵

a
See Note on Od. 14, 1.
↵

b
Οδ. λ', 597.
↵

c
See Note on Od. 11, 736.
↵

a
Od. 11, 738.
↵

b
Mr. Pope's Art of Criticism
•

↵

c
Od• 11, 736—594.
↵

d
See Note on Od. 11, 736.
↵

a

Ter sunt conati imponere Pelio Ossam

Scilicet, at{que} Ossae frondosum involvere Olympum.

Georg. 1, 282 Sec. Ed. Ruaei.

—
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
, 315.

Heav'd on Olympus tott'ring Ossa stood;

On Ossa, Pelion nods.

—Od. 11, 388.

↵

b
See Note on Od. 6, 193
•

↵

b
See Note on Od. 6, 193
•

↵

c
Exulting in Triumph now rise the bold Notes. Mr. Pope's Ode on Musick
•

↵

403
(a) See Note on Od. 6, 153.
↵

a
As Virgil from the glories of Rome, to the death of Marcellus. Aen. 6.
↵

b

Quantos ille virum magnam Mavortis ad urbem

Campus aget gemitus! vel quae, Tiberine, videbis

Funera, cum tumulum praeterlabere recentem.

Aen. 6, 874.

This Delay also fixes the melancholly on ones

Mind: and for the same reason Repetition seems

to be particularly useful on these subjects:

—Ut vultum vidit morientis & ora,

Ora modis, Anchisiades, pallentia miris;

Ingemuit miserans graviter.—Aen. 10, 823.

↵

a
See Quintil. Instit• Lib. 10. Cap. 7, Est igitur usus quidam irrationalis &c. Or Mr
•
Lock's Essay. Lib. 2. Cap, 9. Sect. 9, and 10.

↵

a
Dion. Hal.
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

a
The Ancients (says he) us'd Musick in eve
•
y thing; Adeo quod ipsae quoque plagae ad 〈◊〉 harm•nic•s sontibus i•gerebantur. De Viribus Ry

•

hmi. p. 47.
↵

b
Non semel recordor me in ejusmodi incidisse manus, qui quorumvis etiam can•icorum mo••s suis imitarentu
•
pectinibus; it

•

ut nonnunquam Iambos v
•
l Trochaeos, alias Dactylos vel Anapaestos, nonn
•
nquam Amphib
•
aches aut Paeonas quàm sci
•
issimè exprimerent und
•
haud m•dic• •ri•b•tur del•ctatio. ib. p
•
6
•
.
↵

a
Od. 18, 282—239.
↵

a
Longinus condemns a Passage in Hesiod on this very Account: de Subl. Cap. 9.
↵

b
Od. 14, 473—425.
↵

c
Od. 4, 725—538.
↵

d
Od• 1, 214—165.
↵

e
Od. 4, 547—405.
↵

f
Od. 11, 782—632.
↵

a
Il. 23, 147—120.
↵

Information about this book

Title statement

An essay on Pope's Odyssey: in which some particular beauties and blemishes of that work are consider'd.

Spence, Joseph, 1699-1768.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3350

ID [isbn10]

1106003497

ID [isbn13]

9781106003492

ID [TCP]

K002464.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3309994535

ID [ECLL]

0128700300

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— An essay on Pope's Odyssey: in which some particular beauties and blemishes of that work are consider'd., Spence, Joseph, 1699-1768.. [12],156;[12],216p. ; 12⁰. [London] :: Printed for James and J. Knapton, R. Knaplock, W. and J. Innys, J. Wyatt, D. Midwinter, London: and S. Wilmot, Oxford,. 1726-27.. [Anonymous. By Joseph Spence.] [In two parts, each with separate pagination and register; part 2 has its own titlepage dated 1727.] [In this issue, the general titlepage is a cancel and is not priced.] [Reproduction of original from the Harvard University Houghton Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN3841.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

Creation

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2p5.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

This electronic text file was keyed from page images and partially proofread for accuracy. Character capture and encoding have been done following the guidelines of the ECCO Text Creation Partnership, which correspond roughly to the recommendations found in Level 4 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines. Digital page images are linked to the text file.