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Demo unum, demo et etiam unum,
Dum cadat, elusus ratione ruentis acervi.

But enough has been said on this head.

2dly, When, without any preparation, we are thrown at once into the midst of the subject, unacquainted with the characters or situation of the hero; such a conduct can be productive only of a surprise and perplexity to the reader, which, if they are any beauties, are at least beauties of an inferior species of poetry. Nor is this all; this very ignorance and perplexity of the reader diminishes the interest of that part of the poem; for how can we love beauties we are yet ignorant of, or tremble for misfortunes of which we have a very faint idea? Nor can it be said that the nature of an epic subject preserves it from this inconveniency; since it always is, or ought to be, some story already famous. It may be so; but we are not yet acquainted with the alterations it may have suffered under the hands of the poet: nor can the similar example of dramatic poetry be alleged. It is there an unavoidable defect; but we ought not therefore voluntarily to transfer it to another species of poetry.

3dly, When this objection begins to vanish, and the reader, interested in the present misfortunes of the hero, has little or no curiosity to inquire into his past ones, it is then the poet chooses to tell them. I suppose we have read the first book of the Æneid; it is impossible to read it as it deserves, without taking the greatest part in the important scene which begins to disclose itself; so romantic a meeting of a Trojan chief and a Tyrian princess,

upon

upon the shores of Africa, and the gods themselves employing every artifice to inspire them with a mutual passion, and prevent the establishment of the Roman empire. At the instant we are impatient to know the event, and expect the poet should hasten to it, we are entertained with a long recital of the sack of Troy, and the voyages of Æneas. After this is at last ended, and we return to Dido, we have almost forgot who she was. Is this consulting the pleasure of the reader? and that pleasure ought to be the aim of every writer. I do not know whether I may not have expressed myself too strongly in saying, we have little, or no curiosity, to learn the past fortunes of the hero; but, however, let it be considered, 1st, That before they are told us in a regular narration, a thousand hints of them must have been dropped, which betray the secret; so that we only come to it with that languid curiosity, of learning the particulars of what we have already a general idea. 2dly, That we are not to consider our positive degree of curiosity, to know the events previous to the beginning of the poem, but to compare it with the desire we feel of pursuing the sequel, which must be far more ardent; for in every operation of the mind there is a much higher delight in descending from the cause to the effect, than in ascending from the effect to the cause. In the perusal of a fable, it is the event we are anxious about, and our anxiety increases, or diminishes, as that event is known or unknown to us. It is easy to apply this to the present argument.

4thly, and lastly, (for though I endeavour to be concise, I am frightened when I look back,) The style of the poet will suffer as much by this inversion as his plan. Bold figures and poetical imagery are the essence of the epopœa; but with what propriety can they be introduced in that episode, where it is the hero, not the poet, that speaks? There are two sources of these figures; strong passion, and a fine imagination. The first can operate, in any strong degree, only during the actual influence of the misfortune which gave birth to it; and though the recollection of the latter may call forth some sparks of the former, yet it will be a faint, reflected heat, very unequal to that great effect, of transporting both the speaker and the hearer. On the other hand, a fine imagination is no essential part of a hero. Homer and Achilles are very different characters; nay, should the chief personage, like Ulysses, celebrated orator, even that will not authorize his employing the beauties of poetical language, since his recital, to be properly introduced, must be unpremeditated, and occasional: not like the poet, who, besides the fire of natural genius, is indulged with every advantage of time, labour, and a particular inspiration of the gods.* The episodical story

be a

* When Antenor, in the third Iliad, points out to Priam, Ulysses among the Grecian chiefs, he describes the nature of his eloquence:

Αλλ' ότε δη πολυμηλες αναίξειεν Οδυσσευς

Στασκεν, υπαι δε ιδέστε καλα χθονος ομμάλα πήξας,

Σκηπΐρου

story must, therefore, be simple, unadorned, and far inferior, as to style, to the rest of the poem. I am sensible the Eneas of Virgil is as great a poet as Virgil himself; but either the principles I have laid down are false, or this example is a strong proof of the inconveniences of the method; since it obliged so correct a writer, to offend either the judgment, or the imagination of his readers.

I cannot pass to Mr. Hurd's arguments, without mentioning a difficulty which seems to affect my second objection, viz. this ignorance and perplexity is an objection only to the first perusal. It is true; but, if precepts are to direct the composition of the writer, it is certainly that first perusal, and the effects it may produce, that he should principally consider: especially as to what relates to the clearness of his plot and should it be said, that in my third objection our curiosity to know the event can be likewise only balked on the first perusal, to the preceding answer I must add, that whoever con

Σκηπΐρον δε ουλ' οπίσω, ούτε προπρήνες, ενώμα,
Αλλ' απεμφες εχεσκεν. ανδρει φωτί εοικως
Φαίης κεν ζακολον τινα εμμεναι, αφξονα θ' αύτως
Αλλ' ότε δη β' οπα τε μεγαλην εκ σήθεος δει,
Και επεα, νιφάδεσσιν ἐοικία χειμερίησιν,

Οὐκ αν επειτ' Οδυσήν γ' ερίσσεια βρίλος άλλος.

Iliad iii. v. 216–223.

Out of the several testimonies to the eloquence of Ulysses, collected by Dr. Clarke, I shall only subjoin that of Quintilian: "Sed summam adgressus, (Homerus) ut in Ulysse, facundiam, magnitudinem illi junxit; cui orationem nivibus hybernis, et copiâ verborum, atque impetu, parem tribuit. Cum hoc igitur nemo mortalium contendet."-Quintil. xii. C. 10.

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siders the power of imagination, will find that reply by no means exact. Although, when we can coolly reflect, we are acquainted with the event, yet the true poet, by interesting our passions, chains us down to the present moment, and prevents our seeing any thing beyond it. When I read the tragedy of Iphigenia for the twentieth time, I know Iphigenia will not be sacrificed; but the struggles of Agamemnon, the rage of Achilles, the despair of Clytemnestra, make me ignorant, and tremblingly anxious for the event.

Let us now hear Mr. Hurd, who, employing the particular example of the Æneid, justifies this common method from two reasons. 1. The nature of an epic poem; and, 2. The state and expectation of the reader.

1. The nature of an epic poem obliges the poet to relate, at full length, every event he himself relates. Now, the destruction of Troy, related in this manner, must have taken up several books. By that time it would have taken such hold of the imagination of the reader, that the remainder of the poem would have appeared little more than an appendix to it. The conclusion is certain; but on what is the principle founded? upon an assertion advanced without the least proof. I should rather think, that, as an epic poem must preserve an unity of hero, and of action, every event, instead of being related at full length, need only occupy a space proportionate with its importance and degree of connexion with the principal subject. This is at least the rule of history; and if poetry should only

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