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 AN 
 
 INQUIRY 
 
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 INTO THE 
 
 NATURE AND EXTENT 
 
 OF 
 
 POETICK LICENCE, 
 
 By N. A. VIGORS, jun. Esq. 
 
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 fa.\uyvvw}j,iv . Plut. de audiend. Poet. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR J. MACKINLAY, 87, STRAND, 
 
 BY T. BENSLEY, BOLT COURT, FLEET STREET. 
 
 1810. 
 

INTRODUCTION, 
 
 Among the works of invention, which are 
 intended to promote the convenience, or in- 
 crease the elegancies of society, the compo- 
 sitions of the Fine Arts are distinguished by a 
 marked peculiarity in their end and execu- 
 tion. As they are directed to the object of 
 contributing to the gratification, not of ad- 
 ministering to the necessities of mankind, 
 they seem, by their nature, to claim an ex- 
 emption from that exactness and regularity 
 of representation, which characterize the 
 works of mere utility. Pursuing thus a pe- 
 culiar end, they have been indulged in pe- 
 culiar immunities; and to such an extent has 
 the right of their professors to these exclusive 
 privileges been acknowledged, that they have 
 been allowed to heighten their delineations 
 by such adscititious or imaginary embellish- 
 ment, as, lying beyond the boundaries of 
 nature and reality, appear more calculated to 
 awaken our interest, or add to our delight. 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 But among the arts, thus privileged by 
 universal suffrage, poetry not only stands the 
 first in point of rank, but preserves this eleva- 
 tion in nearly the same degree of superiority, 
 as their productions surpass the inferiour 
 works of invention. The powers by which 
 the less exalted of these sister arts excite 
 the emotions of taste, are nearly limited 
 to the use they are enabled to make of ma- 
 terial objects; they may be almost said to 
 find their verge terminate where there is no 
 beauty or sublimity of colour, sound, or form. 
 But not only all the sublimity and beauty of 
 matter, but of mind, come under the poet's 
 controul ; he not only raises a new creation 
 more novel, more fanciful, and more perfect 
 than exists any where in reality; he not only 
 animates his scenery with characters, but 
 informs his characters with sentiments, and 
 endows them with language suitable to their 
 ideal existence. Indeed poetry in its ima- 
 gery, excels the other fine arts, not merely in 
 the same degree that the intellectual world 
 excels the corporeal: the power of a poet 
 over his materials is nothing less than en- 
 chantment; he can as easily transfer the pro- 
 perty of one object to another, as substitute 
 one object for another; he can animate 
 
3 
 
 matter into mind, and invest mind with the 
 form and properties of matter. 
 
 On carrying up our inquiries into the 
 nature of so extraordinary and considerable 
 a portion of the materials of a poet to the 
 source, and investigating the sentiments of 
 the ancients on the subject before us, their 
 opinions are found deserving of notice, more 
 from the partiality which they have mani- 
 fested towards this licentiousness in compo- 
 sition, than from the success which they have 
 evinced in justifying or explaining it. In 
 undertaking to account for those bolder effu- 
 sions of the art, which they regarded as soar- 
 ing too high for the controul of reason, or 
 trammels of precept, they pronounced them 
 to be the effects of a divine phrensy. Under 
 this idea, which was no small favourite with 
 antiquity, the votarist of the muse was 
 feigned to receive by inspiration those sub- 
 lime conceptions, which he imbibed with so 
 much warmth, and delivered with so much 
 enthusiasm. In vain did he, who was not thus 
 favoured by heaven, endeavour to regulate 
 his essays by art, or by labour; all his at- 
 tempts must prove cold and lifeless, until 
 animated with that effluence which could 
 descend from the muse alone. While he 
 
who received the divinity in tne moments 
 when she was propitious, and wrote under 
 her immediate inspiration, possessed the right 
 of giving utterance to her dictates, how 
 little conformable soever they might be 
 found to the more rigid principles of criti- 
 cism. 
 
 From the force of these descriptions of 
 poetical enthusiasm, much it is to be remarked 
 should be subducted, and attributed to the 
 extravagance of declamatory exaggeration. 
 There is evidently displayed under the tissue 
 of figurative language, an ambitious attempt 
 at raising the description to the height of the 
 subject described, and at accommodating it 
 to the elevation of poetical expression. To 
 a certain degree however they may be ad- 
 mitted; for they do not appear so difficult to 
 be reconciled, as may be at first imagined, 
 with notions which are at present very gene- 
 rally allowed. Few persons, it is presumed, 
 will be found to deny the existence of that 
 talent or aptitude for excelling in any of the 
 arts of design, which we term genius; which, 
 though capable of improvement or deteriora- 
 tion, is a natural endowment dispensed by 
 the same Power which has bestowed on us 
 our grosser organs. As few, it is presumed. 
 
will be found to deny that it is to those per- 
 sons alone, on whom this faculty is bestowed, 
 that those happy irregularities of conception 
 or execution, which we tolerate as licences, 
 will be likely to occur. While they who are 
 accustomed to attend to the motions of their 
 minds, must have observed that there are 
 propitious moments, when, from the acci- 
 dental presentation of external objects to the 
 senses, or the fortuitous recurrence of ideas 
 previously acquired by sensation, those happy 
 combinations of imagery arise, which cannot 
 be created at pleasure. 
 
 But of these opinions of the ancients, 
 even with the aid of this explanation, little 
 use can be made in elucidating the nature of 
 those licences of poetry which it is the pur- 
 pose of these inquiries to investigate. They 
 give the matter under discussion a depen- 
 dance upon a mental faculty which is pro-- 
 bably as inscrutable in its nature and move- 
 ments, and as difficult to be brought within 
 ascertainable limits, as these licences them- 
 selves. And surely if poetical genius or en- 
 thusiasm is of a nature which is difficult to 
 be determined, much more difficult must it 
 be to ascertain those effusions to which it 
 gives birth, which are of themselves capable 
 of an endless modification. 
 
Neither does modern criticism afford us 
 much greater assistance in entering on these 
 inquiries. Though various writers have 
 touched on the subject, and have sheltered 
 many seeming anomalies in poetry, under 
 the general term licence, yet they have no 
 where denned with accuracy what the term 
 signifies. Man}' expressions occur in the 
 works both of poets and cri ticks, which infer 
 the existence of such a principle in poetry 
 as certain and acknowledged: some few 
 passages might be pointed out, where a de- 
 scription of its nature is cursorily attempted, 
 and others where bounds are partially pre- 
 scribed to its power. But in the only attempts 
 wherein they have undertaken to define its 
 nature, they are found either to give too 
 great a latitude to its meaning, or to circum- 
 scribe it within too narrow limits. The 
 former seems to be the case, where poetick 
 licence is described as being that particular 
 character which distinguishes and sets bounds 
 between poetry and mere prose : a for to 
 
 * Mr. Dryden thusdefines this term, " Poetical licence I take to 
 be the liberty which poets have assumed to themselves, in all ages, 
 of speaking things in verse, which are beyond the severity of prose. 
 It is that particular character which distinguishes and sets the 
 bounds betwixt oratio soluta and poetry." 
 
 Pref. to State of Innoc. 
 
select a single instance, verse, which consti- 
 tutes an essential difference between both 
 kinds of composition, is not in any respect of 
 a licentious character, however included in 
 this description. And on the other hand, 
 those attempts at illustrating its nature, must 
 be at once pronounced too confined in their 
 application, which would straighten it (as 
 is the case in some few tracts' 5 written ex- 
 pressly on the subject,) to the immunities of 
 mere poetical diction. 
 
 From the insufficiency of these attempts, 
 it is of course still necessar}* that some effort 
 should be made to complete the definition 
 of the terms under consideration. And in 
 order to arrive at one more just and compre- 
 hensive, it is expedient to make a few preli- 
 minary observations ; which, if they do not 
 appear wholly adequate to the end of their 
 application, will at least afford some assist- 
 ance in arranging the scattered members of 
 poetry, and thus bringing within the bounds 
 of comprehension an art so apparently un- 
 limited in its nature and varied in its ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 b See particularly Christ. Ware, Senar. sine de Leg. etLicent. 
 Vet. Poetar. 
 
8 
 
 The study of human nature, in which 
 every poet should be read, is merely a con- 
 texture of different sciences. Every thing 
 which regards man's state and situation, 
 either has been made, or is capable of be- 
 coming the subject of such learned or phi- 
 losophical investigation. To History is com*- 
 mitted the perpetuation of his achievements 
 in the more active and splendid scenes of 
 life. The circumstances not only of his 
 nature and existence, but of those inferiour 
 beings, and of that inanimate world, which 
 becomes considerable from being connected 
 with him, supply Natural History with its 
 various speculations. From the varieties in 
 his manners, his conduct, and his opinions, 
 Ethicks derive their matter of discussion. 
 The peculiarities of his language give to 
 Grammar, and Rhetorick their scope and 
 origin. And to Criticism is consigned the 
 regulation of those finer productions of the 
 art, which furnish his taste with the means 
 of elegant gratification. 
 
 That each of these sciences enter the 
 composition of poetry, is a truth so evident, 
 as to need no proof in order to be admitted. 
 And he who would succeed in this art, must 
 not only have his observation considerably 
 
exercised in the different subjects of their 
 investigation, but must have reduced his 
 speculations in them under such general 
 heads, as will give his thoughts the consist- 
 ence and utility, which arise from system. 
 He cannot hope, without being somewhat of 
 a good historian, to succeed in those higher 
 walks of his art, which take their subject 
 from the oral or written annals of a nation. 
 Without much of the skill and observation of 
 a naturalist, his descriptions of rural scenery, 
 and his delineation of life and manners, must 
 be cold and uninteresting. That knowledge 
 of the human heart and character, of the 
 calm tenour of sentiment, and the warm 
 ebullition of passion, which he is so frequently 
 called upon to display, he must derive from 
 the same study whence the moral philosopher 
 constructs his system of ethicks. Over lan- 
 guage in all the varieties of sense, structure, 
 embellishment, and harmony, he must exer- 
 cise the skill of a grammarian and a rhetori- 
 cian. And he must complete his education 
 in this circle of sciences, by acquiring a per- 
 fect insight into those critical rules by which 
 his art is to be tried on the touchstone of 
 excellence. 
 
10 
 
 But though the poet is thus brought 
 within the fence of science, he is not confined 
 to the narrow limits of its circumference. 
 By a certain felicity of boldness, which has 
 ever been the undisputed right of his art, he 
 may break down that pale which would set 
 bounds to his prerogative. To the language 
 of history he is not always obliged to pay a 
 rigid attention; he may often give to past 
 events, a turn which is more suitable to the 
 elevation of his ideas; and may represent 
 things, not as they happened, but as he con- 
 ceives they might have happened. In his 
 delineation of natural scenery, and pictures of 
 human life and action, descriptions and cha- 
 racters may rise from his creation, different 
 from what nature any where unfolds to con- 
 templation. The language in which he 
 speaks, is particularly distinguished from 
 that which occurs in reality; but setting aside 
 the circumstances of its consisting of verse, 
 and figurative expression, those marked pe- 
 culiarities which characterize the diction of 
 a poet, he may fashion his language with a 
 frequent disregard to the minuter rules of 
 grammar. Criticism alone assumes the right 
 of restraining the licentiousness of poetical 
 
11 
 
 ardour; but even from its dogmas, he pos- 
 sesses a right of appeal to the judgment, and 
 the feelings. 
 
 Science, therefore, appears to constitute 
 a standard, from which the poet may be ge- 
 nerally said to depart, in taking those liber- 
 ties which are justified by licence. But that 
 science is exclusively the standard from which 
 he deviates, will be more admissible, on de- 
 monstrating the improbability of there being 
 any other. 
 
 On a casual view of the subject under 
 consideration, art and nature may be thought 
 to possess an equal or paramount claim to 
 that of science, in forming the standard from 
 which the poet possesses a liberty of deviat- 
 ing in his delineations. From the rank 
 which his compositions hold, as the principal 
 among the arts of taste, the intimacy which 
 they possess to the former, may be thought 
 even closer than that which they bear to the 
 latter. Nay, in regarding poetry as strictly 
 imitative, in which is inferred the notion of 
 an original and a model, which the artist 
 aims at copying or emulating, each may be 
 regarded as forming a standard, to which he 
 must in some respects conform, and from 
 which he may in others occasionally depart. 
 
12 
 
 With a reference to this distinction, the li- 
 cences of poetry may be conceived to be de- 
 terminable; either as deviations from that 
 state of things, abstractedly considered, which 
 obtains in nature, or from that mode of prac- 
 tice which is generally observed in art, not 
 less by the poet himself, than by such artists 
 as imitate the same objects with him. 
 
 A single observation, however, will be 
 sufficient to shew, that neither of these prin- 
 ciples can be taken as the foundation of a 
 theory which will be adequate to define or 
 illustrate that subtle quality of composition 
 which I have undertaken to investigate. One 
 example will, in fact, sufficiently evince that 
 some licence may be used where there is no 
 deviation from any such standard; beyond 
 which circumstance, we need not seek any 
 additional proof of the insufficiency of the 
 principle under consideration. 
 
 For let us suppose, as a possible case, 
 that the poet has occasion to represent some 
 fact which history describes as improbably 
 atrocious and unnatural, and that suitably to 
 what was likely to occur, he describes it as 
 merciful or upright; it is evident that in thus 
 misrepresenting a known circumstance, he 
 takes a liberty with truth, which is only jus- 
 
13 
 
 tifiable by licence; and yet in this process, 
 so far may he be from deserting that stand- 
 ard which is assumed in the present hypo- 
 thesis, that his conduct may be at once more 
 conformable to nature, and more consistent 
 with his general practice, as well as with 
 that of every artist who may undertake to 
 describe the same circumstance. 
 
 In a word, the apparent force of both 
 hypotheses may be not merely explained 
 away; but both may be reduced under the 
 more comprehensive principle which was 
 originally laid down, as being exposed to no 
 similar objection. The fact is, that both art 
 and nature! may form constituent parts of 
 science, the true standard by which every 
 deviation is to be estimated which is admit- 
 ted as a licence: for we have already seen, 
 that what is generally prescribed in the for- 
 mer, gives rise to that system of rules, which 
 constitute the laws of grammar and criticism ; 
 and that what generally obtains in the latter, 
 furnishes history and physiology with their 
 respective subjects. These sciences include 
 no small portion of the materials of a poet; 
 and it will probably be found, that it is only 
 as each assumes a scientifick form, that it con- 
 stitutes a' standard, by which the liberties 
 
14 
 
 taken in poetical delineation may be at all 
 determined. Thus, however different the 
 present principle may be thought from that 
 which was fundamentally laid down as true, 
 they are, in fact, identical. And this cir- 
 cumstance, by affording a striking evidence 
 of the comprehensiveness of the theory which 
 I commenced with establishing, since it in- 
 cludes one which is itself not narrow or cir- 
 cumscribed, appears to offer as decisive a 
 proof as may be easily suggested, of the ex- 
 clusive truth of the former. 
 
 If this conclusion may be now taken as 
 established, we require little more in order 
 to perfect the developement of the terms un- 
 der consideration, than to point out the ob- 
 ject by which a poet is led to deviate from 
 what is true in science. And this may be 
 done with sufficient precision, from a maxim 
 advanced by Aristotle, in the close of his 
 " Poeticks," where he undertakes the refu- 
 tation of some charges urged against poets; 
 and which, though it may not appear to de- 
 signate the nature of licence, at least fully 
 justifies its adoption, while at the same time 
 it specifies the end which ought to be sought 
 in every deviation from science. " The prac- 
 tice of the poet in feigning any thing," says 
 
15 
 
 the critick, c " which is impossible according 
 to science, is justified when he attains the 
 specified end, of making the general effect 
 of the composition itself, or any of its parts, 
 more striking." 
 
 From these considerations, and from this 
 authority, we may venture to define Poetick 
 Licence as follows; That liberty whereby 
 a poet, in order to render his compositions 
 more striking, allowably deviates from what 
 is considered true in science. 
 
 Although, for reasons which have been 
 already specified, we are sufficiently justified 
 in offering this definition as comprehensive 
 and clear, it must be allowed, that in order 
 to render it logically adequate, it is necessary 
 to establish the converse of what is here ad- 
 vanced; and to shew, not merely that what- 
 ever is a deviation from science will be a li- 
 cence, but that whatever is a licence will be 
 a deviation from science. Even granting 
 this object attained, we must proceed far 
 beyond the limits of a definition, in order to 
 accomplish all that is proposed in the present 
 
 c YlpwTov psv yap, av "fa. tfpo; awfr^v ryv ftfxyfp aSuvccra. ite- 
 Ttwficu, rj^apTrjTocr aXA' opSiJo; £%£», £» rvyy^ocvsi rS rsKag -ta avrr t ;. 
 To Se rtXos eipyteu' Oioy, si erw; ExffAijxTUair^oy y avro, t] oc\Ko 
 tfoiEi i>*Bpos. De Poet. § 46. 
 
16 
 
 essay. As the standard is various and dif- 
 ferent, from which the poet claims a power 
 of departing, the nature of those licences by 
 which he assumes such a liberty must be very 
 indefinitely marked out by a general refer- 
 ence to science; and as the quality of being 
 striking is relative, and admits of a different 
 modification, according to the several species 
 of composition in which it is attained, it 
 forms but a vague standard for determining 
 the extent which may be tolerated in poetick 
 licence. 
 
 The readiest expedient which offers for 
 supplying these defects, and obviating these 
 exceptions to the comprehensiveness of the 
 subjoined investigation, seems to lie in a co-» 
 pious induction made with the express object 
 of proving, that in every licence some scien- 
 tifick truth is violated, and some striking 
 effect attained. In prosecuting which, it 
 will be attended with little comparative dif- 
 ficulty to examine how far every deviation 
 may be prosecuted, without abusing the 
 power by which it is tolerated. 
 
 That no objection may be raised to the 
 induction on which I hope to ascertain these 
 points, as partial or limited, it seems advis- 
 able to consider poetry in every light in 
 
17 
 
 which it has been regarded by the compre- 
 hensive views of Aristotle. With this object, 
 it is my intention to prosecute my inquiries 
 into its licences through the various parts of 
 quantity into which that great critick has 
 divided the art; and to examine them with 
 respect to the Fable, the Manners, the Senti- 
 ments, and the Diction. 
 
 Of these constituent parts of the higher 
 poetry, the most considerable is the Fable, as 
 Aristotle has justly decided: this part shall 
 consequently be made the subject of primary 
 discussion. As it has been defined by the 
 critick, it is capable of a twofold considera- 
 tion; with respect to its incidents, and to 
 their structure in composition. The inci- 
 dents offer likewise a separate division to our 
 notice; being distinguished into those which 
 are natural and true, and those which are fic- 
 titious and marvellous. On these conside- 
 rations, it seems expedient to ground the 
 following distribution of these inquiries. 
 
 Sect. I. Of Incidents, real and probable. 
 
 Sect. II. Of Incidents, marvellous and 
 fanciful. 
 
 Sect. III. Of Arrangement, or Oeconomy. 
 
 Sect. IV. Of Manners, and Sentiments. 
 
 Sect. V. Of Language, and Versification, 
 c 
 
18 
 
 Besides this general distribution of the 
 subject, it is susceptible of a still more mi- 
 nute consideration; as each of these general 
 heads is referable to the separate divisions 
 under which the higher productions of the 
 art are arranged. According to the fore- 
 mentioned division of the incidents of poetry, 
 as real or fictitious, the compositions of the 
 Epopee and Drama are distinguished into 
 the Historick Epopee, and Historick Drama, 
 in the first place; and the Romantick Epos, 
 and Romantick Drama, in the second: the 
 " Pharsalia" of Lucan, and " Richard III," 
 of Shakespeare, forming an example of the 
 former; the " Orlando" of Ariosto, and 
 " Tempest" of Shakespeare, an example of 
 the latter. As occupying a middle rank be- 
 tween both, and partaking of their respective 
 characteristicks, we may distinguish the poe- 
 tical Epos, and the poetical Drama; includ- 
 ing under the former, such works as the 
 " Iliad" of Homer, and " Paradise Lost" of 
 Milton; and under the latter, such works as 
 the " CEdipus" of Sophocles, and " Othello" 
 of Shakespeare. 
 
 Although poetry is susceptible of a still 
 further division, besides that in which it is 
 regarded as epick and dramatick, there seems 
 
19 
 
 to be no necessity for giving it in any other 
 form a distinct consideration in the subjoined 
 essay. With regard to the Sentiments and 
 Diction, as they form equally a part of 
 poetry in every shape, compositions of what- 
 ever form, as amenable to the same rules, 
 require no separate examination. The ten- 
 dency of the subject of any work, or the 
 greater part of its matter, as it happens to be 
 marvellous or true, necessarily determines 
 the character of the production as romantick, 
 historical, or mixed. In this view, it may be 
 considered as forming an episodical part of 
 the higher compositions, and consequently, 
 as being subject, with little exception, to the 
 same rules with respect to its Manners, In- 
 cidents, and Arrangement. By this process, 
 the necessity of considering Lyrical and Pas- 
 toral compositions, which occupy the next 
 rank to those now specified, appears at once 
 to be precluded. And with regard to the 
 Didactick and Descriptive departments of 
 poetry, there appears to be no reason for in- 
 stituting a separate class for them, as they 
 seem to admit but of fe\v f if any, licences, 
 independent of those of Sentiment and Lan- 
 guage. 
 
SECTION I. 
 
 OF 
 
 HISTORICAL INCIDENTS, 
 
23 
 
 OF 
 
 HISTORICAL INCIDENTS. 
 
 The first object of the poet, who has the 
 general end of his art in view, is to select a 
 subject capable of contributing to the plea- 
 sure of his readers, and which it is his design 
 to prosecute through the varieties of plain or 
 embellished narration. But he cannot con- 
 ceive in idea, much less proceed so far as 
 to be informed from experiment, that a sub- 
 ject deficient in that importance which is 
 suited to the length and dignity of the species 
 of composition in which he engages, will be 
 calculated to excite interest, and uphold at- 
 tention, from the commencement to the close 
 of his production. Unimportant incidents, 
 which are not otherwise recommended to 
 particular notice by some engaging quality, 
 may, in a production of ordinary length or 
 merit, pass without remark; but when they 
 
24 
 
 are treated with that labour and embellish- 
 ment of style, which is generally essential to 
 poetry, and particularly to epick composition, 
 they must create so disproportionate a dif- 
 ference between the subject and its decora- 
 tions, as will offer much to excite disgust, but 
 little surely to promote our pleasure. 
 
 It is more than probable, that the poet, 
 with a view to securing those qualities of in- 
 terest and importance, which are essential to 
 the higher compositions of his art, applies to 
 history for a subject suited to the exercise of 
 his powers: or that some train of historical 
 occurrence, from possessing those qualities, 
 recommends itself to him who feels the in- 
 spiration of the art, as being highly adapted 
 to his purposes. But however great the 
 events, and however exalted the characters 
 which history exhibits, it rarely displays a 
 continuity of action possessing that uniform 
 elevation, and capable of upholding that 
 uninterrupted interest, which the poet is 
 called upon to maintain through the extent 
 of his subject. 
 
 Where history is thus found to deny its 
 support, invention offers its ready assistance; 
 it opens a store of inexhaustible matter at 
 
25 
 
 once within the poet's reach, and suited to 
 his necessities. Even those persons who lay 
 no claim to poetical inspiration, are observed, 
 in relating any of the more trivial occur- 
 rences of life, to throw more interest into 
 their account, by exaggerating what is un- 
 important, and supplying what is deficient in 
 its matter. How much more then, must the 
 artist be impelled to give a loose to his in- 
 ventive powers, who may plead the immu- 
 nities of poetical enthusiasm; who may re- 
 ceive a subject from history little calculated, 
 from the blemishes that may deform, and the 
 deficiencies that may mutilate it, to answer 
 all that expectation may demand in his art? 
 To the delicacy of his more refined sense, 
 those flaws and imperfections, which escape 
 the observation of grosser organs, must be 
 particularly manifest: he must observe the 
 necessity of polishing them down, or var- 
 nishing them over; and he must feel himself 
 possessed of talents adequate to secure him 
 success in such an undertaking. He must 
 perceive himself endowed with the power of 
 raising his conceptions beyond what he may 
 observe in reality; of improving on what is 
 beautiful, of elevating what is sublime, of 
 
26 
 
 adding further ornament to what is embel- 
 lished, and greater harmony to what is ar- 
 ranged. 
 
 We may hence look upon the poet as 
 divided in his choice between opposing inte- 
 rests; as led, on the one hand, to maintain 
 the importance of his subject by preserving 
 its truth; and as induced, on the other, to 
 heighten its beauty by increasing its embel- 
 lishment. And whatever be the impulse to 
 which he yields, his way lying through his- 
 tory, must either fall into the beaten track 
 of reality, or deserting it, must pass into the 
 confines of fiction. His course being thus 
 prescribed, we may proceed to determine 
 the nature and extent of those licences, in 
 which he may be indulged in taking either 
 direction. 
 
 Those places in which the poet does not 
 conform to history, are evidently those alone 
 in which his conduct in the present section 
 demands any consideration. And here, since 
 history is a science, there is a deviation from 
 that standard, which, as has been observed, 
 determines the nature of every licence, in as 
 much as there is a deviation from history; 
 for whatever fictitious matter is superadded 
 
27 
 
 to an account generally true, must be a de- 
 viation from the authority professedly fol- 
 lowed. Thus, in attributing irrascibility to 
 Brutus, or valour to Domitius Anobarbus, in 
 making Helen contemporary with Paris, or 
 Dido with iEneas, the poet deviates from 
 history, and is conceived to make use of a 
 licence. So far the nature of this quality of 
 poetical composition is, in the present in- 
 stance, easily determined. But to ascertain 
 the object of such deviations from science, 
 seems attended with as little difficulty. In 
 order that they should be allowable, without 
 which they can be evidently no licences, 
 they should at least conform more in their 
 altered, than original state, to the end of 
 poetry, by being more capable of giving 
 pleasure, or awakening interest. And this 
 end cannot be attained, without rendering 
 the production more striking: for every im- 
 provement which is added to the original 
 matter of the subject, as it increases its effect 
 must strengthen its impressiveness. 
 
 So far the Nature of those liberties 
 taken with the science of history is explained, 
 and shewn to possess every necessary con- 
 formity to the general definition formerly 
 
28 
 
 given of Poetick Licence. But to what Ex- 
 tent these liberties may be carried, with- 
 out transgressing the due bounds of li- 
 cence, demands a more particular conside- 
 ration. 
 
29 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 OF THE HISTORICAL EPOS. 
 
 Directing our attention to the historick 
 epopee in the first place, every difficulty which 
 requires a solution, in reference to its histori- 
 cal incidents, appears to be included in the 
 following question. 
 
 What may be the liberties which a poet 
 is permitted to take with the truth of the in- 
 cidents, on which he founds an historick 
 poem ; or, to speak with a more immediate 
 reference to the subject of the present in- 
 vestigation, how far in taking any such liber- 
 ties will he be justified by Poetick Licence ? 
 
 And this question may, I believe, receive 
 a solution from unfolding and applying those 
 principles, which direct the poet in the choice, 
 and guide him in the management of his 
 subject. 
 
 When we regard the more important in- 
 cidents which form the action, or ground- 
 work of the composition, they do not appear 
 capable of deriving any advantage from the 
 poet's pushing the bounds of truth into the 
 
30 
 
 regions of fiction. In pursuing any track 
 which occasionally falls into the direct course 
 of history, a poet's way must be influenced 
 by one of the before-mentioned principles of 
 his art: it may be on the one side directed by 
 an attachment to truth, or deflected on the 
 other by the love of embellishment. But in 
 his attempt to influence the reader's gratifica- 
 tion, by means of the first of these qualities 
 his powers admit neither of increase or 
 diminution. What is already truth, cannot 
 be made more so; and of those persons, 
 among whom he can expect to find readers, 
 all must be supposed acquainted with the real 
 statement of the more important facts in his 
 subject. Nor does this happen to be the 
 case with such readers only as live near the 
 period when those occurrences took place, that 
 are admitted into his descriptions; as his sub- 
 ject must, of necessity, be recommended by 
 its dignity, it must rank among those great 
 occurrences that exist longest, and most 
 forcibly in the memory. The knowledge of 
 the poet's subject being thus definite and 
 general!! the alteration of any historick inci- 
 dent, for the purpose of securing the second 
 quality, and conferring some particular beauty 
 of embellishment, must be productive of a 
 
31 
 
 consequence, which, to a certain degree, will 
 weaken the effect of the composition, by un- 
 fitting the mind for the perception of that 
 pleasure, which it is intended to awaken. For 
 it can scarcely admit of any doubt, that such 
 a play of the imagination will arise from 
 hence, as will rather distract our attention, 
 than concentrate our interest, in the perusal ; 
 as the most striking circumstances in the 
 authour's work will force themselves into a 
 comparison, what he has altered contrast- 
 ing itself with what we remember as true. 
 Thus in the particular species of composition 
 before us, where a number of recent events 
 exist in our recollection, when the truth of 
 any is sacrificed to embellishment, we must 
 be either immediately shocked at the under- 
 taking, or at least too far engrossed by a 
 sense of its impropriety to remain in that 
 state of freedom from prepossession, which 
 will enable us to acknowledge any beauties 
 that the poet may have acquired in his search 
 after extraneous ornament. 
 
 This is, however, but a negative incon- 
 venience, and consequently trivial, when com- 
 pared with others which may be apprehended 
 to arise, when the poet ventures upon the 
 project of blending fiction with truth in a 
 
32 
 
 composition professedly historical. On car- 
 rying such a scheme into execution, circum- 
 stances will occur which will not merely 
 weaken but counteract the effect of his com- 
 position. For, on account of the extended 
 knowledge of his subject, every alteration of 
 its important incidents must be a violation of 
 received truths ; and hence it will unavoidably 
 happen, that the expedient by which this al- 
 teration is effected will operate in a contrary 
 direction, as well to the general end of the 
 art, as to the particular means by which this 
 species of composition aims at securing this 
 general end. It deprives us of that portion 
 of pleasure which arises from the considera- 
 tion of truth; a quality that in no slight de- 
 gree contributes to advance the end of such 
 a work as an historical poem, the subject of 
 which is chiefly recommended by its dignity 
 and importance. We must consider more- 
 over every alteration of an historick incident 
 as being made suitably to the character of 
 the production in which it is attempted: 
 when this is not the case, whatever be the 
 change effected, it must fail in its end, from 
 the sense we retain of its want, not only of 
 truth, but of propriety. Such however is 
 the serious character of all historical com- 
 
33 
 
 position, that it will not admit of those means 
 of exciting pleasure which are appropriate to 
 works of a different description. It will not, 
 in fact, permit that continued address to the 
 more powerful emotions, which constitute 
 our delight in the perusal of such produc- 
 tions as the drama or marvellous epos; and 
 which, by engrossing the mind, leave it in- 
 sensible to the violence which is offered to 
 its received notions, when striking facts are 
 misrepresented or altered. 
 
 These considerations on the serious cha- 
 racter of the historick poem, may be prosecu- 
 ted even further in confirmation of the same 
 position. From the necessity incumbent on 
 the poet of preserving such a character, we 
 may fairly deduce, that he is confined to the 
 observation, if not of truth, at least of veri- 
 similitude; a quality which criticism d has in 
 all ages, pronounced requisite to the poet in 
 detailing, as well the matter which he finds, 6 
 
 d Qavepov Ss ex. tcuv siprj^svuiv, xa.i on 8 ra fa. yevo^eva. Xsyetv, 
 t8fo TtoiTjTB spyov eo-riv, aAA' ofa a.v yevotro, xai rot, Swatcc y.<m& 
 to sixo;, ij to avctyxcuov. Axist. De Poet. § 18.' 
 
 ' For historical or true events may sometimes be improbable. 
 Thus M. Boileau, after Aristotle, observes, 
 
 Jamais au spectateur n'offrez rien d'incroyable ; 
 Le vrai peut quelquefois rietre pas vraisemllable. 
 
 L'Art. Poet. III. v. 47. 
 P 
 
34 
 
 as that which he supplies in his subject. 
 Now among those subjects which are purely 
 fictitious, or are so remote in point of time 
 as to be known with little certainty, the mind, 
 from having no standard to decide how far 
 they may be false or real, may be led to ad- 
 mit every thing in them as far as it is probable. 
 But this is not the case with our thoughts on 
 subjects that have not only a positive, but a 
 recent existence. In them the standard of 
 truth is fixed and determinable. And so far 
 so, that if we depart from their reality we arx- 
 nul their verisimilitude: for in altering any 
 incident of which we have an accurate know- 
 ledge, it is evident we take from it the ap- 
 pearance of truth. If, therefore, verisimilitude 
 is necessary to poetry, it is a fair inference 
 to assert, that in order to preserve it in the 
 historick epos, no alteration or embellishment 
 can take place which afTects the reality of its 
 incidents, as far as they are known and im- 
 portant. 
 
 From this view of the subject the authours 
 of the " Pharsalia," and the " Campaign," 
 who have been so often censured for a rigid 
 adherence to reality, appear rather to merit 
 applause than to need justification. Nor am 
 I of opinion, that their practice in construct- 
 
35 
 
 ing their works with that historick fidelity 
 which we discover in them, is to be attributed 
 more to choice than to necessity. As living 
 near the period which produced those illus- 
 trious actions which their respective poems 
 were intended to celebrate, they saw them 
 in that strong point of view, in which great 
 and recent events take hold of the recollec- 
 tion. The splendid objects to which their 
 admiration had been turned had indeed gone 
 down, but their departed glories still conti- 
 nued to illuminate the horizon. The poet 
 and his readers must thus have stood in the 
 same view with respect to the circumstances 
 of his poem: both must equally have seen 
 the impropriety of confounding in detail, the 
 boundaries of truth and falsehood ; and 
 writing under this impression, the artist natu- 
 rally drew from his own feelings, a produc- 
 tion suited to the feelings of his readers. 
 
 Nor can the imperfections of a less im- 
 portant rank, which criticks discover in the 
 historick productions just mentioned, be in- 
 sisted on as recommending a contrary prac- 
 tice to the poet, or be urged as abridging the 
 exemplification of the doctrine which has 
 been laid down on the present subject. Un- 
 der cover of the same principles, the minuter 
 
36 
 
 charges urged against the poetical merits of 
 Lucan find an easy answer. Voltaire objects 
 to certain dryness in his style, arising from a 
 close adherence to history; and observes, that 
 his title to being a poet, is secured only by 
 the uniform elevation discoverable in his 
 work/ Tasso, going still farther, declares 
 that he is no poet, because he adheres so 
 closely to particular truths, that he pays no 
 attention to universality; and because he 
 relates things as they happened, not as they 
 ought to have happened. 5 But these cen- 
 sures seem to affect the poet only when the 
 particular character of his composition is not 
 taken into consideration; and amount to no 
 more, than his not having embellished his 
 subject with ornaments incompatible with its 
 nature. 
 
 f Lucain n'ose s'ecarter de l'histoire; par \k il a rendu son 
 poeme sec, et aride. — en un mot, il est grand partout, ou il ne 
 veut point etre poete. Sur la Poes. Epiq. chap. III. 
 
 k E s'io credo Lucano non esser poeta, non mi muove a cio 
 credere quella ragione che induce alcuni altri in si fatta cre- 
 denza, cioe che egli non sia poeta perche narra veri avvenimenti. 
 Questo solo non basta, ma poeta non e egli, perche talmente 
 s'olliga alia verita de particolari, che non ha rispetlo al verisi- 
 mile in universale, e pur che narra le cose come sono state fatte, 
 non si cura d'imitarle, come dovriano essere state fatte, Dell' Art. 
 Poet. Discors. 2. 
 
37 
 
 If we inquire into the grounds on which 
 these censures on the barrenness of invention 
 in historick poetry have been rested, the 
 search will furnish us with additional reasons 
 for considering them invalid. They will, I 
 think, be found to be grounded on a maxim, 
 which has imposed on us too much, from 
 coming recommended by the authority of 
 Aristotle, and justified by the practice of 
 Homer. The passage to which I allude, 
 draws a line of distinction between the sepa- 
 rate provinces of the poet and the historian. 11 
 And of its influence in producing these cen- 
 sures upon Lucan, the last mentioned au- 
 thours give a decisive evidence in adopting its 
 matter and language; and this censure ap- 
 pears to be retailed at second hand, by those 
 writers of an inferiour class, in whom also it 
 is found. 
 
 But in carrying up our doubt of the au- 
 thority of this maxim to its source, however 
 imposing the names of Homer and Aristotle 
 must ever be, their voices can convey no 
 testimony to determine the present question. 
 
 h O yap ^ropr/.o; xai o rtoirfifis, b fait) s^srpx \sysiv ij apslpa 
 ha.<pepB5iV £ii) yap ay ra HpoSora sis [xsrpa riSsvat, kcu shy yrrov 
 ay sir} ^ropia ri; (/.era perpa, y] ayev pzrpwv aWx rsrai Staipspsi, 
 fix> rbv fj.sv ra yzvoy.sya Xtysiv, rov Se ofa ay ysyoirt.Dc Poet. § 18. 
 
38 
 
 as one proof of which, let it be remembered, 
 they both preceded, by a considerable time, 
 the existence of such a production as an his- 
 torick poem. Aristotle drew his rules, at least 
 of epick poetry, from Homer; and Homer 
 wrote at a period when all important occur- 
 rences were committed to the almost certain 
 misrepresentation of tradition; but Lucan, 
 when they were fixed by the definite language 
 of history. Of course, Homer and Lucan 
 wrote under circumstances the most opposite ; 
 and to try the one by the practice of the 
 other, or by any rule deducible from it, is to 
 measure him, not so much by an authority 
 which he has no right to acknowledge, as by 
 a standard which possesses no scale to ap- 
 preciate his merits or defects. Far am I from 
 maintaining, that this maxim of Aristotle 
 does not contain much general truth: this is 
 so much the case, that we may draw from it 
 the justification of many particulars in the 
 conduct even of Lucan. To omit mention- 
 ing the circumstance of figurative and me- 
 trical language, in which be introduces his 
 heroes speaking; much of the dignity with 
 which he has elevated his subject, much of 
 the decoration with which he has adorned it, 
 may be justified on the licence permitted in 
 
39 
 
 this maxim to a poet, as opposed to the fide- 
 lity exacted from the historian. 
 
 On the whole, I am inclined to imagine, 
 that in judging of the poetical description of 
 the " Pharsalia," and of other historick epo- 
 pees, the charges urged against their authours 
 have partly proceeded from our considering 
 the facts which enter the details of such poems, 
 not as they are placed with respect to the 
 poet, but as they are situated with regard to 
 ourselves. From the comparative remote- 
 ness of the period in which we exist, many 
 circumstances of inconsiderable note must 
 have disappeared from our observation, 
 which were regarded as important by the 
 poet. This consideration will at least serve 
 to account for that attachment of Lucan to 
 particular truths which gave offence to Tasso, 
 and for that attention to minuter occur- 
 rences, which drew down the censure of 
 Voltaire. 
 
 The cause of historick poets which I now 
 espouse, is not destitute of support, and of 
 support drawn from high authority, and 
 founded upon just and pertinent observation. 
 The conduct of Addison, in rejecting fiction 
 in his " Campaign," has been pronounced 
 
40 
 
 by a celebrated writer, rational and manly.' 
 And it has been well observed by A^oltaire, 
 though, it must be confessed, his practice 
 possessed little consistency with his prin- 
 ciples: " II [Lucain] ne fut pas le premier 
 qui choisit une histoire recente pour le sujet 
 d'un poeme epique. Varius, cotemporain 
 de Virgile, mais dont les ouvrages ont ete 
 perdus, avait execute avec succes cette dan- 
 gereuse enterprise. La proximite des terns, 
 la notoriete publique de la guerre civile, le 
 siecle eclaire, politique, et peu superstitieux 
 ou vivaient Cesar et Lucain, la solidite de 
 son sujet, otoient a son genie tout liberie 
 d'invention fabuleuse." k This must be the 
 character of every recent subject which is 
 chosen for an historical epos ; and this obser- 
 vation, if admitted to be just, must as well 
 determine the practice of the modern poet, 
 as justify the conduct of the ancient. 
 
 Thus it is, that in the manner of narrat- 
 ing those principal incidents which form the 
 action or groundwork of his subject, the 
 poet is limited to historick truth. Let me 
 
 ' Johnson's Life of Addison. Works, Vol. X. p. 115. Ed. 
 1806. 
 
 k Sur la Pocs, Epique, ub. supr. 
 
41 
 
 not be conceived, however, to maintain, that 
 he should sink his importance in that of 
 the mere historian. We come to the pe- 
 rusal of the different compositions of poetry 
 and history, with very different expectations 
 to be gratified. We require in the former, 
 as it is written principally to inform, and not 
 so much to interest us, that it should speak 
 the truth, and speak it without addition or 
 concealment. From the rigour of such a 
 law, the compositions of the latter kind must 
 be fully exempted, as the productions of an 
 artist who labours with the opposite end, ra- 
 ther to delight than to instruct his readers. 
 The poet, in encroaching on the province of 
 the historian, condescending as he does, to 
 be indebted to him for his subject, must re- 
 pay the debt, at least by an acknowledg- 
 ment. Hence we require truth also from him 
 suitably to his engagements; but we expect 
 to contemplate it as through a mist, in par- 
 tial amplification and concealment. 
 
 And hence from the reasoning which has 
 been employed to establish these assump- 
 tions, and the general confirmation which they 
 receive from the practice of those writers who 
 have carried this species of composition to 
 perfection, we may proceed to lay down the 
 
42 
 
 following rules, as marking out the extent of 
 those licences, which may be taken by the 
 historical poet in receding from the science 
 of history. 
 
 With respect to incidents which are 
 striking and well authenticated, if they hap- 
 pen not to be suited to the end of his com- 
 position, the poet may claim every indul- 
 gence in omitting them at pleasure. This is 
 a licence which, with due limitations, is per- 
 mitted to the historian; for he may select in 
 his details, from the mass of occurrences in- 
 cident to any people, the particular project 
 or expedition happening at some particular 
 time; and he is never called upon to deliver 
 more upon a subject thus chosen, than is 
 necessary lo its individual comprehension. 
 But more particularly with respect to those 
 facts which retain any marks of being little 
 or doubtful, both the poet and historian 
 must find it their interest to suppress them 
 altogether, as they will equally find it their 
 advantage to retain those which bear the 
 stamp of being grand and probable. 
 
 But this immunity cannot be claimed 
 with respect to introducing incidents which 
 are important, either on account of their 
 greatness, their duration, or their notoriety ; 
 
43 
 
 though in admitting such materials in his 
 composition, there may seem to be no con- 
 tradiction given to any thing which history 
 asserts as truth, as they must be evidently 
 the product of invention. Any distinction 
 which would be made in favour of these in- 
 cidents is not real, but imaginary; for the 
 introduction of all such facts, must be vir- 
 tually an alteration, if not of the particular 
 truth of any incident in the work, most cer- 
 tainly of that collective truth which makes 
 up the body of its subject, and which by its 
 general effect affords the most striking interest 
 to engage the imagination. 
 
 On the whole, with the important inci- 
 dents, no liberty should be taken in altering 
 their verity, where they happen to be au- 
 thentick. And here we may appeal to Lucan, 
 as fully confirming and exemplifying the 
 above doctrine; and the more so as his cha- 
 racter for historick fidelity is so generally 
 admitted, that it may be collectively cited 
 without descending to a specifick induction 
 of particular passages. Thus far at least his 
 testimony receives the sanction of the cri ticks 
 as unexceptionable, and definitive; but as a 
 suffrage singularly appropriate in favour of 
 his fidelity, we may adduce, in Florus, the 
 
44 
 
 testimony of an historian, who has adopted 
 his narrative as affording sufficient grounds 
 for his details, and has followed and enlarged 
 upon his authority. 1 
 
 These incidents of greater note and im- 
 portance, however, may be reducible to the 
 rank of unimportant, from being questionable 
 as to their truth, or doubtful as to their au- 
 thority. In the former case, it is needless to 
 remark, that they are only subject to the 
 restrictions under which all unimportant in- 
 cidents are placed. In the latter case, where 
 there is a choice in facts, recommended by 
 different authorities, the poet is at liberty to 
 adopt even those which are of inferiour cer- 
 tainty, provided they have some credit, and 
 afford any thing to heighten the beauty, or 
 improve the interest of his subject. For the 
 importance of such incidents being sunk in 
 the circumstance of their truth being ques- 
 tionable, and as they possess little to recom- 
 mend them in point of verisimilitude, in 
 having but doubtful credit, it is by their 
 beauty principally that they can impart that 
 pleasure, which is the end of his compo- 
 
 1 The commentators on Lucan have occasionally pointed out 
 the imitations of this historian from the poetj as an instance in 
 point, see their illustrations of lib. iv. v. 402. 
 
45 
 
 sitions, and which saves their littleness and 
 their doubtfulness from observation. 
 
 There are facts besides those which we 
 term important, such as are virtually incon- 
 siderable in themselves, and hang upon the 
 subject by a slight dependance, without con- 
 tributing essentially to forward its action. It 
 is over such subordinate incidents, that the Poe- 
 tick Licence of the historick epopee extends 
 with the greatest latitude; and under the 
 cover of it the poet may claim the liberty of 
 altering, omitting, or introducing them, as 
 may be most conducive to the consummation 
 of that interest which it is the end of his art 
 to awaken. The power he may use over 
 incidents of this description, is subject to 
 no restriction but that of preserving them 
 in their subordinate character: for, as it 
 is almost needless to observe, this charac- 
 ter being once exceeded, those facts change 
 their nature, and became subject to every 
 restriction in having become important. 
 
 The confirmation and exemplification of 
 these conclusions, may be likewise referred 
 to the decision of Lucan; to his work we 
 may confidently appeal, as affording some 
 justification of the rectitude, and every illus- 
 tration of the feasibility of this doctrine. 
 
46 
 
 The poet, however rigidly attached he may 
 appear to historic.k truth, has yet occasionally 
 availed himself of those licences in altering 
 subordinate incidents, which were calculated 
 to heighten the effect of his poem, by ren- 
 dering it more striking. Thus we may ob- 
 serve, that in order to increase the interest 
 of his work by exalting the popular cause, 
 it is his general practice to extol the actions 
 of those persons who devoted themselves to 
 the side of liberty, and to depress the cha- 
 racters of those who attached themselves 
 to the politicks of Caesar. With this view, 
 he has used a considerable licence in mag- 
 nifying beyond the truth of history, the 
 characters of some of Pompey's adherents. 
 Thus Domitius iEnobarbus is uniformly re- 
 presented as courageous and warlike, though 
 certainly not well entitled to such commen- 
 dation. 
 
 m . At te Corfini validis circumdata muris 
 Tecta tenent pugnax Dorniti. 
 
 Phars. lib. ii. v. 478. 
 
 m But in Corfinium bold Domitius lies, 
 
 And from its walls the advancing power defies. 
 
 Rowe's Phars. ii. v. 722. 
 
47 
 
 " tibi numine pugnax 
 
 Adverse*, Domiti, dextri frons tradita Martis. 
 
 lb. lib. vii. v.219. 
 
 His conduct when pardoned by Csesar 
 at Corfinium, is made to appear noble and 
 exalted. 
 
 premit ille graves interritus iras 
 
 Et secum : ( Romamne petes, pacisque recessus 
 ' Degener? Tu medios belli non ire furores 
 ' Jamdudum moriture paras? Rue certus, et omnes 
 * Lucis sumpe moras, et Caesaris effuge munus.' 
 
 lb. lib. ii. v. 521. 
 
 And his death at the battle of Pharsalia, 
 is distinguished with every mark of honour. 
 
 p Mors tamen eminuit clarorum in strage virorum 
 Pvgnacis Domiti, quern clades fata per omnes 
 
 * Luckless Domitius, vainly brave in war, 
 Drew forth the right with unauspicious care. 
 
 lb. vii. v. 325. 
 
 Struggling with rage, undaunted he represt 
 The swelling passions in his lab'ring breast j 
 Thus murm'ring to himself: ' wo't thou to Rome 
 Base as thou art, and seek thy lazy home? 
 To war, to battle, to destruction fly, 
 And haste, as it becomes thee well, to die; 
 Provoke the worst effects of deadly strife, 
 And rid thee of this Caesar's gift, this life.' 
 
 lb. ii. v. 786". 
 
 ? Among huge heaps of the Patrician slain, 
 And Latian chiefs, who strew'd that purple plain, 
 
48 
 
 Ducebant. Nusquam Magni fortuna sine illo 
 Succubuit: victus toties a Caesare, salva 
 Libertate perit: tunc mille in vuinera laetus 
 Labitur, ac venia gaudet caruisse secunda. 
 
 lb. lib. vii. v. 599- 
 
 But this art is more fully displayed by 
 the poet, in the portraiture which he gives of 
 the character and conduct of Caesar; which 
 he represents in a far different light from 
 that attested by the general voice of history. 
 In an early part of his work he thus speaks 
 of him : 
 
 ' Csesar in arma furens, nullas nisi sanguine fuso 
 Gaudet habere vias, quod non terat hoste vacantes 
 
 Recording story has distinguish'd well, 
 
 How brave, unfortunate Domitius fell. 
 
 In ev'ry loss of Pompey still he shard 
 
 And dy'd in liberty, the best reward} 
 
 Though vanquished oft by Caesar, ne'er enslav'd, 
 
 Ev'n to the last, the tyrant's pow'r hebrav'd: 
 
 Mark'd o'er with many a glorious streaming wound, 
 
 In pleasure sunk the warrior to the ground; 
 
 No longer fore'd on vilest terms to live, 
 
 For chance to doom, and Caesar to forgive. 
 
 lb. vii. v862. 
 i. But Cxsar for destruction eager burns, 
 Free passages and bloodless ways he scorns j 
 In fierce conflicting fields his arms delight, 
 He joys to be oppos'd, to prove his might, 
 Resistless through the wid'ning breach to go, 
 To burst the gates, and lay the bulwark low ; 
 
49 
 
 Hesperiae fines, vacuosque irrumpat in agi'os 
 Atque ipsum non perdat iter, confertaque bellis 
 Bella gerat, non tam portas intraie patentes 
 Quarn fiegisse juvat: nee tam patiente colono 
 Alva premi, quant si ferro populetur, et igni. 
 Concessa pudet ire via, civemque videri. 
 
 lb. lib. ii. v. 439- 
 
 Before the battle of Pharsalia he describes 
 him as invoking the furies, and the gods 
 that presided over crimes, to afford him their 
 assistance. 
 
 p At tu quos scelerum superos ? Quas rite vbcasti 
 Eumenidas Caesar ? Stygii quae numina regni ? 
 Infernumque nefas? Et mersas nocte furores? 
 Irnpia tam saevae gesturus bella litasti ? 
 
 lb. lib. vii. v. 168. 
 
 To burn the villages, to waste the plains, 
 And massacre the poor laborious swains. 
 Abhorring law, he chooses to offend, 
 And blushes to be thought his country's friend. 
 
 lb. ii. v. 669. 
 * But who, O Caesar! who were then thy Gods? 
 Whom didst thou summon from their dark abodes? 
 The furies listen'd to thy grateful vows> 
 And dreadful to the day the pow'rs of hell arose. 
 
 lb. viii. v.257- 
 
 This licence is peculiarity striking, as historians have particu- 
 larized the sacrifices Caesar offered to Mars and his tutelary 
 goddess, Venus, the night before the battle, and have mentioned 
 his vows to raise a temple to the goddess Victory if she favoured 
 him in the contest. 
 
50 
 
 But the most striking example of this licence 
 may be drawn from the representation of his 
 conduct after the fatal battle. He is first de- 
 scribed as exciting his victorious army to 
 plunder and rapine : 
 
 s ' Victoria nobis 
 
 1 Plena, viri,' dixit, ' superest pro sanguine merces 
 
 ' Quam monstrare meum est: nee enim donare vocabo 
 
 ' Quod sibi quisque dabit.— ■ — 
 
 ' Tot regum fortuna simul, Magnique coacta 
 
 ' Expectat dominos: propera prescedere miles 
 
 ' Quos sequeris: quascunque tuas Pharsalia fecit, 
 
 ' A victis rapiantur opes.' lb. lib. vii. v. 737. 
 
 As rejoicing in the slaughter, and satiating 
 his rage in viewing the destruction of his 
 countrymen. 
 
 s Behold, he cries, our victory complete, 
 The glorious recompence attends ye yet : 
 Much have you done to day, for Caesar's sake ; 
 'Tis mine to shew the prey, 'tis yours to take. 
 Tis yours whate'er the vanquish'd foe has left; 
 'Tis what your valour gain'd, and not my gift. 
 For you the once great Pompey's store attends, 
 With regal spoils of his barbarian friends; 
 Haste then, prevent the foe, and seize that good 
 For which you paid so well with Roman blood. 
 
 lb. vii. v. 1052. 
 
51 
 
 * Postquam clara dies Pharsalica darana retexit, 
 Nulla loci facies revocat feralibus arvis 
 Hasrentes oculos. Cernit propulsa cruore 
 Flumina, et excelsos cumulis aequantia colles 
 Corpora, sidentes in tabem spectat acervos, 
 Et Magni numerat populos : epulisque paratur 
 Ille locus, vultus ex quo, faciesque jacentum 
 .Agnoscat. Juvat Emathiain non cernere terram 
 Et lustrare oculis campos sub clade latentes. 
 
 lb. lib. vii. v. 787- 
 
 And even denying the last offices of sepul- 
 ture to their remains. 
 
 u Ac ne lseta furens scelerum spectacula perdat, 
 Invidet igne rogi ruiseris, cceloque nocenti 
 
 'But soon the visionary horrors pass, 
 And his first rage with day resumes its place : 
 Again his eyes rejoice to view the slain, 
 And run unweary'd o'er the dreadful plain. 
 He bids his train prepare his impious board, 
 And feasts amidst the heaps of death abhorr'd. 
 There each pale face at leisure he may know, 
 And still behold the purple current flow. 
 He views the woful wide horizon round, 
 And joys that earth is no where to be found, 
 And owns, those Gods he serves, his utmost wish have 
 
 crown'd. 
 
 lb. vii. v. 1110. 
 u Still greedy to possess the curs'd delight, 
 To glut his soul, and gratify his sight, 
 The last funereal honours he denies, 
 And poisons with the stench Emathia's skies. 
 Not dius the sworn invet'rate foe of Rome 
 Refus'd the vanquish'd consul's bones a tomb ; 
 
52 
 
 Ingerit Emathiam. Non ilium Paenus humatof 
 Consulis, et Libyca succensae lampade Cannae 
 Conpellunt, hominuin vitus ut servet in hostes: 
 Sed meminit nondum satiata. coedibus ira^ 
 Cives esse suos. lb. lib. vii. v* 797. 
 
 How such liberties may be allowed, and 
 jet be reconcileable with verisimilitude, a 
 principle which was laid down as essential 
 to compositions of the historical kind, and 
 which was taken as affording one of the 
 strongest arguments in favour of adhering to 
 historical truth, may be thus briefly esta- 
 blished. 
 
 With respect to those incidents which are 
 drawn from history, as they are not consi- 
 derable, the historian's authority becomes no 
 ultimate test of their truth. Events of lesser 
 importance admit of a different statement 
 according to the different opinions by which 
 they are imbibed or transmitted: and under 
 the supposition of the historian's being mis- 
 taken, which daily experience informs not to 
 be improbable, the poet is at liberty to adopt 
 
 His piety the country round beheld, 
 And bright with fires shone Cannae's fatal field. 
 But Caesar's rage from fiercer motives rose; 
 These were his countrymen,, his worst of foes. 
 
 lb. vii. V. 1121. 
 
53 
 
 a different mode of detailing them in descrip- 
 tion, particularly if, when thus altered, they 
 will be more suited to the purposes of his 
 composition. 
 
 With respect to matters of lesser impor- 
 tance, which are left undecided by history, 
 the poet's practice, as it cannot be determined 
 by reality, is to be estimated by probability. 
 But many circumstances of inconsiderable 
 note, which give poetry its most engaging 
 touches, if recorded in history, would be in- 
 consistent with that utility which is the end 
 of historick narration: others there are, 
 which being indispensable to the closeness 
 and fidelity of historick detail, would offend 
 against that general delight which is the end 
 of poetical composition. Many of the inci- 
 dents consequently, which find a place in 
 poetry, may be considered true, although des- 
 titute of historical authority: nor can the 
 evidence of the historian be adduced as nega- 
 tiving their reality, although he does not 
 afford them his support or countenance. 
 Being devoid of this testimony, their truth 
 seems capable of being determined only by 
 their probability, which it is always in the 
 poet's power to create, according as the cir- 
 
54 
 
 cumstances of his composition render it ex- 
 pedient. 
 
 But in this estimate historick fidelity is 
 conceived to be invariable, whereas the con- 
 duct even of historians, more particularly in 
 detailing the characters of their work, admits 
 of considerable latitude. It is sufficient to 
 observe that it is the general practice among 
 the most celebrated proficients in this science, 
 to add more interest to their favourite cha- 
 racters, by heightening and embellishing their 
 actions. This must be evident to any person 
 who examines the different representations 
 given by different historians of the same 
 eminent characters: and not merely of those 
 personages who lived before or near their 
 own times, but of their very cotemporaries. 
 When we see those biassed representations 
 among the most accurate detailers of facts, 
 the foundation of whose works is exactness 
 and fidelity, how much more should we 
 admit them into the composition of a poet, 
 the very essence of whose art is interest and 
 pleasure? 
 
 But we may extend this principle further, 
 so as to embrace another circumstance, in 
 which the conduct of Lucan may be men- 
 
55 
 
 tioned with almost exclusive approbation: 
 namely the additional embellishment which 
 he has given his poem in the several speeches 
 ascribed by him to his different characters : 
 a portion of his work which may be distin- 
 guished among the adscititious parts which 
 the poet is licenced to incorporate on his 
 subject. It must be here also observed that 
 historians, however bound to follow the plain 
 track of reality, are yet accustomed to 
 heighten the dramatick parts of their works: 
 and this licence is most justly extended to 
 them. For, words are of so fleeting a nature, 
 that unless they are marked by some pecu- 
 liarity in the thought, or turn in the expres- 
 sion, they can seldom be relied on as accu- 
 rately reported, or well authenticated. Of 
 course the poet who undertakes to narrate 
 them possesses a privilege of deviating again 
 from the historian: when the authority from 
 whence he derives his materials is doubtful, 
 he has every liberty of turning its uncertainty 
 to his advantage. 
 
 In this respect Lucan is particularly 
 happy: the merit of his several orations is 
 so conspicuous, and they have conferred so 
 much additional splendour on his poem, that 
 even those criticks, who carry the severity of 
 
56 
 
 their strictures so far as to deny him a place 
 among poets, allow him to rank high among 
 orators. These ornaments are in fact most 
 admirably suited to the serious and dignified 
 nature of the historick poem; and as such he 
 has devoted to them his most particular at- 
 tention. So far so indeed, that, (if we except 
 Achilles' answer to Ulysses in the "Iliad") his 
 orations must be confessed to have excelled 
 those of all other epick poets, whether 
 ancient or modern, in the copiousness and 
 energy of their style, and in the vividness and 
 animation of their diction. 
 
57 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 OF THE ROMANTICS EPOS. 
 
 At the very opposite extreme of the historick 
 epopee, is placed, as I have already observed, 
 the epick romance ; and this is so far the case, 
 that the former appears the converse of the 
 latter; what is incompatible in the one, is 
 indispensable in the other. The historick epos, 
 as its title imports, requires a foundation in 
 historick facts; but the epick romance finds 
 a sufficient support in legendary story. 
 
 The mode of inquiry with respect to the 
 licences allowable in the incidents of this 
 division of poetry, becomes of course the 
 converse of that employed with respect to 
 the historick poem; as in the latter case, it 
 was our object to discover how far fiction is 
 compatible with what is true, in the present 
 instance we have to inquire how far history 
 is consistent with what is fictitious in compo- 
 sition. And of the same nature is the con- 
 clusion which these inquiries will be found 
 to establish: as fiction was shewn to be ge-» 
 neraily excluded from the composition of the 
 
58 
 
 former, history will be found to be equally 
 inadmissible in the constitution of the 
 latter. 
 
 The assertion now hazarded, on the in- 
 compatibility of a purely historical subject 
 with a poetical romance, will not require to 
 be discussed with much intricacy of argu- 
 ment before it is established. And though 
 the assertion may appear at first rather pa- 
 radoxical, it is, however, a fact, that to em- 
 body productions of this kind with history, 
 and thus to give them an absolute founda- 
 tion in reality, would tend only to diminish 
 those qualities of truth, probability, indivi- 
 duality, and embellishment, which make up 
 the notion of that ideal beauty, by which the 
 poet may be supposed bound to regulate his 
 fictions. 
 
 The essence of the poetical romance con- 
 sists in a wildness of fiction, which derives its 
 appearance of truth, not from our knowledge, 
 but credulity: the fictitious parts of such com- 
 positions can of course derive little improve- 
 ment from a forced alliance with that science 
 which possessing no varieties of change, 
 is confined to the straight line of real occur- 
 rence. Over facts which have once occurred 
 we have no power of alteration; we may 
 
59 
 
 misrepresent, but we cannot virtually change 
 them : it must of course pervert and destroy 
 the nature of such materials, in any produc- 
 tion whatever, to blend them with fictitious 
 circumstances. When we join those discor- 
 dant ingredients, not by incorporation, but 
 in succession, such an union must be equally 
 unpromising of a successful issue; as it must 
 tend rather to bring discredit on that part of 
 the composition which we must believe as 
 being true, than give probability to that part 
 which we must doubt as being preternatural. 
 In this mixture, we can be as little said to 
 improve the general effect which arises from 
 the verisimilitude of the entire subject, as the 
 verisimilitude produced in any of its parts; 
 for what is partially fictitious, cannot be col- 
 lectively true. 
 
 This reasoning is equally conclusive when, 
 in point of extent and magnitude, the historick 
 part of the subject bears no proportion to the 
 fictitious. Of a very different nature is the 
 power which the mind possesses over real and 
 over imaginary occurrences: those, we have 
 observed, it cannot alter; over these it exer- 
 cises a power of varying them even to an un- 
 limited degree. By whatever modes of com- 
 bination these heterogeneous materials may 
 
60 
 
 be connected, it must be therefore pretty 
 evident, that the part which is fictitious must 
 bend and accommodate itself, as being more 
 ductile, to that which is real and unalterable; 
 and that this circumstance will give the work 
 that marked turn of feature, which is to deter- 
 mine its character as historick or marvellous. 
 Fiction is, under its most fascinating appear- 
 ance, of a rare and subtle nature; it may be 
 rendered at once beautiful and considerable, 
 from the extent to which it may be drawn out, 
 and the exility with which it may be super- 
 induced on the exteriour of any subject; but 
 reality takes a more forcible hold of the ob- 
 servation, from the prominence and solidity 
 with which it stands above the level of the 
 surface. A romance, therefore, constructed 
 on a historick subject, becomes a regular 
 claimant, from its nature, to the title of a 
 production founded on fact; and regarded in 
 this light, what is historical in its composition 
 must at least fix the aera, and determine the 
 bounds of its subject. The case of the poetical 
 romance becomes, in this view, analogous to 
 that of the historick poem ; both must be con- 
 sidered the expansion, in poetical language, of 
 a certain number of facts, and of facts whereof 
 the reader is supposed to possess a steady 
 
61 
 
 view, and a perfect knowledge. If, there- 
 fore, the mind rejects, as an imperfection, the 
 licence of alteration in the one species of 
 production, how much more will it revolt 
 against that unbounded fiction, which the 
 other does not take as an appendage, but 
 claims as a principal component in its pro- 
 ductions? 
 
 It is almost superfluous to remark, that 
 from the present consideration of the poetical 
 romance, that case is excluded where the real 
 occurrences, on which the work is founded, 
 have undergone such alterations as prevents 
 them from being known: for such a plan, 
 though said, and with much propriety, to be 
 founded on fact, must be considered purely 
 fictitious, as facts appear no longer in its 
 composition. 
 
 But in assuming the case of a romance 
 being founded on history, if the subject of 
 the poem appears to receive no improvement 
 in its truth or probability, it is impossible it 
 can be benefited by the alliance in any other 
 particular. To give it a dash of individual 
 nature," which gives a strength of colouring 
 
 w See Sir J. Reynolds' Notes on Do. Fresnoy's Art of Painting 
 as quoted by Mr. Twining, in his Notes to Aristotle's Poetieks, 
 P- *Op. 
 
62 
 
 to all the compositions of art, may be con- 
 ceived within the power of history, which is 
 occasionally dedicated to the particular oc- 
 currences incident to extraordinary persons. 
 But any accessions which it could derive in 
 this respect, it may acquire from other sources, 
 or may appropriate from the science in con- 
 sideration, without being bound to adopt 
 such attendant circumstances, as will make 
 facts the basis of its subject, or give the pro- 
 duction the title of being historical. Nor 
 can the romantick poem derive any improve- 
 ment from history in point of embellishment. 
 For a liberty of giving such a direction to the 
 facts and circumstances of the work as may 
 suit the poet's caprice, being implied in the 
 very nature of this species of composition as 
 being fictitious, it follows, from the power 
 which the mind possesses of improving in 
 conception on almost every object submitted 
 to the imagination, that the romantick poet 
 inherits a greater power of contributing to 
 our delight by realizing an imaginary crea- 
 tion, than he could possibly attain by follow- 
 ing the direct track of real events, however 
 splendid and dignified. 
 
 But though ihe poet is thus debarred from 
 giving his composition a general alliance with 
 
63 
 
 history, he is not excluded from affording it 
 some bearing upon truth. In fact, the magni- 
 tude of his compositions, and the commanding 
 authority of those great persons Avho have pre- 
 ceded him in such an undertaking, seem to* 
 exact that his subject should be founded on 
 facts: while the nature of his poem, equally 
 strengthened by the same precedents,* im- 
 poses a law no less binding, that these facts 
 should never have been committed to au- 
 thentick record. From the first of these prin- 
 
 * Such fabulous histories as those of Turpin and Geoffrey of 
 Monmouth, are the authorities on which those compositions are 
 principally founded. The former is frequently referred to by. 
 Ariosto. 
 
 £ Turpin scrive a punto, che fur, &c. 
 
 Cant. xiii. Ott. 40. 
 
 Non si legge in Turpin, che n'avvenissej 
 
 Ma vidi gia un Autor, che piil ne scrisse. 
 
 Scrive l'autore, il cui nome mi taccio : 
 
 Che non fuor, &c. Cant. xxiv. Ott. 44, 
 
 Mettendolo Turpina, anch'io l'ho messo, &c. 
 
 Cant. xxviii. Ott. 2. 
 
 Scrive Turpin, verace in questo loco, 
 
 Che due, o tre giu, &c. Cant. xxx. Ott. 4g. 
 
 Non ho veduto mai, ne letto al trove 
 
 Fuor ch' in Turpin, d'un si fatto animale. 
 
 Cant, xxxiii. Ott. 85. 
 
 Many of the chief incidents in the " Fairy Queen," have been 
 traced by Mr. Warton to still less authentick sources. See his 
 Observations on Spenser. Vol. I, sect. ii. 
 
6'4 
 
 ciples he transfers to his work the natrie of 
 its hero, and some of the leading circum- 
 stances of his achievements; from the latter, 
 he derives the power of forming his plot, of in- 
 terweaving with it such wild incidents as con^ 
 tribute to its advancement, and of adapting 
 to it such grotesque particulars as this extra- 
 vagant species of composition delights in. 
 
 And this reasoning is as generally exem- 
 plified, as that on the historick epopee, in the 
 productions of every writer who has excelled 
 in the romantick department of poetry. We 
 find no instance of a poet applying for the 
 subject of such a work to any source, but 
 that in which even apparent truth became 
 suspicious from being forced into an alliance 
 with some contiguous improbability. Thus 
 the period of the European annals, from 
 which Pulci, Boyardo, and Ariosto, took the 
 subject of their romances, was one which re- 
 ceived no steady illumination. from the clear 
 lights of history; and Spenser, writing with 
 similar views, was led in search of his subject 
 into an aera which was involved in all the 
 remoteness and obscurity of the darker 
 a^es. 
 
 The poetical romance, being thus ex- 
 cluded from authentick history, must rely on 
 
65 
 
 fiction to supply those principal incidents 
 which constitute the groundwork of its fable. 
 And this being the case, it regularly arranges 
 itself under that part of my inquiry which is 
 professedly devoted to what is marvellous in 
 the composition of poetry. I shall thereto- e 
 dismiss it for the present with a single re- 
 mark. The more important incidents being 
 thus derived from fiction, they afford the 
 poet an opportunity of varying them by 
 every species of licence; by which means the 
 striking contrast that exists between roman- 
 tick and historick productions, is preserved 
 to a remarkable degree. For this liberty is 
 permitted to the historick poet over those in- 
 cidents only, which are the reverse of im- 
 portant; while it extends to the romantick 
 poet over its principal events, and over the 
 body of those descriptions which hold the 
 most considerable share in the constitution 
 of its subject. 
 
66 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 OF THE POETICAL EPOS. 
 
 We have already seen that the historick 
 poem nearly excludes the intermixture of fic- 
 tion with its realities, and that the poetical 
 romance is equally averse from constructing 
 its details upon history. One of the chief 
 circumstances which mark the superiority of 
 the poetical epos over both these kinds of 
 composition, is that of giving to its subject 
 an equal alliance with facts and fiction, and 
 securing to it the contrary qualities of being 
 marvellous and true. 
 
 From this consideration on the nature of 
 the poetical epopee, our mode of inquiry into 
 the licences admissible in the art again shifts 
 its position. For on balancing between what 
 is fictitious, and what is historical in this de- 
 partment of the art, and inclining successively 
 to either extreme, the object of research ap- 
 pears to branch out into the following diver- 
 sities. 
 
 I. May the poet take his subject wholly 
 from invention ? 
 
67 
 
 II. Or, may he be indulged in deriving it 
 wholly from history ? 
 
 III. On taking a middle course between 
 truth and fiction, what proportion of each will 
 he be constrained to preserve : what licences 
 in fact may he take in what is historical, and 
 what is fictitious in his subject ? 
 
 I. The project of founding an epick poem 
 upon a fictitious subject has been opposed 
 by Tasso. He combats such an undertaking 
 on the principle of its weakening the interest 
 by destroying the verisimilitude of the com- 
 position. ic Molto meglio e a mio giudicio, 
 che d'all'istoria si prenda; perche dovendo 
 1'Epico circare in ogni parte il verisimile, 
 (presuppongo questo come principio notissi- 
 mo,) non e verisimile che una azione illustre, 
 quale sono quelle del poema Eroico, non 
 sia stata scritta, e passata alia memoria de' 
 posteri coll' ajuto d'alcuna istoria. I successi 
 grandi non possono essere incogniti, e ove non 
 siano ricevuti in iscrittura, da questo solo 
 argomentano gli uomini la loro falsita, e 
 falsi stimandogli, non consentono cosi facil- 
 mente d'essere or mossi ad ira, or a terrore, 
 or a piet& : d'essere or allegrati, or contris. 
 tati, or sospesi, or rapiti, ed insomma nou 
 attendono con quella aspettazione, e con 
 
68 
 
 quel diletto i successi delle cose, come fareb- 
 bono, si que' medessimi successi, o in tutto, 
 o in parte veri stimassero/' y 
 
 The conclusion contained in these ob- 
 servations is incontestibly just : but as the 
 reasons on which it is founded very mate- 
 rially affect the force of those arguments em- 
 ployed in illustrating the principles of ficti- 
 tious poetry, they require some consideration 
 before they are unconditionally admitted. 
 That we are not so easily moved by what is 
 fictitious as by what is true, if assumed by 
 the authour, or supposed to follow from his 
 reasoning, is an assumption which does not 
 appear to be borne out by general expe- 
 rience. The interest Ave take in the perusal of 
 our popular novels, whose subjects are in 
 general fictitious, will at once prove it 
 unfounded. But even if the appeal to this 
 species of composition were not found to 
 leave this assertion at least problematical, 
 the argument might be shewn to establish a 
 conclusion very irrelative to the present occa- 
 sion. For admitting that a fictitious tale has 
 not the same sway over the passions as one 
 
 y Tasso " Dell* Art. Poet." Dis. I. 
 
69 
 
 that is true, it may surely possess all the 
 influence which is requisite in the species of 
 composition which confines our present con- 
 sideration. And that it does possess such 
 requisite influence is the more admissible, as 
 the tales of fictitious history move us to a 
 most powerful degree; and as the produc- 
 tions of epick poetry can never appropriate 
 such a share of emotion, as is attainable in 
 fiction, nor lay claim to such a portion of 
 truth as will make much difference in the 
 concern we feel for the interests and dis- 
 tresses of the characters in its subject. 
 
 But another circumstance seems adequate 
 to justify a little caution on our part in de- 
 clining to assent to the authours arguments, 
 while we subscribe to his conclusion : as he 
 appears to fix upon qualities in the compo- 
 sition of epick poetry very different from 
 those which impart to it its real character. To 
 this observation I am led only from a con- 
 viction that such a mistaken idea of the cha- 
 racter of the epick muse, if supposed to 
 proceed from such an authority, may be 
 urged against the line of proof which I am 
 necessitated to take in strengthening the 
 same conclusion, although reasoning on dif- 
 ferent principles. Had not the inimitable 
 
70 
 
 authour stooped too low in considering so 
 narrow an object as that before us, and thus 
 turned from the general view of that art 
 which he could not have misconceived, or 
 would not have misrepresented, it is evident 
 he would not have overlooked the objections 
 to his reasonings which suggest themselves to 
 a more confined, but a more cautious obser- 
 vation. For the circumstance of his having 
 reasoned from principles so exceptionable 
 we may assign the true cause ; it afforded 
 the most ready solution of the difficulty that 
 absorbed his attention. But that such is not 
 the real character of the art ; that it does 
 not principally address itself to the more per- 
 turbed emotions of the breast, nay that such 
 a project, if realized by any poet, would be 
 unsuitable to that calm and subdued dignity 
 which is indispensable in the pure epical 
 character, is an assumption which might be 
 confirmed, and exemplified, by an appeal to 
 that exquisite specimen, which the authour 
 in question has given of his powers in ge- 
 nuine epical poetry. 
 
 On reducing the question to its proper 
 level, and taking a true notion of the epical 
 character, the same conclusion will be placed 
 above being affected by any of those excep- 
 
71 
 
 tions drawn from fictitious history, to which 
 it is seemingly exposed under the present 
 misrepresented appearance. To set the point 
 in question in a more clear and apposite 
 light, it will be necessary to open our view 
 a little more into the nature of both these 
 species of composition, and to regard them 
 with a particular reference to each other. 
 And here let the reader whose fastidiousness 
 may turn from the degrading comparison 
 into which the works of the epick poet are 
 made to descend, in being brought into a 
 competition with those of the novelist, re- 
 member the object with which our under- 
 taking is bounded. Let him remember like- 
 wise that, by however great a distance these 
 different kinds of composition are kept apart, 
 they agree in one capital circumstance ; the 
 works of the novelist not being inferiour 
 even to those of the epick poet in respect of 
 uniting those qualities of pleasure and in- 
 struction which constitute the principal and 
 indeed only end of poetical composition. 
 
 That scope and object, which he who un- 
 dertakes to write a novel prescribes to him- 
 self, admits of little variety. The interest of 
 his subject turns on the fate of two persons 
 
72 
 
 of a rank not superiour to that of most of his 
 readers. 'J hese he first involves in a hopeless 
 attachment ; he afterwards embarrasses them 
 in difficulties, and perplexes them in dangers, 
 and. finally conducts them to that union in 
 •which their wishes end, together with the 
 expectation of the reader. Of a suitable 
 elevation to the characters thus chosen, are 
 the incidents and the end purposed in the 
 composition. The occurrences are made to 
 surprise merely by being unexpected ; and 
 the end is never of greater importance than 
 the celebration of a marriage, or the acquire- 
 ment of a fortune. It is only by heightening 
 the interests of a subject thus entered on 
 and conducted, that the authour can supply- 
 its want of importance. This he effects by 
 moving the heart and stimulating the affec- 
 tions to a powerful degree; by hurrying the 
 mind in a tide of tumultuous delight which 
 leaves it little consideration to look for, or 
 to admit other gratification. It is with this 
 view that he keeps us continually agitated 
 between hope and disappointment, between 
 suspense and gratification ; that he embar- 
 rasses what would be obvious in his plan, 
 conceals his intentions with the view of asto- 
 
73 
 
 nishing by their unexpected disclosure, and 
 thus perplexes his intrigue for the purpose of 
 pleasing by its developement. 
 
 That we dispense with the want of truth 
 in these compositions seems to be on two 
 accounts : that event towards which the sub- 
 ject tends, and those incidents on which it is 
 constructed, are of that familiar and unim- 
 portant kind which, falling within the com- 
 pass of common occurrences, are not calcu- 
 lated to force a doubt into the mind respect- 
 ing their reality. We may also conceive them 
 to have really happened, though out of the 
 circle of our knowledge ; for occurrences 
 equally unimportant frequently take place 
 without our privity. It is not my intention, 
 however, to maintain that we ever believe the 
 production to be true ; but that the interest 
 we take in it is never interrupted with the 
 notion of its being fictitious. But more than 
 this, from the manner in which the subject is 
 conducted, our passions are kept in con T 
 tinued play, and our mind is so far diverted 
 by a powerful interest, that it wrll not turn 
 to this or any inferiour consideration. And 
 should it even happen that these doubts, re- 
 specting the truth of what interests us, should 
 arise when we are thus engrossed by our 
 
74 
 
 feelings, their effects would be little felt 
 among those sensations which more power- 
 fully agitate the bosom. 
 
 It must be sufficiently apparent that the 
 expedients, by which the novelist is thus en- 
 abled to support his subject without the 
 assistance of truth, are neither resorted to 
 by the epick poet, nor expected from his 
 compositions ; but it is equally true, not only 
 that the epopee rejects the whole of the means 
 employed by the novelist in effecting such 
 an end, but that we should not tolerate such 
 an end if effected. The fundamental cause of 
 this circumstance seems to lie in the epopee 
 exciting our pleasure by appealing rather to 
 the taste, than by addressing the passions. 
 And a justification of the preference mani- 
 fested by the poet in directing his composi- 
 tions to the former is deducible not only from 
 the comprehensiveness of taste as a faculty, 
 which occasionally embraces what is affect- 
 ing and pathetick, as well as what is beau- 
 tiful and grand ; it might be drawn from the 
 nature of those emotions which it excites, as 
 being of a nature more dignified, exalted, and 
 intellectual than those which operate on our 
 passions. Taking this circumstance along with 
 the further consideration, that every poet is 
 
75 
 
 called upon to aspire at that highest degree, 
 and that highest kind of pleasure, which is 
 attainable by his art, it will ultimately lead 
 us to a notion of the true epical character. 
 And this notion properly followed up will 
 eventually establish the conclusion of Tasso, 
 and annihilate the force of the exception 
 brought against it from fictitious history. 
 
 That the want of dignity in the characters 
 of a novel, the want of greatness in its inci- 
 dents, and of importance in its catastrophe, 
 must incapacitate such materials from enter- 
 ing into the composition of epick poetry, is 
 so self-evident as to appear unworthy of re- 
 mark. The general character of that interest 
 which fictitious history excites must place it, 
 as being perturbed and passionate, under a 
 similar interdict from entering into epical 
 composition ; as it is forwarded by a suc- 
 cession of those unexpected events and af- 
 fecting incidents, which, though powerful in 
 swaying our passions, contribute little more 
 to the gratification of that severer faculty, 
 taste, than to procure it a temporary variety 
 in that calm and serious delight after Avhich 
 it principally seeks. Nor can any suitable 
 gratification be promised to this faculty by 
 
76 
 
 supplying that perplexity of intrigue which 
 distinguishes the compositions of fictitious 
 history from that simplicity of plan which 
 we require in epical compositions; and 
 which is a plan of that kind alone that we 
 can find time to comprehend, from having 
 our attention divided among other and in- 
 teresting considerations. 
 
 The poet being thus excluded from sus- 
 taining the interest of an epical composition, 
 by those means which the novelist employs 
 in his fictitious subjects, is left no alternative, 
 in affording that pleasure which is the end of 
 his art, but what the nature of his composi- 
 tion, as being the most dignified as well as 
 the most perfect of the works of invention, 
 naturally suggests. And suitably to this cha- 
 racter, he employs his subject, not in details 
 of private interests, and domestick duties, 
 but in the description of events of great and 
 national concern, and in the display of moral, 
 patriotick, and heroical virtues. That uni- 
 formity of composition which requires, that 
 incidents of this rank should be followed by 
 a close of suitable elevation ; that unity of 
 plan which demands that every incident 
 should hang upon some principal event, in 
 
77 
 
 order that the mind should not be distracted 
 in keeping those parts together which are not 
 simultaneous but successive ; and that beauty 
 of arrangement which exacts that our inte- 
 rest should rise rather than fall with the pro- 
 secution of the subject, are qualities which 
 are indispensable in the epical plan : and 
 they imperatively require, that the subject 
 should be constructed on some occurrence 
 of more than ordinary importance; in the 
 completion of which the production should 
 find its termination. In the state of calm 
 and collected emotion, with which the mind 
 regards those incidents of the work, which 
 suitably to the dignity of its composition 
 should be thrown into a solemn repose, it 
 must sink under the weariness of a prolonged 
 narration, unless this expedient is adopted. 
 For a production, thus constructed, must be 
 for the most part deprived of those little 
 interesting tales of domestick happiness or 
 distress, which uphold the attention by the 
 agitation of the passions ; and the mind must 
 consequently feel a lassitude, unless it is kept 
 alive by having the observation bounded by 
 some great object; such, as the subversion 
 of a kingdom, the establishment of an infant 
 
78 
 
 colony, or the restoration of an exiled prince 
 to his people and dominions. 
 
 An event of this magnitude must be re- 
 presented as being conducted by some prin- 
 cipal personages, and as having happened 
 in some place and at some period. And 
 these are the particulars which appear to 
 exact that this event should be strictly histo- 
 rical. It is equally impossible to make all 
 these circumstances wholly fictitious ; to con- 
 nect them with illustrious characters which 
 are remarkable on account of being known, or 
 lo assign them the substantial existence of 
 time and locality, without having on the 
 mind a full impression of the subjects being 
 so far contradictory to truth. And this im- 
 pression must mix itself with almost every 
 sensation produced by the story, and if not 
 overpower, at least allay that interest, which 
 the composition ought to procure, without 
 imperfection or diminution; for the emotions 
 which are excited by this species of poetry 
 are of a nature too subdued and solemn to 
 counteract the dissatisfaction which arises 
 from the sense of their being improper and 
 unartful. We have not indeed any reason 
 to apprehend the influence of this considera- 
 tion in those passages of the work which 
 
79 
 
 are paihetick or terrible ; for these, whether 
 they are real or fictitious, are fully adequate 
 to support themselves by their own interest. 
 But such descriptions, if more than occa- 
 sionally introduced, must interrupt that soft 
 and equable tenour in which the action of 
 the poem is advanced ; from which the poet 
 cannot so rise, as to preserve a continued ele- 
 vation, and to which he must at times even 
 sink, if for no other purpose than to give 
 superiour effect, by contrast, to such parts of 
 his work as are sublime and impassioned. 
 
 The conclusion which has been just de- 
 termined is not only analogous to that esta- 
 blished with respect to the historick epopee, 
 but has been determined on the same prin- 
 ciples. The poet who undertakes either 
 kind of composition is constrained to pre- 
 serve or to adopt truth in his narration, as in 
 departing from the track which it points out, 
 the deviation must excite such sensations in 
 his readers, as will prevent their interest from 
 arising, at least to that degree which poetry 
 must aspire after, while there is a possibility 
 of its attainment. And this consideration 
 of the reciprocity existing between the his- 
 torick and poetical epopee, as well as the 
 nature of the perfection required in every 
 
80 
 
 composition of the art, at once leads to the 
 decision of the second question respecting 
 Poetical Licence which has been proposed 
 for examination. 
 
 II. On being excluded from employing 
 pure fiction, cannot an epick poem be con- 
 structed on authentick history ? 
 
 For what has been already declared on 
 the impractibility of departing from authen- 
 tick facts in the historical poem, must evince 
 that they cannot undergo any alteration, 
 much less be falsified to that degree which 
 would be necessary for the perfection of 
 epical poetry ; and that a subject consisting 
 of them must be wholly excluded from its 
 composition. 
 
 Nor can it be deemed unnecessary or 
 superfluous to have reduced the points under 
 discussion to this explicit statement, however 
 it may appear to have been anticipated, in 
 our inquiries into the licences admissible in 
 the historick poem. Since the poetical pro- 
 ductions of the French, our rivals, not less 
 in literary than in military glory, furnish an 
 eminent exception to the conclusion which it 
 is intended to establish ; the " Henriacle," 
 which is the chief epick poem that this na- 
 tion can boast, being founded on a subject 
 
81 
 
 taken from authentick history. But this 
 exception, which derives no small weight 
 from the extensive popularity of a writer of 
 such general powers as M. de Voltaire, be- 
 comes additionally formidable when this very 
 peculiarity in its composition is recommended 
 as a perfection in the ingenious and sensible 
 criticisms of M. Marmontel. 
 
 In the defence which the critick offers for 
 liis countryman against that comparison 
 which he had been brought into with Lucan, 
 (a comparison which is surely as derogatory 
 to the Roman, as the apologist would lead us 
 to believe it is to the French poet,) this cir- 
 cumstance appears prominent among those 
 which are adduced to determine the superio- 
 rity of the modern over the antient. " Lucain a 
 suivi scrupuleusement l'histoire sans melange 
 de fiction; au lieu que M. de Voltaire a 
 change l'ordredcs tems, transporte les faits, et 
 employe le merveilleux." z 
 
 After having determined the reverse of 
 this assertion on principles drawn from the 
 nature and end of poetry, after seeing these 
 principles exemplified in the practice of 
 writers of no common note, or inconsiderable 
 
 x Pref. pour la Henriade. 
 G 
 
82 
 
 length of standing, my only appeal from this 
 decision lies to the feelings of my reader, who 
 in that notice, which he may bestow on 
 these speculations, may be disposed to add 
 his suffrage to the conclusions which I en- 
 deavour to establish. That this conclusion 
 does not fail from wanting the support of 
 high authority, would be admitted by M. de 
 Voltaire himself, since the Abbe Du Bos, 
 of whose critical powers he bears ample tes- 
 timony, most explicitly declares that a sub- 
 ject from recent history is not fit for epick 
 poetry. a 
 
 But it is still more worthy of remark, 
 that M. de Voltaire himself, bestowing most 
 unqualified approbation on Lucan, and 
 strengthening his approbation with very con- 
 vincing reasons, has not only supported the 
 superiour judgment manifested in the " Phar- 
 salia, - " but has most incautiously decided 
 against that mode of practice which he after- 
 wards adopted in the " Henriade." Nor is 
 it difficult to account for this inconsistency 
 between the authour's practice and his prin- 
 ciples : in strict conformity to the latter, the 
 poem was originally conceived, and offered 
 to the world. It was not until after this period 
 
 » Reflex. Critiq. §. 23. 
 
83 
 
 that the authour perceived the possibility of 
 advancing the credit of his production, by 
 giving it more of an epical form. Those 
 sentiments, which might have discouraged 
 such a project, had been made publick some- 
 time before this intention had been formed, 
 and if they had been remembered by their 
 authour would have had little weight while 
 he was occupied with the idea of realizing a 
 project which was calculated to become more 
 a favourite with any poet. However this 
 may be, the writer's own sentiments, standing 
 as they do at present, must afford no small 
 confirmation to the opinion which is now 
 risqued, that the authour of the Henriade, 
 so far from demonstrating the feasibility of 
 that undertaking which his unprejudiced 
 judgment once condemned, has, by his failure 
 in it, left a standing proof of the justness of 
 those rules to which he is observed to run 
 counter. 
 
 The progress of the epick poet, being thus 
 restricted from passing into either extreme 
 of truth or fiction, is left no alternative but 
 that of taking a middle course between both ; 
 and this brings our inquiry to that last case 
 in an epical subject which has been proposed 
 for consideration. 
 
84 
 
 III. And yet this single case to which 
 epick poetry becomes thus limited, does not 
 possess the merely negative excellence of 
 being good, because there is no better, since 
 it is adopted where there is no liberty of 
 choice. Lying equally between the extremes 
 of reality and invention, it possesses their 
 respective perfections, and thus exhibits every 
 distinctive mark of intrinsick perfection. 
 From the authour of every work we demand 
 that he should aim at the greatest degree, 
 and highest kind of gratification, in his com- 
 positions, which is suitable to productions of 
 their kind and nature. But the pleasure 
 which historical and romanlick poetry is 
 capable of exciting lies under considerable 
 restrictions. An historical poem, from the 
 circumstance of being confined to the narra- 
 tion of recent and authentick facts, seems 
 composed with the express object of securing 
 the truth and dignity at the expense of the 
 interest of the subject. A poetical romance, 
 on the other hand, from the circumstance of 
 being excluded from adopting an historical 
 subject, seems laid under the necessity of 
 supplying the want of truth and importance, 
 by heightening the interest of its fable. Of 
 course, the pleasure which the one species of 
 
85 
 
 composition affords in the perusal, partially 
 excludes that which we feel in reading the 
 other ; we have most interest in the one, most 
 truth and importance in the other. This 
 being the case, either must be deficient in 
 that general pleasure which we can conceive 
 to arise from their union, and which we ex- 
 perience in turning to them in succession. 
 It is this mixed sensation of delight which 
 arises from a happy union of both, that is to 
 be sought in the poetical epopee ; and this 
 species of composition, being thus consti- 
 tuted of contrary qualities, becomes capable 
 of imparting that greatest degree and highest 
 kind of gratification of which the art is sus- 
 ceptible. And this union of such discordant 
 ingredients, the works of some favourate ar- 
 tists have not only enabled us to know are 
 capable of being realized, but have taught 
 us to feel in the most exquisite perfection. 
 
 The epick poet being thus vested with 
 powers to enter the different provinces of the 
 historical and romantick compositions, be- 
 comes in some degree exposed to the diffi- 
 culties which they have respectively to en- 
 counter. Of such a stubborn nature is the 
 historical part of the materials admitted in 
 his compositions that it will not yield to alle- 
 
86 
 
 ration : and yet to the completion of the 
 plan of that composition which is professedly 
 the most perfect of the works of invention, 
 and which ought to be improved until it 
 approaches that highest degree of excellence 
 which conception can form, no inconsider- 
 able alteration of some incidents in the story 
 must be necessary. In the difficulty that 
 arises hence the poet is left but one expe- 
 dient. He must take a subject of a remote 
 period. He must, in fact, select it with a 
 partiality similar to what the eye feels in 
 resting on such objects as from their remote- 
 ness excite no doubt with respect to their ex- 
 istence ; but of which, while the outline is 
 perfectly defined, much of the peculiarities 
 of their form, their colour, and their local 
 circumstances, are left to employ the imagi- 
 nation by exercising it in conjecture. A sub- 
 ject chosen under these circumstances, while 
 it secures to his composition all that import- 
 ance which it can receive from truth, imparts 
 to it all that interest which it can derive from 
 invention. 
 
 That intervening point in the history of 
 any people between the suppression of fabu- 
 lous narration, and the establishment of au- 
 thentick record, when the mind is suspended 
 
87 
 
 'tween reason and credulity, seems to be 
 the most promising period from which a poet 
 is likely to be furnished with such a subject. 
 As this is a period which must be necessarily 
 semi-barbarous, it is not only freed from the 
 restraint of that affectation and refinement in 
 manners which are so incompatible with the 
 general nature of the higher poetry, but it 
 seems most calculated to produce those im- 
 portant and daring exploits, which are best 
 adapted to a species of composition pro- 
 fessedly heroical. And as the character of 
 such a period is that of being credulous, it 
 must receive from this circumstance such a 
 tincture of superstition, as will give it a con- 
 nection with those supernatural agents, and 
 that marvellous imagery, which add so much 
 to our delight, by blending with that emotion 
 a mixture of admiration. In the considera- 
 tion of the antiquity of such a subject is in- 
 cluded all that sacred awe which the mind 
 feels in recurring to times that are past, all 
 that solemn delight which it experiences in 
 contemplating the venerable interest that 
 surrounds and rests over human gran ur 
 its decline. 
 
 But if the epick poet is laid under certain 
 restrictions from which the romantick poet 
 
88 
 
 is exonerated, he is indulged in licences from 
 which the historick poet is debarred. To 
 determine the extent of that power with 
 which he is thus invested, it is necessary to 
 remark in the first place, that he may claim 
 the same liberty, which has been extended 
 to the historick poet, of altering, omitting, or 
 introducing all those incidents which are of 
 secondary importance. And the only ex- 
 ception which can be taken to this licence 
 is, that a want of verisimilitude in the prac- 
 tice may interfere with the pleasure which 
 his productions are intended to confer. But 
 from the circumstance of these incidents be- 
 ing unimportant, it is directly a consequence, 
 that they are little calculated to strike the 
 mind, much less to interfere with that plea- 
 sure which engrosses it when its interests are 
 upon the stretch. From the same circum- 
 stance it equally follows, that we undervalue 
 the authority of such incidents as facts, if 
 they obtrude themselves under that shape 
 upon our observation. 
 
 The same reasoning which has been em- 
 ployed to reconcile with verisimilitude, those 
 liberties which the historick poet may take 
 with the important incidents in his work, 
 will, when a little extended in its application, 
 
89 
 
 apply to the poet who engages in the more 
 exalted and difficult task of pure epical 
 composition ; and here we may make use of 
 the opportunity to observe, that the licences 
 of poets of the former description are com- 
 paratively trifling when compared with those 
 which may be assumed by the latter. In 
 estimating the truth of any account, we must 
 ever make allowances for the circumstance 
 under which the object was beheld, that 
 forms the subject of its description, not less 
 than for the complexion of the person's mind 
 by whom it is related. Striking objects which 
 are seen dimly, or at a distance, are generally 
 conceived to be enlarged beyond the dimen- 
 sions which they appear to possess when 
 viewed more closely or distinctly, and in 
 proportion to their real magnitude we repre- 
 sent them more extended ; for we insensibly 
 accommodate our language to the surprise 
 they excite, without any intention of falsify- 
 ing our declarations. But as the sensations 
 excited in beholding such objects must be 
 further influenced by the temper of mind 
 with which they are regarded, the impres- 
 sions that different persons receive from the 
 same objects or occurrences may be very dis- 
 similar; and to this difference we must ex- 
 
90 
 
 pect to find their respective narratives "will be 
 faithful. A person of a cool and dispas- 
 sionate judgment examines an object in many 
 lights ; but one of a warm and passionate 
 temper will be taken with it in that which is 
 most engaging, and luminous. Under all 
 these circumstances the truth of the repre- 
 sented object is not so much sacrificed as 
 we may suppose, nor can we lose much, if 
 any, of its true form, when presented to us 
 through such a veil : for we readily observe, 
 that the envelope forms no part of the body 
 which it infolds, and that though it covers it 
 does not conceal its proportions and figure. 
 We thus judge of it, not by the mere exte- 
 riour, but by that form which distends and 
 upholds it. With similar restrictions it is 
 evident we receive those accounts which are 
 conveyed to us in the garb of poetical fancy;- 
 expecting to see every object heightened or 
 enlarged beyond the nakedness of historical 
 truth. The same circumstances which esta- 
 blish a difference between the plain narra- 
 tor, and the poetical delailer of historical 
 incidents, must make that difference still 
 greater with respect to the epick poet, who 
 has comparatively little concern with real 
 occurrences; who docs not receive from his- 
 
91 
 
 tory, but draws from invention, most of the 
 incidents that form his descriptions. We 
 expect that the enthusiasm which enrapts 
 him, which directs him in choosing a subject, 
 and which warms him in prosecuting it, will 
 transfer its lights and shades to every inci- 
 dent and occurrence which comes within 
 the sphere of its influence. 
 
 Nor does the decided superiority, with 
 respect to those licences which relate to im- 
 portant incidents in poetical composition, 
 terminate in favour of the epical poet, merely 
 with the advantages, just enumerated ; the 
 nature of those authorities on which such 
 incidents are recommended to his adoption 
 leaves him an almost unlimited licence of 
 selection, where there is any room for choice; 
 and without any regard to the testimony by 
 which they are supported. With respect to 
 those which are doubtful in their occurrence, 
 or secondary in their importance, he may 
 use the discretionary power of representing 
 them as is most suitable to his purpose ; and 
 in exercising this authority he may regulate 
 his mode of representation by documents of 
 the most doubtful credit. In estimating the 
 force of the different testimonies on which 
 facts of an obscure and a remote period 
 
92 
 
 are attested, traditionary probability stands 
 nearly on the same foundation as historical 
 representation : in both we are justified in 
 supposing there may be some degree of 
 errour, so that the authoritj' of no one can be 
 set up in opposition to the other, so as to 
 invalidate the truth of that statement which 
 is adopted by the poet. 
 
 In pursuing the line of conduct prescribed 
 above, the poet is not less supported in his 
 practice by reason than justified by prece- 
 dent. The historick grounds which can be 
 found for the main event of the subject of 
 the iEneid, the settlement of the Trojans in 
 Latium, are now supposed entitled to very 
 slight credit. On the question of iEneas's 
 having ever been in Italy, from what has 
 been agitated, there appears to be most ar- 
 guments on the negative side. b The Iliad, 
 as being founded on the supposition of a war 
 between the Greeks and Trojans, has been 
 of late asserted c to rest on no surer basis, with 
 respect to the main event of its subject : but 
 in this conclusion the publick very justly 
 seem disinclined to concur. On the truth 
 
 b See Bochakt. epist. num ./Eneas unquam fuitin Italia. 
 Bryant on the Trojan War. 
 
93 
 
 of one very important fact, however, that 
 of Helen's having been at Troy, during the 
 time of the siege, considerable doubts have 
 been started, and on high historical autho- 
 rity : d and this circumstance seems to justify 
 a reference to the authority of Homer as a 
 precedent in that mode of practice which 
 Poetick Licence confers to the artist, and 
 from which he derives a power of choosing 
 what is most suitable to his purpose in facts 
 of a doubtful or contested authority. 
 
 And hence it happens, that among facts 
 which are thus imperfectly reported, or ob- 
 scurely contemplated, the poet may insert 
 many incidents, and even episodes, which are 
 important, not less on account of the eleva- 
 tion than the extensiveness of their subject. 
 For having imagined them with suitable 
 attention to verisimilitude, he can have little 
 to fear for their sufficiency to convey that 
 pleasure which is the sole end of poetical 
 composition. It is knowledge alone that can 
 interpose her authority to remind us that 
 such pleasure has but an imaginary reality : 
 but knowledge has now no real objects to 
 impress upon our senses, so as to dissipate 
 
 d Herodot. lib. i. p. 8. 
 
94 
 
 the delusion; her feeble monitions therefore 
 escape the attention, which is already en- 
 grossed by fascinating, though visionary pro- 
 babilities. The licences of this kind, which 
 might be exemplified from any epick poem, 
 are those which place the most marked dis- 
 tinction between the respective provinces of 
 epical and historical poetry ; and so exten- 
 sive a range do they open to the former, that 
 they appear to place it under scarcely any 
 historical restriction, but that of deriving 
 from fact the main action of the subject, the 
 actual scene of its transaction, and the prin- 
 cipal characters by whom it is conducted. 
 
95 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 Although among poetical productions of 
 the highest order, the compositions of the 
 drama, occupy but a second rank in point of 
 execution, they claim decidedly the first place 
 in point of effect: the emotions which works 
 of this kind produce by means of theatrical 
 representation being more powerful than 
 those which can be excited by the dead let- 
 ter of written composition. On the real 
 temporary existence which is conferred on 
 the ideal creations of the poet, by em- 
 ploying living characters to deliver his sen- 
 timents, and a visible scene to sustain his 
 action, I wish particularly to fix the at- 
 tention of the reader, as one of the chief cir- 
 cumstances which characterize the peculiar 
 licences of the drama, as opposed to those of 
 the epopee. By such powerful auxiliaries 
 to narration as dramatick gesture and visible 
 representation, more spirit and animation are 
 added to the effect of the piece, under cover 
 of which the poet is enabled to take many 
 
96 
 
 liberties with the truth of the incidents on 
 which his subject is founded. For though 
 it may rather appear that poetry, in descend- 
 ing from her ideal state, and submitting her- 
 self to the test of the senses, may thus expose 
 to observation those deviations from science 
 which constitute all licences, yet this is far 
 from being the case. On the contrary, with 
 respect to those rules which are to regulate 
 the dramatick poet in detailing his incidents, 
 they may be generally pronounced to stand 
 exempt from those limitations which circum- 
 scribe his practice who engages in epical 
 compositions. 
 
 This will fully appear on prosecuting our 
 inquiries into the licences which may be 
 taken, in the productions of the theatre, with 
 history, the science still under consideration. 
 And it will be more conducive to this end, 
 to distribute the subject of discussion in the 
 same manner as was adopted in considering 
 the licences of epick poetry. The following 
 are consequently the points which offer them- 
 selves for inquiry. 
 
 I. May the poet derive his subject wholly 
 from invention ; or should he take it from 
 history? 
 
 II. In founding; a drama on historical 
 
97 
 Facts, how far is he licenced in deserting his* 
 torical authorit} 7 ; 1. where the facts happen 
 to be of remote; and, 2. where they are of 
 recent occurrence ? 
 
 These questions appear to comprise every 
 difficulty which requires a solution in the 
 different modes of composition which have 
 been contradistinguished as historical and 
 poetical ; all consideration of the romantick 
 species of composition in the drama being 
 reserved for that particular section of this . 
 inquiry, which is appropriated to what is 
 marvellous in poetry. 
 
 I. On the first of these questions how far 
 the poet is liberated from the necessity of 
 taking the subject of his poem from history, 
 very different sentiments have been enter- 
 tained. P. Brumoy maintains the negative 
 of this question, and is opposed by M. de 
 Voltaire ; the same point, if I remember 
 rightly, has been contested by Dr. Blair and 
 Dr. Warton. In this state of a question 
 which seems supported by pretty equal au- 
 thority, some countenance is not wanting for 
 him who places himself on either side. In- 
 fluenced, however, by the desire of seeing 
 Poetical Licence freed from every possible 
 restraint, I feel little hesitation in arranging 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 myself on the side of those who maintain the 
 affirmative. The reasons which apply to 
 laying the epopee under similar restrictions 
 have no reference whatever to the drama; 
 and if this can be proved to be the case, the 
 poet who acts in disregard of all such re- 
 straints has not much to fear from the attacks 
 of any opponent. 
 
 The arguments which were advanced to 
 prove it incumbent on the epick poet, that 
 he should construct his poem on an histori- 
 cal subject, were fundamentally drawn from 
 the particular character of his composition, 
 which obliges him to address his work rather 
 to the taste than to the passions. Suitably 
 to the more serious nature of that faculty, I 
 have already shewn that he is obliged to 
 maintain an equable dignity in his composi- 
 tions, and to preserve the easy tenour of the 
 events, undisturbed by the bustle of intrigue 
 and the continued agitation of passion. It is 
 to support and interest the mind in the cool 
 and collected state, into which a train of in- 
 cidents of this description must tend to throw 
 it, that he becomes necessitated to impart to 
 his subject those qualities of importance 
 and truth, which can be attained only by an 
 adherence to history. But the end which 
 
99 
 
 criticks have prescribed to tragick compo- 
 sitions, and which those poets have pursued 
 who have excelled in works of this descrip- 
 tion, is materially different from that which 
 is followed in epical productions. Suitably 
 to the precepts of criticism, those poets who 
 have excelled in tragick composition have 
 almost exclusively aimed at moving our pity 
 and terrour ; those passions which exert the 
 most powerful dominion over our breast, and 
 which rarely mix themselves with those softer 
 emotions that generally influence our taste. 
 Nay, many of the poets, particularly among 
 the moderns, have carried this principle still 
 further, and have ventured to involve the 
 drama in all that bustle of action, and intri- 
 cacy of plot, which are calculated to 
 quicken our feelings at what is pathetick, 
 and alarm our apprehensions at what is ter- 
 rible in its subject. Those reasons of course, 
 from which it has been pronounced that an 
 historical subject is indispensable in the epo- 
 pee, have no application in the present in- 
 stance ; having been drawn from a consi- 
 deration of the peculiar circumstances in 
 which that department of the art is placed, 
 they can have no reference to the drama, the 
 
100 
 
 nature and end of which are of so totally 
 different a description. 
 
 It may be however imagined, as every 
 artist is obliged to aspire after the highest 
 conceivable excellence of which his compo- 
 sitions are susceptible, that the truth and 
 importance which exclusively belong to a 
 subject founded on fact, as opposed to one 
 drawn from invention, impose it as a duty 
 on the tragick writer that he should construct 
 his works on history. Without questioning 
 the authority of the principle from which 
 this inference is made, we may venture to 
 doubt that the end which it proposes could 
 be in any respect attained by carrying the 
 project under consideration into effect. For 
 a few considerations, it is presumed, will be 
 sufficient to evince, that however a subject 
 thus chosen might inherently possess such 
 requisite qualities, as are here supposed to 
 recommend a fable that is historick, they 
 would become so weakened and altered in 
 the representation as to prove incapable of 
 heightening the effect of the drama. 
 
 With respect to the first and principal 
 particular, that greater truth may be thus 
 imparted to the drama: it is difficult to 
 
101 
 
 conceive how any advantage can proceed 
 from its purposed union with history. The 
 impressive nature of representation places 
 it above deriving any benefit from such an 
 alliance : for, being sustained by visible 
 scenery and living characters, it thence ac- 
 quires a species of artificial reality, more 
 striking than any known fact can have in the 
 remembrance. That we are ever deluded 
 into a belief of the player's being the person 
 he represents, is not now asserted : for the 
 mind during the period of representation is 
 engrossed by circumstances very different 
 from these, or any like considerations, on the 
 personal identity of the actor or character. 
 The question arising now is not whether this 
 artificial reality ever amounts to theatrical 
 delusion ; it is sufficient, that it so far imposes 
 on our belief as to make us sympathise with 
 the characters in the representation. And 
 this being once effected, the mind becomes 
 at the time too impatient of interruption to 
 be solicitous about any matter of extraneous 
 or secondary importance ; and such at every 
 moment of the representation must be all 
 speculations on such points as whether the 
 dramatick action occurred at any antecedent 
 period. 
 
102 
 
 Regarding then the facts of the drama 
 as being not narrated, but actually renewed; 
 as operating on the mind through the inter- 
 vention, not of the memory, but of the 
 senses ; as acquiring a species of real exist- 
 ence from representation, at least that life 
 and existence which makes the most forci- 
 ble impression on the mind, it is pretly evi- 
 dent, that the reality of its subject can in no 
 respect be increased by the consideration 
 of its having previously occurred. For, sup- 
 posing this circumstance does affect the spec- 
 tator, it is impossible that, while he is en- 
 gaged by it, he can make any deduction 
 from it relative to the reality of the action 
 in representation, but that of its being 
 absolutely untrue in that state wherein it 
 principally affects his imagination. When 
 we are moved by the distresses of a Macbeth 
 or Richard, it is the fictitious hero alone that 
 engages our attention, and excites our sym- 
 pathy. The circumstance of such charac- 
 ters having been once real does not increase 
 our emotion, or influence our feeling for their 
 sufferings : for they possess no greater power 
 over our passions than an Othello or a Dou- 
 glas, who never existed, i^nd when we drop 
 the idea of the actor, and think of the real 
 
103 
 
 character which he personates, it is evident 
 that the only impression which the repre- 
 sentation can give ns is that of its being sup- 
 posititious : for the more true it is that Mac- 
 beth or Richard once existed, the less proba- 
 ble it must be that they sustain a part in the 
 dramatick action. And these considerations 
 are, I think, sufficient to place the possibi- 
 lity of greater truth and reality being im- 
 parted to dramatick poetry, by means of 
 history, out of the question. 
 
 If we have thus to resign the defence of 
 historick subjects, as imparting no greater 
 truth and reality than a fictitious story to 
 tragedy, the chances are much against their 
 being considered more suited to its end on 
 the grounds of conferring greater dignity and 
 importance. For it must rather tend to 
 counteract than advance that powerful in- 
 terest, which hurries the mind along with 
 the course of representation, to transfer its 
 subject from scenes of domestick misfortune, 
 to those events of national concern which 
 alone of the facts of history would give the 
 drama the supposed elevation. A drama- 
 tick subject is sufficiently elevated as to its 
 importance, when the sentiments and dis- 
 positions of its characters are exalted, and 
 
104 
 
 their sufferings great and affecting. Though 
 in the fortune of more illustrious personages 
 such great epical events may be involved 
 as the fate of kingdoms, and the dissolution 
 of nations : yet of these the passions take 
 but little concern, unless as they tend to 
 heighten those strokes of private calamity, 
 which affect the persons in whose fate we 
 are interested, and which possess the most 
 powerful influence over the breast, of which 
 it is sensible. As we endeavour, by the 
 mechanism of such springs to raise tragedy 
 beyond its proper level ; as we aim at making 
 its events more general in their influence, 
 and more dignified in their importance, we 
 must proportionately abridge it of those little 
 resistless touches of private distress which 
 find the speediest access to the heart ; and 
 thus raise it out of the sphere,, in which 
 the generality of those persons move, who 
 are to feel its effects by the sympathy which 
 places them in the state and circumstances 
 of the imaginary sufferers of the drama. On 
 these condi lions it is an object rather to be 
 avoided, than secured, to place the drama 
 and epopee on the same terms ; and thus it 
 is, that those reasons eventually fail with 
 respect to the former, on which history has 
 
105 
 
 been considered necessary to the composi- 
 tions of the latter. 
 
 Against a position which is here as- 
 sumed as granted, a modern critick appears 
 to speak most decisively. After declaring 
 " that tragedy prefers, or rather confines it- 
 self to such actions as are most important/' — 
 and " that the persons whose actions tragedy 
 would exhibit to us must be of principal 
 rank and dignity," he subjoins, " that the 
 actions of such persons are both in them- 
 selves, and in their consequences most fitted 
 to excite passion f and that " whatever be 
 the unhappy incidents in the story of pri- 
 vate men, it is certain, they must take faster 
 hold of the imagination, and of course im- 
 press the heart more forcibly when related 
 of the higher characters in life/' 6 These are 
 assertions which the authour in question ap- 
 pears to have introduced merely for the 
 purpose of arraigning the modern tragedy 
 as defective " in turning so constantly as it 
 does upon love subjects," and on the dis- 
 tresses " of private persons ;'■ so as, he adds, 
 *' to have well nigh annihilated the noblest of 
 the two dramas amongst us." f 
 
 e Hurd on the Province'; of the Drama. Chan. I. § 3. 
 f Td. lb. 
 
106 
 
 Begging leave to deny on the evidence 
 of my own feelings, which decide the very 
 contrary to what the critick asserts, " that 
 each of these conclusions is the direct con- 
 sequence of our idea of the end of tragedy," 
 I shall venture to oppose to his assumptions 
 the opinion of one who may be surely al- 
 lowed to have possessed no slight strength 
 of judgment, and perspicacity in criticism. 
 And it is a curious circumstance, that the 
 critick, whom 1 now quote, has repeatedly 
 determined the reverse of the above conclu- 
 sions, in judging the works of Shakespeare, 
 Otway, and Rowe, those poets who of all 
 the moderns have shewn the greatest skill in 
 swaying the passions. " The play of Timon 
 is a domestick tragedy, and therefore strongly 
 fastens on the attentions of the reader."'— 
 " The Orphan is a domestick tragedy drawn 
 from middle life. Its whole power is upon 
 the affections; for it is not written with 
 much comprehension of thought, or elegance 
 of expression. But if the heart is interested 
 many other beauties may be wanting, \'et 
 not be missed"" — " This play (Jane Shore) 
 
 3 Johnson. Gen. Observ. on Shakespeare. Vol. II. p. 215. 
 * Id. Life of Otway. Vol. IX. p. 220. 
 
107 
 
 consisting chiefly of domestic!* scenes and 
 private distress, lays hold upon the heart/' 1 
 
 These are conclusions in which, as they 
 are dictated by feeling, not strained from 
 principle, every reader joins his ready assent, 
 who has witnessed the representation of 
 domestic!* tragedy, and remembers how he 
 was affected by the exhibition. The fact is, 
 that in tragedies which employ dignified per- 
 sonages to carry on the action of the fable, 
 we are rarely affected by any distresses which 
 might not equally belong to those who move 
 in the middle sphere of life : if there is any 
 thing great and magnanimous in the suffer- 
 ings of such persons, it becomes doubly 
 striking, from being less expected than in 
 persons of a more exalted rank and heroical 
 character : if there is any thing pathetick or 
 terrible in their fate it must operate with 
 double effect upon our passions, as lying 
 more close to our sympathies. Any cata- 
 strophe more moving or terrible than that 
 of Othello, will not be easily pointed out in 
 the whole range of dramatick composition ; 
 yet it exhibits nothing which might not have 
 occurred in the most private recesses of do- 
 
108 
 
 mestick life : nor can it be easily shewn bow 
 its passionate effects could receive any en- 
 crease or diminution by supposing the per- 
 sons who interest us in that drama of a rank 
 more or less exalted. Neither can I think 
 the critick acquires any support from the 
 remark on which he founds his conclusion 
 " on the absurdity," as he pleased to term it, 
 of planning unimportant action in tragedy ; 
 that the interests of a whole community are 
 involved in the misfortunes of great and 
 splendid sufferers. Without employing any 
 time to refute these unsupported assump- 
 tions, by abstract reasoning, we ma}' pro- 
 duce from example a sufficient proof of their 
 inconclusiveness. The " Samson Agonistes" 
 of Milton stands perhaps without a parallel, 
 as possessing a catastrophe which occasions 
 important and extensive evils to persons 
 the most elevated in rank and character : 
 nor is it easy to conceive in what manner 
 more could be made of the incidents which 
 form its close, in heightening the tragick ef- 
 fects of pity and terrour, than has been ac- 
 complished by its authour. Yet who is there 
 that, in perusing this drama, has felt his breast 
 agitated with these emotions to that powerful 
 degree which he must have experienced 
 
109 
 
 when sitting down to some of the domestick 
 stories of Moore and Southerne? 
 
 It may be however then demanded, if the 
 representation of domestick distress and the 
 exhibition of private character are more 
 conducive to the end of tragedy, as far as it 
 intends to move our pity and alarm our ter- 
 rour, how comes it to pass that poets have 
 manifested in their dramatick works a gene- 
 ral partiality to dignified characters, if not 
 to important action also ? This question may 
 find the following obvious answer. The prin- 
 cipal end of tragedy is to move us to pity 
 and terrour ; but tragick compositions in 
 their most respectable form are likewise poe- 
 tical compositions, and must consequently 
 comprise those means of pleasing which 
 constitute the end of all the productions of 
 the art with which they thus possess an affi- 
 nity. Thus it becomes not more exacted by 
 the particular end of dramatick composition, 
 that tragedy should aim at possessing what- 
 ever can affect our passions ; than it is incul- 
 cated by the general end of poetical compo- 
 sition, that it should aspire at whatever is 
 calculated to gratify our taste. As the beau- 
 ties of sentiment and of language contribute 
 in no slight degree to the end of poetry, and 
 as such are materials which form an essen- 
 
110 
 
 tial part of the composition of the drama ; 
 when the poet neglects to secure the advan- 
 tages that may be imparted to his subject 
 from these sources, he must disappoint us 
 of much of the pleasure which we have a 
 right to demand from his productions. Flence 
 it becomes a duty incumbent on him to give 
 an elevation to the sentiments, and a corre- 
 spondent dignity to the diction of the higher 
 tragedy : and thus he is necessitated to dis- 
 pose his language in a metrical form, and to 
 enrich it with the embellishments of figura- 
 tive expression. But that he may not wholly 
 destroy our gratification, by violating pro- 
 priety, he is obliged to ascribe such lan- 
 guage and sentiments to characters of an 
 exalted rank ; for to such personages prin- 
 cipally can they be assigned in conformity 
 to nature and propriety. These are the 
 considerations from which, as it appears to 
 me, the poet was originally induced to trans- 
 fer his subject from exhibiting private per- 
 sons to displaying great and dignified cha- 
 racters : though the distresses of the former 
 were more calculated to excite passion, they 
 afforded not the same means of contributing 
 to the spectator's delight, by calling in the 
 resources of taste to second the impulses of 
 emotion. 
 
Ill 
 
 But let not these considerations be con- 
 ceived to confer any general superiority on 
 exalted subjects over domestick fables, as 
 more calculated to promote the end of poe- 
 tical composition. The principles now un- 
 folded, when applied in their utmost severity, 
 would reduce to an inferiour rank in the 
 scale of dramatick excellence such tragedies 
 only from among those which are founded 
 on domestick stories, as may be distin- 
 guished by the designation of familiar." 
 There still remains within the confines of 
 private life an inexhaustible fund of mate- 
 rials in everjr respect suited to the purposes 
 of dramatick perfection. Nor is this asser- 
 tion founded on a mere barren speculation : 
 the works of our most celebrated writers 
 afford continual proofs of its sufficiency. The 
 " Romeo and Juliet" of Shakespeare, and 
 the " Venice Preserved" of Otway, may be 
 deduced, from among many of equal perti- 
 nency, as instances of dramas whose actions 
 are founded on domestick distress, and whose 
 characters are deduced from the private and 
 middle sphere of life ; and which, neverthe- 
 less, comprehend not only every effect of 
 action and incident that heightens tragick 
 
 k- Such dramas I mean as Moore's " Gamester," and Lillo's 
 " George Barnwell." 
 
112 
 
 interest, but also every embellishfnent of 
 sentiment and diction that dignifies poetical 
 composition. 
 
 For the security of that general conclusion 
 which was formerly laid down on the question 
 of an historical subject tending to improve 
 the drama, I am further obliged to object to 
 another tenet of the critick before us : — that 
 " tragedy succeeds best when the subject is 
 real/" Some assertions of the same writer 
 1 formerly confronted with the precepts of 
 Dr. Johnson, I shall now venture to oppose 
 to the present assumption the opinion of Ari- 
 stotle, who manifests a general acquiescence 
 in the conclusion I have endeavoured to esta^ 
 blish in contradiction to this assertion. " In 
 some tragedies/' says the critick, " there are 
 a few known names, while the rest are ficti- 
 tious ; but in others there are none, as in the 
 Anthos of Agatho, where the incidents and 
 the characters are equally feigned, and yet 
 the drama does not less contribute to our de~ 
 light" 1 ". 
 
 1 Hukd. ub. sup. 
 
 m Ou p^ olXKo, r.ai ev rat; rpaywo\ai;, ev svtat; p.ev ev ij ha 
 rwv yvjipi[jMY ecrriv ovoy.arwv , ra Se a\\a tteTtovt^eva- ev eviai; 
 OS uSsv oiov sv ruj Ayabuivt; AvSei. Opouv; yap sv mrw rare 
 nipay^ara xai rx ovowara rtetoi^rai, nau &Sey yrlov ev<ppaivet. De 
 Poet. § 18. 
 
113 
 
 The learned crilick seems equally at a 
 loss for a proof of his assumption, as he ap- 
 pears in his decisions on the effects of do- 
 mestick stories in the drama, in offering a 
 trite quotation from a Greek comedy sup- 
 posed to be written by Aristophanes, as 
 assigning the reasons for this peculiarity in 
 tragedy. In the passage in question, which 
 contains a comparison between the tragick 
 and comick departments of the art, the au- 
 thour seems desirous of establishing the su- 
 periour advantages of the former, on the 
 supposition of the general knowledge which 
 the audience previously possessed with its 
 subject." But had our critick given himself 
 lime for a moment's consideration, he must 
 have observed that this passage brings no 
 support to his theory, as being not at all ap- 
 plicable to a modern audience. And however 
 the poet's words may be regarded as a suffi- 
 cient testimony of the truth of this conclu- 
 sion when applied to ancient audiences, there 
 
 n Ma.xa.ptov earriv tj f pay who, 
 
 JIoiY/LLa, Y.a.'fa. iravr. stye rfpuirov 01 Xoyot 
 Tito rxv StarcM sttriv eyvajptcpLsvoi, 
 Ylpiv ym t'iv' eiiteiv, cv; viro^vy^ai f^ovov 
 A?< ro'/ itoirfTry. Orfnrsv yap av yy fui, 
 Ta, 5' a.\\a, nave' isa$w x. r. A. 
 
 I 
 
114 
 
 is good reason for rejecting it even in this 
 respect : if we consult a still higher authority 
 we shall find no inconsiderable countenance 
 in admitting it no further than as it appears 
 to be the declaration of one who wished 
 to recommend his art by aggravating the 
 difficulties which attended the carrying of it 
 to perfection. Aristotle, who lived at a pe- 
 riod which brought to the Grecian theatre 
 the most enlightened audience that perhaps 
 antiquity could ever collect, seems to have 
 been of a different opinion from the poet. 
 After condemning the conduct of such writers 
 as adhered pertinaciously to hereditary sub- 
 jects, he makes the declaration which has 
 been already adduced, and subjoins the fol- 
 lowing conclusions, which leave very little 
 authority to the words of Aristophanes : — 
 " It would be ridiculous to adhere too scru- 
 pulously to received subjects : since those 
 fables which are known, are known but to few, 
 and yet conduce to the delight of all." 
 
 II. 1. To proceed to the second point 
 which has been proposed for discussion, when 
 
 £l<rr' 8 tfxvrw; eivxi ^Trj-tsov tuiv tfa.poc$e$ofAEvwv pvSwv, 
 Tfept &; a; fpaywhou ei$iv, a,vrc%£;$ou. Ka< yapyeXoior rovrt 
 £i)Teiv Bitei *aj r« yvwpipa, oXiyoi; yvwpipa. £<rfiv, aAA' opws 
 iv<ppcuvu TtxvTCKf. De Poet. § 18. 
 
115 
 
 a fable taken from history is chosen by a 
 dramatick writer, even it falls into his hands 
 subject to no such restrictions in the Poetick 
 Licence of altering its facts, as are binding 
 on the epick poet. This I think may be 
 made evident from the consideration of what 
 has been just advanced on the artificial 
 reality and impressive nature of dramatick 
 representation. Could the mind acquiesce 
 in being deflected from such interests as 
 are excited by observing the action thus has- 
 tened to its event, it could find little op- 
 portunity, during the short period of repre- 
 sentation, for attending to those defects 
 which a leisurable reading enables us to de- 
 lect in the epopee. And what has still more 
 weight, among subjects of history, those 
 chosen for the drama are of less general im- 
 portance than those adapted to the epopee ; 
 and being of course less minutely known, 
 their violation cannot be attended with effects 
 at all similar. Of the events in subjects 
 thus chosen, even those which hold the 
 highest rank, may as historical facts possess 
 but secondary importance; and over inci- 
 dents of this description I have already 
 shewn that even those writers, who profess- 
 edly engage in poetical compositions of the 
 
116 
 
 tamest kind, may exercise very unlimited 
 powers of alteration and embellishment. p 
 
 This reasoning appears strengthened by 
 the precepts, and illustrated by the prac- 
 tice of one of our highest poets. Mr. Dry- 
 den, speaking of the conduct observed by 
 him in the historical ground-work of his 
 " Indian Emperor," observes : " In it I have 
 neither wholly followed the truth of the his- 
 tory, nor altogether left it ; but have taken 
 all the liberty of a poet to add, alter, or di- 
 minish, as I thought might best conduce 
 
 P From these considerations, strengthened by the subsequent 
 authority which supports and illustrates them, I must beg leave 
 to enter a protest against those conclusions of the Abbe Du Bos, 
 which censure some liberties taken in this respect by Corneille 
 and Racine in the French drama. See Reflex. Critiq. §. 2Q. 
 The critick seems to lay great stress on the authority of Aristotle, 
 which he supposes to afford him some countenance in this opinion. 
 He alludes to a passage in the " Poeticks," where Aristotle cen- 
 sures Sophocles for describing the death of Orestes, as occurring at 
 the Pythian games, (Dc Poet. § 44.) which the critick asserts not 
 to have been instituted for some time subsequent to that period. 
 But various meanings have been assigned to this passage ; and 
 from the context, and the general sense of the whole reasoning 
 which Aristotle pursues, it appears that he censures this descrip- 
 tion of the Grecian poet as containing an improbable circum- 
 stance, rather than an anachronism. I cannot therefore think 
 that the abbe's censure receives much support from the father of 
 criticism : the passage which he adduces being but a solitary one, 
 and at best but equivocal. 
 
117 
 
 to the beautifying of my work : it being not 
 the business of a poel to represent historical 
 truth, but probability.'" 1 His practice with 
 regard to ihe plot of one of his first dramas, 
 " Don Sebastian," is equally deserving of 
 notice, as it extends this licence to the ut- 
 most bounds which are consistent with pro- 
 priety. This tragedy is founded on an un- 
 ascertained point of history, whether the 
 prince, who gives his name to the drama, 
 did, or did not, survive the battle of Alcazar. 
 The authour, taking the liberty of a poet, 
 and choosing that side of this doubrful ques- 
 tion which best suited his purposes, formed 
 the fable of this excellent tragedy on the 
 supposition of the prince's having survived 
 the action. And in allusion to his conduct 
 he declares : — * This ground-work the his- 
 tory afforded me, and I desire no better to 
 build a play upon : for where the event of a 
 great action is left doubtful, there the poet 
 is left master. He may raise what he pleases 
 on that foundation, provided he makes it 
 of a piece, and according to the rule of 
 probability/' r The poet's practice in these 
 particular instances, corresponds with the 
 
 i Dedicat. of Indian Emp. Works, Vol. II. p. 243. 
 ' Pref. to Don Sebastian. Vol. VII. p. 2Q5, 
 
118 
 
 general tenour of his sentiments, when he 
 speaks more at large on the principles of his 
 art. In his " Essay of Dramatick Poesy/' 
 we find the same precepts recommended in 
 a general form. " Sometimes the slory has 
 left the success so doubtful, that the writer 
 is free, by the privilege of a poet, to take that 
 which of two or more relations will best suit 
 with his design; as, for example, in the death 
 of Cyrus, whom Justin and some others 
 report to have perished in the Scythian war, 
 but Xenophon affirms to have died in his bed 
 of extreme old age."' 
 
 Nor is the opinion hazarded above devoid 
 of support from authority of still higher cre- 
 dit from being of longer standing. To the 
 authority of Mr. Dry den, now adduced, we 
 may confidently add that of Horace ; from 
 whose precepts on the means Jeft a poet of 
 new modelling old subjects for the drama 
 without incurring the censure of being servile 
 or unoriginal, his learned commentator draws 
 the following rules. " Not to follow the trite 
 obvious round of the original work ; not to 
 be translators instead of imitators ; not to 
 adopt any particular incident that may occur 
 in the proposed model, which either decency 
 
 * JEssay of Dramatick Poesy. Vol. XV. p. 32?. 
 
119 
 
 or the nature of the work would reject/' ' 
 And here it should be remembered that 
 Horace does not point out such historical 
 subjects merely as had been left in common 
 to the adoption of every poet, but such as 
 had passed into the private possession of 
 some antecedent poets. By this process of 
 successive adoption, the incidents must have 
 become doubly impressed on the memory ; 
 and consequently if a departure from histo- 
 rick fidelity could be recommended by Ho- 
 race under the circumstance of their final 
 alteration, it could not be possibly censurable 
 under their original representation, if used 
 with proper restrictions. 
 
 It seems not, however, to have been Ho- 
 race's intention to authorise a licentiousness 
 of alteration taken by any poet, in making 
 the incidents of history, if they are of prin- 
 cipal note, subservient to the caprices of 
 invention." Nor let his authority be urged 
 
 1 Hurd's Notes on Horace's Art of Poet. v. 131. 
 
 u The conduct of M. Racine, compared with that of Eurypides, 
 whom he has followed in bringing the story of Andromache on 
 the stage, may be referred to as containing a just exemplifica- 
 tion of the precept by which this critick would circumscribe the 
 practice of every poet. The " Distrest Mother" of A. Philips 
 affords also an adequate illustration of the principle in question. 
 
120 
 
 on the other hand as maintaining that there 
 is an absolute necessity incumbent on the 
 poet of deviating from the direct train of 
 fact, for the purpose of creating differences 
 between his subject and the history in which 
 it is recorded ; or for any other purpose than 
 that of giving it a novell}', where it has been 
 rendered trite and popular by some preced- 
 ing poet. For this I can neither allow on my 
 own part, nor on the part of Horace : such a 
 mode of practice having been merely recom- 
 mended by the of kick to his countrymen, 
 as they borrowed their dramalick fables from 
 the G reeks, who had given to every story a 
 triteness by repetition. In this respect poe- 
 try appears free from every restriction, and 
 according as is most suitable to the end of 
 the composition, or agreeable to the views 
 of the writer, ma}' adopt the fidelity of his- 
 torick narration, or use the licence of poe^ 
 tical fiction. The closeness with which 
 Shakespeare adheres to the details of most, 
 if not all the authorities, whether authentick 
 or fictitious, from which he drew the subject 
 of his dramas, not to mention the exclusive 
 attachment of several eminent cri licks to 
 historical fidelity, may be insisted on as a 
 sufficient justification of this assertion in 
 
121 
 
 theory, and illustration of it in practice. 
 Sheltering myself under such authority, I shall 
 venture to dissent from the learned com- 
 mentator just mentioned in part of the cen- 
 sure he has passed on the " Cataline" of B. 
 Jonson. The inoenious and learned critick 
 has certainly misapplied in this instance his 
 just and perspicacious exposition of Horace. 
 In believing that theauthour of that tragedy, 
 as in the two first charges urged against him, 
 was to be condemned for following too 
 closely the historian and orator who supplied 
 his subject, he applies to him a remark 
 which, if taken in its utmost rigour, would 
 have affected him only if he had adopted his 
 subject from some antecedent poet. 
 
 II. 2. The mention of " Cataline" directly 
 leads us to Shakespeare's " Richard II." of. 
 which it has been observed that it probably 
 set Jonson that example of strict adherence 
 to the authority of history which he likewise 
 followed in his " Sejanus." And thus are we 
 led to the consideration of the historical 
 drama, which brings our inquiries to the last 
 point which has been proposed for investi- 
 gation. 
 
 And in the conduct of this department 
 
122 
 
 of dramatick poetry, I cannot but think that 
 our inimitable bard exhibits as strong marks 
 of judgment as have been displayed by the 
 most successful practitioners of historick 
 poetry of the epick rank. The mode which 
 he has adopted, of adhering literally to histo- 
 rical facts, is the most cautious, and least 
 likely to excite disapprobation. The state 
 of a subject taken from recent and national 
 history, and of one taken from remote and 
 foreign history, is altogether dissimilar: of the 
 former, every spectator must have a very 
 different knowledge from that which he can 
 acquire of the latter ; and the poet must 
 always have respect to the spectator's know- 
 ledge, as he intends to provide for the spec- 
 tator's gratification. In this undertaking little 
 success is to be expected, when he com- 
 mences by violating the generally received 
 notions on popular and national subjects. 
 
 The case of the historick drama is in this 
 view analogous to that of the historick epo- 
 pee : and, thus, for a justification of Shake- 
 speare's practice in his " Histories" we need 
 not adopt the general modes of his defence. 
 We are not to consider him in want of that 
 apology which gives his merit but the rela- 
 tive excellence arising from a comparison of 
 
123 
 
 his compositions with " that stale of almost 
 universal licence and ignorance in which he 
 lived." w Nor ought we to consider this de- 
 fence much strengthened by the considera- 
 tion of his having lived under a kind of light 
 of nature which exempted him from the 
 written precepts of Aristotle, as from the 
 rigour of a law of which he knew not the 
 promulgation : x or that his practice is much 
 extenuated by the circumstance of his hav- 
 ing had no good model by which he might 
 be led to the imitation of excellence, or 
 turned from the perversions of errour. In the 
 grounds of his defence it has been men- 
 tioned, but with no great success in deter- 
 mining the present question, that there is 
 a perfect conformity between his execution 
 and his plan ; and that he is not to be ar- 
 raigned for having left that undone which 
 he never intended. This mode of exculpa- 
 tion rather removes the objection a step 
 back, than sets it wholly aside. With any 
 errour which is discoverable in his plan, a 
 poet becomes generally and indeed funda- 
 mentally chargeable : and from the rules of 
 
 Johnson's Pref. to Shakespeare. 
 Rowe's Pref, to Shakespeare. 
 
124 
 
 Arislolle, as far as they are supported by 
 reason and nature, no poet can purchase 
 any exemption. How far Shakespeare has 
 accommodated himself to these rules, when 
 taken according to their spirit and to the 
 extent of their application, has I think been 
 alread} r made evident : so far so, indeed, thaL 
 it may be summarily concluded that he will 
 not suffer by any application to those parts 
 of his dramas over which they profess to take 
 any cognizance. 
 
 The observation which M. de Voltaire 
 has made on the historical epopee, that it is 
 a dangerous enterprise, may be applied to 
 the historical drama : and it may be declared 
 to be such as cannot be recommended to 
 any write* who does not possess more than 
 uncommon address in giving interest to what 
 is known, and novelt}' to what is familiar in 
 his subject. In this respect historical poetry 
 of the dramatick kind is placed in the same 
 situation as that of the epical ; and a like 
 obligation laid upon the poet who engages 
 in either kind of composition to supply the 
 natural deficiencies of the subject by height- 
 ening those parts of his work which admit 
 of alteration or embellishment. Nor should 
 it be forgotten, in justice to the apologists of 
 
125 
 
 Shakespeare, that his extraordinary merit in 
 this respect has not escaped unnoticed ; and 
 his power of gratifying our taste by heighten- 
 ing those qualities which are most prominent 
 and most striking in dramatick productions, 
 has been justly insisted on in the defence of 
 his historical accuracy. With this object 
 in view Rowe has particularly dwelt on his 
 skill in delineating characters. And John- 
 son, with rather an apparent than a real dif- 
 ference in the grounds of his defence, has 
 particularly specified his irresistible power in 
 moving the passions. But here the nature of 
 our inquiries, as confined merely to the histo- 
 rical incidents of poetry, reminds us that any 
 discussion on this point should be reserved for 
 another opportunity. And I think it may 
 eventually be shewn, that the practice of 
 Shakespeare not only falls within the verge 
 of undent criticism, butthut as far as Aristo- 
 tle embraces the nature and extent of his 
 plan, he yields very unqualified approbation 
 to the practice of a poet, who indeed no 
 where deserted the suggestions of nature, and 
 rarely transgressed the decisions of judg- 
 ment. 
 
 The historick drama, thus brought un- 
 der the same regulations as the historick 
 
126 
 
 epopee, and circumscribed by the same re- 
 strictions, claims an equal right to the same 
 privileges and exemptions. The licences 
 which the epick writer possesses over the 
 unimportant incidents in his fable, extend 
 with equal latitude, and on the same princi- 
 ples, to the tragedian ; and allow him the 
 liberty of altering, introducing, or omitting 
 all facts of this description, as far as it may 
 tend to increase the beauty, or heighten the 
 interest of his composition. 
 
 Thus, according to the principles by 
 which the poet takes advantage of any 
 doubtful point of history, Shakespeare, in 
 his " Henry IV," uses the privilege of 
 his art, in making Hotspur fall by the 
 hand of Prince Henry. The former, it 
 is certain, was killed at the battle of 
 Shrewsbury, but the authour of his death 
 was unknown. The poet profited by this 
 uncertainty, and ascribing the event to the 
 prince, has considerably increased the gene- 
 ral interest of his play, and at the same time 
 has elevated his favourite character. In 
 " King John," he has exhibited equal judg- 
 ment in the manner he has represented the 
 death of Prince Arthur. The account of 
 this inhuman deed has been variously re- 
 
127 
 
 lated by historians ; and the poet, by making 
 it the effect of an accident, has in a great 
 measure removed the odium of his death 
 from his uncle, and softened down the hor- 
 rours of the transaction. 
 
 A still more striking instance of this li- 
 cence, which has been pointed out by Mr. 
 Dryden, occurs in his " Julius Caesar." In 
 this play, which, together with " Antony and 
 Cleopatra," may be justly ranked among 
 historick dramas, as well on account of the 
 authenticity of its events, as from the fide- 
 lity with which the poet has generally ad- 
 hered to history, both in its incidents and in 
 their arrangement, the authour has placed 
 the death of Portia some time before its ac- 
 tual occurrence. He was influenced to intro- 
 duce this deviation from history with the 
 desire, as has been observed by Mr. Dryden, 
 of giving some shadow to the anger of Bru- 
 tus, and thus raising a foundation for that 
 exquisite scene which thence arises between 
 him and Cassius. " If he has made Brutus, 
 who was naturally a patient man, to fly into 
 excess at first, let it be remembered in his de- 
 fence, that, just before, he has received the 
 news of Portia's death ; whom the poet, on 
 purpose neglecting a little chronology, sup- 
 
128 
 
 poses to have died before Brutus, only lo 
 give him an occasion of being more easily 
 exasperated." 5. 
 
 The justice of this observation will appear 
 more evident on inspecting the scene in 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Cass. x Hath Cassius livel 
 
 To be hut mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
 When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him ? 
 
 Brut. When I spoke that, I was ill tempered too. 
 
 But again more particularly ; 
 
 Cass. I did not think } r ou could have boen so angry. 
 
 Buut. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs. 
 
 Cass. Of your philosophy you make no use, 
 
 If you give place to accidental evils. 
 
 Brut. No man bears sorrow better. — Portia is dead. 
 
 Cass. Ha! Portia? 
 
 Brut. She is dead. 
 
 Cass. How 'scap'd I killing, when I cross'd you so? — 
 
 On recurring to the principles which have 
 been advanced in this chapter to defend the 
 licences taken by poets in the different spe- 
 cies of dramatick composition, which have 
 come under our observation, it appears that 
 
 r Pref. toTroilus and Crcssida. Vol. VI. p. 241. 
 r Julius Caesar. Act IV. sc. 3. 
 
129 
 
 most of the deductions hitherto made in 
 reference to the subject have been drawn 
 from the nature of theatrical representation, 
 and the end of the drama, as directed to the 
 object of exciting pity and terrour. On these 
 affections of tragedy I shall beg leave to de- 
 tain the attention of the reader a short time 
 longer; being induced to dwell upon these 
 points not less from their proving that the 
 mode of practice adopted by dramatick writ- 
 ers, in seeking such an end in their produc- 
 tions, is that which is exclusively right, than 
 from their tending to smooth some difficul- 
 ties towards investigating the nature of mar- 
 vellous imagery which occupies so distin- 
 guished a place in both epopee and drama, 
 and forms so extensive a branch in the pre- 
 sent inquiiy. 
 
 In exciting that pleasurable effect which it 
 is the end of every work of taste to produce 
 on the mind, it is evident that dramatick 
 composition possesses some important ap- 
 pendages which tend to promote our grati- 
 fication, and which are excluded from the 
 other species of poetical composition. That 
 accession of pleasure which we experience 
 from scenick representation, the importance 
 c.f which we can determine on comparing the 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 different emotions we feel in perusing a 
 drama, and in seeing it acted, will suffi- 
 ciently illustrate the point insisted on. But 
 notwithstanding the power which theatrical 
 representation possesses to conduce to our 
 gratification, it is so far from contributing a 
 slock of additional materials to promote the 
 end of poetry, under all circumstances, that 
 it ma}^ be looked upon as frequently forming 
 an obstacle to its accomplishment. It may 
 be considered as imposing an incumbrance 
 which we are never pleased to see borne with 
 such strength merely as is necessary to sus- 
 tain it, but which is then only pleasing to 
 behold when it is managed with such ad- 
 dress as evinces superiour skill in him who 
 handles it with facility. 
 
 There are tragedies which appear to 
 contain a just exemplification of this asser- 
 tion, and to point out the true course which 
 dramatick writers ought to take in contend- 
 ing with this difficulty : and two very distin- 
 guished instances in point are " Cato" and 
 " Irene." It must be admitted that these 
 compositions afford a very high gratification 
 in the perusal. It must be equally allowed 
 that the dramatick apparatus affords us an 
 intrinsical pleasure arising from the justness, 
 
131 
 
 if not the expressiveness of the acting, the 
 beauty of the scenes, and the splendour of 
 the decorations ; for these constitute the only 
 entertainment we derive from pantomime. 
 And yet it is generally allowed, that both of 
 those tragedies rather lose than gain by re- 
 presentation; affording more gratification in 
 being read, than in being acted. The com- 
 mon reason assigned for this seeming para- 
 dox, is, that those compositions are merely 
 declamatory, and are deficient in passion. 
 But this reason, though it ascertains what is 
 requisite to our gratification, when we wit- 
 ness such dramas sepresented, does not ex- 
 plain how it happens to be so : and it leaves 
 the principal difficulty unaccounted for, how 
 our gratification comes to be diminished, 
 when we should rather expect it to be in- 
 creased : as it may be maintained that the 
 action of the drama must receive more spi- 
 rit, the characters more life, and the passion 
 more efficacy from representation. The only 
 reason which I know, that, comprising the 
 force of this objection at the same time solves 
 the difficulty, is deducible from the circum- 
 stance of there being a certain degree of 
 incompatibility between dramatick repre- 
 sentation and pathetick emotion. From 
 which it seems to follow by a regular in- 
 
152 
 
 ference, that passion, from being calculated 
 to counteract this effect of exhibition, is the 
 necessary end of the drama. 
 
 Whatever may be the advantages which 
 representation affords the dramatick writer, 
 they appear to be attended in some cases 
 with corresponding inconveniences arising 
 from its imparting to his composition a de- 
 gree of reality which is at variance with the 
 truth of the represented subject. We never 
 sit down to any dramatick representation and 
 suffer ourselves to be lost in the interest 
 which it is intended to excite, without hav- 
 ing our attention recalled to this circum- 
 stance. But it is in those plays, of our own 
 and other languages, Avhich consist in cold 
 declamation that this doctrine is principally 
 exemplified : in these we particularly feel 
 that the expression conveyed by the repre- 
 sentation is more strong than that imparled 
 by the subject which it shadows ; in fact the 
 incident of the plot is regarded as mere act- 
 ing, the idea of the performer engaging us 
 more than the character which he personates. 
 And the consideration of this circumstance 
 must impress us with not merely a mo- 
 mentary conviction, but a protracted con- 
 sciousness, that the whole representation is 
 
133 
 
 untrue. Little indeed seems necessary for 
 this purpose ; which must be generally evi- 
 dent to every person who witnesses theatrical 
 representation : for no fact can be true in its 
 occurrence more than once, as I have al- 
 ready had occasion to observe, much less can 
 it have a repeated occurrence in a place so 
 circumscribed and so situated as the area of 
 a theatre. 
 
 That no incident or description is capa- 
 ble of moving our sympathy, of which the 
 strongest impression we retain is that of its 
 being unreal, might be almost assumed as 
 self-evident. But as the effect which is ex- 
 perienced from the representation or narra- 
 tion of purely fictitious incident, renders this 
 assumption problematical, it may not be un- 
 necessary to establish it by proof. To take 
 an instance therefore for this purpose of the 
 least exceptionable kind, that, in which the 
 emotions of the human breast are affected 
 by distress arising from the narration or ob- 
 servation of what is conceived to be real : we 
 have only to impress the person who com- 
 miserates the state of the supposed sufferer 
 with a sense that the representation is un- 
 true, and his emotion immediately subsides 
 with the discovery. When our sympathies 
 
134 
 
 are powerfully affected by fictitious distress, 
 we find they equally yield on the application 
 of the same remedy. It is indeed a resource 
 to which persons of a livelier sensibility are 
 often driven, in order to relieve themselves 
 from the pain of witnessing the imaginary 
 distress of fictitious story. Certain pictures 
 of virtue suffering beyond what we wish to 
 believe true often force our feelinp-s to take 
 refuge from the painfulness of dwelling on 
 such subjects, and urge us to a remembrance 
 that the portraiture is a fabrication. There 
 is scarcely a reader of Richardson, who will 
 not find constant occasion to fly for relief 
 to this expedient ; who will not frequently 
 experience this struggle between sense and 
 feeling, and add his suffrage to the truth of 
 those deductions. The resource to which he 
 uniformly has a recurrence is that of believ- 
 ing the representation to be untrue ; and 
 the moment he succeeds thus far, it dissi- 
 pates his delusion, and terminates his sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 It must be evident from hence, that dra- 
 matick representation has a tendency to 
 counteract dramatick effect in having a 
 power to delect the want of truth in the 
 composition which is presented for our plea- 
 
135 
 
 sure. Regarding pleasure as being most 
 intense when it consists most in emotion, and 
 as constituting in all cases the end of poetry; 
 this appendage of the drama must be 
 brought under certain discipline, not only 
 that it may contribute to the advancement, 
 but that it may not counteract the very end of 
 the art. And the only course left the artist in 
 this case seems to be that precisely which is 
 followed by the novelist; namely, to divert 
 the mind from the sense of the representation's 
 being untrue, by occupying it with other and 
 more powerful considerations. 
 
 The means by which the dramatick poet 
 is enabled to secure this end consists, as is 
 admitted by common consent, in throwing 
 more passion into the dramatick. effect. And 
 the sufficiency of such means in accomplish- 
 ing such an end is easily evinced. The im- 
 pression which we receive from feeling what 
 is pathetick in the subject is that of powerful 
 emotion : while that which we derive from 
 observing what is untrue in the representa- 
 tion is nothing more than cold perception. 
 The weaker sense becomes of course in- 
 volved in, and superseded by, the stronger. 
 
 This position must be the more readily 
 admitted on considering the effect of pas- 
 sionate language and sentiment when aided 
 
136 
 
 by action and gesture, which is not merely 
 powerful, but overcoming; and which has the 
 direct tendency to engross the bosom so fully 
 as to leave it insensible to all lesser considera- 
 tions : of which we need no other proof than 
 the agitation of our own breast, and the vi- 
 sible emotion betrayed by others. But the 
 same position seems to follow by a regular 
 inference from what has been already ad- ' 
 vanced a on the incompatibility of such a 
 sense, as that excited by the want of truth 
 in any subject, with that sympathy which is 
 awakened by emotion. In those appeals 
 from the feelings lo the understanding, by 
 which we seek to relieve the pain excited by 
 the representation of fictitious distress, we 
 acquire sufficient proof of the efficacy of the 
 former in overpowering and superseding the 
 cold deductions of the latter. For, if there 
 be any force allowed to the conclusions for- 
 merly made, unless in such a contest this 
 sense of the subject's being untrue is wholly 
 obliterated, there can be no passion felt, 
 and of course none to bear up against. 
 And indeed the difficulty which Ave find 
 in maintaining the ascendancy over our- 
 selves, when hurried along the tide of our 
 
 a Ste page 13 4. 
 
137 
 
 emotions, the immediate address which we 
 make to truth to arrest us in the course of" 
 our agitation, and the feebleness, nay often, 
 the inefficacy of her efforts to prevent us from 
 being again borne down the stream of our 
 feelings, contain very decisive evidence of 
 the deductions now made respecting the con- 
 trary nature of the mental affections under 
 consideration, and the tendency of the one 
 to overpower and supersede the other. 
 
 The application of this reasoning to the 
 solution of the difficulty before us is now 
 easy, if not obvious. When there is no 
 passion infused into the drama, it necessarily 
 happens that more is given up than gained 
 by the accession of representation : the ac- 
 tion, the characters, and the dialogue losing 
 more, by the union, in point of truth, than 
 they acquire in spirit. Such tragedies of 
 course please more in the reading, than in 
 the acting. 
 
 But when the poet succeeds in infusing 
 this spirit into the composition of his work 
 by making it more impassioned, the diffi- 
 culty which opposed his attainment be- 
 comes an auxiliary to advance it. The steep 
 which formed an ascent to retard his pro- 
 gress, as he pressed towards the summit, 
 
338 
 
 creates a declivity to accelerate it now that 
 he has advanced beyond it. With respect 
 to the assistance which he may derive from 
 the mere scenick apparatus in promoting 
 dramatick deception, I shall have occasion 
 to mention it hereafter. But it is in the 
 action and gesture of the performer that the 
 passion of the drama has life and existence : 
 it is he who speeds that impulse to the breast 
 which the poet merely directs, or feebly com- 
 mences. And so irresistible is the united 
 influence which they exert in making our 
 reason the dupe of our sympathy, that 
 though they may not succeed in deluding us 
 into the general belief of the representation's 
 being real, they beguile us into a temporary 
 forgetfulness of its being fictitious. In which 
 circumstance we seem to have a sufficient 
 solution of the paradox, how so wild and 
 visionary a notion as that of perfect drama- 
 tick delusion originated, by which the judg- 
 ment of so many criticks has been misled, 
 and the practice of so many poets perverted. 
 And these deductions seem to point out 
 the causes which confine the end of tragedy, 
 as Aristotle has justly observed, to exciting 
 our pity and terrour. For these passions are 
 not only necessary to sustain the incum- 
 
139 
 
 brance of declamation and exhibition, but 
 are efficacious in heightening the end of the 
 production by warming our pleasure into 
 emotion : for in being the most powerful of 
 which we are sensible, they are almost the 
 only passions, which, while they are calcu- 
 lated to contribute to our gratification, have 
 force sufficient to overcome the sense we 
 possess of the falsity of the representation. 
 
 Nor can I close this section without ob- 
 serving, that the same considerations may 
 be prosecuted to solve that point which 
 has so much exercised the ingenuity of the 
 critieks ; how it happens that tragedy pleases 
 by exciting painful emotion ? Among the ap- 
 parent causes of which we may mention the 
 effect of theatrick representation in impressing 
 us occasionally with a sense of the exhibition's 
 being unreal; and of dramatick action in 
 lulling us into a temporary forgetfulness of 
 its want of truth, by swaying our passions. 
 From the first of these circumstances, every 
 facility is afforded the spectator in taking 
 refuge from his feelings when thev are trans- 
 ported beyond the verge of pleasure into the 
 conterminous bounds of pain. And from 
 the second the artist is furnished with the 
 easiest expedient of exciting the strongest 
 
140 
 
 emotion while he offers the least violence to 
 feeling: from hence in fact those delinea- 
 tions of passion, which are comparatively 
 weak, acquire power to affect us most sen- 
 sibly; in a word, to touch us most, while 
 they pain us least. And even when the poet 
 ventures to exercise the strongest influence 
 over our breasts, they both seem to multiply 
 most those sensations which are pleasurable, 
 and diminish those which are painful in the 
 exhibition, by rendering the latter more tran- 
 sient, and the former more frequent. Thus 
 they give us pain principally in the retro- 
 spect, or involve it in that grateful sensation 
 which arises from the consciousness of our 
 having ranged our feelings on the side of the 
 oppressed, and given up our bosoms to par- 
 ticipate in the anguish of the unfortunate. 
 And these feelings operating with the more 
 general one of pity, which is not of the pain- 
 ful kind ; and aided by that interest which 
 arises from the structure of the fable, renders 
 the aggregate of emotion produced by the 
 piece generally pleasurable. 
 
 
SECTION II. 
 
 OF 
 
 MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS. 
 

143 
 
 OF MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS. 
 
 The circumstance which originally con- 
 spired to bring history into the composition 
 of poetry, as it conveyed it in the mixed 
 state of being authentick and fabulous, must 
 have introduced into the art fanciful imagery 
 as well as natural description. When poetry 
 was first cultivated, history being committed 
 to tradition must have taken a cast from the 
 ignorance and credulity of those persons by 
 whom it was orally transmitted ; and hence, 
 however it originated in matter of fact, it 
 soon imbibed a tincture of fiction from the 
 channel through which it passed. In the 
 state wherein the general incidents of history 
 were thus presented to the poet, he probably 
 wanted the power and the inclination of se- 
 parating in that part which he chose for his 
 subject, what was fictitious from that w T hich 
 was fact; and, as he thus adopted a story 
 which partook not less of fiction than of 
 truth, the art even in his hands became 
 
144 
 possessed of marvellous imagery from its 
 
 origin. 
 
 But since knowledge has become more 
 extended, and credulity has yielded to phi- 
 losophy, we have become enabled to disco- 
 ver a sensible difference in the matter of the 
 historian, which the fathers of poetry either 
 overlooked or disregarded. We are able to 
 draw a line between what is credible and 
 what is false in his narrative, and thus come 
 to separate what is fable in his composition 
 from what is properly denominated history. 
 Thus it is, that we become capable of fixing 
 a standard by which the licences used in his 
 descriptions may be ascertained ; as he ad- 
 heres to truth and probability we account his 
 practice regular and natural ; but when he 
 deviates from them, and follows not what is 
 history but what is fable, we consider his 
 practice licentious and arbitrary ; and that 
 it is only with a view to the licences allow- 
 able in the art, that we permit him to take 
 such liberties, may be easily seen from our 
 judgment on the conduct of the historian ; 
 since in the works of the latter we pronounce 
 all such liberties to be striking blemishes 
 Which do not admit of defence and scarcely 
 of palliation. 
 
145 
 
 Having determined this much, the nature 
 of such licences as exist in this department 
 of the art may be easily ascertained, and 
 shewn to possess every necessary conformity 
 to the definition formerly given of Poetick 
 Licence in general. When the poet's de- 
 scriptions are corroborated or contradicted 
 by history, his mode of practice differs in 
 nothing from that which has been discussed 
 in the preceding part of this inquiry : what- 
 ever is licentious in the one case is licentious 
 in the other, and is to be accounted for on 
 the same principles. But when his words 
 have no reference either to recorded or tra- 
 ditionary fact, there is no alternative left 
 him but to follow nature, or deviate from it. 
 In the former case it is evident he uses no 
 licence ; for he is an imitator by profession, 
 and generally follows no other archetype but 
 nature, This consideration should beof course 
 set out of the case, as wholly beside the pur- 
 pose of the present inquiry. The question 
 on the nature of Poetick Licence is conse- 
 quently limited to the last consideration ; 
 that in which the poet departs from na- 
 ture. 
 
 In asserting that a poet or any artist de- 
 viates from nature, we cannot be understood 
 
146 
 
 to speak with a reference to any particular 
 appearance which she assumes in the exter- 
 nal sensible world. In all such appear- 
 ances, what we know under the term nature, 
 is not to be found. Animals formed with a 
 greater or a fewer number of parts than 
 usual are properly denominated unnatural ; 
 and this term is applied to objects which ex- 
 hibit but slight deviations from the general 
 appearance of things. Any part of the 
 human frame formed larger than the com- 
 mon dimensions ; any limb swoln beyond the 
 usual size, is designated by the same term. 
 These examples are sufficient to evince, that 
 when we speak of nature, we express our- 
 selves with a reference to her general laws ; 
 and that it is only what accords with, or de- 
 viates from these that we term natural or 
 the contrary. These general laws when sys- 
 tematized will, it may be granted, form what 
 we should consider a science. When reduced 
 under general heads, as they are to a certain 
 degree in every mind, they possess the essen- 
 tial properties of such : being knowledge 
 collected by observation, generalized by ab- 
 straction, and reduced into a systematic!* 
 form. It is indeed impossible to ascribe 
 ll.em any existence but in science: when 
 
147 
 
 taken out of this state and considered with a 
 reference to reality, they form but a series of 
 particular laws, which admit of numberless 
 exceptions. The poet> in being said to de- 
 viate frorii nature, must be consequently 
 meant to deviate from her general laws as 
 abstracted, and embodied in science. Every 
 liberty, which he takes of the preternatural 
 kind, conforms of course to the definition 
 originally given of Poetick Licence, as it is 
 virtually a deviation from that standard by 
 which this quality is estimated. 
 
 As to the object sought in taking such 
 liberties, it differs nothing from that used 
 where the departure is made from history, 
 and consequently from that specified in the 
 general definition : it must be made for the 
 reasons already declared, for the purpose of 
 rendering the composition more striking* 
 
148 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 OF THE ROMANT1CK EPOS. 
 
 It has been the fate of poetry to have had 
 the same process which was applied to sepa- 
 rate fable from mixed history, likewise ex- 
 tended to reject marvellous imagery from its 
 composition. Thus some criticks, of no 
 small reputation, have maintained that fanci- 
 ful description, on account of ils being repug- 
 nant to truth and nature, should be wholly 
 withheld from poetical invention. 
 
 The general force of such objections to 
 the marvellous fictions of poetry has been 
 confirmed, rather than annulled, by those 
 criticks who have undertaken the recommen- 
 dation,' as well as by those who have entered 
 upon the defence of this part of poetry. The 
 former have found fewer strong positions to 
 be commended, than it seems to possess ; and 
 have not made any provision against the 
 attacks which might be directed towards 
 those points in which it is assailable. For, 
 fastening on the powers which marvellous 
 poetry possesses to delight every description 
 
149 
 
 of reader, and observing this to be precisely 
 the end of poetry, thence reasoning on the 
 fitness of the former to promote the latter, 
 they have concluded on its forming a neces- 
 sary ingredient in poetical composition. 
 And this it most assuredly would, if the ob- 
 jections of those who oppose its being em- 
 ployed to such a purpose did not leave that 
 problematical which this reasoning assumes 
 as granted ; if in fact it was not question- 
 able that marvellous imagery does contribute 
 to the gratification of such readers as are ca- 
 pable of feeling a solid delight in what is 
 natural and affecting in the art ; an art which 
 has been by many thought possessed of ade- 
 quate powers to please without the assistance 
 of what is forced and incredible. 
 
 It is to do away the force of the objec- 
 tions thus urged, and to show not merely 
 that it does please, but that it has a right to 
 please every description of reader, that they, 
 who enter more actively into the defence of 
 the marvellous, principally direct their inten- 
 tions. And of the reasonings which have been 
 employed to this purpose, those advanced by 
 two cri ticks of no inconsiderable repute, are 
 more particularly deserving of notice, as 
 
150 
 
 possessing all the weight of being derived 
 from high authority. 
 
 The grounds which the first of these 
 criticks, whose opinions have been directed 
 to this object, has found for the marvellous 
 imagery of poetry to support itself, may be 
 stated as follows. The poetical world is 
 taken as true by assumption ; and any fabu- 
 lous system being admitted by supposition, 
 nothing introduced in its detail is questioned 
 as false by those who, are initiated in its mys^ 
 teries ; especially if the fiction is agreeable 
 to verisimilitude, and has shadowed under it 
 some appearance of truth b . Though as no 
 proof of any parity of reasoning, yet, as the 
 circumstance may explain this obscure and 
 unsatisfactory doctrine, I shall select a pas-^ 
 sage from the critick mentioned in the second 
 place, but with some alteration in its mean„ 
 ing ana' application. " It is not true that all 
 is unnatural and monstrous, as is pronounced 
 to be the case in the Italian poets, because 
 their subjects are blended with the wonderful: 
 for if we admit as probable some stroke of 
 
 b Bouhours. La maniere de bien penser. Dial. I. p. 14. ed. 
 Par. l68S> 
 
151 
 
 enchantment, as the marvellous conveyance 
 of Armida to the happy island in Tasso, 
 every thing which succeeds that circumstance 
 will be found natural, and suitable to our 
 common notions of probability/' c 
 
 This it must be admitted is a legitimate 
 conclusion ; but let it be observed, that it is 
 but hypothetical ; and of course establishes 
 nothing more than that the second part of 
 the proposition follows from the first. Re- 
 garded in this light, all that it maintains, is, 
 that we shall believe the fictions of poetry if 
 we can believe the mythological systems on 
 which they are founded. But the difficulty 
 is thus removed only by raising a greater : 
 for it can allow of but little doubt, that 
 where any marvellous production is submit- 
 ted for our belief, if we have any hesitation 
 in admitting its probability on the grounds 
 of internal verisimilitude, we cannot admit 
 it on account of any assumed principle, 
 which is not only liable to the same doubts 
 with the composition in question, but which, 
 in that indistinct view wherein it must be 
 regarded, cannot find the same support for 
 its verisimilitude as is attendant on a produc- 
 
 Hurd on Chivalry and Romance. Let. X. 
 
152 
 
 tion placed before our observation with all 
 its striking circumstances. 
 
 How the cause of the marvellous part of 
 poetical composition has come to fail under 
 this person who volunteered his services in 
 its vindication, may be easily accounted for. 
 He had the support of a favourite system in 
 view. For having constructed a theory on 
 a confined principle ; " that truth is the test 
 of perfection in all the sentiments of good 
 composition, and that such as want this foun- 
 dation must be vicious ;" d on applying this 
 principle to poetry he found itirreconcileable 
 with marvellous imagery, that most engag- 
 ing part in the composition of the art. To 
 reduce the innumerable train of exceptions 
 to his theory which arose from this quarter, 
 and which ought to have shewn the critick 
 the narrowness of the principle on which 
 he built it, there was left him but the 
 one expedient which he adopted ; he esta- 
 blished the title of poetical sentiments of this 
 kind to truth, but to that species of it which, 
 being hypothetical, may conceal a false con- 
 clusion under a just deduction. 
 
 The defence into which Bishop Hurd, the 
 
 d Bouhouks. Ubi supr, p. 12. 
 
15S 
 
 other critick under consideration, has been 
 drawn, in undertaking the justification of 
 the Italian writers in the marvellous part of 
 their poetry, is more specious, but not more 
 conclusive : it is besides equally exception- 
 able from placing the matter under discus- 
 sion in a wrong point of view. The object 
 of this authour is to establish " that it is er- 
 roneous to suppose that poets expect to have 
 their fictions believed ; or aim at more than 
 getting their readers to imagine their possi- 
 bility/' — That no capable reader is concerned 
 about the truth, or even the credibility of his 
 fancies ; but is most gratified when he is 
 brought to conceive the existence of such 
 things as his reason informs him did not exist, 
 and were not likely to have happened.' 
 
 To this theory we may all readily sub- 
 scribe as far as it asserts, " that no poet ex- 
 pects to have his fictions believed; that no 
 capable reader is concerned about their 
 truth." But with respect to the remaining 
 clauses, " that poets only aim at getting their 
 readers to imagine the possibility of their 
 fictions, and that no capable reader troubles 
 himself about the credibility of such fancies," 
 
 *r ~„ — ' ... -■ ' " - ' ' .1 , ' , , ■ ' ' ' ■- 
 
 • Hurd. Ubi supr. 
 
 1,1 
 
154 
 
 on which the strength of the critick's cause 
 appears to be rested, they demand a little 
 consideration before they can be admitted. 
 It will not indeed require much labour to 
 detect some latent contradictions glossed 
 over in the whole of the critick's reasoning. 
 In the different grounds which he assumes, 
 he advances positions which, if they are con- 
 sistent in themselves, and reconcileable with 
 each other, do not offer any thing to the 
 purpose. 
 
 As to what is advanced by him in the first 
 place, it does not carry the defence of the 
 marvellous part of poetry beyond an irrele- 
 vant remark ; which after merely setting the 
 difficulty, which it undertakes to remove, in 
 another point of view, leaves it just as it was 
 found. For how is the objection raised 
 against the want of truth and probability in 
 such fictions as the Italians affected by the 
 remark, " that the poet has nothing more to 
 do than to bring us to imagine their possibi- 
 lity ;" Avhen this is much more than any ob- 
 jector, or indeed any unprejudiced reader 
 can admit they have effected ? And this is so 
 far the case, that the very remark, which is 
 offered here in favour of those fictions, might 
 be urged as justifying their being censured : 
 
155 
 
 since it might be assigned as a sufficient 
 cause for rejecting these improbabilities, that 
 thej cannot be brought to the standard of 
 any thing which we can conceive possible. 
 The instance which the critick before us has 
 chosen from Tasso to illustrate a different po- 
 sition will at once substantiate and exem- 
 plify this remark ; I mean the marvellous 
 conveyance of Armida to the happy island : 
 this fiction, it may be remarked, is assail- 
 able in its probability, on the very grounds 
 of our not being able to, imagine it possible f 
 how any such occurrence could have hap- 
 pened. 
 
 As to what is advanced in the second place; 
 that " no capable reader troubles himself 
 about the truth, or even the credibility of 
 these fancies ;" and that " he is best pleased 
 
 f But the critick may have probably meant by " our being 
 brought to imagine the possibility of any thing," our being merely 
 brought to form an idea of it, independent of any positive exist- 
 ence which it could have had, or was likely to have. Thus we 
 may easily form an idea of such an animal as a chimera, or hippo- 
 gryphin, though we believe it hardly possible such animals could 
 exist in reality. Taking the authour's words in this sense, 
 what he advances in the second place is merely a confirmation 
 of the present explanation, and must of course fall when the 
 second position proves untenable. 
 
156 
 
 when he is made to conceive the existence 
 of such things as his reason tells him did not, 
 and were not likely to exist/' I cannot be 
 easily brought to admit it. As the former 
 part of this defence proves nothing, this part 
 would prove too much. For it offers as strong 
 an argument for our being pleased with all the 
 disgusting improbabilities of Mandeville's 
 " Travels/' and Lucian's " True History/' as 
 with " the specious wonders" of Shakespeare's 
 magick, his ghosts, and witches. Our reason 
 tells us that none of the improbabilities con- 
 tained in those works ever did, or were likely 
 to exist ; and yet we can bring ourselves to 
 conceive their existence, as they contain no 
 impossibilities in themselves. But however 
 possible I may find it to conceive such impro- 
 babilities as men having dogs heads, animals 
 walking upon the sea, or fishes building nests 
 in the trees, it will require something more 
 than a mere assertion to convince me " that 
 I should not trouble myself about the cre- 
 dibility of such fancies, but be pleased with 
 them because I can be brought to imagine 
 their existence." 
 
 Thus it eventually happens that the mar- 
 vellous fictions of poetry are left as unsup- 
 ported as they were found by these apolo- 
 
157 
 
 gists. One general objection lies against 
 the different modes of reasoning which both 
 cri ticks have adopted, and it reveals the 
 difficulty which caused their failure. The 
 oiie endeavoured to establish a closer inti- 
 macy between marvellous fiction and truth 
 than their dissimilar nature would admit : the 
 other aimed at severing that relationship by 
 which they should be generally connected. 
 And it is not less on account of having to 
 regret their failure, than having observed the 
 causes from which it originated, that I have 
 been induced to venture another effort in its 
 defence. I know of no means by which the 
 grounds they have assumed may be prose- 
 cuted to establish the conclusions which they 
 have failed in supporting; nor do I think 
 such means are ascertainable ; and for these 
 reasons which I have just offered in shewing 
 how their respective undertakings have mis- 
 carried. If therefore the vindication which 
 they have left in this state is to be made out, 
 I believe it must originate from a different 
 view of the matter, and be prosecuted on dif- 
 ferent principles. 
 
 It cannot be admitted that we believe 
 the marvellous fictions of poetry, for with 
 respect to the machinery of Homer, however 
 
158 
 
 consistent may be the system of mythology 
 on which it is founded, such never happened 
 to be the case of any modern reader who 
 possessed a sane mind. Nor are we wholly 
 regardless of the truth or credibility of such 
 fancies ; for they may be so unartfully con- 
 structed as to leave no other impression, but 
 that of disgust at their absurdity. And yet* 
 that I may advert to the original objection 
 raised against this part of poetry, it may be 
 admitted that they are neilher probable nor 
 true ; for this is a remark very little to the 
 purpose when such fictions are so constructed 
 as not to force the sense of their defective- 
 ness in this respect into the mind. It was 
 neither probable nor true that Garrick was 
 Lear or Othello, or that he suffered any of 
 those sensations which he is allowed lo have 
 expressed with so much truth of nature ; and 
 yet our being able to make this remark did 
 not prevent him from moving the sympathies 
 of the most crowded audience. It is neither 
 probable nor true that such persons as Fields 
 ing's Amelia, or Richardson's Clementina, 
 ever existed or acted as we are told ; yet 
 this circumstance does not prevent us from 
 feeling ourselves deeply interested in all they 
 are represented to have done and suffered. 
 
159 
 
 -And the critick, who, by coolly adverting to 
 this circumstance, would attempt to disturb 
 the fascinating delirium into which we had 
 forgotten ourselves while engaged in the 
 contemplation of such characters, would 
 surely not be requiled for his pains with our 
 applause either of his judgment or his feel- 
 ings. 
 
 How it comes to be the case that We dis- 
 pense with truth and reality in fictitious his* 
 tory, and suffer ourselves to be affected by the 
 unreal representation of the drama, has been 
 already shewn; the authours of such pro- 
 ductions succeed in exciting emotions which 
 are more powerful than the impressions com- 
 municated to us by the want of such qualities 
 in their subject.' The same principle, with little 
 alteration, merely in the mode of its appli- 
 cation, will serve likewise to account for 
 the pleasure we receive from marvellous im- 
 agery, and to justify the reasonableness of 
 admitting it as a legitimate ingredient into 
 poetry, since it contributes by allowable 
 means to promote that pleasure which is the 
 end of the art. 
 
 What, in fact, the passions of pity and 
 terrour are to the dramatick poet, those of 
 surprise and admiration are to the fanciful 
 
160 
 
 poet; they are respectively, mental affe 
 tions of the most powerful kind : such as en- 
 gross the whole mind, and exclude the en- 
 trance of any lesser considerations. How much 
 the dramatick poet makes use of the former 
 in contributing to our gratification in the 
 closet, when he promotes our pleasure with- 
 out the aid of representation, is a point on 
 which I need not here enlarge, as it is 
 admitted from feeling;. From what has been 
 already discussed, it is evident that he fre- 
 quently attains this end at the expense, and 
 in violation, of truth. It is by the assistance 
 of the latter that the fanciful poet is enabled 
 to convert to his purposes that marvellous 
 creation over which poetical invention ex- 
 tends its powers. The intenseness, the 
 novelty, the very improbability of every 
 object and occurrence of the fanciful regions 
 through which he hurries us, keep our mind 
 under the perpetual dominion of surprise and 
 admiration; 8 and throw us into that state 
 
 s We may here observe by the way, when too great a vio- 
 lation is offered to probability, as in the instances deduced from 
 Lucian and Mandeville, how it happens, that the mind rejects 
 as culpable the fiction in which such a liberty is taken. For 
 when fictions of this kind are presented to us we cannot feel those 
 emotions of astonishment and admiration, which are the end of 
 such poetry, being engaged with a sense of their improbability : 
 
161 
 
 of uncollected emotion which will admit un- 
 questioned what has scarcely the shadow of 
 truth. Our advancement in it may be com- 
 pared to our passage through a wild, while 
 under the influence of superstition and fear, 
 in which every shadow, motion, and object 
 appear to be not less real than preternatural. 
 Our reason might convince us that it is our 
 senses only that are perverted, and our rea- 
 son may probably have this effect when we 
 again pass over the same grounds : but rea- 
 son itself must depend on the evidence of 
 our senses, and in this case they determine 
 against all her conclusions. These are 
 effects which the fanciful poet, from adopts 
 ing the superstitions of the age in which he 
 lives, has literally a power to realize in his 
 narrations, though in a weaker degree than 
 they are felt in reality; And when he exerts 
 this sway over our minds, we do not stoop to 
 examine the truth or the probability of the 
 
 which sense being the most striking of those excited by the com- 
 position takes the fastest hold of our observation. And the con- 
 sideration of this point adds no slight confirmation to the reason- 
 ing which has been deduced to account for the pleasure we de- 
 rive from such parts of poetry; as it seems to favour the sup- 
 position, that, when the particular emotions of admiration and 
 astonishment are not awakened, such poetry loses sight of its end> 
 and affords no pleasure to the reader. 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 fancies by which he works our illusion. This 
 is a task to which we do not turn, until we 
 lay down the work, and the impression ha"s 
 subsided from the removal of the object that 
 affected us. 
 
 I believe an appeal might be made to 
 the feelings of any reader of a marvellous 1 
 poem for a confirmation of this reasoning. 
 Nor should I have any scruples to select in 
 the first instance the " Orlando Furioso" as 
 producing the effects on the mind which I 
 have just described, if the cry which has 
 been so unjustly raised against that extra* 
 ordinary production did not incapacitate 
 half its readers from feeling the beautiful 
 wonders of its fictions, by leading them ra- 
 ther to doubt than to yield to the pleasure 
 which they are calculated to excite. And 
 this is not a matter of mere supposition ; it 
 may be' taken, as proved, on the testimony 
 of the authour's own countrymen, who, 
 though they have condemned him for the 
 conduct of his poem, h have generally admit- 
 ted the delight which his fictions afford every 
 description of readers. His great poetical 
 
 h See Pellegrino. Dial, dell' Epic. Poes. Opere di Tasso 
 Tom. IV. p. 421-2. 
 
163 
 
 rival and successour Tasso, not to mention our 
 own Spenser, is an illustrious instance ; who, 
 though he has attacked the episodical struc- 
 ture of Ariosto's fable in theory, and rejected 
 it in practice, has followed it in the boldness 
 of its fictions with a closeness of imitation* 
 that leaves us a convincing proof of his hav- 
 ing regarded them with the common admira- 
 tion of his countrymen. 
 
 I have chosen to insist particularly on the' 
 " Orlando Furioso," as the charges of violat- 
 ing truth and probability have been urged 
 against the fictions of that poem with the 
 greatest plausibility. If the reader will 
 again acquiesce in Our descending from the 
 great examples so recently mentioned j we 
 inay have a more Convincing and familiar 
 proof of the principle which it is my object 
 to illustrate. Some works of the marvellous 
 kind, which have latterly acquired an exten- 
 sive popularity, will probably set the matter 
 in a clearer light, than any poetical work of 
 the same description extant; I would be 
 understood to mean those compositions which 
 unite the fictions of the antient romance with 
 the interest of the modern novel. These pro- 
 ductions receive every benefit arising from a 
 fair trial, as taking them up with ho inten- 
 
164 
 
 tion of scrutinizing their critical merits or 
 defects, we turn them over with feelings so 
 far disengaged from other interests as to be 
 susceptible of those impressions which they 
 may be calculated to excite. From the in- 
 satiable avidity with which we\ are hurried 
 through those wonderful descriptions in 
 which the modern romance abounds, and 
 from the extreme gratification with which we 
 confess ourselves to be conveyed to that 
 eventful moment, when the charm is dis- 
 solved, and our expectations answered, it may 
 be surely inferred that our sense of the false- 
 hood or improbability is not prominent in 
 the pleasure we take in their wildness and 
 marvellousness. Were this the case our in- 
 ducement to proceed in the story would be 
 irreconcileable with what we experience and 
 admit to be the case : we should in fact lay 
 down sach works as finding less to delight 
 than to displease us in continuing the pe- 
 rusal. 
 
 These considerations, strengthened by an 
 exemplification so familiar as to give every 
 reader a power of deciding for himself, ap- 
 pear to me to establish convincingly some 
 points which were assumed without proof at 
 the commencement of this defence of the 
 
165 
 
 marvellous descriptions of poetry ; — that the 
 sensations which we feel on being hurried 
 through marvellous narrations are of a kind 
 the most powerful and interesting ; and that 
 the mind which yields itself up to the influence 
 of this imagery is too much transported to 
 take account of the falsehood of those de- 
 scriptions which work its illusion. 
 
 If we find it difficult to define the precise 
 nature of these sensations, it amounts almost 
 to a proof that they are the unallayed emo- 
 tions of surprise and admiration. For the 
 feelings with which we read those produc- 
 tions possess all the characteristick marks of 
 these mental affections. They are emotions 
 not only of that powerful nature which ex- 
 clude the entrance into the mind of all 
 weaker considerations, but of that captivat- 
 ing kind which contribute to interest while 
 they delight us ; a circumstance b} r which 
 they seem to be particularly distinguished 
 from other emotions. And they principally, 
 if not exclusively among all the affections of 
 the breast, may be wound up to such a degree 
 of intenseness as will suspend the powers of 
 recollection. While on the contrary the 
 sense of falsehood or improbability having 
 no connection with emotion or delight can- 
 
166 
 
 not be felt, and either become interesting, or 
 cease to be remembered : forming; of course 
 no part of that impression which we receive 
 from the perusal of such productions, they 
 afford the fullest proof of the strength of that 
 emotion in which they are involved, and by 
 which they are overpowered; which is a 
 quality that particularly characterizes the 
 mental affections of surprise and admiration. 
 It may be presumed, that there is not any 
 person who, after he has read such produc- 
 tions, does not retain a conviction of having 
 felt those contrary sensations, which I con- 
 ceive to operate in opposite directions, and 
 who if he could recall any thing of the par- 
 ticular manner in which he was affected, 
 could not even point out certain parts which 
 he admired, though he could not describe 
 the exact nature of his sensations ; and even 
 specify particular passages where he ceased 
 to be interested, from feeling the idea, of 
 their improbability preponderate over the 
 pleasure they were otherwise calculated to 
 excite. 
 
 If there is any reader who has felt the 
 force of such sensations, yet entertains a 
 doubt of what may be precisely their nature 
 and appellation, they may be identified on, 
 
167 
 
 the authority of one, who possessed not less 
 a correctness of judgment, than a sensibility 
 of taste, and ascertained to be the emotions 
 of surprise and admiration which I have de- 
 clared in the beginning. " These descrip- 
 tions," says Mr. Addison, on the fairy way of 
 writing, " raise a pleasing kind of terror in 
 the mind of the reader, and amuse his ima- 
 gination with the strangeness and novelty of 
 the persons who are represented in them. 
 We are pleased with surveying the different 
 habits and behaviour of foreign countries, 
 how much more must we be delighted 
 and surprised, when we are led as it were 
 into a new creation, and see the persons 
 and manners of another species?" 1 
 
 And hence there appears to be a point 
 established of no small importance in esti- 
 mating the justness, and determining the 
 perfections of fanciful imagery ; for thus the 
 end of marvellous poetry is not only ascer^ 
 tained, but its conformity to that pleasure 
 which is the general end of the art is at once 
 displayed ; and shewn to possess as marked 
 a character as that produced by tragick com- 
 position : marvellous poetry intending to 
 
 i Spectator, No. 41 9. 
 
168 
 
 please by exciting the emotions of surprise 
 and admiration, as dramatick pleases by 
 awakening those of pity and terrour. 
 
 From this reasoning it must appear, that 
 marvellous productions, so far from forming 
 a distinct class of poetry, are not more than 
 accidentally different from that species of 
 composition which may be contradistin- 
 guished under the title of being natural ; and 
 of course that they are not liable to any ob- 
 jection which might not be applied so as to 
 affect the vitality of the art at large : as the 
 same reasoning, which is urged to expunge 
 them from the list of the legitimate compo- 
 sitions of poetry, might be extended to pro- 
 scribe some of the most severe compositions 
 of the art, on account of the striking simila- 
 r's ty that exists between them. With respect 
 to the resemblance that holds between it and 
 the drama, it has been already made suffi- 
 ciently apparent : they equally aim at excit- 
 ing pleasure, and at exciting it by the means 
 of powerful emotions, and frequently with- 
 out regard to truth or reality. Between it 
 and the Historick Poem (which is of all epi- 
 cal compositions the most probable and true) 
 a like analogy will not be found to fail : for 
 both species of composition, besides tending 
 
169 
 
 to produce the common end of pleasure, 
 agree in that one point which is of itself suffi- 
 cient, and which only is necessary to con- 
 stitute a similarity. In both, though truth 
 may be deserted, it cannot be deserted where- 
 ever it is acknowledged as truth. Unless, 
 in fact, we can be brought to forget it alto- 
 gether, no violation can be offered to its un- 
 alterable nature. So that making due allow- 
 ances for the different objects pursued in the 
 romantick poem, and in the other species of 
 poetical composition, they may be regarded 
 merely as draughts of the same object laid 
 down, upon different scales, by artists of the 
 same school ; in which, though the dimen^ 
 sions are unlike, the proportions are similar, 
 
 The right of adopting marvellous im-* 
 agery which poets claim appearing thus 
 capable of vindication, however licentious it 
 may seem and remote from nature ; and being 
 chosen by him who engages in the epical 
 romance as the ground-work of his compo- 
 sitions, it must be evident that with respect 
 to the objects which he may imitate, he 
 commences with a licence that scarcely knows 
 any restriction. But though the space, 
 through which he is at liberty to expatiate, 
 
170 
 
 is not confined to any prescribed way, or 
 regular direction, its extent is marked out by 
 certain limits : he may prolong his course by 
 circumvolution, but if he proceed too far on 
 the one side, he must fail from losing that 
 illumination which is to direct his course ; 
 if he push it too bold on the other, he gets 
 within the sphere of that radiance which 
 must endanger his Daedalian pinions. His- 
 tory opposes a barrier to exclude him from 
 appropriating those facts which are com- 
 mitted to the preservation of its records; 
 and invention opens a region before him, 
 the most captivating objects of which are 
 but illusive lights which seduce to latent 
 dangers. 
 
 As to the invented incidents of his work, 
 I have already remarked, and cannot insist 
 too much on the point, that though he pos^ 
 sesses great liberties of fiction, he does not 
 possess an unbounded licence of invention. 
 To fix that line of partition between those 
 grounds which ought to be considered his 
 rightful possessions, and those which are for-* 
 bidden to his encroachment, is an undertak- 
 ing naturally to be expected from him who 
 professes to determine the nature, and to fix 
 the bounds of Poetick Licence. 
 
171 
 
 The rule of Horace possesses much per- 
 tinence in this undertaking, but is too gene- 
 ral to solve its difficulties • 
 
 Ficta voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris : 
 Hec quodcunque volet, poscat sibi fabula credi. 
 
 De Art. Poet. v. 338. 
 
 This precept affords us. some slight assistance 
 in estimating the merits of a composition al- 
 ready finished ; but offers us none whatever, 
 by which our practice may be regulated in 
 entering on such an undertaking as a poeti- 
 cal romance. To reconcile the marvellous 
 with the probable is here recommended by 
 Horace, but how this may be effected forms 
 the final difficulty ; and has been considered 
 so very insurmountable, that it has been pro- 
 nounced by a critick of great authority to 
 depend on such art as cannot be communi- 
 cated by precept. " 11 ne me paroit done 
 pas possible d'enseigner Tart de concilier le 
 vraisemblable et le merveilleux. Cet art n'est 
 qu'a la portee de ceux qui sont nes poetes, et 
 grand es poetes. C'est a eux qu'il est reserve 
 de faire une alliance du merveilleux et du 
 vraisemblable, ou l'un et l'autre ne perdent 
 par leur droits. Le talent de faire une telle 
 alliance est ce que distingue eminement les 
 
172 
 
 poetes de la classe de Virgile, des versifica- 
 teurs sans invention, et des poetes extrava- 
 gans." k 
 
 Were the difficulty as great as the critick 
 represents it, research in these inquiries be- 
 yond this point would be precluded. After 
 disclosing the nature of Poetick Licence in 
 the marvellous departments of the art, and 
 vindicating the poet's right of employing it, 
 it would not be possible to mark out the 
 boundaries to which it should be extended, 
 from the impracticability of ascertaining the 
 precise limits to which fiction might be car- 
 ried, without destroying the reader's plea- 
 sure by a sense of its improbability. The 
 consideration of the difficulty which arises in 
 this respect will at least justify the boldness 
 of an attempt to conquer it, if it does not 
 extenuate the insufficiency betrayed in the 
 undertaking. With such a prospect in the 
 event of success, I shall venture upon sug- 
 gesting an expedient, which I am fond enough 
 to believe adequate not only to resolve the 
 crux started by Du Bos, but to ascertain the 
 full extent of that liberty to which the artist 
 
 t Du Bos. Reflex. Critiq. § 28. 
 
173 
 
 is permitted to advance under the immunities 
 of Poetick Licence. 
 
 The expedient which I conceive adequate 
 to the exigency of the poet in this respect 
 may be thus laid down. In ascribing any 
 thing to the operation of supernatural agen- 
 cy, its occurrence, though not capable of 
 being accounted for as natural, should not 
 be questionable as real, judging of it accord- 
 ing to the creed of the poet's characters : 
 and though not immediately admissible as 
 true, yet it should not be negatived as evi- 
 dently false, judging of it according to the 
 creed of his readers. But as the reader's 
 creed is now in all cases determinable, and 
 confined to what we term religion ; and as 
 the creed of the poet's characters, if it differs 
 from that of the reader's, is generally denomi- 
 nated superstition, this rule may be stated 
 much more succinctly. In order that any 
 thing marvellous admitted into poetry, 
 should possess propriety and verisimilitude, 
 it is necessary that its occurrence should be 
 exactly conformable to the popular super- 
 stitions of the times in which the scene of 
 the work is laid ; and though not recognised 
 as true, yet should not be directly inadmissi- 
 ble as false when viewed by the reader's reli-. 
 
174 
 
 gious notions. And this rule being observed, 
 the separate provinces of fancy and reality 
 will not only be kept apart, but, according to 
 the precept of Horace, fiction will be thus 
 brought in the nearest possible degree to 
 truth. 
 
 The justness and comprehensiveness of 
 this precept will be found to receive no in- 
 considerable support on being brought to 
 the text of exemplification from the works of 
 the most distinguished writers in marvellous 
 poetry. To justify its being offered, how- 
 ever, as a canon which may be applied to 
 solve some points of poetical licence, which 
 a difference in practice among these writers 
 has left doubtful, it cannot be deemed irrele- 
 vant to shew that it possesses every authority 
 which can be claimed for it, as being con- 
 formable to those general principles which 
 have been deduced from the nature and end 
 of poetry, and shewn to regulate its various 
 compositions. 
 
 1. To assert that every thing which is 
 conceived to be true must be possessed of 
 verisimilitude, is to repeat circuitously what 
 is conveyed in a single term. But Whatever 
 is inculcated by any religious belief, or ad- 
 mitted by the superstitious credulity of any 
 
175 
 
 people, those persons who are under its in- 
 fluence are by supposition conceived to be- 
 lieve true. Whatever preternatural appear- 
 ance therefore the poet relates, however 
 doubtful may be its occurrence, however 
 physically improbable may be its existence, 
 provided it is reported on the faith of some 
 character in his production, it must possess 
 verisimilitude in being conformable to the 
 adduced rule. To such characters it must 
 preserve every necessary probability, in " not 
 being questionable as true." The difference 
 between real occurrences and preternatural 
 appearances, in a physical sense, may be as 
 great as can be conceived ; but this is by no 
 means the case when as incidents they are 
 embraced by the imagination, or transferred 
 to the ideal system of poetry. The human 
 mind has often no power to separate among 
 its conceptions that part which is the effect 
 of delusion from that which is the result of 
 reality : it is even generally found to be most 
 pertinacious in maintaining the superiouF 
 truth of the former. 
 
 But it is in the poet's power to represent 
 his characters as deceived by superstitious 
 illusion : and as he is required to ascribe 
 them not just, but natural feelings, not to 
 
176 
 
 make them philosophical reasoners, but to 
 represent them as human beings actuated by 
 human passions, such a mode of delineation 
 will impart to his narrative not only great 
 nature, but every necessary truth ; as being 
 most consonant to the fabulous cast of that 
 period in which they are represented to have 
 lived. 
 
 These remarks cannot receive a more per- 
 fect exemplification than in the following 
 passage from Ariosto, which is not less re- 
 markable for the propriety of its fiction than 
 from the splendour of its imagery. The poet 
 represents the ghost of Argalia appearing to 
 Ferrau, while he is in search of the helmet 
 of the departed knight, which he had pre- 
 viously bound himself to cast into a river 
 that no monument of victory might remain. 
 
 Con un graii ramo d'albero rimondo, 
 Di die avea fatto una pertica lunga, 
 Tenta il flume, e ricerca fino al fondo ; 
 Ne loco lascia, ove non batta, e pugna. 
 Mentre con la maggior stizza del mondo 
 Tanto l'indugio suo quivi prolunga; 
 Vede di mezzo il fiume un Cavaliero, 
 Infino al petto uscir, d'aspetto fierce 
 
 Era, fuor che la testa, tutto armato, 
 Ed avea un' elmo nella destra mano? 
 
177 
 
 Avea'l medesirao elmo, che cercato 
 
 Da Ferrari fu lungamente in vano. 
 
 A Ferrari parlo come adirato, 
 
 E disse: Ah mancator di fe, Mariano ; 
 
 Perche di lasciar l'elino anche t'aggrevi, 
 
 Che render gia gran tempo mi dovevi ? 
 
 Ricordati Pagan quando uccedisti 
 D'Angelica il fratel, che son quell'io, 
 Dietro all' altre arme tu mi promettesti 
 Fra pochi di gittar l'elmo nel rio. 
 
 All' apparir, che fece all' improviso 
 
 DelP acqua l'Ombra, ogni pelo arricciossi, 
 
 E scolorossi al Saracino il viso : 
 
 La voce, ch'era per uscir, fermossi. 
 
 Udendo poi dall' Argalia, ch'ucciso 
 
 Quivi avea gia (che l'Argalia nomossi) 
 
 La rotta fede cosi improverarse ; 
 
 Di scorno, e d'ira dentro, e di fuor arse. 
 
 Cant. I. ott. 25-30. 
 
 The occurrence is represented as hap- 
 pening to one who lived in the prejudices of 
 an age which disposed him to credit, not 
 question the truth of any preternatural ap- 
 pearance : and the incident described is of 
 a kind which receives no contradiction from 
 our religious notions. With infinite judg- 
 ment the poet has enlarged upon the causes 
 of the appearance of the spectre, and on 
 the state of mental agitation into which the 
 
178 
 
 knight was thrown. The fiction is thus 
 brought to the very verge of truth ; as a su- 
 perstitious mind actuated by a perturbed con- 
 science might have created the phantom with 
 which it was affrighted. 
 
 2. As the poet's descriptions are intended 
 to affect the reader, and as the reader's creed 
 may be very different from that ascribed to 
 the characters in the poem, a provision must 
 be made against his considering the narrative 
 improbable on entering into the feelings of 
 the poet's characters, and placing himself in 
 the same situation wherein they are described 
 to be affected ; for when the sense of any 
 improbability in this respect predominates in 
 his mind, the effect of the composition must 
 be lost on him. And herein lies the neces- 
 sity of the rule, that to the operation of spi- 
 ritual agency nothing should be ascribed 
 which our religious creed would reject as 
 evidently false. 1 
 
 ' The most striking, and indeed only, instance of a violation 
 of this principle in Ariosto, which would offend a modern 
 reader, is that fiction wherein the poet represents a Christian 
 knight, Afiolfo, as conducted by St. John, the Evangelist, to the 
 palace of the Fates. (Orl. Fur. Cant, xxxiv. ott. 87-92.) We 
 must ever feel a disposition to question the existence of such 
 beings as the Fates of Heathen Mythology, and particularly so 
 
179 
 3. It is scarcely necessary to extend these 
 considerations to a third case, that in which 
 certain marvellous occurrences are narrated 
 by the poet on his own testimony,. as distinct 
 from those which he reports on the testi- 
 mony of his characters. Where the religious 
 creed of the poet's readers, and of his cha- 
 racters is the same, great licences may be 
 used by him in this respect. He may con- 
 struct entire episodes ; and conduct them 
 by none but marvellous beings, even where 
 such fictions cannot be supposed to come 
 under the observation of any human per- 
 sonage in the poem ; whence, as was before 
 observed, they might acquire probability, on 
 the supposition of the spectator's having mis- 
 taken some illusion for reality. A remark- 
 able instance, though not taken from a poe- 
 tical romance, is the interview of Jupiter 
 
 when they are introduced to our notice by such a personage as 
 St. John, who, on being barely mentioned, suggests the grounds 
 of ill ;; t creed, by which we at once decide on the impossibility of 
 their existence. I must here, however, observe that ihis fiction 
 must have appeared much less clefective to a reader of Axiosto's 
 age, than it does to one of ours ; as well because many of the 
 Pagan notions were retained and incorporated in the Italian su- 
 perstitions, as I shall have occasion to observe hereafter, and be- 
 cause the history of St. John himself was in those times involved 
 in much obscurity and mystery. 
 
180 
 
 and Juno in the fourteenth book of the 
 " Iliad/' No direct reason could have sug- 
 gested itself to any Grecian reader for im- 
 mediately rejecting this fiction as improba- 
 ble, as it possessed an exact conformity with 
 his religious creed : while the internal veri- 
 similitude which it bore in its consistency 
 must have offered him some cause to admit 
 it at once, without delaying to ascertain whe- 
 ther its probability was supported merely by 
 the testimony of the poet, or corroborated by 
 that of one of his characters. This being the 
 case, the pleasure which the narrative was 
 calculated to excite by the consistency of 
 the fiction, and the marvellousness of the 
 imagery, could not have suffered any sensi- 
 ble diminution from the circumstance of 
 being unaccredited by actual observation. 
 
 But where the superstitious notions, 
 ascribed to the poet's characters, differ from 
 those admitted in the religious creed pro- 
 fessed by his readers ; as, for instance, were 
 a poetical romance at the present day to be 
 founded on a subject interspersed with Sara- 
 cenick mythology ; in this case I cannot 
 think any licence would justify the authour 
 in maintaining any thing that is not sup- 
 ported, at least indirectly, by the testimony 
 
181 
 
 of some character in the poem. When ficti- 
 tious incidents receive no countenance from 
 the creed of the reader, in order that they 
 should have some title to verisimilitude, 
 there should be room for delusion on the 
 part of the person who is represented as 
 affected by them in the poem. But from 
 this circumstance an exception is entered 
 against introducing into the poetical ro- 
 mance, such marvellous episodes merely 
 as are carried on without the known inter- 
 vention of some character in the poem. For 
 the poet, having once established an evidence 
 under one of the personages in his work, and 
 brought it in favour of any imaginary oc- 
 currence, may thence deduce by inference 
 all the circumstances by which he chooses to 
 enlarge the fiction, provided they are such 
 as might have probably attended the transac- 
 tion ; for in this case, adhering to probabi- 
 lity, he preserves every necessary verisimili- 
 tude. Any marvellous episode in the " Or- 
 lando/' the adventure of Ruggiero with 
 Alcina, for instance, will illustrate my mean- 
 ing ; where the poet having sufficient grounds 
 for the outline of the fiction in the supersti- 
 tious opinions of the character whom he 
 introduces, thence enters with every neces- 
 
182 
 
 sarj propriety into its more minute details, 
 establishing the verisimilitude of each parti- 
 cular description on the probability with 
 which it arises out of, and is attendant on the 
 general transaction. 
 
 When the rule which has been now ex- 
 plained is not transgressed, it appears to me, 
 on many accounts, that the end of the pro- 
 duction will be ansAvered, as the reader will 
 be enabled to feel that pleasurable effect 
 which it is intended to afford him. For to 
 attain this end we do not claim of the poet 
 that he should render his descriptions strictly 
 probable. All that we require of him is, 
 that he should keep the sense of any impro- 
 bability in his narrative subordinate to the 
 pleasure which it is intended to excite as 
 marvellous. By adhering to this rule, the 
 sense of improbability being allowed but a 
 negative effect, cannot have much, if any, 
 tendency to counteract that delight which 
 we are disposed to feel in what is otherwise 
 interesting in the production ; and may be of 
 course wholly overlooked while the imagina- 
 tion resigns itself to the more powerful emo- 
 tion excited by what is grand and surprising 
 in the composition. 
 
 That the most probable supposition, 
 
183 
 
 which will arise on considering the stale 
 of the reader's feelings, is, that all consi- 
 derations of the improbability of the fic- 
 tions will be overlooked, may be more fully 
 established from a consideration of the 
 medium through which the composition is 
 presented to the mind, and the state of the 
 mind which is affected by its perusal. And 
 here confining ourselves to the observation, 
 that these productions are narrated ; of the 
 objects of description in every narrative we 
 must have but comparatively faint percep- 
 tion, from the circumstance of their being 
 conveyed to us through the medium of lan- 
 guage ; 
 
 Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem, 
 Quam quae sunt oculis commissa fidelibus, et quas 
 Ipse sibi tradit spectator. 
 
 Hor. DeArt. Poet. v. 188. 
 
 In the general improbabilities which might 
 be urged against any marvellous transaction 
 Avhich is narrated, those must be wholly 
 overlooked which our senses would discover, 
 if we were not merely readers, but witnesses 
 of the imaginary occurrence. So that it may 
 be remarked by the way, that the circum- 
 stances of being merely auditors and specta- 
 tors will render somewhat more proportionate 
 
184 
 
 the difference placed between the poet's 
 readers and his characters : if the former are 
 assigned greater credulity, the latter are 
 offered less to believe. 
 
 But the reader s power to observe any 
 improbabilities which may be discoverable 
 in these descriptions is not merely confined 
 from the circumstance of their not being sub- 
 mitted to the scrutiny of his organs ; it is not 
 less confined in the circumstance of his hav- 
 ing but an imperfect knowledge of all preter- 
 natural beings and their economies, even of 
 such as his own creed admits to be real. 
 All the probability which reason can attain 
 on these subjects must allow of considerable 
 limitation ; he cannot therefore acquire that 
 habitual facility, which experience gives him, 
 of discerning at a glance the truth or impro- 
 bability of things which are familiar from 
 being definite in their nature, and frequent 
 in their occurrence : he will consequently 
 find no immediate evidence for rejecting those 
 fictions founded on the creed of others which 
 it is his interest in being his pleasure to ad- 
 mit unquestioned. The only certainty which 
 he can reach on these points is that which 
 his own creed affords him concerning the 
 existence of the beings employed in those 
 
185 
 
 fictions. If they are of a kind which his 
 religious notions lead him to reject, the 
 composition fails at once in its intended 
 effect, by exciting a stronger sensation to 
 predominate over his pleasure. But against 
 any danger which may threaten the poet's 
 fictions in this respect the adduced rule fur- 
 nishes a provision, as it expressly states, 
 that " nothing should be introduced in such 
 fictions, which would be negatived as false 
 by the creed of the reader." And hence, if 
 the existence of those beings does not come 
 to be questioned, our admitting every thing 
 they are supposed to do, will depend upon 
 the consistency of the narrative in which 
 they are described. 
 
 This however is a statement of the matter, 
 which sets it in a point of light the least fa- 
 vourable to the cause which I espouse : for 
 it may happen that the reader may possess a 
 temper of mind somewhat tinctured with the 
 enthusiasm of the poet, which, independent 
 of the interest he may feel in the production 
 before him, will rather incline him to admit 
 than to question its fictions. " Many," says 
 Mr. Addison, in speaking of the pleasure 
 which marvellous productions afford,. " are 
 prepossessed with such opinions, as dispose 
 
186' 
 
 them to believe these particular delusions ; 
 at least, we have all heard so many pleasing 
 relations in favour of them, that we do not 
 care for seeing through the falsehood, and 
 willingly give ourselves up to so agreeable 
 an imposture." m 
 
 The defence of the Italian poets is thus 
 capable of being established, and those fic- 
 tions with which they have enriched poetry 
 may be maintained to the art, notwithstand- 
 ing the endeavours of some modern criticks 
 to bring them into disrepute. For thus, with 
 all their licentiousness, they are reconcileable 
 to those principles which regulate poetical 
 compositions, and are adapted to that end 
 which is sought in all such productions. 
 
 To one objection, however, they seem to 
 be exposed, which I shall proceed to state, 
 not so much for the purpose of shewing that 
 it is not incapable of being answered, as that 
 it leads to the illustration of some other pe- 
 culiar traits in the nature of this extraordi- 
 nary species of composition. When that 
 pleasure, which it is the end of these produc- 
 tions to awaken, comes to be felt only in 
 remembrance ; during those periods when 
 
 m Spectator, No. 419. 
 
187 
 
 the poet changes his subject to give it a 
 diversity, or those pauses which we are 
 obliged to make in the narrative, if for no 
 other purpose than to observe the connection 
 oftheauthour's subject; at such particular pe- 
 riods these fictions being viewed without those 
 emotions of surprise and admiration, which 
 they excite in the perusal, leave no impres- 
 sion upon the mind so strong as that of their 
 improbability ; and consequently suspend 
 the gratification which should be continued 
 unalloyed from the commencement to the 
 close of every poetical production. And, be- 
 sides this, it happens, that in fictions thus con- 
 structed, there seems to be no suitable provi- 
 sion made at first to engage them a second 
 reading, when that novelty is worn out which 
 constitutes no small share of our pleasure, 
 and creates no slight proportion of our emo- 
 tion when we give the production the first 
 perusal. 
 
 This objection, it may be remarked by 
 the way, seems to contain in it the seeds of 
 every aspersion which has been cast upon 
 the marvellous fictions of Ariosto ; as those 
 criticks who have ventured to censure that 
 poet must have spoken after a reiterated 
 perusal of his work, since these are feelings 
 
188 
 
 which arise on a frequent recurrence to it. 
 But I do not mention this point as a state- 
 ment of the manner in which the Italians 
 have been judged, nor do I insist particu- 
 larly on it at present, as containing a proof 
 of their having been condemned on an un- 
 fair trial. Their defence may be maintained 
 independently of this consideration ; for the 
 objection affects them only when one half of 
 their plan is taken into consideration. As 
 the difficulties attending the labour of poeti- 
 cal composition must have led them to review 
 repeatedly their own imagery, they must 
 themselves have observed it in the same 
 light with the critick : they must have thus 
 seen how it was exposed to censure, and were 
 hence probably driven to the expedient of 
 devising some mode of obviating these ob- 
 jections. And from this circumstance, I 
 cannot but think, originated those striking 
 peculiarities which distinguish the poetical 
 romance from the other species of epical 
 composition ; its being allegorical in its sub- 
 ject, and episodical in its plan. Such in fact 
 appear to be the expedients which a little 
 consideration suggested to the Italian poets, 
 as affording a remedy for the deficiences im- 
 putable to these productions. 
 
189 
 
 On the episodical structure of fable in 
 the poetical romance, I shall have occasion 
 to enlarge when I come to treat of the eco- 
 nomy of poetical matter. I now particu- 
 larly insist upon the allegorical meaning as 
 that part of the poet's plan by which he 
 aims at securing the end of his art, by pro- 
 moting the gratification of his readers ; more 
 especially during the perusal of those parts 
 of his composition in which the sense of his 
 fictions being improbable might predominate 
 over the pleasure excited by their marvel- 
 lousness. In these it is curious to remark, 
 that the truth which the poet finds impracti- 
 cable to impart really to his subject, he aims 
 at imparting figuratively. Thus leaving the 
 mind employed in discovering the latent 
 sense of his fictions, and tracing resemblances 
 between its true and typical meaning, he 
 engages it in such occupation as affords most 
 readers no small degree of pleasure. And 
 hence by keeping the sense of any improba- 
 bility in his fictions out of our view (which 
 he the more readily effects by giving them, 
 as allegories, that artificial connection with 
 truth which keeps some kind of verity al- 
 ways before us in the implied meaning,) he 
 succeeds in diverting us from observing the 
 
190 
 
 want of verisimilitude until he breaks upon 
 us with a new train of marvellous imagery, 
 and then overpowers us again with emotions 
 of admiration and surprise. And when the 
 sensations thus excited again subside, he 
 prepares for us the same task of unravelling 
 his allegories, to be once more succeeded by 
 an interchange of similar delight and similar 
 occupation. 
 
 It is, however, by no means my intention 
 to assert that the " Orlando Furioso" is a 
 poem which possesses a regularly con- 
 structed allegory shadowed under its literal 
 meaning. Such a supposition is not borne 
 out by fact : for, notwithstanding the labours 
 of Valvasori, Ruscelli, Porcacchi, Toscanella, 
 and Harrington, who have been at such pains 
 to discover a concealed meaning in all his 
 fictions, it would require something more 
 than complaisance in any thinking reader to 
 admit that their labours were not much more 
 frequently baffled than successful. 
 
 Indeed the establishment of such notions 
 on the uniform consistency of Ariosto's alle- 
 gories is not at all necessary to the defence 
 of the poet : it is sufficient if this figurative 
 meaning is discoverable in those bolder fic- 
 tions which are conceived to offer a violence 
 
191 
 
 to truth and nature. And that this is a true 
 remark, and will be found justified on expe- 
 riment, we have not only the evidence of the 
 poem, as interpreted by the commentators 
 already mentioned, but the testimony of the 
 poet himself, who, thus far at least, confirms 
 the general voice of his interpreters ; as he 
 directs his readers n in search of a figurative 
 meaning implied under his more marvellous 
 inventions. And such parts of his poem are 
 those alone in which the reader requires 
 something to turn his attention aside from 
 the sense of any improbability in the fic- 
 tion. 
 
 It must, however, be admitted that the 
 case is very different with respect to Spen- 
 ser; in the science and continuity of his alle- 
 gories he differs very materially from his 
 Italian competitor. And his commentator, 
 Mr. Upton, has insisted on this point in his 
 defence of the probability of the " Fairy 
 Queen" with very different success from that 
 which has been manifested by all the fanci- 
 ful expositors of Ariosto's " Orlando." The 
 fact is, and it appears in a letter on the sub- 
 ject to Sir W. Raleigh, that he secured to 
 
 » Orl. Fur. Cant. vii. ott. 2. See also Cant. ?iii. ott. 2. 
 
192 
 
 his poem this quality of being allegorical, 
 by having originally intended it should pos- 
 sess it. And a letter addressed by Mr. 
 Upton to Mr. West, besides the preface al- 
 ready mentioned, puts the fact out of dispute 
 by an illustration of the allegories, and an 
 application of Spenser's poetical characters 
 to the principal personages in the court of 
 Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 But, as I before observed, the establish- 
 ment of this point On the figurative meaning 
 of the poetical romance, would not secure 
 much to the cause of Ariosto, nor much ad- 
 vance the merit of Spenser ; as it assigns the 
 works of both poets no other praise than that 
 of being good allegorical poems. For it 
 must be observed that under these circum- 
 stances their place of eminence is appa- 
 rently, not really, elevated. It is advanced 
 in the same manner as that of an object, 
 which when set beside others of a size more 
 diminutive is, seemingly, not actually am- 
 plified. As allegorical poems they may be 
 entitled to all the merits due to works of 
 their kind; but if this is the view under 
 which the poetical romance is to be repre- 
 sented, and these are the terms on which its 
 perfections are to be ascertained, it certainly 
 
193 
 
 becomes reduced from these circumstances, 
 and in no inconsiderable degree, in the scale 
 of that poetry which ranks as epical. 
 
 Nor am I led to this conclusion by an 
 attachment to system, from having any desire 
 to exclude from the composition of the poe- 
 tical romance, a regularly constructed alle- 
 gory, on account of its being incompatible 
 with what I have already declared to be 
 essential to such productions in a state of 
 abstract perfection. Such a plan, when pro- 
 secuted to a greater extent than what has 
 been judiciously adopted by Ariosto, cannot 
 fail to defeat its own intent, as it must tend 
 to weary us by perplexing our attentions 
 with a diversity of interests, and in an un- 
 remitted succession. There are few, if any, 
 readers of Spenser, who will not admit that 
 the interest which they take in the " Fairy 
 Queen" is alloyed, and in no inconsiderable 
 degree, by the spirit of " moralizing" which 
 is prosecuted through the whole of that 
 poem. So niuch is admitted by one whom 
 I look upon as the warmest of his admirers, 
 and the ablest of his advocates. " As an 
 allegorical poem/' says the venerable Bishop 
 Hurd, if the method of the Fairy Queen is 
 governed by the justness of the moral : as a 
 
 o 
 
394 
 
 narrative poem, it is conducted on the ideas 
 and usages of chivalry. In either view, if taken 
 by itself, the plan is defensible. But from 
 the union of the two designs there arises a 
 perplexity and confusion which is the proper, 
 and only considerable, defect of this extra- 
 ordinary poem/' 
 
 And this difference in the conduct of the 
 Italian and the English romance determines 
 me to decide, without any hesitation, in fa- 
 vour of the former, as the more perfect mo- 
 del of the epos of marvellous poetry. Not 
 that I admit either the genius or the judg- 
 ment of Spenser was inferiour to that of 
 Ariosto ; or that I believe he was seduced 
 from the right path, which was so success- 
 fully trodden by his illustrious predecessor, 
 by any vain ambition to avoid his supposed 
 errours, or to strike out imaginary beauties. 
 This inferiority, on the part of our country- 
 man, is to be attributed to the difference of 
 the times in which both poets lived ; a differ- 
 ence that operated as much to favour the 
 end of Ariosto, as it did to oppose the object 
 of Spenser. The manners of chivalry and 
 its attendants, the fictions of romance, fur- 
 
 On Chivalry and Romance. Let. viii. 
 
195 
 
 nished the subjects of their respective works, 
 and gave them propriety of truth. But it 
 was the g-ood fortune of Ariosto to have 
 lived at a period, when they were as much 
 objects of overweening partiality, as it was 
 the fate of Spenser to have lived in an age 
 when they were objects of unmerited re- 
 proach. Each found it his interest to pay a 
 respect to the prejudices of his times : and 
 while Ariosto had but to accommodate him- 
 self to the existing state of opinion, Spenser 
 had to struggle against it, in treating a sub- 
 ject of the same description and character. 
 How his choice of the romance as an epical 
 subject, was notwithstanding judicious, as 
 conformable to the popular prejudices in the 
 reign of Elizabeth, may be collected, with- 
 out any labour of deduction, from those 
 letters on chivalry and romance so often 
 quoted. 
 
 Thus it happens, by assigning its proper 
 place and level to what is real and what is 
 allegorical in the epick romance, by consi- 
 dering neither part perfect in itself, but the 
 .latter merely auxiliary to the former, that the 
 defence of the Italian poets is easily made 
 out. And thus we find it explained, how 
 this part of fanciful poetry, though it has 
 
196 
 
 met with many strenuous opponents, has 
 found no adequate defenders. Both parties, 
 as well those who opposed as those who sup- 
 ported it, seem not to have taken in ils plan 
 at one comprehensive view, but to have re- 
 garded it with a divided consideration : they 
 have been led to regard it not as a whole 
 composed of one principal with a subordi- 
 nate part, but as a whole in which the parts 
 were equally prominent Thus regarding it 
 as a species of composition as much typical 
 as literal, they have been led to expect, that, 
 in both forms, it should be equally perfect : 
 that its more obvious sense should possess 
 continued verisimilitude, and its more latent 
 meaning be continued allegory. It cannot 
 then appear extraordinary that under such a 
 consideration, in which the object of these 
 compositions is so completely misconceived, 
 they should have exhibited so much to jus- 
 tify the censure of their opponents : and 
 that their apologists, taking the matter on the 
 same grounds, should have laboured so in- 
 effectually in their vindication. 
 
 But if there are any of Ariosto's fictions 
 which appear defective in verisimilitude, and 
 at the same time inobvious in allegorical sig- 
 nification, we must attribute the circumstance 
 
197 
 
 not so much to the poet, as to the age in 
 which he flourished. He was only required 
 to impart that verisimilitude to his fictions 
 which was suited to the existing state of po- 
 pular opinion in his time. That censure 
 which arraigns him for not having done 
 more, might be equally employed to con- 
 demn Homer for not having devised a train 
 of my thological imagery correspondent with 
 our religious notions at the present day. We 
 must in fact admit the poetical systems of 
 both poets subject to the popular supersti- 
 tions of the age in which they wrote : and 
 the credulity of that in which Ariosto lived 
 would have admitted certain fictions as pos- 
 sessing every necessary verisimilitude which 
 we now reject as improbable and extrava- 
 gant. 
 
 This reasoning appears perfectly borne 
 out by observing the state of opinion, not 
 only when the " Orlando Furioso" was com- 
 posed, but that under which every poetical 
 romance, which has risen into popular esti- 
 mation, appears to have been produced. As 
 proofs that the enchantments of Spenser and 
 Shakespeare were received with some sin- 
 cerity, and admitted to possess some credi- 
 bility, many parallel examples might be 
 
198 
 
 produced besides the trial and conviction of 
 the witches of Warbois. The aera of Ariosto 
 cannot be considered more enlightened than 
 that in which Bacon lived and wrote : nor 
 can we conceive what light could have arisen 
 to dissipate the credulity of Ariosto's age, 
 when but half a century before him Dante 
 was believed to have descended to the infer- 
 nal regions, and to have witnessed all those 
 marvellous occurrences which he has detailed 
 in his " Divina Comedia." 
 
 I cannot, however, bring myself to be- 
 lieve that the state of opinion at present, 
 though less calculated to favour the effect 
 of marvellous fictions than it has been at the 
 time when this species of poetry was most 
 successfully cultivated, has tended to weaken 
 the verisimilitude of those fictions, to dimi- 
 nish their intrinsick beauty, or destroy the 
 pleasure which the works even of Ariosto or 
 Spenser were originally intended to afford. 
 In our more collected moments, during the 
 perusal of these marvellous inventions, when 
 occupied rather in reasoning on their defects, 
 than in feeling their beauties, we are so far 
 disengaged from emotion as to consider 
 their want of truth and probability, we are 
 enabled to take into account the different 
 
199 
 
 circumstances under which the poem is now 
 read, and those under which it was originally 
 written. And though the allowances which 
 are thus made may not raise the pleasure 
 which a modern reader takes in such fictions 
 as those of Homer, to that degree which 
 was experienced by the Grecian who pro- 
 fessed Homer's religion, it does not follow 
 that a similar disparity exists in the pleasure 
 which any one now takes in the imagery of 
 the " Orlando Furioso," and that expe- 
 rienced by the first readers of Ariosto. Set- 
 ting aside the consideration that the cotem- 
 poraries of Ariosto could not have had that 
 unreserved belief in the fictions of the " Or- 
 lando," which those of Homer had in the 
 " Iliad," the mythological notions of the 
 latter are wholly irreconcileable with the 
 truth of our present religion, while the fic- 
 tions of the former possess at least the verisi- 
 militude of some superstitions not wholly 
 exploded among us, which if we do not 
 implicitly believe, we do not absolutely re- 
 ject. From these circumstances it is very 
 allowable to conclude that the pleasure, 
 which Ariosto's work at first afforded, both 
 has remained, and is likely to continue at 
 nearly its original level. 
 
200 
 
 Proceeding from this remark, I shall now 
 beg leave to enter my protest against an 
 opinion which has been sometime fashion- 
 able, and which, if admitted, would straiten 
 in no slight degree the extent of Poetick 
 Licence ; — " That the success of these fic- 
 tions will not be great, when they have no 
 longer any footing in popular belief; — and 
 that no modern poet ought to revive those 
 fairy tales in an epick poem." p Notwith- 
 standing the authoritativeness of this asser- 
 tion, I cannot bring myself to believe that 
 fanciful imagery can have suffered much 
 from the circumstance of our being more 
 enlightened than our ancestors. For I find 
 it difficult to reconcile this critical dogma 
 with that general interest which the old 
 poetical romances continue to excite on ac- 
 count of this very antiquated imagery. And 
 if such imagery is found to delight us in a 
 poem long written, I know of no reason why 
 it should not in one which is recently given 
 to publicity. . 
 
 It is true that we should censure as un- 
 natural in a modern poet many things which 
 
 P Hurd on Chiv. and Rom. Let. x. 
 
201 
 
 we should pardon, though improbable in 
 Ariosto, on the grounds of those allowances 
 which are to be made for the credulity of 
 his age : but it is not less true, that the mo- 
 dern poet by constructing his fictions with 
 more art, and greater verisimilitude, may 
 stand in need of no such indulgences. How 
 far this is practicable has been already 
 pointed out in those rules which have been 
 laid down for ascertaining the justness, and 
 directing the constitution of poetical fic- 
 tions : and let it be remembered, that to 
 these rules those very fictions are excep- 
 tions, in which Ariosto stands in need of 
 palliation. 
 
 When the poet has secured these points, 
 he cannot have much to fear from the scep- 
 ticism or incredulity of his readers. Among 
 readers of this compleclion as there are 
 some of whom he can have as little hopes 
 as ambition of making proselytes to his 
 fanciful creed ; there are others who will 
 find that what his descriptions want in 
 point of truth, is more than compensated 
 in point of art ; a quality that almost 
 equally secures that delight which is the 
 ultimate end of poetical composition. And 
 
202 
 
 the more incredulous any reader is found, 
 the more it must be admitted will his de- 
 light be raised at observing those fictions 
 which his reason leads him to reject as 
 false, represented with all the consistency 
 of realities. 
 
203 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 OF THE POETICAL EPOS. 
 
 We have already observed those endeavours 
 which have been employed to exclude the 
 poetical romance from holding any place 
 among the legitimate compositions of poetry, 
 on account of its fictions offering so great a 
 violence to nature and reality. It cannot 
 therefore appear strange that the liberty of 
 employing a system of spiritual agents and 
 supernatural imagery, to which criticism gives 
 the name of machinery, should have been 
 likewise opposed in the poetical epos : nor 
 will objections to its introduction appear to 
 the philosophical thinkers of the present 
 day to be devoid of the strongest support from 
 nature and reason. When this mode of reason- 
 ing in criticism first became fashionable, has 
 been incidentally determined by the authour 
 of " Letters on Chivalry," in tracing the de- 
 clining popularity of the Gothick fictions 
 and Italian poetry in England, in the sink- 
 ing credit of which it appears to have been 
 considerably involved. The period of so 
 
204 
 
 regretted a revolution in our taste has been 
 fixed at the time of the restoration ; and the 
 origin of those sentiments, which particularly 
 affected poetical machinery ascribed to Sir 
 W. Davenant and Mr. Hobbes. q The au- 
 thority of these opinions had however no 
 considerable standing, and with the excep- 
 tion of a few proselytes, among whom Sir W. 
 Temple occurs, they continue to lose ground 
 every day ; among the last persons that I 
 now remember, who appear to avow them 
 openly, is M. de Voltaire : they appear to 
 have expired under the feeble support of 
 Lord Kaimes. 
 
 On considering the different powers of 
 reasoning by which these opinions on the 
 propriety of machinery in an epick poem 
 have been maintained, and those with which 
 they have been combated, the advantage 
 now appears considerably on the side of the 
 former. Of this I could offer a complete 
 evidence, in producing the defence of the 
 necessity of celestial intervention in the epo- 
 pee given by Dr. Hurd. The length of the 
 passage unfitting it for transcription, I shall 
 beg leave to refer the reader to it, as it 
 
 ■ *TL , ; - . ■ ,, ■ , .... , ^ | -■ w 
 
 * Hukd on Chiv. and Rom. Let. ix. 
 
 
205 
 
 contains a refutation of the objections of two 
 very popular advocates on the opposite side 
 of the question/ 
 
 Without entering into the merits of the 
 arguments of a controversy, which, as I am 
 of opinion, has been decided much in favour 
 of the affirmative side of the question, I 
 am sufficiently attached to those principles 
 which I have employed some time in illus- 
 trating, to believe, that by their assistance 
 the matter may be put if not more appo- 
 sitely, yet more suitably to the purpose of 
 these inquiries : in fact, that so captivating 
 an appendage of poetry as its machinery, 
 may be maintained to the art without assign- 
 ing any unreasonable latitude to Poetical 
 Licence. 
 
 The determination of the present question 
 cannot be directly deducible from that rule, 
 which has been given for ascertaining the 
 propriety, and marking out the extent of 
 marvellous fictions ; for that rule assumes, as 
 granted, the very points which it would be 
 now my object to establish on the more 
 solid basis of proof. We must therefore 
 look a little higher for that principle which 
 
 r Hurd's Discourse on Poet. Imit. 
 
206 
 
 leads to the solution of the difficulty before 
 us ; and this appears to be immediately sug- 
 gested in the end ascribed to all poetical pro- 
 ductions, with the consideration of which 
 these inquiries commenced, and from which 
 the rule alluded to is immediately deducible. 
 However the rule is not without its use in 
 determining the question before us, as will be 
 made apparent in the course of discussing the 
 point, which may be briefly stated as follows. 
 The end which every poet, and more 
 particularly those of the epick class, pur- 
 poses in his compositions, is that of pro- 
 curing his readers the greatest degree, and 
 highest kind of gratification which is suit- 
 able to the nature, and attainable in the 
 execution of that work which he under- 
 takes to detail. An appeal lies to the feel- 
 ings of readers of every description, as 
 evincing that marvellous imagery has some 
 strong claims to be thought capable of con- 
 tributing to this end. But more than this, 
 if the emotions of taste which, in promoting 
 this end, it is capable of exciting are not only 
 of a higher degree and more exalted kind 
 than any thing which may be attained in the 
 epopee without its assistance ; but if there is 
 nothing in the nature of these emotions cal- 
 
 
207 
 
 culated to render it incompatible with com- 
 positions of this kind, we may from these 
 two points fairly conclude that it is neces- 
 sary to the art, in being necessary to the 
 end purposed in its composition ; for with- 
 out its aid the epick poetry must fall several 
 degrees short of that perfection to be at- 
 tained by its adoption. 
 
 That, in the first place, marvellous im- 
 agery is productive of a very great degree and 
 high kind of gratification seems not to be 
 disputed by those who object to its introduc- 
 tion in the epopee, on account only of its 
 offering too great a violence to nature and 
 probability. By readers of a less philoso- 
 phical turn, this assumption will be admitted 
 on the unquestionable evidence of personal 
 experience. Nor can it be reasonably de- 
 nied by those who consider it, without any 
 view to the purer epos, as it occurs in sacred 
 poetry, or even in the epick romance. But 
 that it is capable of exciting emotions of 
 a more sublime kind than what are at- 
 tainable by the merely natural imagery of the 
 poem, must be evident from the celestial 
 nature and illimitable powers of those be- 
 ings which it has a means of introducing 
 into its action. Before intelligences of this 
 
208 
 
 kind, all human agents and operations must 
 shrink away when brought into a compari- 
 son ; they are such as can scarcely be con- 
 templated, even in description, without sen- 
 timents of such awe, if not of such terrour, 
 as render them sublime to the most irresist- 
 able degree. 
 
 That, in the second place, there is no- 
 thing in the nature either of marvellous im- 
 agery, or of epical composition, which can 
 render the one unsuitable to the other, is 
 surely as admissible. An observance of 
 matter of fact has never been expected in 
 the former; such a qualification, if it were 
 compatible with poetical imitation, would 
 not be counterbalanced by its inconvenience 
 to poetical embellishment. Of reality the 
 poet is required to take no firmer hold than 
 what he grasps in verisimilitude. But if he 
 attends to the rule given for the conduct of 
 the marvellous narrations of poetry, he may 
 furnish himself with machinery which pos- 
 sesses the strictest verisimilitude. For a mono- 
 those celestial agents which he may employ 
 in forwarding the action, and heightening 
 the dignity of his poem, if he follows that 
 religious ritual which is admitted by the 
 creed of his readers, and is natural to the 
 
 
20J 
 
 characters in his composition he cannot in- 
 troduce any beings whose existence and ope- 
 rations will not have the greatest probability: 
 to admit their verisimilitude, is consequently 
 on the part of his readers a matter of faith, 
 not merely a matter of opinion. And this 
 being etsablished, the hypothesis may con- 
 sequently be assumed as proved, that ma- 
 chinery, from being calculated to excite 
 pleasure without being repugnant to poetical 
 verisimilitude, is necessary to the production 
 of that end which is purposed in epical com- 
 position. 
 
 The adoption of machinery in the epos 
 appearing thus founded on reason, and being 
 justified by the practice of those poets who 
 have carried the art nearest to ideal perfec- 
 tion, two points in the use of it require a par- 
 ticular investigation, as marking out the ex- 
 tent of poetical licence. 
 
 1. How far the poet is restricted in the 
 choice of particular agency to embellish and 
 dignify his subject? 
 
 2. Under what restrictions may he be 
 laid as to the time of employing its interven- 
 tion in the epical action ? 
 
 On these points we seem to require some 
 fixed standard, as a contrariety of practice, 
 
210 
 
 into which an ill -directed imitation of 
 the antients has led some modern poets, 
 has left it somewhat doubtful, in the 
 plain track which originally lay unper- 
 plexed before them, how they ought to 
 act, and how far they are licenced in pro- 
 ceeding. 
 
 1. With respect to the choice of particu- 
 lar agents to construct the machinery of an 
 epick poem, the authour of such a produc- 
 tion appears necessitated to adopt those in 
 favour of whose existence his religious creed 
 gives an explicit evidence ; and of whose na- 
 ture and operations his religious ritual gives 
 an express account. For the object of ma- 
 chinery being that of augmenting the dig- 
 nity and importance of the subject to the 
 highest attainable degree which is found con- 
 sistent with verisimilitude, those intelligences, 
 from the sacredness of their character, and 
 unquestionableness of their existence, must 
 unite the greatest possible truth with the 
 most awful majesty. And consequently the 
 subject in which, to their exclusion, beings are 
 introduced of a subordinate nature, must be 
 at least one degree remote from abstract 
 perfection, and would be capable of still 
 farther amplification by admitting those of 
 
211 
 
 a more exalted rank and certain existence to 
 take a part in its action. 
 
 Under this principle a positive exception 
 is entered against conducting the machinery 
 of an epick poem by means of Pagan divini- 
 ties, or allegorical personages : though the 
 former is recommended by the opinion of 
 an eminent French critick,' and the latter 
 by the practice of a no less eminent poet of 
 the same nation. In thus opposing the au- 
 thority of the Abbe Du Bos, and the practice 
 of M. de Voltaire, I shall fortify my opinion 
 of the practice in question being carried be- 
 yond the limits of poetical licence, by the 
 authority of Tasso, who was as superiour a 
 critick to the one, as he was decidedly a finer 
 poet than the other. Having deduced the 
 requisiteness of machinery in the epopee, from 
 the necessity of giving to such compositions 
 all the delight which the marvellous is found 
 to excite, against the propriety of employing 
 heathen machinery to this purpose he de- 
 duces the following conclusion, which I look 
 upon to be of itself unanswerable: — Non po- 
 
 • Do Bos. Reflex. Critiq. § 25. 28. M. Boileau has also 
 been a most zealous advocate of Pagan machinery. L'Art. 
 Poet. C. III. 
 
212 
 
 tendo questi miracoli essere opperati da virtu 
 naturale, e necessario che alia virtu sopran- 
 naturale ci rivolgiamo, e rivolgandoci alle 
 deita de' Gentili, subito cessa il verisimile, 
 perche non pu6 esser verisimile agli uomini 
 nostri quello, che e da lor ten u to non solo 
 falso ma impossible/ 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to demonstrate any 
 farther the impropriety of Pagan machinery 
 in a formal selection of passages to prove it 
 as devoid of grace in the execution, as it is 
 incompatible with art in theory. The striking 
 deformities of such a system will be more 
 clearly evinced by a general exemplification 
 from the " Lusiad" of Camoens ; in the con- 
 duct of which poem so gross a violation of 
 the principles of composition is betrayed, 
 that it has become very problematical, in the 
 opinion of many critieks, whether it ought 
 not to be wholly expunged from the list of 
 epical productions. 
 
 The first book of this poem opens with 
 a council of the Pagan deities," where Jupi- 
 ter foretels the event of the expedition un- 
 dertaken by Vasco de Gama; the success of 
 which appears to have an enemy in Bacchus, 
 
 « Dell" Art. Poet. Discors. I. * Cant. I. eft. 20-36. 
 
213 
 
 and an advocate in Venus. In pursuance of 
 the sentiments thus declared, the former deity 
 raises every obstacle in his power to the suc- 
 cess of the Lusians : on their arrival at 
 Mozambique he excites the regent against 
 them, and prevails on him to concert plots 
 and form ambushes for their destruction:* 
 with the assistance of Neptune, and the 
 deities of the sea, he raises a tempest to 
 destroy their fleet, after their departure 
 from Melinda : w frustrated in his attempts in 
 this quarter he exerts all his powers to excite 
 opposition among the inhabitants of Calicut,* 
 and with the aid of the infernal daemons in- 
 flames the Moors with hatred to the adven- 
 turers. On the other hand Venus is equally 
 active in thwarting his projects : she prevails 
 on the nymphs of the sea to assist her in pre- 
 serving her favourites from the snares that 
 encompassed them at Mombaze : y she in- 
 tercedes with Jupiter in their behalf, who 
 permits Mercury to appear in a dream to 
 Gama, to warn him of the intended treachery, 
 and point out a friendly harbour:' with the 
 
 v Cant. I. est. 73-82. w Cant. III. est. 6. 1. 5-38. 
 
 * Cant. VIII. est. 47-51. y Cant. II. est. 18. 1. 5-24. 
 
 * Cant. II. est. 33-64. " 
 
214 
 
 aid of her nymphs she stills the tempest which 
 had been raised by Bacchus on their voyage 
 from Melinda, 3 brings Vasco through all his 
 difficulties at Calicut, b and finally conducts 
 him in triumph to her own retreat in the 
 Island of Love. The goddess of the sea 
 here meets Gama, and commits the dominion 
 of her empire to him: d the achievements and 
 settlement of the Portuguese in the east are 
 foretold at one of her feasts, c and the poem 
 closes with her leading him to the summit of 
 a mountain, explaining the system of the 
 universe, and describing the several divisions 
 of the globe/ 
 
 So far the machinery of the poem, though 
 improper from its incongruity with the reli- 
 gion of the adventurers, is consistent in it- 
 self. But in addition to the fundamental 
 errour of choosing a system of preternatural 
 agency thus exceptionable, the poet has 
 fallen into a still greater impropriety, in 
 confounding this system with that which was 
 inculcated by the creed of his heroes. One 
 of the great objects of the voyage thus fa- 
 
 • Cant. VI. est. 85-92. b Cant. VIII. est. 64. 
 c Cant. IX. est. 18 & 4Q-53. d Cant. IX. est. 85. 
 
 • Cant. X. est. 10-74. f Cant.X. est. 7~-l43. 1.3. 
 
213 
 
 Toured by Jupiter, and furthered by the 
 assistance of Venus, is represented to be the 
 propagation of the Gospel. 6 Gama, and his 
 followers, are true and pious Christians : at 
 the commencement of the voyage they are 
 described as addressing their prayers to the 
 Almighty, imploring his assistance in their 
 undertaking, and joining in the rites and 
 ceremonies of the Christian worship." Amid 
 their distress in the dreadful tempest off Me- 
 linda, Gama again addresses the Supreme 
 Being, seeking his aid who led his chosen 
 race in safety through the Red Sea, and pre- 
 served his servant Paul from shipwreck. 1 
 It is to be observed, that in answer to these 
 supplications Venus almost immediately ap- 
 pears." Even the personages of the heathen 
 agency are at times made to refer to the 
 characters and customs of both the Christian 
 and Mahometan worship. Jupiter and Bac- 
 chus often mention the Mahometans, their 
 prophet, and their Koran : ' and Thetis the 
 
 k See particularly Camoens' Apostrophe to the Europeans. 
 Cant. VII. est. 14 & 15. and Cant. X. est. lig. 
 
 h Cant. IV. est. 86 & 87. 
 
 i Cant. VI. est. 81 & 82. k Cant. VI. est. 85. 
 
 1 Jupiter, in his speech to Venus, Canto II, alludes to the sub- 
 jection of " the stern-browed Turk." 
 Os Turcos bellacissimos, e duros. 
 
216 
 
 goddess of the sea, in describing the country 
 of the east to Gama, introduces the adven- 
 
 And again, 
 
 Do Mouro alii verao, que a luz extrema 
 Do falso Mafamede ao ceo blasphema. 
 
 Est. 50. 
 
 There shall the Moors, blaspheming, sink in death, 
 And curse their prophet with their parting breath. 
 
 Mickle. 
 
 We even find Bacchus assuming the appearance of a Christian 
 priest, in order to deceive the Lusians. 
 
 Mas aquelle que sempre, &c. 
 Estava em huma casa da Cidade 
 Com rosto humano, e habito fingido, 
 Monstrando-se Christiao, e fabrieava 
 Hum altar sumptuoso que adorava. 
 
 Alii tinha em retrato afBgurada 
 Do alto e Sancto Espirito a pentura : 
 A Candida Pombinha debuxada 
 Sobre a unica Phenix Virgem pura. 
 A companhia santa esta pintada 
 Das doze, tad torvados na figura, 
 Como os que, so das linguas que cahirara 
 De fogo, varias linguas referiram. 
 
 Cant. II. est 10 & 11. 
 
 But he, whose, &c. 
 
 Now in the town his guileful rage employed, 
 
 A Christian priest he seemed ; a sumptuous shrine 
 
 He rear'd, and tended with the rites divine ; 
 
 O'er the fair altar waved the cross on high 
 
 Upheld by angels leaning from the sky, 
 
 Descending o'er the virgin's sacred head 
 
 So white, so pure, the Holy Spirit spread 
 
5217 
 
 tures and death of St. Thomas, in his mission 
 among its natives. m She particularizes the 
 preaching of the Gospel, and the fixing of 
 the cross in India." 
 
 It is not to be supposed that faults so 
 conspicuous should have escaped condemna- 
 tion. They have in fact experienced all the 
 severity of criticism, and seem, until lately, 
 when they found an advocate in the inge- 
 nious and elegant Mr. Mickle, to have 
 sunk under the weight of universal censure. 
 As the popularity of this apologist has thrown 
 a temporary veil over these irregularities, and 
 as the inquiry may lead to an elucidation of 
 the general maxims laid down on this sub- 
 ject, it may not be considered remote from 
 our purpose to examine his defence : though 
 I think he has exhibited less judgment in the 
 grounds he has chosen to extenuate his au- 
 thour's errours, than he has displayed taste 
 in bringing to light his various beauties. 
 
 The substance of his defence of Camoens' 
 
 The dove-like pictured wings so pure, so white. 
 And hovering o'er the chosen twelve, alight 
 The tongues of hallowed fire. 
 
 Mickle, 
 
 m Cant. X. est. 108. &5-II9. 
 
 n See Cant. X. est. 119. & est. 140. 
 
218 
 
 pagan machinery may be reduced to the 
 three following heads: — That it is allegori- 
 cal; that the introduction of pagan deities 
 has been general ; and that some of the su- 
 pernatural characters in " The Lusiad" were 
 believed to exist by the popular credulity 
 of the sixteenth century. 
 
 In his endeavours to maintain the first 
 point, and prove the allegorical significance 
 of the several characters in the machinery, 
 the apologist seems to have laboured with 
 little effect. The latent meaning into which 
 he wishes to explain away some of these 
 agents, even were it admitted, would not 
 substanstiate his assertion of their being alle- 
 gorical. Thus, when he describes the Jupiter 
 of " The Lusiads," as " The Lord of Fate ;" 
 when he makes Bacchus " the evil daemon 
 or genius of Mohammedism, who was wor- 
 shipped in the east," and Mercury " the 
 messenger of heaven," he still retains to 
 these beings a personal existence, and con- 
 verts their nature merely by endowing them 
 with characters and attributes equally as 
 substantial as those for which he has ex- 
 changed them. Those fictions only can be 
 called allegorical which comprehend under 
 their open and typified meaning, things essen- 
 
219 
 
 tially different in their nature ; as for instance, 
 when they represent abstract ideas b} r actual, 
 agents. Thus the actions of Talus, in the 
 " Fairy Queen," are figurative of the general 
 idea of Justice; in like manner the depar- 
 ture of the people of Israel from Egypt, the 
 subsequent protection granted them by the 
 Deity, and his final desertion of them, is 
 shadowed under the image of a vine, and the 
 description forms a perfect allegory. But 
 this is not the case where one deity is sub- 
 stituted for another. Allegory, as far at least 
 as it is employed in poetical purposes, only 
 aims at giving an apparent existence to what 
 possesses no existence in reality ; but does 
 not extend to the implied representation of 
 one being by another, whose existence is on 
 the same footing, in respect to its certainty. 
 In this view, therefore, the censure that has 
 fallen on these supernatural agents in " The 
 Lusiads" has not been removed by the ex- 
 planation of the apologist: were his attempt 
 established, he would only do away the im- 
 putation of the poet's having introduced 
 such agents as were contradictory to the 
 opinions of his age, by converting them into 
 existences equally actual, and equally unac- 
 credited by the same belief. 
 
220 
 
 But were we even not to insist ori»this 
 point, we still could not acquiesce in his 
 having established a continued allegory. Be- 
 yond one or two instances there is not a sha- 
 dow of resemblance between the characters 
 as described by the poet, and those quali- 
 ties which they are asserted by the apologist 
 to represent : and even in these instances the 
 resemblance strikes only at a distance, and 
 on a general view, but fades on a close in- 
 spection. We might be brought to admit 
 the general resemblance between the charac- 
 ter of Venus and the quality of heavenly 
 love. But how can we reconcile with such 
 a quality the minute details of her person 
 and actions, or the employments of herself 
 and her nymphs, which are directly contra- 
 dictory to the character of celestial love, and 
 which are so accurately distinguished by the 
 poet. These circumstantial descriptions are 
 not only repugnant to this general character, 
 but, by their exact coincidence with the pa- 
 
 As for instance, when the birth of Venus is particularized 
 as proceeding from the ocean. See Cant. II. est. 19, and 
 Cant. IX. est. . The entire episode in this last mentioned 
 Canto, which describes her meeting with Cupid, is utterly re- 
 pugnant to the supposition . of her representing such a cha- 
 racter. 
 
 
221 
 
 gan representations of the same personage, 
 would still continue, though allowed their 
 figurative meaning, to create a discordant 
 mixture of religious belief. For as they prove 
 the identity of the Venus of the Portuguese 
 poet with the Venus of The Iliad and iEneid, 
 they would also reduce to the same identity 
 their allegorical signification. The Venus of 
 both ages would in this manner be brought 
 to represent heavenly love : and thus the 
 celestial interference believed by pagan igno- 
 rance would be confounded with the super- 
 intending Providence inculcated by divine 
 truth. 
 
 But this attempt of the apologist to re- 
 duce the actual agency of the superiour 
 beings in " The Lusiads" to the unsubstan- 
 tial ministration of abstract idea, is open to 
 a still stronger objection. Should he have 
 established his object, he would only have re- 
 moved one blemish from his authour's per-* 
 formance, by substituting in its place ano- 
 ther equally liable to censure. For if there is 
 allowed any conclusiveness in the principles 
 that have been shewn to regulate the intro- 
 duction of marvellous imagery into poetry, 
 allegorical and pagan intervention lie under 
 the same interdict from entering into its 
 
222 
 
 composition, as being equally unaccredited 
 by existing opinion, and of course equally 
 subversive of verisimilitude. We are indeed 
 less inclined to acquiesce in such conclusions 
 when we find the same sweeping principle, 
 that would reduce the deities of Camoens 
 to allegorical immateriality, might be ap- 
 plied to level the consistent system of Ho- 
 mer's machinery to the same degraded rank. 
 In entering my protest against such an hu- 
 miliation of this divine poet's imagery, I do 
 not mean to insist on the external evidence 
 that leads me to imagine he had an equal 
 belief in the existence of those beings whose 
 worship he professed, though perhaps he had 
 not an equal reverence for them, as Milton 
 or any succeeding poet had for that system 
 of theology which he transferred from his 
 creed to his poetical delineations. I confine 
 myself merely to the consideration of the ge- 
 neral principles which regulate epick poetry, 
 and which, I think, explicitly decide against 
 the employment of allegorical machinery in 
 such composition, as tending to destroy at 
 once its leading and characteristick qualities, 
 its verisimilitude, its dignity, and its interest. 
 For we have already seen that truth is neces- 
 sary to secure the importance of an epick 
 
223 
 
 subject; but the ascribing an evident and 
 important effect to the agency of an ineffi- 
 cient cause must violate all appearance 
 of truth. The perfection of the epopee 
 equally consists in the elevation of its cha- 
 racters, and the dignity of its descriptions : 
 but the establishment of a continued allegory 
 degrades both into insignificance : under 
 such a process, all the awful majesty that 
 surrounds Omnipotence, all the striking gran- 
 deur that attends the display of its power, 
 evaporates into " aery nothing/' We are 
 presented but with the unsubstantial rack of 
 the object which excited our terrour or our 
 admiration, while our awe subsides as the 
 ministering spirit vanishes which " rode in 
 and directed the storm/' Nor is the interest 
 which we feel for many of the higher cha- 
 racters in the poem, and which forms no 
 insignificant, although not a principal, share 
 of our gratification in its perusal, less over- 
 thrown by such a supposition. We can 
 sympathise but little in the watchful anxiety 
 of Minerva for her favourites, in the mater- 
 nal solicitude of Venus, or in the solitary 
 fidelity of Abdiel, when we consider such 
 beings as nonentities, and equally incapable 
 of feeling and of sufferance. 
 
224 
 
 It is true that allegory, as has been shewn, 
 holds a distinguished place in the romantick 
 poem, and adds much to the propriety and 
 effect, of its composition. But it is the pe- 
 culiar nature of this species of poetry, that 
 justifies its introduction. The romance re- 
 quires no strict foundation in truth, and 
 therefore allegory does not violate its prin- 
 ciples : its economy is chiefly episodical, and 
 consequently there are many component parts 
 of its structure where allegory may be admit- 
 ted without interfering with its general and 
 important action : and its chief object being 
 to excite the emotions of surprise and admi- 
 ration, it finds in allegory a powerful assistant 
 in producing this effect, from the novelty 
 and variety which is thus added to its inci- 
 dents, and the intrigue and interchange thus 
 created in its plot. From the difference thus 
 displayed between the appropriate charac- 
 ters of the romantick and poetical epos arises 
 the different propriety that attends allegori- 
 cal intervention in either: from the nature 
 of the former it becomes an essential appen- 
 dage to its composition, while it is rejected, 
 unless introduced in a very subordinate rank, 
 by the principles of the latter. 
 
 In the proofs of that assertion which con- 
 
225 
 
 stitutes the second point of his defence the 
 critick appears equally unsuccessful. It is 
 his object here to shew, that the introduc- 
 tion of Pagan imagery into modern action 
 has been in general use : he particularly 
 specifies Milton as following this practice, 
 and alludes to some passages in the " Para- 
 dise Lost," as confirming his assertion ; and 
 he from thence maintains that Camoens had 
 an equal liberty of appropriating this species 
 of agency. But the use to which Milton and 
 Camoens applied the Pagan imagery is essen- 
 tially different. Milton, not only has his 
 proper machinery conducted by intelligences 
 of a totally different order, but never intro- 
 duces these deities, as agents, in his poem : p 
 he merely refers to the account given of 
 them by some antecedent poet, and cites 
 them only in a comparison or an illustra- 
 tion. Thus he likens Eve to 
 
 a Wood-Nymph light, 
 
 Oread or Dryad, or of Delia's train. 
 
 p 'Tis true that he sums up 
 
 The Ionian gods, of Javan's issue held 
 
 Gods; 
 in the number of the fallen angels. But his conduct, as will be 
 shewn, was perfectly consistent with universal belief. See p. 238. 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 And to 
 
 Pales, or — — Pomona, when she fled, 
 Vertumnus, or to Ceres in her prime, 
 Yet virgin of Proserpina from Jove. 
 
 P. L. 
 
 And the garden of Eden, he compares with 
 
 That fair field 
 
 Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers, 
 
 Herself a fairer flow'r, by gloomy Dis 
 
 Was gather'd, which cost Ceres all that pain 
 
 To seek her thro' the world, 
 
 IV. v. 268. 
 
 In these passages there is evidently no at- 
 tempt to introduce these mythological beings 
 as agents : they contain allusions merely to 
 well-known fables. In fact it is Milton's 
 constant custom to qualify the reference to 
 such beings, by distinctly specifying their 
 feigned origin : thus 
 
 Satan 
 
 Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge 
 As whom the fables name of monstrous size 
 Titanian, or Earth-born, that warr'd on Jove, 
 
 Briareos, orTyphon. 
 
 I. v. 196. 
 
 but Eve 
 
 TJndeck'd save with herself, more lovely fair 
 Than Wood-nymph, or the fairest goddess feyn'd\ 
 Of three that in mount Ida naked strove. 
 
 V. v. 379. 
 However some tradition they dispers'd 
 Among the heathen of their purchase got, 
 

 227 
 
 And fabled how the Serpent, whom they call'd 
 Ophion with Eurynorae, the wide 
 Encroaching Eve, perhaps, had first the rule 
 Of high Olympus, thence by Saturn driv'n, 
 And Ops, ere yet Dictsean Jove was born. 
 
 X. v. 578. 
 
 nor important less 
 
 Seem'd their petition, than when th' ancient pair 
 In fables old, less ancient yet than, these, 
 Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha, to restore 
 The race of mankind drown'd, before the shrine 
 Of Themis stood devout. 
 
 XI. v. 9- 
 
 Camoens, on the other hand, brings in these 
 divinities as actually existing: he introduces 
 them in person performing their several 
 offices and functions, and forwarding by 
 their agency the whole action of the poem. 
 Of course the conduct of the two poets pos- 
 sesses not the slightest similarity. Milton 
 has beautified his work b} r an appropriate 
 embellishment, while Camoens has deformed 
 his poem by an unsuitable appendage. 
 
 In proceeding to the third diyision of the 
 apologist's defence, (the attempt to prove 
 which, by the way, invalidates his former 
 arguments) we have to regret that the con-^ 
 duct of his authour did not afford him some 
 countenance in what he wishes to establish. 
 For this point, if proved, would be the only 
 
228 
 
 pari of his whole defence which would jus- 
 tify his conclusions, or palliate the irregula- 
 rities of his authour. If in fact he could 
 have established that the existence of the 
 supernatural beings, introduced in " The 
 Lusiad," was admitted by the popular su- 
 perstition of the times of Camoens, the poet's 
 practice would be not merely exempt from 
 censure, but would be pronounced artist- 
 like and judicious in following the true prin- 
 ciples of fanciful imagery. But it has not 
 been established that his machinery had any 
 foundation in the credulity of his age. In- 
 deed the apologist does not insist on more 
 than one or two instances, as when he de- 
 clares that, " in the age of Camoens," " Bac- 
 chus was esteemed a real daemon." He has 
 not however given any proof of this asser- 
 tion. But should we even admit these cha- 
 racters to have been the objects of popular 
 belief, what becomes of the numerous train 
 of pagan divinities that still remain unac- 
 counted for ; the gods, both celestial and in- 
 fernal, and the myriads of marine deities, 
 specified and particularized by the poet? 
 Were we to allow that the a«encv of the 
 " Lusiad" was founded on the belief of Ca- 
 moens' age, we must also believe that the 
 
229 
 
 superstitions of his times were exactly con- 
 formable to those of the times of Homer, 
 for the entire system of mythology in the 
 works of both poets bears the strictest ana- 
 logy. The machinery of Camoens not only 
 embraces the chief part of both the superiour 
 and the subordinate deities of " The Iliad," 
 but accurately represents them with the same 
 natures and characters, the same attributes 
 and economies as described by the Grecian 
 poet. 
 
 On the whole therefore, when we sum up 
 the several parts of Mr. Mickle's apology, we 
 are necessitated to pronounce the conduct 
 of his authour equally exposed to censure, as 
 when he undertook its justification. His 
 arguments, instead of extenuating the poet's 
 errours, have rather the unintentional effect 
 of adding to his condemnation : since that 
 cause must be pronounced totally hopeless 
 which has failed in the hands of so able an 
 advocate. 
 
 From the considerations already bestowed 
 on the intervention of allegorical personages 
 in the epopee, we are necessitated to pass a 
 like censure on the machinery employed by 
 M. de Voltaire in his " Henriade :" in the 
 conduct of which an improbability is realized 
 
230 
 
 as apparently subversive of all poetical ve- 
 risimilitude as that which Tasso, in the pas- 
 sage formerly quoted, seems to glance at in 
 the " Italia Liberata" of Trissino, and 
 that which has been condemned in " The 
 Lusiad." The chief personage that directs 
 the supernatural agency of this poem is 
 Discord. This ideal and unsubstantial be- 
 ing, who seems to act towards the hero of 
 this poem with the same sentiments, that 
 Juno held towards iEneas, or Bacchus to 
 the Lusiads, is described as being actively 
 engaged in opposing the success of Henry. 
 She consoles and animates his adversaries 
 when depressed, and solicits and brings suc- 
 cours to their assistance : she raises insur- 
 rections among the inhabitants of Paris, pro- 
 cures the assassination of Henry III, and 
 with the aid of Love contrives to separate 
 Henry for some time from his army. In 
 these attempts, which form the chief inci- 
 dents of the superiour agency, she is as- 
 sisted by many personages of the same de- 
 scription as herself. War, Policy, and Fa- 
 naticism are strenuous advocates in her be- 
 half; and Love and Truth perform also a 
 most active and conspicuous part among the 
 characters of the poem. 
 
231 
 
 I cannot think that the French criticks, 
 at least those of a superiour rank, and many 
 such there are among the writers of that na- 
 tion, would be found to pass a sentence^ 
 different to what is here pronounced on the 
 system of machinery, if they were brought 
 to deliver any opinion on the present ques- 
 tion. This I think is pretty evident with 
 respect to the ingenious and sensible M. Mar- 
 montel, who stands foremost in the list of 
 their best criticks. It is a remarkable cir- 
 cumstance in the preface which he prefixed 
 to the " Henriade," that all consideration of 
 the machinery is there completely over- 
 looked. It is then scarcely necessary to ob- 
 serve that this could not have happened in 
 a paper drawn up for the express purpose of 
 recommending the beauties of that poem, 
 had the authour found any thing in this part 
 of the work to justify his approbation." 1 
 
 i True it is, that another panegyrist of the same work does not 
 express the same cautious silence on this subject. All however 
 that he has advanced on the question of allegorical personages, 
 does not call a single perfection of such machinery into view, 
 which could qualify it to stand as an exception to what I now 
 labour to establish. In the cause which he espouses, and which 
 is rather gratuitously made out by a few false assumptions, the 
 authour is merely led to assign it this less than negative merit : 
 " Le merveilleux que l'auteur a employe ne pent choquer aucnn 
 
232 
 
 I do not even think it would be difficult 
 to prove that the Abbe Du Bos would have 
 ranged himself on the side of the question 
 which is here espoused : and even without 
 making many great allowances for what we 
 may suppose would have been his senti- 
 ments if his work had been written subse- 
 quently to that of the " Henriade." On the 
 impropriety of founding an epick poem on 
 a recent story he expresses himself most un- 
 equivocally.* With equal decisiveness does 
 he declare it to be his opinion, that in cere- 
 monies and exhibitions, the Christian religion 
 is equally fertile in fine imagery, as the An- 
 tient Mythology. Nor ought I to omit that 
 he has given his direct negative to blending 
 real and allegorical personages in the same 
 composition.' Even when he ceases to have 
 
 lecreur sense. On the subject of the allegories in particular he 
 thus delivers himself; " Toutes les allegories qu'on trouve dans ce 
 poeme, sont nouvelles ; il y a la politique que habite au Vatican, 
 le temple de l'amour, la vraye religion, les vertus, la discorde, 
 les vices, tout est anime par le pinceau de M. de Voltaire." r 
 Without admitting with a smile the single quality ascribed to 
 these inventions, that of being, as they are indeed, perfectly no- 
 vel, it may b§ remarked on the whole of this defence, that such 
 merit deserves just such a panegyrist. 
 
 r Avant-propos pour la Henriade. 
 ' Reflex. Critiq. §23. « lb. § 25. 
 
233 
 
 in view the tacit, justification of some of his 
 own countrymen in their use of heathen ma- 
 chinery, he delivers himself in language 
 which may be adduced as confirming the 
 principles while it avoids the conclusions of 
 Tasso on this subject. " Que les choses que 
 vous inventez pour rendre votre sujet plus 
 capable de plaire, soient compatibles avec 
 ce que est de vrai dans ce sujet. Le poete 
 ne doit pas exiger du spectateur une foi 
 aveugle, et qui se soumette a tout. Voila 
 comme parle Horace:" — Ficta voluptatis 
 causa, &c. 
 
 In this silence of both Italian and French 
 criticks on the subject of allegorical agents 
 in poetry, I do not forget that the question 
 has been determined by a critick of our own 
 nation, and established by a mode of proof 
 which seems just as unanswerable as that 
 adduced from Tasso on the subject of pagan 
 machinery, to which we may yield our full 
 concurrence, while we differ from the authour 
 in the justice of its application. 
 
 " After the operation of immaterial 
 agents," says Dr. Johnson, " which cannot 
 
 " Reflex. Critiq. § 24. 
 
234 
 
 be explained, may be considered those of 
 allegorical persons which have no real ex- 
 istence. To exalt causes into agents, to in- 
 vest abstract ideas with form, and animate 
 them with activity, has always been the right 
 of poetry. But such airy beings are for the 
 most part suffered only to do their natural 
 office and retire. Thus Fame tells a tale, 
 and Victory hovers over a general, or perches 
 on a standard ; but Fame and Victory can 
 do no more. To give them any real employ- 
 ment, or to ascribe to them any material 
 agency, is to make them allegorical no 
 longer, but to shock the mind by ascribing 
 effects to non-entity. In the Prometheus of 
 iEschvlus, we see Violence and Strength, and 
 in the Alcestis of Euripides, we see Death, 
 brought upon the stage, all as active persons 
 of the drama ; but no precedent can justify 
 absurdity."" 
 
 u The same writer has given his opinion of the impropriety 
 of both these systems of machinery now censured. " Dr. War- 
 ton, who excelled in critical perspicuity, has remarked, that 
 the preternatural agents (in the Rape of the Lock) are very 
 happily adapted to the purposes of the poem. The heathen 
 deities can no longer gain attention : we should have turned 
 away from a contest between Venus and Diana. The em- 
 
235 
 
 Bat if Milton is thus culpable, how is M. 
 de Voltaire to be defended, whose machine^ 
 stands generally exposed to the same charge 
 of being absurd and inconsistent ? Could we 
 even overlook this great impropriety mani- 
 fested in the preternatural imagery employed 
 in the " Henriade;"" as a system of epical 
 machinery the allegories of that poem seem 
 not to possess a single perfection, or to have 
 a solitary recommendation. Its improbabi- 
 lities not only take from the importance of 
 the subject, from being at constant variance 
 with the truth of the narrative ; but in con- 
 ducting it the author appears wholly to have 
 forgotten the express object of all preterna- 
 tural intervention in the higher poetry ; since 
 that dignity which the action of the poem 
 might have acquired from being committed 
 to the guidance of higher ministering spirits 
 has been completely neglected. And from 
 this circumstance alone, independent of what 
 
 ployment of allegorical persons always excites conviction of 
 its own absurdity ; they may produce effects, but cannot con- 
 duct actions : when the phantom is put in motion it dissolves: 
 thus Discord may raise a mutiny; but Discord cannot conduct a 
 march, nor besiege a town." 
 
 Johnson's Works.- Vol. XI. p. 1/9- 
 
236 
 
 may be collected from observing the parti- 
 cular style of objection by which he censured 
 not only the supernatural agents in " Paradise 
 Lost," but those of all poetical compositions, 
 we may almost venture to affirm, (how ha- 
 zardous soever the assertion may be con- 
 sidered) that he was really ignorant of the 
 nature and object of epical machinery, no 
 inconsiderable part of the art which he pro- 
 fessed. And this by the way is a supposi- 
 tion that affords some solution of the circum- 
 stance of his having originally declared 
 himself hostile to its being employed in 
 epick poetry, a supposition which is se- 
 conded by what he has more than once con- 
 fessed, that his nation had little relish for 
 such productions. 
 
 The opinion, formerly adduced from 
 Tasso, on the impropriety of introducing 
 pagan machinery into the epopee, may ap- 
 pear to be weakened in its conclusiveness by 
 the apparent contradiction given to it by 
 his conduct in denominating one of the supe- 
 riour agents in his poem after the pagan 
 mythology. I allude to his introducing 
 Pluto as the chief enemy of the Crusaders, 
 who. causes all their difficulties, and retards 
 
237 
 
 their success. This seeming mixture of 
 Pagan and Christian imagery has been se- 
 verely censured by the French criticks, who 
 have ranked it among the chief of those re- 
 puted blemishes, by which they would ob- 
 scure the merit of this admirable poet : and 
 from them it has been echoed by some of 
 their followers on this side of the channel, 
 who have too implicitly assented to the con- 
 demnation without having examined into its 
 justice. As the poet's opinion has been em- 
 ployed in confirmation of the principles laid 
 down on the subject before us, it will be ne- 
 cessary to inquire how far it is supported by 
 his practice. And a brief insight into the 
 nature of the superstitious belief which was 
 prevalent in the ages from which he drew, 
 and to which he addressed his subject, 
 will, I think, sufficiently free him from the 
 imputation of having acted in opposition 
 to his own principles, and bring his con- 
 duct within the verge of that rule, which 
 I have ventured to propose for the gene- 
 ral introduction of supernatural imagery. / 
 Among the opinions which were most ge- 
 nerally admitted by the credulity of the mid- 
 dle ages, was the belief of the fallen angels 
 being the source of every temptation, that 
 seduced mankind from their allegiance to 
 
238 
 
 the Deity. They were supposed to be the 
 propagators of every species of infidelity, 
 whether by setting themselves up as the ob- 
 jects of worship, or through their insinua- 
 tions and rewards bringing mankind within 
 their power, and subjecting them to their 
 authority. Conformably to this opinion we 
 may observe, that in every account which 
 gives us an insight into the popular opinions 
 on this subject, all those deities who had at 
 any time been made the objects of idolatry, 
 were ranked among the number of those 
 ■infernal spirits. The idols of the Jews, and 
 all other nations, who fell from their alle- 
 giance to the Deity, were represented as no 
 other beings than those fallen angels, who 
 under various forms had deceived and se- 
 duced them from the true worship. And 
 among other false gods, the deities of Pagan 
 mythology w r ere assigned a conspicuous place. 
 Of the belief thus generally extended, Milton 
 has taken advantage in his " Paradise Lost," 
 where, having summed up the greater num- 
 ber of the Hebrew and Gentile idols among 
 the inhabitants of Pandemonium, he adds 
 
 The Ionian gods, of Javan's issue, held 
 
 Gods, yet confess'd later than heaven and earth, 
 
 Their boasted parent?. 
 
 P. L. T. v. 508, 
 
239 
 
 While it was thus generally believed' 
 that all these false deities were the evil spi- 
 rits, we cannot be surprised that there should 
 have arisen much confusion in assigning to 
 the latter the respective denominations of the 
 former. This we may observe to be parti- 
 cularly the case with respect to the various 
 titles given to the principal of these spirits, 
 to whom almost all the chief names of hea- 
 then idolatry have been severally assigned. 
 But though these various appellations were 
 all attributed to the prince of darkness and 
 his rebellious followers, they were chiefly der 
 nominated after those beings to whom Pagan 
 credulity assigned occupations similar to 
 those attributed to the infernal powers by 
 superstition. This custom, which originated 
 in religious notions inculcated by the sacred 
 writers, and became thence propagated 
 through the western and eastern world, w 
 
 v See Parad. Reg. B. ii. v. 190. and Parad. Lost. B. i. v. 3QI- 
 4/8. Nor are examples wanting of the prevalence of the same 
 opinions among the Italian poets : thus Bojardo, 
 Skcome alia fucina in Mongebello 
 Fabrica tuoni il Demonio Vulcano. 
 
 Orland. Innam. Cant. xvi. st. 21. 
 w This assertion is grounded on the express declaration of the 
 law, the prophets, and the gospel. With respect to the orien- 
 
240 
 
 seems to have obtained, down to a late 
 period, on account of the following circum- 
 stance : it was the prevailing opinion, that 
 these evil spirits continued to preserve an 
 intercourse with such mortals as were versed 
 
 (al deities being considered devils, we have the testimony of 
 Moses and the Psalmist ; " But Jeshuran forsook God, which 
 made him, and lightly esteemed the Rock of his salvation. They 
 sacrificed unto devils, not to God; to gods whom they knew not, 
 to new gods that came newly up." Deut. ch. xxxii. v. 15. 1/. — 
 " Insomuch that they worshipped their idols, which turned to 
 their own decay ; yea they offered their sons and their daughters 
 unto devils. And shed innocent blood, even the blood of their 
 sons and their daughters : whom they ofFered unto the idols of 
 Canaan," Ps. cvi. v. 36, 37- 
 
 The same is asserted by St. Paul of the Gentile divinities ; 
 " But I say, that the things which the Gentiles sacrifice, they 
 sacrifice to devils, and not to God," 1 Cor. ch. x. v. 20. Hay- 
 ing been hence adopted by the Christian fathers, as may be seen 
 in all the writers on magick, it is nothing surprising that it be- 
 came a prevailing opinion throughout Christendom. 
 
 But it seems to have been no less generally adopted through- 
 out the east, and on authority as highly esteemed by the na- 
 tives, as that to which it owes it propagation in Europe. This 
 may be at least maintained on the authority of that marvellous 
 ritual, which gave a direction to the popular opinion in matters of 
 superstition. " What," cried the mother of Aladdin, "was your 
 lamp then the occasion of that cursed genie's addressing himself 
 rather to me than to you ? — I would rather you would sell it, 
 than run the hazard of being again frightened to death by touch- 
 ing it; and if you would take my advice you would part also 
 with the ring,and not haveany thing to do with genies, who, as our 
 prophet has told us, are only devils." Arab. Night, Entcrt. 
 Vol. II. stor. of Aladd. 
 
241 
 
 in the practice of magick and sorcery/ Over 
 these arts they were particularly supposed to 
 preside : and many of the proficients in the 
 occult sciences were supposed to have bound 
 themselves by a compact to these evil powers 
 to yield themselves up to them after death, 
 on condition of beino instructed in their su- 
 pernatural knowledge, and being rendered 
 a temporary obedience. 
 
 It would be foreign from the present 
 design to examine minutely into the ori- 
 gin of the superstitions which gave rise 
 to this general belief. It is sufficient to 
 observe, that these opinions of magical 
 power were much, if not chiefly, tinc- 
 tured by the antient Pagan notions of en- 
 chantment, and by superstitions which from 
 the earliest periods were prevalent in the 
 east. The former seem to have descended 
 from the Romans progressively, and to have 
 been naturally blended with the Italian no- 
 tions on this subject. The latter appear to 
 have been imported from the east as well by 
 the settlement of the Moors in the southern 
 
 * Thus Del Rio expresses himself on this subject, quoting one 
 of the Christian fathers. " Sic interpretor D. dementis verba 
 de angelis peccatoribus ;" " Doeuerunt" ait " homines quod dae- 
 mones artibus quibusdam obedire mortalibus id est magicis invo- 
 cationibus possent." Disquis. Magic, lib. i, cap. 3. p. 4. 
 
 n 
 
242 
 
 parts of Europe, as by the various expedi- 
 tions undertaken by the Crusaders, where 
 they also became blended with the Gothick 
 superstitions which originally descended from 
 the north of Europe/ In this manner, from 
 
 f To such an alarming degree had those notions spread over 
 the southern parts of Europe, and so implicitly were they re- 
 ceived by the natives, that it became necessary to restrain their 
 growth by general councils. The following extract from a cu- 
 rious inquirer into these subjects, gives a faithful picture of the 
 state of popular opinion, at this early period in Europe ; and 
 shews that it consisted of a strange mixture of Pagan, nor- 
 thern and eastern superstitions. " Certaine generall councils, by 
 their decrees, have condemned the confessions and erroneous 
 credulity of witches to be vain, fantasticall and fabulous. 
 And even those, which are parcele of their league, whereupon 
 our witch-mongers doo so build ; to wit, their night-walkings 
 and meetings with Herodias and the Pagan gods, at which time 
 they should passe so farre in so little space on cock-horse ; their 
 transubstantiation, their eating of children, and their pulling of 
 them from their mothers' sides ; their entering into men's houses, 
 through chinks and little holes, where a flie can scarce wring 
 out, and the disquieting of the inhabitants : all which are not 
 only said by a generall council to be meere fantasticall imagina- 
 tions in dreams, but so affirmed by the antient writers. The 
 words of the council are these ; It may not be omitted, that cer- 
 taine wicked women, following Sathans provocations, being se- 
 duced by the illusions of devils, believe and profess that in the 
 night-time they ride abroad with Diana, the goddesse of the Pa- 
 gans, or else with Herodias, with an innumerable multitude, upon 
 certain beasts, and passe over manie countries and nations j in the 
 silence of the night, and do whatever these ladies or fairies com- 
 mand." Reg. Scott. Myst. of Witchcr. B. iii. ch. 16. 
 
243 
 
 considering that the Pagan and Saracenick 
 opinions of enchantment, combined with the 
 popular notions of the fallen angels presiding 
 over these arts, we acquire an easy solution 
 of the difficulty before us ; and learn the 
 cause of the names ascribed to the chief of 
 these daemons. Thus the Pagan title of 
 Hecate or Proserpine was retained to the 
 principal spirit who presided over witchcraft 
 and sorcery : and thus the prince of hell was 
 in like manner denominated after the Pagan 
 mythology. " The husband of this infer- 
 nall goddesse," says a popular writer of the 
 16th century, " was Pluto, or Dis, so called 
 of the name of Riches : as wee know that 
 amongst the Hebrews likewise, the divell for 
 the same reason is called Mammona. Hee 
 was called also aSvjg, not that he is cdfa, that 
 is to say, in darknes and invisible; but be- 
 cause he was the cause, and authour of the 
 death, destruction and desolation of mankind 
 by his temptation. And for this cause he is 
 termed «&?? of the Hebrew word Ed ; and is 
 the very Ophoneus, or Serpent, the sworne ene- 
 mie of God. The ^Egyptians did by another 
 name call this prince ofdivels Serapis, 1 &c. — 
 
 z P. Le Loier Treat, of Strang. Sights and Appar. p. 15. 
 
244 
 
 The eastern denomination of this infernal 
 chief was the same, and thus the title became 
 more generally adopted. " Supra mortales 
 omnes Magicis dediti fuere Persae — duos 
 credidere deos auctores rerum et dominos ; 
 alterum bonum Oromagam vel Oromagdam, 
 quern solem censebant, et malum alterum, 
 Arimanum sive Plutonem : deinde ab his 
 duplicem magicam deduxerunt ; unam qua 
 superstitiosd tota cultum falsorum deorum tra- 
 debat ; alteram quae naturas intimas rerum 
 callebat, quain Persis utramque Apuleius 
 adscribit." 
 
 To these causes we may consequently 
 attribute the circumstance of the European 
 writers giving the name of Pluto to the in- 
 fernal spirit in preference to any other of 
 his various appellations. And conformably 
 to these received opinions, we find that the 
 poets, who draw their subjects from those ages, 
 and who had occasion to mention the chief 
 of the evil spirits, generally adopted this 
 title ; and at the same time assigned him all 
 those attributes, which, being given to him 
 
 * Del Rio. Disquis. Magic, lib. i. cap. 3. pag. 4. Vid. supr. 
 p. 240. n. x. which contains a remark, subjoined by the authour 
 to the present quotation. 
 
245 
 
 by the Pagans, were conformable to their 
 own superstitions, and not inconsistent with 
 their religious belief. Thus Dante has given 
 him the name of Pluto. 
 
 Venimmo al punto, dove si digrada: 
 Quivi trovammo Pluto ilgrannemico. 
 
 Infern. Cant. vi. 
 
 And immediately afterwards, in the following 
 canto, he joins the names of Pluto and Satan 
 together : 
 
 Pape Satan, pape Satan alleppe, 
 Comincio Pluto, con la voce chioccia: 
 
 lb. Cant. vii. 
 
 Under the same name he is mentioned by 
 Forteguerri : 
 
 ecco d'improviso che si rompe 
 
 La terra, ed esce fuora un fumo nero 
 Misto a gran fiamma, che l'aere corrompe. 
 Indi Pluton, che men dell' uso e altero 
 Senza l'usate sue deformi pompe. 
 Quasi lieto s'accosta al Cavaliero 
 E gli dice : Signor, grazie infinite 
 Ti da dell' opra il Regnator di Dite. 
 
 Ricciardet. Cant. xi. st. 19. 
 
 Chaucer has in like manner thus designated 
 the chief daemon. He calls him 
 
 Pluto, that is the King of Faerie. 
 And many a ladie in his company 
 Folwing his wif, the Quene Proserpina. 
 
 Merch. Tale. 10101, 
 
246 
 
 Spenser also has adopted the Gothick no- 
 tions, thus mixed with the Pagan and Sara- 
 cenick ideas, when he mentions the sove- 
 reign of the infernal regions. 
 
 By that same way the direfull dames doe drive 
 Their mournful 1 eharett, fild with rusty blood, 
 And down to Plutoe's house are come alive. 
 
 F. Q. I. v. 32. 
 
 At length they came into a larger space, 
 That stretch! itself into an ample playne; 
 Through which a beaten broad high way did trace, 
 That straight did lead to Plutoe's griesly rayne. 
 
 F. Q. II. vi. 21. 
 
 And he particularly alludes to Pluto and 
 Proserpine, when he enters into the descrip- 
 tion of Archemago's magical rites : 
 
 Then choosing out few words most horrible, 
 (Let none them read) thereof did verses frame, 
 With which, and other spells like terrible, 
 He bad awake black Pluto's griesly dame. 
 
 F. Q. I. i. 37. 
 
 Milton also has assigned the infernal regions 
 an epithet from this Pagan denomination : 
 
 and from the door 
 
 Of that Plutonian hall, invisible 
 Ascended his high throne. 
 
 P. L. x. 443. 
 
 When we examine the conduct of Tasso, 
 which has incurred so much censure, we shall 
 
247 
 
 find that he has only accommodated him- 
 self to these opinions of his times, and thus 
 constructed his machinery according to the 
 principles of that branch of the epick sub- 
 ject. The character and conduct of Pluto, 
 by which title he designates the prince of 
 the fallen angels, corresponds most accurately 
 with the notions formed of the enemy of 
 man. He introduces him as 
 
 II gran nemico de l'umane genti. 
 
 Ger. Cant. iv. st. 1. 
 
 And makes him mention, in his speech to the 
 infernal powers, his rebellion against the 
 Deity, and his subsequent fall from heaven. 
 
 Tartarei numi, di seder piu degni 
 
 La sovra il sole ond' e '1 origin vostra, 
 
 Che meco gia da i piu felici regni 
 
 Spinse il gran caso in questa orribil chiostra: 
 
 Gli antichi altrui sospetti e i fieri sdegni 
 
 Noli son troppo, e l'alta impresa nostra. 
 
 Or colui regge a suo voler le stelle, 
 
 E noi siam giudicate alme rubelle. 
 
 lb. Cant. iv. st. 9- 
 
 And again, 
 
 Ah non sia ver ; che non sono anco estinti 
 Gli spirti in noi di quel valor primiero, 
 Quando di ferro, e d'alte fiamme cinti 
 Pugnammo gia contra il celeste Impero : 
 
248 
 
 Fummo (io no'l nego) in quel conflitto vinti : 
 Pur non manco virtute al gran pensie.ro : 
 Ebbero i piii felici allor vittoria, 
 Rimase a noi d'invitto ardif la gloria. 
 
 lb. Cant. iv. st. 15. 
 
 It requires no farther illustration to evince 
 the identity of the personage thus described 
 with the comnic n enemy of man. The 
 striking similarity that exists between the 
 character of Pluto, as he is depicted in this 
 canto, and that of Milton's Satan, will at 
 once shew that the infernal leader mentioned 
 by both poets was in every respect the same ; 
 though differently designated, in conformity 
 to the different belief of the human agents in 
 their respective poems. Nor can it, I think, 
 admit of any doubt, that the Italian poet 
 possessed a licence of assigning, from among 
 the number of titles given this being, what- 
 ever denomination was most suitable to his 
 purposes : and not only that he had a liberty 
 of choice, but that he adopted the best line 
 of conduct in selecting that name which was 
 his most common and most received appel- 
 lation. We might go still farther, and, fol- 
 lowing the opinion of a late eminent critick, 
 insist on the propriety of a poet's adopting 
 whatever classical imagery lies within his 
 
249 
 
 power ; which, when not inconsistent with 
 existing opinions, will ever excite and retain 
 a lasting admiration. But it is sufficient for 
 our purpose to have remarked the conformity 
 of Tasso's machinery to the popular opi- 
 nions of his characters, as well as to the re- 
 ceived belief of his readers : a practice which, 
 having been pursued by his great predeces- 
 sors, Homer and Virgil, and not being re-* 
 jected by our no less eminent countryman, 
 may be set down as the most compre- 
 hensive principle of machinery, that gives 
 verisimilitude to its intervention and pro- 
 priety to its imagery. 
 
 We should here, however, return back a 
 little, to draw a line of distinction between 
 the conduct of Tasso, now attempted to be 
 justified, and that of Trissino and Camoens, 
 which has been lately condemned. For it 
 may be objected, that if the Pagan divini- 
 ties had been assigned a place among the 
 gothick superstitions, under the idea of their 
 being fallen angels, the latter poets should 
 have been allowed the privilege of introduc- 
 ing them into their compositions. To this it 
 may be answered, that if they had merely 
 adhered to the opinions thus inculcated, they 
 certainly might have claimed such a liberty : 
 
250 
 
 and had they carried it to no greater extent 
 than Tasso has done, they would not have 
 been censured. But their conduct has widely 
 differed from his : they have adopted the 
 heathen mythology in its most perfect form, 
 with the qualities and characters which it 
 possessed in the times of pure Paganism ; 
 while Tasso introduced such of their super- 
 stitions only as were consistent with the 
 gothick fictions, and those modified by 
 subsequent doctrines, and blended with pos- 
 teriour opinions. b Of course the whole 
 weight of the censure which he has pro- 
 nounced on the injudicious conduct of these 
 poets falls upon them with its full force, 
 while he himself has kept clear of the 
 stroke. 
 
 If we were to prosecule our research 
 somewhat farther into the opinions which 
 
 b We must here add a further observation, that the Pagan 
 divinities, as introduced by Tasso, and those writers, whose au- 
 thority we have quoted in his defence, were such only as could be 
 represented to support the character and conduct the actions 
 attributed to the fallen angels. This can never be supposed 
 to be the case with respect to the Jupiter of Camoens, who 
 being delineated by the poet with all the power and beneficence 
 attached to Providence by his religious belief, can never be re- 
 duced to the rank of those subordinate and malignant spirits un- 
 der which description alone the Pagan deities were believed, or 
 can be allowed, to be classed. 
 
251 
 
 have been just unfolded, we should per- 
 haps be able to account for another part of 
 the same poet's conduct, which has met with 
 treatment equally harsh as that from which 
 he has been now defended. The prevalence 
 of the belief that the infernal spirits were 
 active in their enmity towards man, but 
 particularly towards the Christians ; and also 
 of the opinion that the chief means by which 
 they accomplished their designs was by their 
 presiding over magick, and employing en- 
 chanters to execute their hostile intentions, 
 will reconcile to propriety the great por- 
 tion of this species of imagery that runs 
 through the body of his poem. Having 
 selected as the agents of his superiour in- 
 tervention those beings whose existence was 
 alone consistent with the belief of his cha- 
 racters, and of his readers, he could as- 
 sign to them that species of imagery only, 
 which was conformable to the same belief. 
 Thus it became incumbent on him to regu- 
 late the action of his fable by means of ma- 
 gical intervention, which the superstition of 
 his age believed to be the chief, if not only 
 bond of connection between human opera- 
 tion and supernatural interference. And 
 
252 
 
 thus that great portion of imagery which has 
 been censured as foreign to his subject ap- 
 pears most essentially connected with it : 
 it is found to be, not an extraneous and 
 merely ornamental appendage to the poem, 
 but the main spring and necessary power 
 which forwards or retards its action. 
 
 In this light we may observe that the poet 
 has represented the two great supernatural 
 events which operate to the disadvantage of 
 the Christians, as being instigated by the 
 infernal chief, and conducted under his au- 
 spices. It is he who inspires the enchanter 
 Hidroates with those counsels which seduced 
 the Christian leader by the snares of Armi- 
 da. c And the magician Ismen, acting imme- 
 diately under his influence, creates the en- 
 chantment of the forest, which forms the 
 other leading point in the machinery of the 
 poem, by the assistance and ministry of the 
 infernal spirits. The less important inci- 
 dents also, that counteract the success of the 
 Christians, proceed from the same source : 
 and thus this portion of the superiour agency 
 becomes connected into one continued sys- 
 
 d Cant. iv. st. 22. 
 
253 
 
 tern of hostility, conducted by the same ini- 
 mical spirits, and directed by the same 
 infernal inspiration. 
 
 But if it be asserted , that the poet has 
 any where carried the imagery of his fictions 
 beyond the bounds of necessity ; if his de- 
 scriptions have at times luxuriated into 
 romantick exuberance beyond what the 
 mere agency of his superiour interference 
 required, the following apology may be of- 
 fered for his conduct. 
 
 We have seen, in the course of this in- 
 quiry, that the several species of composition 
 into which the divisions of poetry have 
 branched outdare each distinguished by a 
 separate and appropriate character. The 
 drama, the romance, and the epopee, seve- 
 rally address themselves to our imagination 
 through a channel peculiar to themselves. 
 But though the immediate effects that each 
 tends to awaken are respectively distinct, 
 they are not incompatible with each other ; 
 and as their general object is to excite the 
 common end of pleasure, a judicious adop- 
 tion of each, but in a subordinate rank to 
 the particular character of the composition 
 into which they are introduced, will be found 
 
254 
 
 to give variety to its imagery, and interest 
 to its action. Thus the epical character of 
 dignity is often, and with great success, ad- 
 mitted into dramatick and romantick pro- 
 ductions : pity and terrour are found to 
 increase the interest of the epick romance ; 
 and surprise and admiration to heighten the 
 effect of the drama. But in the poetical 
 epos such an union is chiefly to be sought 
 after. As the most finished work of human 
 invention, it should embrace every possible 
 mode of contributing to our gratification, 
 whether by pursuing those means of delight 
 more appropriate to itself, or by adopting 
 those which are more appendant to relative 
 species of poetry. While in its most predo- 
 minent feature it aims at captivating our 
 taste, it ought not to neglect those striking 
 effects which will at times call our more per- 
 turbed emotions into action, or omit those 
 engaging touches that occasionally awaken 
 our sympathies. With this restriction how- 
 ever, that all such adscititions attributes be 
 kept subordinate to its proper character : 
 that its dignified nature be never interrupted, 
 but merely diversified by their introduction ; 
 and that it preserve unimpaired its appro- 
 
255 
 
 priate elevation, though at times softened 
 by the pathetick, or inspirited by the sur- 
 prising. 
 
 The practice of the best epick writers, 
 which gives the highest authority to all cri- 
 tical principles, affords an uniform support 
 to this opinion. As instances of a mixture 
 of pathos with epical composition, many 
 descriptions might be deduced from Homer 
 and Virgil, beside those narratives, so often 
 alluded to, of the lamentations for Patroclus 
 and Hector, or the misfortunes of Dido and 
 Evander. In referring to the authority of 
 the former poet, for an introduction of ro- 
 mantick imagery, which is now more imme- 
 diately the object of research, we may ad- 
 duce the magick bowl of Circe, the allure- 
 ments of the Syrens, and the dangers of 
 Scylla and Chary bdis. And Virgil, in his 
 accounts of the bleeding myrtle, of the Har- 
 pies, and of the metamorphosis of the Tro- 
 jan ships into sea-nymphs, has paralleled the 
 most romantick fictions of the Italian poet. 
 
 And here, by the way, we may offer a 
 defence of the allegory of Sin and Death in 
 " Paradise Lost," the introduction of which, 
 I am venturous enough to hazard my opi- 
 nion, is fully justified on the principles now 
 
256 
 
 displayed. This episode, Avhich is purely of 
 the romantick kind, both by its nature as an 
 allegory, and by the process of its conduct, 
 seems to me perfectly reconcileable to the 
 principles of epick poetry, as embracing at 
 times a mixture of that imagery which ex- 
 cites surprise and admiration. In thus ex- 
 pressing my sentiments in favour of its au- 
 thour, I do not forget the high judgment from 
 which has proceeded so opposite a decision/ 
 Yet, though I feel cautious in differing from 
 such high authority, I must confess I think 
 my dissent sufficiently supported by the 
 practice of those eminent masters of the art 
 who have been shewn to have adopted a 
 conduct similar to that of Milton. And fur- 
 ther I must express my opinion, that the 
 critick's censure, though perfectly just in its 
 fundamental principles^ appears to fail in its 
 application to this episode. We must con- 
 sider Satan's adventure with Sin and Death 
 as but an appendage to the action of the 
 poem, and no part of the means by which 
 its progress is advanced. Of course the poet 
 cannot be said to have " ascribed effects to 
 nonentity," such effects at least as the critick's 
 
 ■ See page 234. 
 
257 
 
 reasoning is intended to proscribe, when 
 these unsubstantial beings produce none 
 which are of consequence to his fable. They 
 are merely the agents of an episode, and of 
 an episode which is peculiarly calculated to 
 produce the effects appropriate to marvellous 
 poetry. As such the whole allegory appears 
 to me not only consistent with the princi- 
 ples of the epopee, but to form one of the 
 brightest ornaments of that truly splendid 
 poem. 
 
 From the establishment of the points ex- 
 amined above on the insufficiency of Pagan 
 divinities, and allegorical machinery to form 
 the higher agency of poetry, it follows that 
 the epick muse receives a further limitation 
 in Poetical Licence. On comparing what 
 was formerly advanced on the necessity of 
 employing machinery in such compositions, 
 with what is now declared on the unsuitable- 
 ness of heathen mythology, and allegorical 
 personages for such a purpose, it appears, 
 that there can be no subject suited to epick 
 poetry within the whole compass of profane 
 history. And t^is is a matter of no small 
 regret, since it abounds to an unexampled 
 degree in those great characters and splendid 
 exploits which are so much adapted to the 
 
 s 
 
258 
 
 heroick poem ; and since it is so fortunately 
 situated with respect to time, being placed in 
 a situation that possesses the finest effects of 
 light and shade, neither lost in the obscurity 
 of a remote aera, nor protruded into the lu- 
 minousness of recent period. But with all 
 these advantages it becomes as unsuitable a 
 model for the artist's imitation as the face 
 which is deprived of a feature, or the form 
 which is mutilated of a limb. Nor can we, 
 as in the comparison, by any means infer that 
 the defects of accident or nature may be 
 supplied by the poet, as well as by the pain- 
 ter. To remedy this defect, and give to a 
 mythological subject machinery suitable to 
 our religious or superstitious notions, must 
 be improper: since between the agents of 
 the poem, and so great a portion of the im- 
 agery, there could be found no point of 
 contact to combine their action, so that the 
 movements of the one should be regulated 
 by the impulse of the other. This seems to 
 have been observed by the ingenious au- 
 thour of " Leonidas," who, finding that the 
 machinery naturally attached to his subject 
 was unsuitable to the nature of his work, 
 judiciously resolved on its total suppres- 
 sion. 
 
259 
 
 II. The second point concerning epical 
 machinery which has been proposed for dis- 
 cussion, affords the following question to be 
 solved ; at what periods of the epical action 
 is the poet justified in calling in the aid of 
 celestial interference ? This point may be at 
 once determined on considering the nature 
 and object of poetical machinery as it was 
 formerly explained. For as its express ob- 
 ject is to impart the greatest possible dignity 
 to the action which is narrated; in order to 
 diffuse this quality through the extent of the 
 subject, every incident which gives a new 
 turn to the action, which tends either to has- 
 ten or retard its advancement, should be un- 
 dertaken at the instigation of some superiour 
 intelligence, if not conducted by its interpo- 
 sition and assistance. 
 
 The justness of this principle is com- 
 pletely established by the uniform practice of 
 Homer; and this uniformity of practice fully 
 justifies the supposition of this inimitable 
 artist's having regarded the machinery of the 
 epopee in the light in which it is now placed. 
 And Plutarch has consequently remarked of 
 him that he perfects nothing without the effl- 
 cience of his divinities. The great bond of 
 connection which gives an unity and con- 
 
260 
 
 sistency of action to the machinery in the 
 Iliad is the Will of Jupiter. Every material 
 event which is effected by supernatural 
 agency is either accomplished by his imme- 
 diate direction, or completed by his permis- 
 sion. Influenced by the desire of honouring 
 the hero of the poem, all his exertions tend 
 to this object ; when he interests himself in 
 favour of either of the contending parties, it 
 is with the view to revenge his quarrel with 
 the Greeks, or to satiate his rage against the 
 Troians. 
 
 In this light we behold him, in the open- 
 ing of the poem, assenting to the supplica- 
 tion of Thetis on behalf of her son ; ratify- 
 ing his promise with an oath ; and imme- 
 diately engaging actively in his favour. In 
 order lo bring the adverse parties into action, 
 that the Greeks might suffer by the absence 
 of their principal champion, he dispatches 
 a dream to Agamemnon, which, inspiring 
 the Grecian chief with false hopes of success, 
 invites him to arm his troops, and to lead 
 them to battle. For the same purpose he 
 dismisses Iris to the council of the Trojans, 
 who advises the chiefs of this party to assem- 
 ble and number their forces. With the same 
 object still in view, he sends Minerva to per- 
 
261 
 
 suade the Trojans lo break the truce which 
 had been agreed upon by the contending 
 armies. By his command the goddess de^ 
 scends to earth, and appearing to Pandarus, 
 in the shape of one of Antenor's sons, pre- 
 vails on him to discharge an arrow at Me- 
 nelaus, by which the truce is broken and 
 hostilities again commenced. He now be- 
 gins to exert himself more actively in the 
 cause of Achilles ; prohibits the other gods 
 from assisting either of the hostile armies; 
 and, descending from heaven, gives signals 
 of victory to the Trojans. The chiefs of this 
 party he immediately assists, and excites 
 them against their adversaries : he animates 
 them by his advice, strengthens them by his in- 
 spiration, and encourages them by propitious 
 omens. On the other hand he intimidates 
 the leaders of the Grecian host, and raising 
 a wind embarrasses them by involving them 
 in clouds of dust; he depresses their cou- 
 rage and throws them into confusion. And 
 having thus conducted the Trojans to nearly 
 complete success, he retires from the field of 
 battle. 
 
 At this time, it may be observed, Nep- 
 tune, taking advantage of his absence, as- 
 sists and encourages the Greeks. ^Profiting 
 
262 
 
 still more by the deception practised on Ju- 
 piter by Juno, he addresses the Greeks, leads 
 them on to battle in person, and turns the 
 scale of victory in their favour. Jupiter, 
 however, aAvakening in the mean while, per- 
 ceives the deceit, and commands Neptune 
 to retire from the scene of action. Again, 
 exerting himself on the side of the Trojans, 
 he reduces the affairs of the Greeks to the 
 last extremity, until the anger of Achilles is 
 completely satiated ; the whole, nearly, of 
 their leaders are wounded, their forces dis- 
 mayed, and the enemy, already within their 
 entrenchments, carrying destruction to their 
 navy. 
 
 So far the will of Jupiter, in pursuance 
 of the promise made to Thetis, directs every 
 important action which tends to embarrass 
 the Greeks, or insures victory to the Tro- 
 jans. But the anger of Achilles having, by 
 the death of Patroclus, directed itself to- 
 wards a different object, Jupiter, still willing 
 to honour the hero, seems likewise to change 
 his sentiments, and employs his favouring 
 influence in coincidence with the wishes of 
 Achilles. He now permits the deities, who 
 espouse the interest of the Greeks, to de- 
 scend to their succour: and by their mini- 
 
263 
 
 stration every material incident is conducted, 
 which takes place, in the course of the ac- 
 tion. By the command of Juno, Iris advises 
 Achilles to show himself unarmed to the 
 Trojans, that the Greeks might obtain some 
 respite and refreshment. Minerva covers 
 him with her aegis, increases the terrour of 
 his voice, and heightens the splendour of his 
 appearance. To prevent the Trojans from 
 recovering from their panick, until Vulcan 
 had completed the armour of Achilles, which 
 he had undertaken to forge at the instigation 
 of Thetis, Juno hastens the setting of the 
 sun. And when they are thrown into confu- 
 sion by Achilles, she impedes their flight by 
 involving them in darkness. She dispatches 
 Vulcan to dry up the waters of the river 
 Xanthus, by which the hero was nearly over- 
 powered in his pursuit of the Trojans. In 
 his combat with Hector he is equally as- 
 sisted by Minerva. She advises him to take 
 a temporary rest, while she persuades Hector 
 to engage him: she succeeds in deceiving 
 this hero, by assuming the shape of Deipho- 
 bus, and giving him false hopes of assistance, 
 leads him to destruction. The last great 
 incident which engages the attention of the 
 gods is the redemption of the body of Hec- 
 
264 
 
 tor : seeing his remains exposed to the unap- 
 peased rage of his enemy, they commiserate 
 his situation, and project his deliverance. 
 Jupiter dismisses Thetis to Achilles, to pre- 
 vail upon him to resign the body ; he at the 
 same time directs Iris to appear to Priam, 
 and to instruct him how to recover the body 
 of his son. Mercury, by his command, con- 
 ducts Priam unobserved through the Grecian 
 camp, escorts him to the tent of Achilles, 
 and leads him into the presence of the hero. 
 Achilles' anger being now extinguished, 
 through the interposition of Jupiter, Priam 
 obtains his suit, and is conducted home, with 
 Hector's body, without interruption or mo- 
 lestation. 
 
 After this manner, the whole action of the 
 poem is conducted by preternatural agency; 
 but it is not the leading incidents, merely, 
 which engage the celestial care ; we find the 
 aid of the gods employed in those of a subor- 
 dinate description. Whenever the poet is 
 enabled to impart dignity to any occurrence, 
 or elevation to any character, he uniformly 
 calls in the aid of celestial intervention. He 
 introduces Apollo to raise a plague among 
 the Greeks; represents Iris as conducting 
 Helen to view the contending armies ; de- 
 
265 
 
 scribes Thetis as preserving the body of Pe- 
 troclus from corruption ; and Boreas and Ze- 
 phyrus as exciting a wind to consume his 
 funeral pile. To exalt the leading charac- 
 ters of his work, the tutelary deities of each 
 are always at hand. Minerva never deserts 
 Ulysses or Diomede : she encourages and 
 advises them ; endows them with strength 
 and fortitude. Whether in the battle or the 
 council, she guides their motions and directs 
 their judgments ; and even when contending 
 in the games she insures them success in the 
 less elevated objects of their ambition. Venus 
 is equally active in assisting Paris, and 
 Apollo in encouraging Hector ; Jupiter 
 himself takes an active part in the minor 
 incidents, and pours down drops of blood 
 in honour of his son Sarpedon. 
 
 Thus, it appears, the movements of the 
 whole system of Homer's machines are in- 
 formed and conducted by celestial interven- 
 tion ; and thus his work acquired a general 
 elevation from having all its incidents, whether 
 of greater or lesser importance, committed to 
 the guidance of superiour intelligences. But 
 the sublime nature of the imagery, by which 
 he has contrived to bring those beings into 
 action, imparts to his descriptions a degree 
 
266 
 
 of magnificence to which his own language 
 only is competent to do any justice. Of 
 this, we cannot offer a more appropriate 
 example than that in which Jupiter ratifies 
 his promise to Thetis. 
 
 x "H, x«» xuavfo-ijiv m o(Ppu<ri vevos Kpoviuv' 
 A|i*£po<nai S 1 xfx %out<x.i nrtppuxroivTo avotxloty 
 Kparoj u.Tc o&avxToio, piycov FeXehifciv 0\v[/.ttov. 
 
 II. I. v. 528-530. 
 
 The idea which he gives of his power is 
 replete with the most sublime images, and 
 expressed in the most energetick language. 
 
 y KexXute //.fu 7ravT£{ rs $toi 7ra<ra» te S^ajj/ai, 
 0<Pp' tiiru to, (At Su/ao? cvi jJiS'Etrtrj xeAeuej. 
 Mrtrc tkt Sv SriXziot, 9"£0j royc, pyre tjj ap<r»|i> 
 TltipxTW (Jjax£p<ra» tpov tiros' <x>oC »y.<x, irxvTts 
 Aiveit , o<Ppa tu^httx t Ajutjiitw rxie spyoc. 
 'Ov £ av tyuv onrot.vtvSe B'iuu cSchovrct votktu 
 ExS'ovt', n Tpw£<r<T(v ocpriytfAtv » Actva,oio~i, 
 TlXyycig om xxra. koit^ov eXtvcrtTut OuXvpirovfo. 
 
 x He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows j 
 Shakes his ambrosial curls and gives the nod ; 
 The stamp of fate, and sanction of the God: 
 High heav'n with trembling the dread signal took, 
 And all Olympus to the centre shook. Pope. II. i. 682 6. 
 
 T Celestial states, immortal Gods ! give ear, 
 Hear our decree, and rev'rencc what ye hear j 
 
267 
 
 H /uii/ t\uv p'j\J/w £j Txprxpov yepoivrxf 
 TJjAe ixu\\ yw (ZmShttov vtto 'Xpovos wt* (3fpe3 , po», 
 EvSx <ri$ripiicci te irvXoa x«» j^aAxEO? 011J05, 
 Tc<nrov £VEp9* «m<Tew, octov oupavoj eot' «7ro yxmtC 
 
 TvCtHTBT EWElS' OITOV ElfAt &£U)U XXfTlGTOS XTTXVTUV. 
 
 EjJ 1 ' ays, "BaprurxSt Scot, Ivx ejJWe Tram?, 
 
 Z£ip)|V ^pU(T£J»JV e£ OVpaVoS'EV Xp£jl*iW«UTE;* 
 
 II«VT£f (J' E^a7r7efS'E .Shot Trx<rx\ te Sixivxt. 
 AAA' oux av Epu<r««T e£ oupasvo^EV iriSiovSs 
 Z»iv' utt«tov prirup, ovf ei pxXx iroKhx xajtAom" 
 AAA' (.te J»i x«t syw "Grpo^pwi* e3"eAoij(*« epvcrirxi, 
 Autw xiv yxim tpvarxip xvtv te $x\xo<rri' 
 
 The fix'd decree, which not all heav'n can move: 
 
 Thon, Fate, fulfil it, and ye Pow'rs, approve ! 
 
 What God but enters yon forbidden field, 
 
 Who yields assistance, or but wills to yield, 
 
 Back to the skies with shame he shall be driv'n, 
 
 Gash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heav'n : 
 
 Or far, oh far, from steep Olympus thrown, 
 
 Low in the dark Tartarian gulf shall groan, 
 
 With burning chains fix'd to the brazen floors, 
 
 And lock'd by hell's inexorable doors j 
 
 And deep beneath th' infernal centre hurl'd, 
 
 As from that centre to th' sethereal world. 
 
 Let him who tempts me dread those dire abodes, 
 
 And know th' Almighty is the God of gods. 
 
 League all your forces then, ye Pow'rs above, 
 
 Join all, and try the omnipotence of Jove ; 
 
 Let down our golden everlasting chain, 
 
 Whose strong embrace holds heav'n, and earth, and main 
 
 Strive all, of mortal and immortal birth, 
 
 To drag by this the thund'rer down to earth. 
 
 Ye strive in vain 1 If I but stretch this hand, 
 
 I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land ; 
 
268 
 
 2e»£»v fjbtv xiv tvstnx mpi putv OuAu^tojo 
 
 ArKTCCl/Anv' TIZ h K KUTt [ASTYltfOC. TTXVTX yzvono. 
 Tc(T<rOV £j/&) 7T£p( T £JjWI StOOV, TTCfl T ZlfA UvSpUTTW. 
 
 II. viii. 5-27. 
 
 His description of Neptune's approach to 
 the scene of action, so celebrated by Longi- 
 nus, might be set in competition with this 
 passage, as equally poetical in its conceptions 
 and numbers, were it not too long for insertion. 
 I trust however I shall be pardoned, for in- 
 dulging myself in the pleasure of transcrib- 
 ing that sublime description, the battle of 
 the gods ; which is only parallelled by the 
 battle of the Titans in Hesiod, and that of' 
 the angels in Milton ; 
 
 * AllT«p £7T£J jtAsS' OfAlXov OAU/ATTIOI JlXwS'OV CLvSptoVy 
 
 ilpro £ fpig xpxripy, Xot,Q<r<rw$' a.vi $ A9wn, 
 
 TtCC(T 0T£ [AtV ZTXpX TXtPftOV OfVXTTIV TElJ££0J SXTOf, 
 
 AAAot' £7r eatrocuv epdivirw jAooxpw aursi " 
 
 At£ J* Apnj ETEpCdS'EK, fpfjtAV*) A«tAjU,7TJ UTSf, 
 
 0£u xxt ax.pora.Tni TroXeug TpwEo-<rt xsXivcov, 
 
 I fix the chain to great Olympus' height, 
 
 And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight ! 
 
 For such I reign, unbounded and above ; 
 
 And such are men and gods compar'd to Jove. 
 
 II. viii. 7-34. 
 
 But when the pow'rs descending swell'd the fight, 
 Then tumult rose j fierce rage and pale affright 
 
269 
 
 AAA<1T£ Trap Xl/AOf»T» 3"£«V £7T» KaAAlXOAwVU. 
 
 X2? tou; «/*(pOTepajf /xaxaps? $eoi orpuvsj/TEf, 
 ZujwSaAov, £v <T auToI? EpiJa p'ri^vuvro (3ap£r«i/. 
 
 &t\VW <T ESpWTIKTE 7TaT»)p anTpWD T£ S-£WV T£ 
 
 T^oS-fD* auTAp mftt Hoosdotuv ETjva^E 
 ra~«v a7r£(p£«»v, opzuv t* cwrravoc xxpwx. 
 ILxvte? J 1 sa-crsicvro 7r«S£? 7re\u7r»Jaxcu iJ/jf, 
 Kat xopu<p«i, Tpwftiv T£ 7roA«f, xa< ujjf; A^atwy. 
 EJi?£»(r£v ^' U7r£i/£p3'£v ai/a£ avspwv AVJWu?, 
 AfKra? ^' ex Spoveu aATO, xa< <&?££' /aji oi UTrspS'E 
 ratai/ avapp«^£*£ n«r£i<Jawu £vo<n;£.9"wi/, 
 Oixta Je S>»jTcr<r» xa» aS"avaToi<r» (fav£j>! 
 2^£p<JaA£, £upw£vra, ra T£ (rruJ'Ecucn S"£o* 7T£p* 
 TW<ro; apa xtu7to? wpro Sewk £pj<5* £uwcvtw». 
 Hto» jw£u J/ap svscvTtx, IIo(r£»J«wvo? a&ax-rc; 
 IrraT' AttoAAoji/ $o7£o<:, £^wv ta Trlcpoivrx.' 
 Avra S" EvvuXtoio Sia, ^Aauxw7r<f A^va* 
 Hpn (T atn-£o-r>i %pu<r»)AaxaTo? xfAa^tvj), 
 
 Varied each face; then Discord sounds alarms. 
 Earth echoes, and the nations rush to arms. 
 Now thro' the trembling shores Minerva calls, 
 And now she thunders from the Grecian walls ; 
 Mars, hov'ring o'er his Troy, his terrours shrouds 
 In gloomy tempests and a night of clouds : 
 Now thro' each Trojan heart he fury pours 
 With voice divine from Ilion's topmost tow'rs ; 
 Now shouts to Simoi's from her beauteous hill ; 
 The mountains shook, the rapid streams stood still. 
 Above, the sire of gods his thunder rolls, 
 And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles j 
 Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground ; 
 The forests wave, the mountains nod around ; 
 
270 
 
 Aprtyxi; iQ%iUifXy xourtyvnTVi Ex«toio' 
 Avto7 F uimtrro; <r«xos, Epjouwo? Ep^ujf* 
 AvraS «p' H^aiiTTOio jtAt^af irvrct(ji.ot (ZccSvfums, 
 Ov Hav5oi/ xaAcouin .Jhw, avJptf St Sxa/aai/JpGw. 
 
 II. xx. v. 47-74. 
 
 Thro* all their summits tremble Ida's woods, 
 
 And from their sources boil her hundred floods. 
 
 Troy's turrets totter on the rocking plain, 
 
 And the toss'd navies beat the heaving main. 
 
 Deep in the dismal region of the dead 
 
 Th' infernal monarch rear'd his hoary head, 
 
 Leap'd from his throne, lest Neptune's arm should lay 
 
 His dark dominions open to the day, 
 
 And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes, 
 
 Abhorr'd by men, and dreadful ev'n to gods. 
 
 Such war th' immortals wage, such horrours rend 
 The world's vast concave when the gods contend. 
 First silver-shafted Phoebus took the plain 
 Against blue Neptune, monarch of the main j 
 The god of arms his giant bulk display 'd, 
 Oppos'd to Pallas, War's triumphant maid. 
 Against Latona march'd the son of May ; 
 The quiver'd Dian, sister of the day 
 (Her golden arrows sounding at her side,) 
 Satumia, majesty of heav'n, defied. 
 With fiery Vulcan last in battle stands 
 The sacred flood that rolls on golden sands j 
 Xanthus his name with those of heav'nly birth, 
 But call'd Scamander by the sons of earth. 
 
 II. xx. v. 63-103. 
 
 
271 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 OP THE HXSTORICK EPOS. 
 
 From what has been already declared on 
 the nature of the historical epopee, it must 
 be pretty evident that no licence can justify 
 the introduction of preternatural agents into 
 its composition. The same reasoning, which 
 applies to exclude fiction from its incidents, 
 extends equally to proscribe that embellish- 
 ment which is attained by machinery. With 
 a justice of exemplification more striking 
 than any application of rule, Voltaire has 
 remarked, " Virgile et Homere avoient fort 
 bien fait d'amener les Divinities sur la scene. 
 Lucain a fait tout aussi bien de s'en pas- 
 ser. — Les guerres civiles de Rome etoient 
 trop serieuses pour ces joux d'imagination. 
 Quel rdle Cesar jouerait il dans la plaine de 
 Pharsale, si Iris venait lui apporter son ep6e, 
 ou si Venus descendait dans un nuage d'or a 
 son secours." And this remark may be ex- 
 tended from these particular instances, to every 
 fact in which there is room for preternatural 
 agency. The expedient, it must be confessed, 
 
272 
 
 would defeat its own purpose, which, in 
 seeking to confer greater importance on real 
 events, would make their truth questionable 
 by coupling them with fictitious circum- 
 stances. 
 
 But the project of giving machinery to 
 the historical epos is exposed to still stronger 
 objections by being brought to the test of 
 that rule which was formerly laid down for 
 determining the nature, and fixing the bounds 
 of poetical fiction. For, supposing this pro- 
 ject realized, it must be evident that the 
 marvellous imagery, thus appended to the 
 poem, must be so wholly void of verisimili- 
 tude, as to procure from the reader no ex- 
 tenuation of its improbabilities. Since from 
 his knowledge both of the subject and cha- 
 racters in the work, if he did not possess a 
 perfect conviction, that the whole of these 
 imaginary fictions " would have been ques- 
 tioned as real, by the characters in the 
 poem," he must himself feel a disposition 
 " to negative them as false/' not less on ac- 
 count of his acquired knowledge, than his 
 religious belief. 
 
 Being thus restricted in his imitations to 
 a close delineation of nature, the historick 
 poet seems to be bound, in conformity to 
 
 
273 
 
 the end of his art, to supply by suitable ex- 
 pedients that ornament which the more ex- 
 alted poetry possesses in right of Poetick 
 Licence. This, as was before observed, was 
 deemed a requisite by Lucan, in his " Phar- 
 salia," where the epical quality of dignity 
 has been carried lo a height, not often ex- 
 celled in Homer and Virgil. 
 
 Though the historical poet is denied the 
 liberty of employing celestial agents, he is 
 not interdicted from representing the general 
 incidents of his poem, as engaging the divine 
 care, and being forwarded by its secret inter- 
 position : by this means, as I have already 
 remarked, he may add much to the dignity 
 and importance of his compositions. He is 
 besides afforded in this manner an opportu- 
 nity of introducing those details of religious 
 ceremonies, and descriptions of that grand 
 and awful scenery which is adapted to the 
 celebration of such rites ; which, infusing a 
 degree of solemnity into his narration, must 
 proportionally conduce to heighten its dig- 
 nity. 
 
 But more than this, if there is any thing 
 grand and awful, or even mysterious and 
 dreadful, in the popular superstitions of the 
 period from which his subject is taken, the 
 
274 
 
 poet should omit no opportunity of seizing 
 and appropriating these, in order to add to its 
 sublimity and improve its beauty. The ex- 
 tensive resources which thus offered them- 
 selves to heighten the dignity of the historick 
 epopee, did not escape the observation of 
 Lucan, who has derived through this channel 
 some striking imagery which diversifies the 
 general character of his narrative, and imparls 
 to it the highest splendour. 
 
 Among the superstitions, admitted by Pa- 
 gan credulity with implicit belief, may be 
 mentioned those miraculous appearances and 
 prodigies, which were conceived to precede 
 any event of more than ordinary importance, 
 and to forebode the approach of every dis- 
 astrous occurrence. From this belief Lucan 
 has transferred to his "Pharsalia" some of the 
 most sublime descriptions ; as may be in- 
 stanced from his relation of the prodigies 
 which preceded the civil war, and of those 
 that occurred previously to the battle of Phar- 
 salia. With equal judgment has he availed 
 himself of the popular belief of persons revi- 
 siting the earth after their decease, intro- 
 ducing, from this source of the marvellous, 
 the spirit of Julia appearing to Pompey, with 
 the most awful effect. The mysteries of priest- 
 
275 
 
 hood, and the ceremonies of divination, sup- 
 plied him with materials equally suited to the 
 purposes of poetic description : from these he 
 has derived those truly grand descriptions of 
 the sacred grove at Marseilles, and of the 
 prophetic rites at Delphos, which add so 
 much dignity to his poem. But from the 
 belief of witchcraft and sorcery, prevalent in 
 his age, and particularly attributed to the in- 
 habitants of Thessaly, he was furnished with 
 some of the most splendid imagery that ever 
 adorned an epick subject. 
 
 The following passages, selected from his 
 description of the Thessalian enchantresses, 
 convey the most impressive idea of their 
 power. 
 
 Cessavere vices rerum: delataque longa 
 Ha?sit nocte dies: legi non paruit aether. 
 Torpuit el praeceps audito carmine mundus; 
 Axibus et rapidis impulsos Jupiter urgens 
 Miratur non ire polos. Nunc omnia complent, 
 Imbribus, et calido producunt nubila Phcebo; 
 Et tonat ignaro caelum Jove. Vocibus iisdem 
 Humentes late nebulas, nimbosque solutis 
 Excessere comis. Vends cessantibus, aequor 
 Intumuit: rursus yetitum sentire procellas 
 Conticuit turbante Noto: puppimque ferentes 
 In ventum tumuere sinus. De rupe pependit 
 Abscissa fixus torrens: amnisque cucurrit 
 Non qua pronus erat. Nilum non extulit jestas: 
 
276 
 
 Maeander direct aquas: Rhodanumque morantern 
 Praeeipitavit Arar: submisso vertice montes 
 Explicuere jugutn. Nubes suspexit Olympus: 
 Solibus et nullis Scythicae, cum bruma rigeret, 
 Dimaduere nives: impulsam sidere Tethyn 
 Reppnlit Haemonidum, defenso littore, carmen. 
 Terra quoque immoti concussit ponderis axem, 
 Et medium vergens nisu titubavit in orbem. 
 Tantae molis onus percussum voce recessit, 
 Prospectumque dedit circumlabentis Olympi." 
 
 Phars : Lib: vi. 
 
 a Whene'er the proud inchantress gives command, 
 
 Eternal motion stops her active hand; 
 
 No more heav'n's rapid circles journey on, 
 
 But universal nature stands foredone: 
 
 The lazy god of day forgets to rise, 
 
 And everlasting night pollutes the skies. 
 
 Jove wonders to behold her shake the pole, 
 
 And, unconsenting, hears his thunders roll. 
 
 Now, with a word, she hides the sun's bright face, 
 
 Now blots the wide aethereal azure space: 
 
 Lonely anon she shakes her flowing hair, 
 
 And straight the stormy low'ring heav'ns are fair ; 
 
 At once she calls the golden light again, 
 
 The clouds fly swift away, and stops the drizzly rain. 
 In stillest calms she bids the waves run high, 
 And smooths the deep, tho' Boreas shakes the sky. 
 "When winds are hush'd her potent breath prevails, 
 Wafts on the bark, and fills the flagging sails. 
 Streams have run back at murmurs of her tongue, 
 And torrents from the rock suspended hung. 
 No more the Nile his wonted seasons knows, 
 And in a line the straight Maeander flows. 
 Arar has rush'd with headlong waters down, 
 And driv'n unwillingly the sluggish Rhone. 
 
 
277 
 
 Their power over animated nature is no 
 less extensive. 
 
 Omne potens animal leti, genitumque noeere, 
 Et pavet Hsemonias, et mortibus instruit arteis. 
 Hos avidse tigres, et nobilis ira leonum 
 Ore fovent blando : gelidos his explicet orbes, 
 Inque pruinoso coluber distenditur arvo. 
 Viperei coeunt, abrupto corpore, nodi ; 
 Hnmanoque cadit serpens afflata veneno. b 
 
 Phars. Lib. vi. 
 
 Huge mountains have been levell'd with the plain, 
 And far from heav'n has tall Olympus lain. 
 Riphaean crystal has been known to melt, 
 And Scythian snows a sudden summer felt. 
 No longer prest by Cynthia's moister beam, 
 Alternate Tethys heaves her swelling stream ; 
 By charms forbid, her tides revolve no more, 
 But shun the margin of the guarded shore. 
 The pond'rous earth, by magic numbers strook, 
 Down to her inmost centre deep has shook ; 
 Then rending with a yawn, at. once made way, 
 To join the upper and the nether day j 
 While wond'ring eyes, the dreadful cleft between, 
 Another starry firmament have seen. 
 
 Rowe's Phaks. vi. v. 73'9. 
 
 t> Each deadly kind by nature form'd to kill, 
 Fear the dire hags and execute their will. 
 Lions to them their nobler rage submit, 
 And fawning tigers couch beneath their feet ; 
 For them the snake foregoes her wint'ry hold, 
 And on the hoary frost entwines her fold : 
 The pois'nous race they strike with stronger death, 
 And blasted vipers die, by human breath. 
 
 lb. v. 777- 
 
278 
 
 .But in the conduct of one part of his 
 work, Lucan is truly admirable : it is such as 
 would have done honour to Homer or Virgil 
 in the happiness and originality of the concep- 
 tion* and the skilfulness and judgment of the 
 execution. This great poet foreseeing that the 
 truth of his subject would be sacrificed, if he 
 introduced preternatural agents into the ac- 
 tion of his poem; and that, its truth being sa- 
 crificed, its importance must be affected in a 
 proportionable degree, not only determined 
 on the entire suppression of the established 
 machinery of epick poetry, but has contrived 
 to profit, by the very circumstances of its re- 
 jection. For, taking a just estimate of the 
 religious and philosophical opinions of his 
 countrymen, and observing that they were 
 generally at variance, and that the ad- 
 vantage of respectability was decidedly on 
 the side of the latter, he has contrived to 
 exalt the stoical character above the divine 
 nature, as it was represented by his religion, 
 and could have been introduced into his 
 poem; thus raising it above a standard which 
 possessed an intrinsick elevation, he rendered 
 it an object of reverence. Of this godlike 
 perfection has he drawn his Calo, of whom 
 it may be truly said, that he is the superiour 
 
279 
 intelligence that informs the action, and up- 
 holds thedignity of the poem. And, regarding 
 his character in this light, it is unjust to 
 degrade it by a comparison with the Jupiter 
 of the Iliad, or any other divinity which 
 conducts or elevates the heathen machinery. 
 
 With this view we may perceive, that the 
 poet first introduces this character in that 
 memorable comparison which he institutes 
 between him and the deities: 
 
 Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Catoni. e 
 
 Phars. Lib. i. v. 128. 
 
 And in the following speech of Cato to 
 Labienus, he has exhibited him with all the 
 majesty of a superiour being. 
 
 Ule Deo plenus, tacita. quem mente gerebat, 
 
 Effudit dignas adytis e pectore voces. 
 
 " Quid quaeri, Labiene, jubes? An liber in armis 
 
 Occubuisse velim potius, quara regna videre? 
 
 An sit vita nihil, sed longam differat aetas? 
 
 An noceat vis ulla bono r Fortunaque perdat 
 
 Opposita virtute minas laudandaque velle 
 
 Sit satis, et nunquam successu crescet honestum ? 
 
 Scimus, et hoc nobis non altius inseret Amnion. 
 
 Hasremus cuncti superis, temploque tacente 
 
 • Victorious Caesar by the. gods was crown'd, 
 The vanquish'd party was by Cato own'd. 
 
 Rowe's Phari, i. v. 241. 
 
280 
 
 Nil facimus non sponte Dei: nee vocibus ullis 
 
 Numen eget: dixitque semel nascentibus auctov 
 
 Quidquid scire licet: stereleis nee legit arenas, 
 
 Ut caneret paucis, mersitque hoc pulvere vocera. 
 
 Estne Dei sedes nisi terra, et pontus, et aer, 
 
 J2t ccelum, et virtus? Superos quid qua?riinus ultra? 
 
 Jupiter est quodcunqne vides, quocunque moveris. 
 
 Sortilegis egeant dubii, semperque futuris 
 
 Casibus ancipites : me non oracula certum, 
 
 Sed mors certe facit: pavido fortique cadendum est.. 
 
 Hoc satis est dixisse Jovem." d 
 
 Phars. Lib. ix. 
 
 d Full of the God that dwelt within his breast, 
 The hero thus his secret mind express'd, 
 And inborn truths reveal'd; truths which might well 
 Become ev'n oracles themselves to tell. 
 Where would thy fond, thy vain inquiry go ? 
 What mystic fate, what secret would'st thou know ? 
 Is it a doubt if death should be my doom, 
 Rather than live till kings and bondage come. 
 Rather than see a tyrant crown'd in Rome ? 
 Or would'st thou know of what we value here, 
 Life be a trifle hardly worth our care? 
 What by old age and length of days we gain, 
 More than to lengthen out the sense of pain ? 
 Or if this world, with all its forces join'd 
 The universal malice of mankind, 
 Can shake or hurt the brave and honest mind ? 
 If stable Virtue can her ground maintain, 
 While Fortune feebly threats and frowns in vain ? 
 If Truth and Justice with uprightness dwell, 
 And honesty consist in meaning well ? 
 If right be independent of success, 
 And conquest cannot make it more nor less ? 
 
 } 
 
281 
 
 ■] 
 
 While engaged on this subject, we may turn 
 to consider the argument which M. de Vol- 
 taire, by a perverted application of this cele- 
 
 Are these, my friend, the secrets thou wouldst know, 
 
 Those doubts for which to oracles we go ? 
 
 'Tis known, 'tis plain, 'tis all already told, 
 
 And horned Ammon can no more unfold. 
 
 From God deriv'd, to God by nature join'd, 
 
 We act the dictates of his mighty mind ; 
 
 And though the priests are mute and temples still, 
 
 God never wants a voice to speak his will. 
 
 When first we from the teeming womb were brought 
 
 With inborn precepts then our souls were fraught 
 
 And then the maker his new creatures taught. 
 
 Then, when he form'd, and gave us to be men, 
 
 He gave us all our useful knowledge then. 
 
 Canst thou believe the vast eternal mind 
 
 Was ere to Syrts or Libyan sand* confin'd ? 
 
 That he should choose this waste, this barren ground, 
 
 To teach the thin inhabitants around, 
 
 And leave his truth in wilds and desarts drown'd: 
 
 Is there a place that God would choose to love, 
 
 Beyond this earth, the seas, yon heav'n above, 
 
 And virtuous minds the noblest throne for love ? 
 
 Why seek»we further then ? behold around, 
 
 How all thou seest does with the God abound, 
 
 Jove is alike in all, and always to be found. 
 
 Let those weak minds, who live in doubt and fear 
 
 To juggling priests for oracles repair; 
 
 One certain hour of death to each decreed, 
 
 My flx'd, my certain soul from doubt has freed, 
 
 The coward and the brave are doom'd to fall ; 
 
 And when Jove told this truth, he told u& all. 
 
 B. ix. v, 954. 
 
282 
 
 brated passage in the " Pharsalia," urges 
 against epick machinery in general; not con- 
 fining his deductions to the historical poem 
 only, but extending them to the poetical 
 epos. " Ceux qui prennent les commence- 
 mens d'un art pour les principes de Tart m6me, 
 sont persuades qu'un poeme ne saurait sub- 
 sister sans divinites parceque l'lliade en est 
 pleine; inais ces divinites sont si peu essen- 
 tielles au poeme, que le plus bel endroit qui 
 soit dans Lucain, et peut-etre dans aucun 
 poete est le decours de Caton, dans lequel ce 
 Stoique, ennemi des fables dedaigne d'aller 
 voirle temple de Jupiter Ammon." e 
 
 The explanation before given of the con- 
 duct of the " Pharsalia," not to insist on the 
 peculiar character of the Roman people, or 
 that of the very remarkable period of their 
 history, from which the subject of that poem 
 is drawn, must be sufficient to prove that this 
 passage affords no general model for the con- 
 duct of the epopee. And this consideration 
 alone would be sufficient to expose the unfair- 
 ness in this reasoning of M. de Voltaire, 
 where he fastens not merely upon this poem 
 itself, but upon a distinguished passage in it, 
 
 Sur la Poes. Epiq. cb. v. 
 
283 
 
 as affording an argument against the necessity 
 of introducing machinery into epick poetry. 
 For though the observation be perfectly just, 
 that Lucan is not only grand beyond all pre- 
 cedent in this passage, but has, generally, 
 maintained a suitable elevation in the whole 
 conduct of his poem; it does not follow, nor 
 is it the case, that the whole compass of his- 
 tory affords another subject capable of being 
 similarly conducted to that of the " Phar- 
 salia." 
 
 Nor has the critick taken into account 
 some circumstances of considerable import- 
 ance, in forming a just estimate of the pre- 
 sent question; which having arisen from the 
 change in manners and opinions since the 
 times of the Roman republic, have added as 
 much to the dignity of Lucan's description, 
 as they have taken from the splendour of the 
 antient poetical machinery. The refinement, 
 or indeed effeminacy, of modern manners, has 
 taught us as much to overrate the sternness of 
 that stoical virtue which the poet has under- 
 taken to celebrate; as a total revolution in 
 religious belief has led us to contemn the 
 absurdities which debase that religious sys- 
 tem, which he has treated with disregard. 
 From these considerations, the entire of Lu~ 
 
284 
 
 can's work acquires an accidental dignity, 
 which contributes not a little to raise the 
 passage, selected by M. de Voltaire, above 
 what is justified even by its intrinsick merit. 
 And of course, this solitary passage, being of 
 itself but peculiarly circumstanced, cannot 
 establish a precedent to evince the truth of 
 his general position, that the poetical epos 
 can support a suitable elevation without the 
 assistance of machinery. 
 
285 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 Though the machinery of poetry has ob- 
 tained many strenuous advocates, the pro- 
 priety of its introduction into dramatick repre- 
 sentation has generally been resigned as un- 
 tenable. Some even of the most liberal of our 
 criticks, have literally ventured to proscribe 
 this part of poetical composition, which com- 
 prises so considerable a portion of its finest 
 imagery, as too improbable to be justified by 
 any license of the art. " The tales of faery 
 are exploded as fantastick and incredible. 
 They would merit this contempt if presented 
 on the stage; if they were given as the pro- 
 per subjects of dramatick imitation, and the 
 interest of the poet's plot were to be wrought 
 out of the adventures of these marvellous 
 persons. ' " A poet who should now make the 
 whole action of his tragedy depend upon 
 enchantment, and produce the chief events 
 
 '» ' ■ — *■ 
 
 f Hukd on Chivalry and Romance, Let. X. 
 
286 
 
 by the assistance of supernatural agents, 
 would be censured as transgressing the bounds 
 of probability, be banished from the theatre 
 to the nursery, and condemned to write fairy 
 tales instead of tragedies." 8 
 
 Were these conclusions decisive, the object 
 of our immediate inquiry would be wholly ob- 
 viated; as it would answer no end to develope 
 first principles, or to lay down rules, where 
 there could arise no opportunity of applying 
 them. It is not necessary to enter into a 
 formal refutation of assumptions so arbitrary. 
 They rest solely on opinion; have been brought 
 to the test of feeling; and have, I think, re- 
 ceived acomplete refutation in the success with 
 which some modern productions of this kind, 
 and of veryinferiour merit,have been received. 
 Had this, however, never been the case, there 
 might be an answer subversive of such con- 
 clusions drawn from that unsated avidity 
 with which some established dramas continue 
 to be sought after, where the principal events 
 are conducted by the ministry of those fan- 
 tastick agenls. 
 
 It may not be deemed either incurious or 
 unimportant, to offer a few remarks on the 
 
 t Johnson's Works, Vol. III. p. 82. 
 
287 
 
 origin and cause of this proscription of the- 
 atrical machinery, as the inquiry may afford 
 some reasons for confirming to the drama its 
 right to an appendage, which gives so pow- 
 erful an interest to its representations, and 
 adds so beautiful an embellishment to its 
 scenick decorations. 
 
 However various might have been the 
 inducements by which the Grecian dramatick 
 writers were led to introduce divine per- 
 sonages in the scene, one obvious reason 
 assignable for this practice maybe suggested— 
 the direct imitation of the epick and mytho- 
 logical poets, into which they were led from 
 taking the subjects of their compositions 
 from such writers. But as the circumstances 
 were sensibly different in which these beings 
 were placed, on being brought from the in- 
 distinct representation of narration to the vi- 
 sible disclosure of exhibition, the change was 
 made infinitely for the worse. And this disad- 
 vantage operating against their first appear- 
 ance in the scene, was heightened, in no 
 small degree, by the rude mechanism of the 
 theatrical apparatus among the ancients. 
 Most unskilful must those contrivances have 
 been, that worked the machines in which 
 their deities made their descent or disap- 
 
288 
 
 pearance, when the antient drama, from 
 wanting an expedient to shift its scenes, be- 
 came confined to a tedious unity of place, in 
 violation of truth and propriety. 
 
 Under these circumstances, it must be 
 supposed both Aristotle and Horace viewed 
 the antient theatre; and taking these consi- 
 derations into account, their seeming to 
 discourage dramatick imagery, may be 
 imputed to their disapprobation of certain 
 defects, not in the theory, but in the esta- 
 blished use of theatrical machinery ; such, 
 it may be remarked, were defects for which 
 the structure of their theatre led them to 
 imagine, there could be no remedy. This is, 
 I think, very evident, from the reasons which 
 they assign for recommending this appendage 
 of the drama to be removed as much as pos- 
 sible out of theatrical representations. " It is 
 expedient to introduce the marvellous into 
 tragick compositions; but the preternatural, 
 from which principally the marvellous arises, 
 is rather admissible in the epopee, because 
 we do not behold the agency which is em- 
 ployed in it. h " 
 
 h Aei [iev ev tv rai; rfa.yw$tais itoieiv ro Savpao-rov potWov Si 
 tvltyefoa tv tt\ PitQTtoi'ia. ro aKoyov, S\ q {vpfiawei paXwra. ro Sau- 
 
289 
 
 This passage appears to me rather to re- 
 commend than to discourage the employment 
 of dramatick machinery on the modern stage. 
 Some partiality is professed here for mar- 
 vellous intervention in the drama: it is re- 
 stricted to a conditional introduction into the 
 scene, on account of an objection which has 
 now no force, as it has no application to the 
 modern theatre. That poetical machinery, 
 though admissible in recital, will not so 
 well bear to be submitted to visible repre- 
 sentation, is only true of stage machinery, 
 under the circumstances in which it was 
 viewed by Aristotle. When its effects are 
 aukwardly displayed to the view, the judg- 
 ment receives from the eye an additional 
 testimony of the improbability of what- 
 ever is the subject of its representation. 
 And yet it may be observed, not however 
 as exculpatory of the recent abuses of our 
 theatre, in its display of what is trifling and 
 
 [j.xcrrov, Six to pj opccv si; tov itpxtlovTx. De Poet. § 43. In tbis 
 sentence, it is generally supposed, that Horace concurs in the 
 following precept ; which, if urged against the practice of the 
 modern stage, admits of the same answer as that of Aristotle. 
 
 Nee deus intersit nisi dignus vindice nodus 
 
 Incident. De Art. Poet, v. ipi. 
 
 U 
 
290 
 
 childish in such of its decorations, but as 
 illustrative of the superiority of the modern 
 dramatick mechanism, over any thing of the 
 kind which appeared in the antient theatre ; 
 that the exhibitions, which so much offended 
 the judgment of Horace and Aristotle, might 
 be now represented with such skill and splen- 
 dour, as to surprize and gratify an enlightened 
 audience. And in this consideration, the 
 entire efficacy of that trite rule, of the former 
 critick, which has been often so triumphantly 
 urged against the modern theatre, seems to 
 vanish altogether; 
 
 Ne — in avem Progne veitatur Cadmus in anguetn; 
 Quoclcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 
 
 De Ait. Poet. v. 18S. 
 
 I do not mean to insist here, that the 
 edge of this stricture mav be turned from 
 affecting the modern drama, by observing 
 that these words merely apply to restraining 
 the abuse of theatrical machinery; as the 
 representation which is here censured by the 
 Roman critick, if it be brought to the test of 
 that rule which has been laid down for 
 proving the justness of poetical fictions, will 
 appear as irreconcilable to the belief of the 
 poet's readers, as his characters. Waving this 
 
291 
 
 consideration altogether, it does not appear 
 that the objection would apply to this ex- 
 hibition, if presented in a modern theatre; 
 for in point of that improbability against 
 which Horace exclaims, I can observe little 
 difference between converting a man into a 
 serpent, and a pumpkin into a coach and 
 horses, as we have witnessed in our theatres. 
 In entering into this defence of theatrical 
 machinery, I would thus shelter it from the 
 apparent objections of Aristotle and Horace, 
 rather by admitting their opinions to be right 
 according to circumstances, than by under- 
 taking to prove them altogether erroneous. 
 And yet I am not unconscious, that with 
 respect to refuting one at least, perhaps the 
 most formidable of the exceptions urged 
 against its propriety, I should not want coun- 
 tenance from two poets, both of them no 
 common masters of dramatick effect. To this 
 character, it remains not for me to establish 
 the claims of Corneille and Metastasio, both 
 of whom seem to have believed the machine 
 of Medea's flying car in Euripides, perfectly 
 conformable to verisimilitude,' although sup- 
 posed to be condemned by Aristotle. 
 
 ' Metastasio Estrat. dell. Poet d'Aristot. cap. XV. 
 
292 
 
 Yet, while the opinions of Horace and 
 Aristotle remained thus misunderstood, and 
 were urged with the greatest force against 
 dramatick machinery, it preserved its popu- 
 larity, superiour to every opposition. Much 
 of its success in this respect* it must be owned, 
 is to be attributed to the exquisite art with 
 which it was informed and directed by Shake- 
 speare's magick. And though it may be re- 
 garded as a kind of irreverence to start a 
 doubt, that the influence of those productions, 
 with which he, as it were, enlarged the bounds 
 of poetry, must not have proved irresistible; 
 or to suggest, that they required any extra- 
 neous recommendation, independent of the 
 art and chasteness with which they were con- 
 structed as fictions: yet, so powerful were the 
 disadvantages with which machinery had to 
 contend, that it is my opinion, even Shakes- 
 peare's magick would have sunk under the 
 opposition of that artificial taste and fastidious 
 judgment, which we have been led to adopt, 
 among other French fopperies, had it not 
 received some external support from beautiful 
 scenery and artful mechanism. However, 
 from the independence which we have evinced 
 in shaking off our trammels, and in asserting 
 the right of thinking for ourselves in this mat- 
 
293 
 
 ter, foreigners have been first led to examine, 
 and, lastly, to admit the propriety and ele- 
 gance of our theatrical imagery. And so 
 completely has its triumph over all opposi- 
 tion been finally established, that it is curious 
 to observe the first just criticism, and warm 
 panegyrick of Shakespear's dramatick en- 
 chantments, come from the hands of M. de 
 Voltaire, k who had not only professed a de- 
 cided hostility to poetical machinery in the 
 epopee, but who seemed determined to allow 
 scarcelyany other merit to the English drama. 
 After having adjusted this point, a conve- 
 nient opportunity presents itself for discharg- 
 ing an engagement in which I stand pledged 
 to the reader. 1 As I formerly had occasion 
 to observe, 1 " much of the improbability of 
 fictitious narrative is justifiable on the grounds 
 of the subject not passing in view of the 
 reader; for, making in this form a less distinct 
 impression on the mind, it becomes propor- 
 tionably difficult to delect any deviation from 
 truth or nature, which may be attempted in 
 such compositions. But in theatrical repre- 
 sentation, where an appeal is directly made 
 
 * Dissert sur ]a TYaged. Anc. et Mod. P. iii. 1 See page, 138, 
 tn See page 183. 
 
294 
 
 to the senses, this reasoning can have no 
 application : the evidence to which the com- 
 position becomes in this case exposed, seems 
 rather calculated to counteract than heighten 
 its effect in the exhibition. By this circum- 
 stance, however, it will eventually appear, 
 that the romantick drama is very little, if at 
 all effected. The objection would have some 
 force, and such an effect might be appre- 
 hended from the representation of marvellous 
 action and character, if such were addressed 
 to the senses merely. The formality of 
 scenick representation has, it must be con- 
 fessed, a tendency to impress the spectator 
 with a sense of the representation's being un- 
 real and supposititious; which becomes pro- 
 portionably liable to observation, as the sub- 
 ject deviates from truth or probability. 
 But in this statement it is not taken into ac- 
 count, that productions of the romantick 
 kind address themselves not merely to the 
 senses, but to the emotions. Surprize and 
 admiration constitute the end of fanciful 
 composition; and over these affections, the 
 scenick apparatus exerts as sensible a power, 
 as dramatick gesture and action exercise over 
 the passions of pity and terrour. On the 
 advantage with which the latter may be em- 
 
295 
 
 ployed, in beguiling the spectator into a tem- 
 porary forgetfulness of the want of truth in 
 the exhibition, I have already descanted;" 
 the former seem not less capable of being 
 converted to the same purpose. The splen- 
 dour of the spectacle, when it is not carried 
 to a childish excess, is highly calculated to 
 contribute to our delight; and the seeming- 
 improbabilities which we see accomplished by 
 the mechanism, together with the secrecy of- 
 the means by which so much is effected, tend 
 to throw us into a stale of uncollected asto- 
 nishment. This is sufficiently attested by 
 the feeling which attracts crowds to such ex- 
 hibitions ; notwithstanding all that an affec- 
 tation of a chaste and severe judgment may 
 dispose the majority of those, who sit out such 
 representations, to profess to the contrary. 
 When the effect which is produced by the- 
 atrical niagick transcends our expectation, 
 from its greatness or novelty ; when it is con- 
 ducted with that art and rapidity of execu- 
 tion, which conceals the secret springs of 
 the action, and leaves the mind no time to 
 calculate on the mode of operation, surprize 
 and admiration must be the result of the 
 
 '•*■ — - ■ ■■■■ • « ... . ■ . — , ' — . ... ,_ — .- ? ■ 
 
 » See page 13§, 
 
296 
 
 exhibition. It is but to little purpose to 
 object, that we must be conscious the effect 
 produced is but mechanical. We may admit 
 the fact, without any detriment to the main 
 argument, for even, when regarded in this 
 light, the representation is calculated to excite 
 our wonder, and contribute to our gratifica- 
 tion. The truth is, however, that we are 
 not left any time or inclination for indulging 
 any such speculations ; and that when they 
 do obtrude themselves on the mind, they 
 cause no very sensible diminution of our plea- 
 sure : as they still leave much to excite our 
 surprize, at the art and ingenuity of the con- 
 trivance. It may be doubted, on the whole, 
 whether the state of mental emotion into 
 which we are thrown by the deception, does 
 not entitle such exhibitions to a stronger 
 claim than any whatever, of approaching 
 perfect theatrical delusion, and probably, on 
 the very account of having been submitted 
 to the scrutiny of the sense, which finds itself 
 baffled in detectino-the delusiveness. 
 
 From the determination of this point, the 
 transition is easy and regular to an investiga- 
 tion of the extent to which a dramatick poet 
 may proceed, in making use of machinery. 
 And here two points in particular, analogous 
 
297 
 
 to those which have been already determined 
 in discussing the nature of epical imagery, 
 require our consideration, as included in the 
 question of what limits are prescribed to 
 Poetick Licence. 
 
 I. Among the different mythological 
 systems founded on religious belief and su- 
 perstitious credulity, to the creed of what 
 particular people should the poet's choice be 
 confined? 
 
 II. At what particular periods is he per- 
 mitted to introduce the spiritual agents, thus 
 chosen, among the natural incidents of his 
 work ? 
 
 I. Of these two questions, the first has 
 been sufficiently resolved in the rule which 
 has been already laid down for determining 
 the nature, and marking out the extent of 
 marvellous fiction in the romantick epos. 
 The same attention, which has been there 
 recommended, and, on account of the reasons 
 there suggested, should be paid, in the pre- 
 sent case, to the religious scruples of the 
 spectator; the same advantage should be 
 taken of the superstitious credulity of the 
 poetical characters. And a few considera- 
 
 ° Seepage 173. 
 
293 
 
 lions will fully justify the application of such 
 a principle to the present exigency. As far 
 as the drama is intended to please merely in 
 the perusal, for which the poet should ever 
 make a suitable provision, the case admits of 
 slight consideration ; it is similarly circum- 
 stanced with the romantick epos, and may 
 be consequently admitted to be subject to 
 the same restrictions, and entitled to equal 
 immunities. Nor does the case become ma- 
 terially altered, when it is not read but repre- 
 sented ; the person whom it is intended to 
 interest and affect, is possessed of the same 
 taste and feelings when he is a spectator, as 
 when he becomes a reader : what would gra- 
 tify him in the one case, would be likely to 
 gratify him in the other. It may be at least 
 assumed, that if the rule in question be vio- 
 lated, and any thing be represented which is 
 either inconsistent with his religious belief, 
 or irreconcilable with the credulity of the 
 agents in the drama, it must fail, so far at least, 
 in its end of producing pleasure, from the 
 disregard which is evinced in it to propriety 
 and verisimilitude. 
 
 To the practice of Shakespeare we may 
 appeal, in order to confirm and illustrate the 
 foregoing principles, and to justify their being 
 
299 
 
 offered as a guide to the poet who introduces 
 marvellous machinery into dramatick action. 
 Of the four pieces in which he has employed 
 supernatural agency, three are constructed 
 with an exact conformity to the rule which 
 has been laid down for the management of 
 celestial intervention in the theatre; the 
 fourth, it must be admitted, deviates from it 
 in one particular, and has been, in that re- 
 spect, generally, though perhaps inconsider- 
 ately, censured as defective. The ghost, 
 witches, and magician, to whose ministra- 
 tion the poet commits the management of 
 the supernatural incidents of his romantick 
 dramas, were generally admitted by the su- 
 perstitions of the different people among 
 whom he lays the scene of his action. So far 
 consonant- was the belief of the former to the 
 superstitious notions of the Danes and Scots, 
 of whom the principal characters of his 
 "Hamlet" and "Macbeth" are composed, 
 that the fable of these dramas is on record in 
 the history of both nations/ With equal 
 propriety, the principal characters of the 
 "Tempest" have been chosen from among 
 
 pBuchan. Rer. Scot. Hist. lib. vii. Sax. Grammat. Hist. 
 Dan. lib. iii. 
 
300 
 
 the Italians. Those who are but moderately 
 versed in the poetry of this people, need not 
 be informed, that the enchantment employed 
 in that drama, was the species of marvellous 
 operation most conformable to their vulgar 
 superstitions, and most grateful to the po- 
 pular opinion. Such notions having been 
 originally imported from the East, were pro- 
 pagated, at an early period, in Italy, among 
 those countries of Europe, where romantick 
 poetry was first successfully cultivated. 
 
 It is not to be dissembled that the "Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream" affords but a partial 
 exemplification of the principles which are 
 here inculcated ; the same attention not hav- 
 ing been shewn in it to the superstitious preju- 
 dices of the poet's characters, as to the popu- 
 lar notions of his readers. To this statement, 
 I am of opinion, the objections raised against 
 this wonderful drama are properly reducible: 
 for it seems to afford no support to the asser- 
 tion of those cri ticks, who, on its evidence, 
 accuse the inimitable authour of confounding 
 the Gothick and Gentile superstitions. In 
 such a charge, his practice is certainly misre- 
 presented ; whieh, to speak of it with the 
 utmost rigour, extended merely to grafting a 
 Gothiek machine on a Grecian fable. 
 
301 
 
 And, however inconsistent such a project 
 may seem, much may be said in its vindica- 
 tion. For it should not be forgotten, that in 
 the popular creed, nay in the religious belief 
 of Shakespeare's age, the nymphs of the 
 classical mythology and the fairies of the 
 Gothick imagery were conceived to be the 
 same beings ; q having been equally supposed 
 to be the apostate spirits r who assumed dif- 
 ferent appearances, in different climes and 
 ages, in order to impose upon the credulity 
 of the vulgar. To those who maintained 
 such opinions, it could not have appeared in- 
 consistent to describe such beings, as having 
 presented themselves in the shape of fairies to 
 
 i " I will now come to treat of the Nymphs of the Ancients, 
 which are those whom we at this day doe call Fees, and the Italians 
 Fate, in English Fayries." Le Loier. Treat, of Appar. p. 17. 
 
 r " Terrestrial devils are those Lares, Genii, Fauns, Satyres, 
 Wood-nymphs, Foliots, Fairies, Robin- good fellows, Trulli, &c. 
 which as they are most conversant with men, so they do them 
 most harm. — Some put our Fairies into this rank, which have 
 been adored with much superstition, with sweeping their houses, 
 and setting a pail with cleane water, good victuals and the like, 
 and then they should not be pinched, but fxhde money in their 
 shoes, and be fortunate in their enterprizes. These are they tknt 
 dance on heatb.es and greenes — and leave that green circle which 
 we commonly flnde in plain fields." Burt. Anat. of Melanch. 
 P. II. S. ii. m. 1. subs. 2. See what has been already advanced 
 on this subjeet, page 239. n, w, page 242. n. x , 
 
302 
 
 the Grecian peasantry; and few, it is to be 
 hoped, of those who admit the insufficiency 
 of Pagan divinities to gain general attention, 
 will condemn the poet who manifested a pre- 
 ference to the more probable and fascinating 
 enchantments of the national mythology. In 
 this respect, at least, Shakespeare appears to 
 have acted with judgment, in consulting the 
 feelings of his spectators ; for thus he pre- 
 sented them with a more probable system of 
 machinery, and to the exclusion of one which 
 could have afforded them little comparative 
 gratification. And in proceeding thus far, 
 he seems not to have been destitute of a pre- 
 cedent of high poetical authority. Chaucer, 
 acting on the same principle, set him the ex- 
 ample of naturalizing those images in poetry; 
 having maintained similar notions with re- 
 spect to the identity of the nymphs and fai- 
 ries, he introduced the latter into a Grecian 
 story. 
 
 If, however, it be still objected, that the 
 poet might have equally consulted the grati- 
 fication of his readers, while he escaped every 
 imputation of inconsistency, by shifting the 
 scene of his action to a different country, and 
 referring the date of the transaction to a more 
 recent period : still the objection, if admitted, 
 
303 
 
 must be allowed to lose much of its force, 
 when it is properly directed, as it must fall 
 partly on the age in which the drama ivas 
 written. At this period, nothing of the fan- 
 ciful kind was relished among theatrical ex- 
 hibitions, which was not founded on, super- 
 stitions which were deemed respectable from 
 being classical. Of such subjects exclusively 
 was the Mask composed, as this species of 
 poetry was cultivated by Jonson, and his 
 brethren of the " learned sock/' With this 
 taste, of course, Shakespeare was in some 
 measure necessitated to comply, when, 
 charmed with the fine images of his 
 native superstitions, he formed the bold 
 project of retaining the Pagan subject of 
 such poetry, and incorporating with it a 
 more probable system of preternatural a- 
 gency taken from the Gothick mythology. 
 And when we estimate the extraordinary art 
 evinced by the poet, in managing a subject 
 so disadvantageous^ circumstanced, we shall 
 probably discover more in his practice to 
 commend than to censure. 
 
 When we argue the question, even on the 
 most unfavourable ground, namely, that on 
 which the poet is accused of impropriety, in 
 adopting a system of machinery, which was 
 
304 
 
 irreconcilable to the belief of the characters 
 in his drama, it promises no unsuccessful 
 issue to the cause of Shakespeare. It is, 
 indeed, of considerable importance in his de- 
 fence, to examine how far the charge really 
 extends. The fact is, as may be observed on 
 a casual inspection of the production, that 
 this impropriety has been avoided by the 
 poet, and with a degree of carefulness, which 
 proves his practice not to be the effect of 
 accident. It is only as they regard the spec- 
 tator, that the preternatural agents appear 
 in a Gothick character; as they regard the 
 agents in the poem, they may be conceived 
 fauns as well as fairies: so far the supersti- 
 tious notions of the latter really suffered no 
 violation, while the popular prejudices of 
 the former were virtually consulted in the 
 alteration. 
 
 The address of the poet is, indeed, parti- 
 cularly deserving of note, in the manage- 
 ment of this part of his subject. He con- 
 trives to give the occurrences of the drama, 
 in the opinion of the human agents employed 
 in it, no greater reality than what is pos- 
 sessed by a dream : as indeed he entitles the 
 production. Some of the leading characters 
 he represents as rejecting the whole of the 
 
305 
 
 transaction as purely fictitious, and ascribing 
 the delusion of the parties concerned, to 
 natural causes ; 
 
 Thes I never may believe 
 
 These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. 
 Lovers, and madmen, have such seething brains, 
 Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend 
 More than cool reason ever comprehends. — 
 Such tricks hath strong imagination, 
 That, if it would but apprehend some joy, 
 It comprehends some bringer of that joy ; 
 Or, in the night, imagining some fear, 
 How easy is a bush snppos'd a bear? 
 
 Act v. sc. 1. 
 
 When he introduces his elves as address- 
 ing some of the principal characters, it is in 
 the assumed voice, and borrowed person of 
 their associates ; their intervention, in this 
 respect, is thus projected by the chief of the 
 fairies : 
 
 Ober. Hie, therefore, Robin, overcast the night ; 
 The starry welkin cover thou anon 
 With drooping fog, as black as Acheron ; 
 And lead these testy rivals so astray, 
 As one come not within another's way. 
 Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, 
 Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong; 
 And sometime rail thou like Demetrius ; 
 And from each other look thou lead them thus, 
 
 X 
 
306 
 
 Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep 
 With leaden legs and batty wings, doth creep ; 
 Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye, 
 Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, 
 To take from thence all errour, with his might, 
 And make his eye-balls roll with wonted sight. 
 When they next wake all this derision 
 Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision ; 
 And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, 
 With league, whose date till death shall never end. 
 
 Act iii. sc. 2. 
 
 It is to an illiterate mechanick alone that 
 he represents his spiritual agents as being 
 visibly manifested ; yet even he is dismissed 
 under the impression that all that he wit- 
 nessed is the effect of a dream. 
 
 [As they go out Bottom awakes .] 
 
 <e Hey, ho!— Peter Quince! Flute, the bel- 
 lows-mender! Snout, the tinker ! Starveling! God's my 
 life! stolen hence, and left me asleep! I have had a 
 most rare vision. I have had a dream; — past the wit 
 of man to say what dream it was : man is but an ass if 
 he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was— 
 there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and 
 methought I had. — But man is but a patch'd fool if 
 he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye 
 of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not 
 seen; man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to 
 conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream 
 was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this 
 dream." — Act iv. sc. 1. 
 
307 
 
 Thus it is not to be disputed, that Shake- 
 speare has not only had so much respect to 
 the superstitious notions of his characters as 
 not to offer them any open violence ; but 
 from the state of mental delusion in Avhich 
 he supposes them placed, his fictions are 
 rendered as probable as seemed possible ; 
 indeed perfectly so on the part of those who 
 may be conceived at all concerned in be- 
 lieving them, and with whose opinions they 
 are supposed to be at variance. That in 
 this process he has left the spectator no rea- 
 sonable grounds of complaints, in introduc- 
 ing those beings to his observation, which 
 were favoured by his popular prejudices, in 
 preference to the deities of a mythology 
 which he must have rejected as impossible, 
 need not be any longer insisted on. Upon 
 the whole, while, in vindication of that rule 
 which he has here cited to illustrate, it mav 
 be observed, that his practice would have 
 approached more near to perfection had he 
 adhered more closely to its letter : it must be 
 at the same time allowed, that he cannot be 
 convicted of running counter to its spirit. 
 
 It seems scarcely necessary to prolong 
 the consideration of the present question with 
 another observation, relative to the impro- 
 
308 
 
 priety of introducing that machinery into the 
 drama which is exclusively adapted to the poe- 
 tical epos : although it is that which is most 
 consonanttothe belief of the poet's characters, 
 as well as his readers or spectators. Whatever 
 may be its perfections in this respect, al- 
 though it is particularly calculated to awaken 
 the spectator's interest, and to excite his 
 admiration, it seems to be for ever excluded 
 from finding a place on our stages. To 
 entertainments of the theatrical kind, we 
 can allow, among intellectual amusements, 
 no higher praise than that of being elegant 
 or rational ; and even to this commendation 
 they seem to be but rarely entitled : but the 
 sacred beings by whose ministration, we are 
 taught to believe, Providence has engaged in 
 sublunary affairs, are not to be regarded 
 without sentiments of reverence; we cannot 
 therefore easily pardon the attempt of him 
 who would so far degrade them as to ascribe 
 them a part in the action of a fable, which 
 was merely intended to promote amusement, 
 and on a stage which has been often prosti- 
 tuted to the worst purposes. Such a pro- 
 ject, if realized, we should condemn as pro- 
 fane ; and surely the production on which 
 we should pass such a sentence, however it 
 
S09 
 
 might excite our disgust or horrour, could 
 contribute nothing to our gratification. By 
 this limitation, however, the drama is not so 
 materially affected as may be at first ima- 
 gined : such subjects as find a place in it 
 generally consist in events of that secon- 
 dary importance, that they cannot be sup- 
 posed to engage the celestial interference, if 
 with any propriety they could be committed 
 to the celestial supcrintendance. 
 
 II. From the determination of these 
 points I proceed, in order, to the discussion of 
 that which was proposed for examination 
 in the second place; when a poet is at liberty 
 to introduce the spiritual agency among the 
 actual incidents of his composition. 
 
 This is a question of which there has 
 been offered more than one solution : for 
 the mechanism of the antient theatre being 
 of that unskilful and inconvenient kind, 
 which discouraged the introduction of their 
 divinities into the dramatick action, to ex- 
 clude them as much as possible from ap- 
 pearing in the scene, became a desirable 
 object to the poet and the spectator. As 
 machinery was on this account scarcely em- 
 ployed, unless when there was an absolute 
 
310 
 
 necessity for its introduction, the antient 
 criticks have laid down rules which reduce 
 the times of its employment to the fewest 
 possible number; and the moderns, with 
 an implicit attachment to their authority, have 
 taken up their principles, and endeavoured to 
 square and apply them to the existing state 
 of the drama. 
 
 Among the first of these, Aristotle directs 
 that no divinity should be introduced for the 
 mere purpose of unravelling a knot in the 
 intrigue of the plot. It seems to be a fun- 
 damental principle of his criticism, that the 
 incidents of the story should unfold them- 
 selves in a natural train. To preserve this 
 principle inviolable, he directs, that if a 
 deity is introduced, for the purpose of mak- 
 ing a disclosure, it should be something 
 which happens out of the drainatick action ; 
 at the same time premising that it should 
 be something necessary to the intelligence 
 of the subject, and such as a spiritual intel- 
 ligence can be supposed to kuow. 8 By the 
 
 s $ocv£fov ovv kou rot; Xvgei; ?wv jauSwv g£ a.vra jituSa $v[j.(ZcU' 
 vsiv, holi pj witfsp tv Tjj M^ostcc txiro wyjMtfi, y.at ey fn iXiaJi ta. 
 ifipi rov aitoifXav aAAa f>-^%avij ^pvjo-rsov siti ra. e%w fs Spoc^aTQ;, 
 Yj o'(Ct, itoo r« ysyovev, a 8% o'tov re zvSpuiitov eicevat, rj o'sa vevspov 
 d Ssiract Ttpoocyosevsett:; y.cci a[ye\sici$' ditarra. yap a-r(oSiSo[x.ev fats 
 
311 
 
 former part of this observation he makes a 
 provision, that the contexture of the fable 
 shall not be interrupted by marvellous in- 
 tervention ; as by the latter he takes precau- 
 tion, that a divinity shall not be introduced 
 on a trivial or unnecessary occasion. Of 
 this principle it may be remarked, that it is 
 exemplified in " Hamlet/' and, generally 
 speaking, in " Macbeth :" but it extends not 
 to the machinery employed in the other dra- 
 mas of Shakespeare ; nor indeed, as the 
 Abbate Metastasio has observed, to the 
 practice of the Greek theatre. So far it 
 may be allowed to be a principle too con- 
 fined in its application for the general pur- 
 poses of poetry ; in which light it seems not 
 to have been recommended by its authour. 
 
 The steps of Aristotle, as has been fre- 
 quently observed, are followed by Horace, 
 who prohibits the use of a machine unless 
 
 for the purpose of solving some important 
 difficulty in the action ; 
 
 Nee deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
 
 Incident. 
 
 De Art. Poet. v. 19 1. 
 
 S^o<j opxv. Aktyov Se [/.ySev eivai sv voi; -rfpay^xsiv' ei Se ij,yj, £%uj 
 ■trj rpxycufox;' oiov *o sv fw OiSrtofo ?s ^o^okXesj. 
 
 De Poet. § 28. 
 
• 312 
 
 It has been observed by the Abbate 
 Melastasio on this rule, that it is the best 
 which can be given to persons possessed of 
 a good judgment; without which, he subjoins, 
 every precept is not only useless but may be 
 dangerous. With much greater pertinency 
 he objects to it on another occasion ; "Ma 
 egli non c'insegna quali circostanze debba 
 avere questo nodo per meritare d'essere 
 disciolto da un nurae." ' Which is a remark 
 that throws the question back to its ori- 
 ginal difficulty. 
 
 Nor does it appear that the solution, 
 which the same critick has offered elsewhere 
 of this difficulty, is at all satisfactory. " Io 
 non saprei a qual canone, o a quale esempio 
 autorevole ottenermi per far uso regolare 
 delle machine suddette, se non mi determi- 
 nassi a credere, che la grandezza, e la maesta 
 d'un soggetto, e l'eroica dignila de' person- 
 j,ggi introdotti, e supposli in ispezial cura 
 de' numi, vagliano a rendere analogo, e 
 connesso questo mirabile col verisimile." " 
 But surely something more is requisite, to 
 justify the introduction of preternatural 
 
 1 Metastasio. Not. all' Art. Poet, d' Oraz. v. 191. 
 
 u Id. ibid. 
 
313 
 
 agency into the scene, and to guide the poet in 
 the management of it than a rule from which 
 it may be inferred that the action would be 
 benefited by its exclusion ; for a drama- 
 tick subject might be unravelled without 
 such aid, in a manner to which the crilick 
 has given a decided preference; " E indu- 
 bitato, come lo asserisce Aristotele, che quella 
 e la piu arlificiosa, e commendabile catas- 
 trofe, la quale scioglie il viluppo d'una fa- 
 vola, nascendo intrinsecamente dal corso 
 della favola medesima : il modo che il po- 
 polo, che non l'aspettava, rhiettendo alle 
 cose, da lui nel corso della rappresentazione 
 ascoltate, e vedute, si trovi convinto, che 
 dovea quello scioglimento necessariamente, 
 e verisimilmente succedere."" 
 
 It appears to me that the matter is 
 brought somewhat nearer an issue by the 
 explanation of M. de Voltaire, who proceeds 
 on the grounds taken by Horace, and with 
 a like reference to the opinion of Aristotle ; 
 " Je voudrais que de telles hardiesses ne 
 fusent employee que quand el!es servent a 
 la fois a mettre dans la piece de 1'intrigue, 
 et de la terreur : et je voudrais, sur tout, que 
 
 v Id. ibid. See also Estrat. dell. Poet, d' Aristot. cap* xv. 
 
314 
 
 rinvention de ces £tres surnaturels ne parut 
 pas absolument necessaire. Je m' explique: 
 si le noeud d'un poeme tragique est tellement 
 embrouille qu'on ne puisse se tirer d'em- 
 barras que par le secours d'un prodige, le 
 spectateur sent la g6ne oii l'auteur s'est mis, 
 et la faiblesse de la resource. II ne voit 
 qu'un ecrivain qui se tire mal-adroitment 
 d'un mauvais pas. Plus d'illusion, plus 
 d'interet. Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, 
 incredulus odi. Mais je suppose que l'au- 
 teur d'un tragedie se ful propose pour but 
 d'avertir les homines, que Dieu punit quel- 
 quefois de grands crimes par des voies extra- 
 ordinaires ; je suppose que sa piece fut con- 
 duite avec un tel art, que le spectateur al- 
 tendit a tout moment I'ombre d'un prince 
 assassine, qui demande vengeance, sans que 
 cettc apparition fut une resource absolument 
 necessaire a une intrigue einbarrassee : je 
 dis qu' alors ce prodige, bien menage, f'erait 
 un tres erand effet en toute lanyjue, en tons 
 terns, et en tout pays." w 
 
 From these desultory remarks the solu- 
 tion of the question before us may be ex- 
 tracted. The necessity of enforcing the ob- 
 
 ">y Voltaire. Dissert, sur la Traged, Anc. et Mod. P. III. 
 
315 
 
 servance of these precepts on writers, may 
 be clearly evinced from a few obvious con- 
 siderations arising from the peculiar nature 
 of that species of composition in which dra- 
 matick action is combined with marvellous 
 imagery. In such compositions, as I have 
 already observed, powerful emotion becomes 
 necessary to sustain the parade and for- 
 mality of scenick exhibition. The peculiar 
 passions by which they thus aim at securing 
 our gratification, are, that interest which 
 arises from the artful involution of the plot, 
 and that admiration which is excited by the 
 marvellous nature of the imagery. And it is 
 to preserve these qualities undiminished, 
 that a strict regard should be paid to the 
 several precepts of the above-cited criticks. 
 In order that the drama should not suffer in 
 its interest by the introduction of a machine, 
 it is expedient to observe the precept of 
 Aristotle ; but, in order that it should profit 
 by its employment, due attention should be 
 paid to the injunction of M. de Voltaire, 
 For it is evident, that the artful contexture 
 of events in the fable must be impaired 
 when a divinity is introduced for the sole 
 purpose of unravelling some intricacy in the 
 plot ; and that it will be contrariwise im- 
 
316 
 
 proved, when, by its intervention, more in- 
 trigue and emotion are thrown into the dra- 
 matick action. But that the admiration, 
 excited by the incidents as preternatural 
 should remain unimpaired, respect should 
 be had to the precept of Horace ; and if the 
 poet would turn his machinery to the best 
 account, he must find it his object to follow 
 the suggestion of the Abbate Metaslasio. 
 For here also, if the event is of a trivial kind, 
 and unworthy the attention of a divinity ; if 
 it be such as lies within the poAver of unas- 
 sisted human agency to accomplish, it must 
 necessarily excite, by its insignificance, a 
 sensation contrary to that of admiration, 
 and leave a full impression of inconsistency 
 on the mind of the spectator, from the ma- 
 nifest disproportion which will be thus placed 
 between the end to be effected, and the means 
 by which it is accomplished. 
 
 That a machine should be at all used, 
 this precept, at the least, should be attended 
 to; some intricacy should exist which re- 
 quired the solution of a divinity, some diffi- 
 culty to be surmounted which required the 
 interference of preternatural power. The 
 practice of Shakespeare, in any one of his 
 dramas, will serve to illustrate and exem- 
 
317 
 
 plify this principle. The restoration of Pros- 
 pero to his dukedom, situated, as he is re- 
 presented in the " Tempest," on a desolate 
 island, without friends or resources, was not 
 to be effected, unless by means of celestial 
 intervention ; in employing preternatural 
 agency to accomplish that end, the poet 
 seems consequently to have acted with the 
 justest propriety. Without the interposition 
 of some superiour agent the murderer of the 
 King of Denmark, and the usurper of his 
 throne and bed, could not be detected and 
 punished : from these considerations " Ham- 
 let" seems to display equal propriety, in its 
 use of marvellous imagery, as the " Tem- 
 pest." 
 
 But the drama, in which this point is 
 secured, has attained but the negative me- 
 rit of which machinery is susceptible. It 
 still remains for the poet, who has thus esta- 
 blished his right to introduce it into his com- 
 positions, to employ it with the greatest 
 effect. The course which he must follow in 
 this case, cannot be more clearly or safely 
 marked out, than by examining the conduct 
 of Shakespeare in a similar undertaking. 
 For this purpose we may select the tragedy 
 
318 
 
 of " Macbeth," as a model of perfection. 
 On the task of analysing this inimitable dra- 
 ma I enter with the greater willingness, not 
 less from the support which it affords the 
 conclusions that I have adopted on the pre- 
 sent question, than the honour which it re- 
 flects on the genius of its incomparable 
 authour. It is a matter of considerable, yet 
 grateful, surprise to observe the exact con- 
 formity which exists between his practice, 
 and the deductions of criticks, with whose 
 opinions he could have had no acquaintance. 
 And on the other hand it must afford no 
 inconsiderable evidence of the justice of 
 those deductions to find them confirmed by 
 a poet, in whose voice Nature spoke as from 
 her oracle. To paint the fatal effects of 
 that 
 
 Vaulting ambition which o'erleaps itself* 
 
 is the professed end of the tragedy of 
 " Macbeth." This is judiciously brought 
 about, by representing the hero, as having 
 his evil propensity excited by a superstitious 
 prognostication: as led on to the perpetration 
 
 Act i. sc. 7 
 
319 
 
 of the greatest atrocities by a promise that 
 was equivocal, and finally precipitated on 
 destruction in the pursuit of a good that was 
 delusive. But considering the seemingly 
 insurmountable obstacles which lay between 
 Macbeth and the quiet possession of that 
 sovereignty after which he aspired, neither 
 the perpetration of the murder which exhi- 
 bits the dreadful effects of his ambition, nor 
 the succeeding ruin by which it was pu- 
 nished on him and his family, could have 
 probably taken place, as the plot is con- 
 ducted, without the intervention of preter- 
 natural power. From hence originated those 
 hopes of success which urged the tyrant to 
 carry his criminal designs into execution. 
 And from hence only could proceed that 
 confidence of security which first led him to 
 brave approaching danger, and ultimately 
 produced that despondency, which dimi- 
 nished his power to resist it. 
 
 The fable of the tragedy seems conse- 
 quently to resolve itself into two parts; that 
 which regards the usurpation of Macbeth, 
 and that which regards his fall and punish- 
 ment. And both of these have a necessary 
 dependance on the preternatural agency. 
 
 In the first instance, the witches ad- 
 
320 
 
 dress Macbeth by those titles which he is 
 afterwards led to usurp, by his ambition ; 
 
 1- Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, thane of 
 Glamis ! 
 
 2. Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, thane of 
 
 Cawdor ! 
 
 3. Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! that shall be king 
 
 hereafter. 
 
 Act i. sc. 3. 
 
 And they raise that illusive appearance, 
 and utter that ambiguous prophecy, which, 
 after he had perpetrated the murder of Dun- 
 can, hastened his destruction, by inspiring 
 him with a vain security: this is the inten- 
 tion avowed by Hecate ; 
 
 Upon the corner of the moon 
 
 There hangs a vaporous drop profound ; 
 
 I'll catch it ere it come to ground : 
 
 And that distilPd by magick slights, 
 
 Shall raise such artificial sprights, 
 
 As by the strength of their illusion, 
 
 Shall draw him on to his confusion : 
 
 He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear 
 
 His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear : 
 
 And you all know, security 
 
 Is mortals' chiefest enemy. 
 
 Act iii. sc. ,5. 
 
 And in conformity to this intention is 
 the prophecy subsequently uttered to Mac- 
 beth, which has the desired effect of in- 
 
 
321 
 
 spiring him with that security which occa- 
 sioned his fall. 
 
 Macb. How now, you secret, black, and midnight 
 hags, 
 What is't you do ? 
 Witches. A deed without a name. 
 
 Macb. I conjure you, by that which you profess, 
 
 (Howe'er you come to know it,) answer me ; 
 To what 1 ask you. 
 
 1. Witch. Speak. 
 
 2. Witch. Demand. 
 
 3. Witch. We '11 answer. 
 
 Say if thou'dst rather hear it from our 
 mouths, 
 
 Or from our masters' ? 
 Macb. Call them, let me see them. 
 
 1. Witch. Pour in sow's blood that hath eaten 
 
 Her nine farrow ; grease, that's sweaten 
 
 From the murd'rer's gibbet, throw 
 
 Into the flame. 
 all. Come, high, or low 
 
 Thyself and office deftly show. 
 
 (Thunder. An apparition of an armed head rises.) 
 
 Macb. Tell me, thou unknown pow'r, — 
 
 1. Witch. He knows thy thought; 
 
 Hear his speech, but say thou nought. 
 Appar. Macbeth ! Macbeth ! Macbeth ! beware 
 Macduff; 
 Beware the thane of Fife. Dismiss me : 
 enough. [Descends. 
 
 Macb. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution 
 thanks ; 
 
Thou hast harp'd my fear aright:— but one 
 word more: — 
 I. Witch. He will not be commanded : here's another 
 More potent than the first. 
 
 (Thunder. Jin apparition of a bloody child rises.) 
 
 .■Appak, Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!— 
 
 Be bloody, bold, and resolute : laugh to scorn 
 The pow'r of man ; for none of woman born 
 Shall harm Macbeth. [Descends. 
 
 Macb. Then live, Macduff; what need I fear of thee? 
 But yet I'll make assurance doubly sure, 
 And take a bond of fate ; thou shalt not live;— 
 
 (Thunder. An apparition of a child crowned, with a tree 
 in his hand, rises.) 
 
 Appar. Be lion-mettled, proud ; and take no care 
 Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers 
 
 are : 
 Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until 
 Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill 
 Shall come against him. [Descends. 
 
 Macb. That will never be; 
 
 Who can impress the forest; bid the tree 
 Unfix his earth-bound root ? sweet bode- 
 
 ments ! good ! 
 Rebellious head, rise never, till the wood 
 Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth 
 Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath 
 To time, and mortal custom. — 
 
 Act, iv. sc. 1. 
 
 Such are the principal incidents which 
 constitute the machinery of " Macbeth ;" 
 
323 
 
 and justify the adoption of such imagery in 
 that drama. Our immediate object is to ob- 
 serve its influence on the natural train of 
 events in the fable : and here it is first de- 
 serving of remark, that while the mysterious- 
 ness in which the predictions, thus uttered, 
 are involved, and the curiosity exciled to 
 discover how ihey may be likely to termi-* 
 nate, imparts more intrigue to the plot and 
 greater interest to the story ; the natural train 
 of the incidents, as consisting of events aris- 
 ing out of each other by means probable or 
 necessary, is not disturbed or impeded. 
 
 This seems generally evident on review-* 
 ing the passages already adduced. From 
 them it appears, that the witches perform 
 nothing themselves, they advise nothing to 
 be undertaken, and afford no aid in any 1 
 thing that is purposed, which at all contri- 
 butes to advance or retard the action. The 
 magical rites w r hich they emploj 7 , and the 
 obscure prophecies which they utter, have 
 no direct tendency of this kind. But the 
 same position will be more satisfactorily 
 established by an induction of particular 
 passages, made for the purpose of shewing 
 how entirely the action is forwarded without 
 the aid of preternatural- interference. 
 
324 
 
 For this purpose, it may be in the first 
 place observed, that of all that the witches dis- 
 close, it is the declaration of a known fact 
 alone which operates on Macbeth, and dis- 
 poses him to action. Before they hail him 
 thane of Cawdor, the spectator is acquainted, 
 that he was to be saluted with this title, ac- 
 cording to the intention expressed by his 
 sovereign. 
 
 Duncan. No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive 
 Our bosorn interest :— Go, pronounce his 
 
 death, 
 And with his former title greet Macbeth. 
 
 Act i. sc. 2. 
 
 While the messengers are employed in 
 carrying this intention into execution, and 
 conveying the intelligence to Macbeth, the 
 interview takes place between him and the 
 witches ; and it is this circumstance of all 
 that they relate which chiefly attracts his 
 notice ; 
 
 Macb. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more : 
 By Sinel's death, I know, I'm thane of 
 
 Glamis ; 
 But how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor 
 
 lives, 
 A prosperous gentleman ; and, to be king, 
 Stands not within the prospect of belief, 
 
325 
 
 No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from 
 
 whence 
 You owe this strange intelligence ? 
 
 Act i. sc. 3. 
 
 But they do not delay to answer this ques- 
 tion, or tend to remove any part of the curio- 
 sity, excited by their previous salutation, and 
 expressed in this interrogation. After a 
 short interval, the messengers of Duncan are 
 introduced, who discharge their commission 
 independent of any thing which is effected 
 by the preternatural agency. 
 
 Angus. We are sent, 
 
 To give thee from our royal master thanks ; — 
 Rosse. And for an earnest of a greater honour, 
 
 He bade me, from him, call thee thane of 
 Cawdor ; 
 
 In which addition, hail, most worthy thane ! 
 
 For it is thine. Ibid. 
 
 "*This declaration is at first received by 
 Macbeth with doubt, as one who did not 
 rely implicitly on what the witches pro- 
 mised. 
 
 Mac 9. The thane of Cawdor lives; why do you 
 dress me 
 In borrow'd robes ? Ibid. 
 
 His doubts are, however, naturally dis- 
 pelled on learning that the thane of Cawdor 
 
326 
 
 was attainted for rebellion; and this cir* 
 cumstance is, as naturally, believed to conT 
 tain some confirmation of the former pre- 
 dictions, and some earnest of their final 
 ac.com plishment ; 
 
 Macb. Glamis, and thane of Cawdor: 
 
 The greatest is behind. — Two truths are told, 
 
 As happy prologues to the swelling act 
 
 Of the imperial theme. — I thank you, gen-; 
 
 tlemen. — 
 This supernatural soliciting 
 Cannot be ill ; cannot be good :— if ill, 
 Why hath it giv'n me earnest of success, 
 Commencing in a truth ? I'm thane of 
 
 Cawdor;— Act i. sc. 3. 
 
 Thus it appears that the declaration of a 
 known fact, which would have been im-r 
 parted in the natural train of events, if not 
 marvellously communicated, is all that is 
 virtually effected by the higher agents in the 
 commencement of this inimitable drama* 
 while these beings are indirectly instrumen- 
 tal in urging the hero on an enterprize of no 
 common magnitude or difficulty ; and while, 
 from the artful manner in which they make 
 this disclosure, they throw so much of the 
 mysterious and terrible into the passionate 
 effect of the piece as to awaken the surprise, 
 and rivet the attention of the spectator. 
 
327 
 
 Equally independent of preternatural in- 
 terference is the plot laid and carried into 
 execution. The declarations of the witches . 
 beget at first, on the part of Macbeth, only 
 feelings of horrour at the atrocity of the 
 crime, by which alone there seemed to be 
 any prospect of their predictions being real- 
 ized. Shrinking from the idea of invading 
 the throne through the blood of his sove- 
 reign, he seems to rely upon chance for the 
 accomplishment of what they promised ; 
 
 Macc. This supernatural soliciting 
 
 Cannot be ill; cannot be good ; — 
 
 If. good, why do I yield to that suggestion 
 
 Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, 
 
 And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 
 
 Against the use of nature ? Present fears 
 
 Are less than horrible imaginings: 
 
 My thought, whose murder is fantastical 
 
 Shakes so my single state of man, that function 
 
 Is smothered in surmise ; — 
 
 If chance will have me king, why, chance may 
 
 crown me, 
 Without my stir. Act. i. sc 3. 
 
 In this light he communicates the parti- 
 culars of his interview with the witches to 
 his wife ; merely that she " might not lose 
 the dues of rejoicing by being ignorant of 
 
328 
 
 what greatness was promised him." y But 
 he seems to be not yet disposed to follow 
 up the prognostication ; and she augurs that 
 no exertion was likely to follow, on his part, 
 from the assurances which he had received 
 of future aggrandisement ; 
 
 L. Macb. Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be 
 What thou art promis'd : — yet do I fear thy 
 
 nature ; 
 It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, 
 To catch the nearest way: thou would 'st be 
 
 great; 
 Art not without ambition ; but without 
 The illness should attend it. What thou 
 
 would'st highly, 
 That would'st thou holily ; would'st not play 
 
 false^ 
 And yet would'st wrongly win : — 
 
 Act i. sc. 5. 
 
 The project of securing the crown by ex- 
 citing him to the murder of Duncan, origi- 
 nates with herself, while Macbeth is at a 
 distance ; 
 
 L. Macb. Hie thee hither 
 
 That I may pour my spirits in thine ear ; 
 And chastise with the valour of my tongue 
 All that impedes thee from the golden round, 
 
 y Act i. sc. 5. 
 
329 
 
 Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
 To have thee crown'd withal. 
 
 Acti. sc. 5. 
 
 It is accordingly imparted to her hus- 
 band, who enters into her designs not without 
 some reluctance : nay, she claims the exclu- 
 sive privilege of setting the affair in that 
 train which was to ensure its success : 
 
 Macb My dearest love, 
 
 Duncan comes here to night : 
 L. Macb. And when goes hence ? 
 
 Macb. To-morrow, as he purposes. 
 L. Macb. O, never 
 
 Shall sun that morrow see ! — He that's 
 
 coming 
 Must be provided for : and you shall put 
 This night's great business into my dispatch ; 
 Which shall to all our nights and days to 
 
 come 
 Give solety sovereign sway and masterdom. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 But Macbeth still remains undetermined 
 and irresolute; 
 
 Macb. We will speak further. 
 
 L. Macb. Only look up clear; 
 
 To alter favour ever is to fear ; 
 
 Leave all the rest to me. Ibid. 
 
 The whole of Macbetrrs conduct exhi- 
 bits a violent contest between passion and 
 conscience, in which he seems most inclined 
 
3S0 
 
 to attend to the voice of the latter ; suitably 
 to what it suggests, he forms that determina- 
 tion, in which he wishes his wife to rest, pre- 
 viously to the arguments which she so pow- 
 erfully urges to inspire him with greater reso- 
 lution; 
 
 Macb. We will proceed no. further in this business : 
 
 He hath honour'd me of late; and 1 have bought 
 Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 
 Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, 
 Not cast aside so soon. Act i. sc. 7. 
 
 It is from this declaration that she takes 
 occasion to make that irresistible appeal to 
 his affection and his spirit, which stifles the 
 last remonstrances of virtue in the sense of 
 false honour and false shame. On the ex- 
 quisite art which is displayed in the conduct 
 of the whole scene I need not here enlarge, 
 as it rather exhibits the author's power over 
 the passions, than illustrates his address in 
 interweaving the plot ; it is merely necessary 
 for mjr purpose to observe, that Lady Mac- 
 beth is completely successful in undermin- 
 ing his best resolutions, and in confirming 
 him in the intention of entering into her 
 designs; 
 
 Macb. I am settled, and bend up 
 
 Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
SSI 
 
 The resolution thus formed is accordingly 
 carried into effect by probable and neces- 
 sary means ; so that the plot is not only laid, 
 but conducted without the interposition of 
 the preternatural agents. On these events, 
 it would be foreign from my purpose to 
 dwell with minuteness ; it is sufficient to ob- 
 serve, that, in the same manner the murder 
 of Duncan is perpetrated ; Macbeth is in- 
 vested with the sovereignly ; and steps are 
 taken to remove those who stood between 
 him and the quiet possession of the king- 
 dom. In the mean time, Malcolm and 
 Macduff, who consult their safety by flight, 
 solicit succours from the English court, and 
 concert measures for deposing the usurper. 
 But Macbeth, placing a reliance in that 
 prophecy which was uttered by the witches 
 to betray him into a vain security, underva- 
 lues the danger which menaces him in this 
 direction ; the first intelligence which he re- 
 ceives of the approach of the enemy is treated 
 by him with disregard. 
 
 Macb. Bring me no more reports ; let them fly all : 
 Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane, 
 I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy 
 Malcolm ? 
 
332 
 
 Was he not born of woman ? The spirits that know 
 All mortal consequents, pronounc'd me thus ; 
 « Fear not, Macbeth ; no man that's born of 
 
 woman 
 Shall e'er have pow'r on thee." — Act 5. sc. 3. 
 
 From this time, the plot begins to unravel 
 itself; and in the same natural process as 
 that in which it was involved. The first 
 part of the predictions of the witches, is 
 not unintentionally fulfilled by a command 
 given from Malcolm to the soldiers of Si- 
 ward, as they advanced to attack the castle 
 of Dunsinane ; 
 
 Siw. What wood is this before us ? 
 
 Ment. The wood of Birnam. 
 
 Malc. Let ev'ry soldier hew him down a bough, 
 
 And bear't before him ; thereby shall we shadow 
 The numbers of our host, and make discov'ry 
 Err in report of us. Ibid. sc. 4. 
 
 And this circumstance when communi- 
 cated to Macbeth has that effect which was 
 intended by the weird sisters; 
 
 Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, 
 
 I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, 
 The wood began to move. 
 
 Macb. Liar and slave. — If thou speak'st false, 
 
 Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, 
 Till famine cling thee ; if thy speech be sooth, 
 I care not if thou dost for me as much. 
 
 Ibid. sc. 5. 
 
333 
 
 But the communication gives the first 
 shake to his resolution ; 
 
 I pull in resolution ; and begin 
 To doubt th' equivocation of the fiend, 
 That lies like truth : " Fear not till Birnam wood 
 " Do come to Dunsinane ;" and now a wood 
 Conies toward Dunsinane. — Arm, arm and out !— 
 If this which he avouches does appear, 
 There is no flying hence nor tarrying here. 
 I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun ; 
 And wish th' estate o' the world were now undone. 
 
 Act 5. sc. 5. 
 
 Still, however, the unaccomplished part 
 of the witches' prophecy leaves him suffi- 
 cient confidence of success or safety, until 
 he is inextricably involved in that danger 
 which completes his destruction ; 
 
 They have tied me to a stake ; I cannot fly, 
 But, bear-like, I must fight the course. — What's he, 
 That was not born of woman ? Such a one 
 Am I to fear, or none. Ibid. sc. 7. 
 
 With this confidence he engages young 
 Siward ; 
 
 Thou wast born of woman.— 
 
 But swords 1 smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, 
 
 Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 And dares Macduff to the conflict : 
 
 Thou losest labour : 
 
 As easy may'st thou the intrenchant air 
 
534 
 
 With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed ; 
 Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests : 
 I bear a charmed life, which must not yield 
 To one of woman born. Act 5. sc. 7« 
 
 But he receives that answer, which, remov- 
 ing the reliance placed by him in the 
 prediction of the witches, affords an easy 
 victory to Macduff. 
 
 Macd Despair thy charm ; 
 
 And let the angel, whom thou still hast serv'd, 
 Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb 
 Untimely ripp'd. 
 
 Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, 
 For it hath cow'd my better part of man ! 
 And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd, 
 That palter with us in a double sense ; 
 That keep the word of promise to our ear, 
 And break it to our hope. — I'll not fight with 
 thee. Ibid. 
 
 From this view of the structure of events 
 in " Macbeth" it is perfectly evident, that 
 without encroaching on the natural train of 
 the incidents, more intrigue may be im- 
 parted to the fable by the machinery. But 
 while the integrity of the plot is thus pre- 
 served without the aid of the higher agency, 
 I. am aware, it may be objected, that the 
 latter is rendered either wholly useless, or at 
 best introduced to very little purpose. It is 
 
S35 
 
 not to be disputed, that with respect to the 
 advancement of what is properly denomi- 
 nated the action, this is strictly the case: 
 the whole of the preternatural intervention 
 might be removed, without any material 
 danger to this part of the fable. In the 
 tragedy before us, the disclosure made by 
 the witches, might be supposed to have pre- 
 ceded the commencement of the drama by 
 a considerable period ; this, indeed, seems 
 to have been requisite in order to render the 
 action perfect in itself. But the charge of 
 being useless and unnecessary does not lie, 
 on this account, against the machinery. 
 When we speak of any, even of the natural 
 incidents, as being of this description, we 
 speak relatively, and with an immediate 
 reference to the contexture of the action, as 
 moulded and embodied by the poet; in 
 this sense many incidents are conceived ne- 
 cessary which are merely arbitrary, which, 
 in fact, we cannot doubt, he might have 
 suppressed altogether, or supplied by others 
 which would seem equally indispensable to 
 the contexture of his subject. Willi a like 
 latitude must we estimate the utility of that 
 part of the d rama which constitu tes i the ma* 
 chinery ; which, though it (may not be ne- 
 
336 
 
 cessary in advancing the action, may be 
 strictly so in rounding the subject. The justice 
 of this observation will be more evident, on 
 considering the character of Macbeth, which 
 has been sometimes unjustly condemned as 
 unnatural ; as exhibiting too great a degree 
 of irresolution in carrying into effect, a pro- 
 ject in which he was encouraged by preter- 
 natural intelligences. This is, however, the 
 objection of those only who form but an 
 imperfect notion of the author's scope and 
 subject. The hero's character, as sketched 
 by one who knew it most intimately, is that 
 of being, 
 
 not without ambition ; but without 
 
 The illness would attend it. What he would highly, 
 That he would hoi ily. Act i. sc. 5. 
 
 He is in fact represented not only as 
 ambitious, but as superstitious and brave ; 
 from the former of these last named quali- 
 ties proceeded that credulity which disposed 
 him to attend to the witches, and that scru- 
 pulousness which withheld him from attempt- 
 ing what they suggested; and from the latter 
 that resolution which enabled him finally to 
 effect his designs, and yet raised proportion- 
 able obstacles to the punishment with which 
 
337 
 
 his crime was to be avenged. A mind of 
 this temperament required the operation of 
 powerful stimulants to dispose it to action ; 
 to reconcile it to evil in the first instance, 
 and to shake its security in the second. 
 And herein lay the necessity of applying for 
 this purpose to preternatural interference; 
 the influence of which, as directed to such a 
 purpose, I have already fully demonstrated. 
 And let us not forget, here, that it is one 
 thing to engage in an action, and another 
 to raise the suggestions in which an action 
 originates ; that the latter is the utmost which 
 is undertaken by the preternatural beings in 
 " Macbeth," who of course diminish nothing 
 of the artful structure of the fable, while 
 they prepare the hero's mind for those im- 
 pressions, by which he is influenced in a 
 natural manner, and which would have 
 proved unavailing, unless through their inter- 
 ference. True it is, the poet might have 
 wrought out his fable without having re- 
 course to such assistance ; but it is not to be 
 disputed, that those beings are still neces- 
 sary in the only proper sense of this term ; 
 in being essential to the poet's plot, as he has 
 found it expedient to constitute it. When 
 from this partial view of the subject, we 
 
 2 
 
338 
 
 regard the main end of their introduction, and 
 that which is most calculated to strike the 
 spectator, we must admit it to be of that 
 magnitude which merited the attention, and 
 justified the interference of higher beings : 
 the suggestions which they raise in the mind 
 of Macbeth ultimately tend to the subver- 
 sion of a kingdom, and its restoration to the 
 lawful sovereign. 
 
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