An essay on the genius and writings of Shakespear: with some letters of criticism to The spectator. By Mr. Dennis:

LETTER. I.

On the Genius and Writings of Shake|spear.

To Mr. _____ _____

Feb. 1. 1710/11.

SIR,

I Here send you the Tragedy of Coriola|nus, which I have alter'd from the Ori|ginal of Shakespear, and with it a short Account of the Genius and Writings of that Author, both which you desired me to send to you the last time I had the good For|tune to see you. But I send them both upon this condition, that you will with your usual Sincerity tell me your Sentiments both of the Poem and of the Criticism.

Shakespear was one of the greatest Ge|nius's that the World e'er saw for the Tra|gick Stage. Tho'he lay under greater Dis|advantages

than any of his Successors, yet had he greater and more genuine Beauties than the best and greatest of them. And what makes the brightest Glory of his Cha|racter, those Beauties were entirely his own, and owing to the Force of his own Nature; whereas his Faults were owing to his Edu|cation, and to the Age that he liv'd in. One may say of him as they did of Homer, that he had none to imitate, and is himself inimi|table. His Imaginations were often as just, as they were bold and strong. He had a na|tural Discretion which never cou'd have been taught him, and his Judgment was strong and penetrating. He seems to have wanted nothing but Time and Leisure for Thought, to have found out those Rules of which he appears so ignorant. His Characters are al|ways drawn justly, exactly, graphically, ex|cept where he fail'd by not knowing History or the Poetical Art. He has for the most part more fairly distinguish'd them than any of his Successors have done, who have fal|sified them, or confounded them, by making Love the predominant Quality in all. He had so fine a Talent for touching the Passions, and they are so lively in him, and so truly in Nature, that they often touch us more without their due Preparations, than those of other Tragick Poets, who have all the Beauty of Design and all the Advantage of

Incidents. His Master-Passion was Terror, which he has often mov'd so powerfully and so wonderfully, that we may justly con|clude, that if he had had the Advantage of Art and Learning, he wou'd have surpass'd the very best and strongest of the Ancients. His Paintings are often so beautiful and so lively, so graceful and so powerful, especi|ally where he uses them in order to move Terror; that there is nothing perhaps more accomplish'd in our English Poetry. His Sen|timents for the most part in his best Trage|dies, are noble, generous, easie and natural, and adapted to the Persons who use them. His Expression is in many Places good and pure after a hundred Years; simple tho' ele|vated, graceful tho' bold, and easy tho' strong. He seems to have been the very Original of our English Tragical Harmony; that is the Harmony of Blank Verse, diversi|fyed often by Dissyllable and Trissyllable Ter|minations. For that Diversity distinguishes it from Heroick Harmony, and bringing it nearer to common Use, makes it more pro|per to gain Attention, and more fit for Action and Dialogue. Such Verse we make when we are writing Prose; we make such Verse in common Conversation.

If Shakespear had these great Qualities by Nature, what would he not have been, if he had join'd to so happy a Genius Learning

and the Poetical Art. For want of the lat|ter our Author has sometimes made gross Mistakes in the Characters which he has drawn from History, against the Equality and Conveniency of Manners of his Drama|tical Persons. Witness Menenius in the fol|lowing Tragedy, whom he has made an er|rant Buffoon, which is a great Absurdity. For he might as well have imagin'd a grave majestick Jack-Pudding, as a Buffoon in a Roman Senator. Aufidius the General of the Volscians is shewn a base and a profligate Villain. He has offended against the Equa|lity of the Manners even in his Hero him|self. For Coriolanus who in the first part of the Tragedy is shewn so open, so frank, so violent, and so magnanimous, is represented in the latter part by Aufidius which is con|tradicted by no one, a flattering, fawning, cringing, insinuating Traytor.

For want of this Poetical Art, Shakespear has introduced things into his Tragedies, which are against the Dignity of that noble Poem, as the Rabble in Julius Caesar, and that in Coriolanus; tho' that in Coriolanus of|fends not only against the Dignity of Trage|dy, but against the Truth of History like|wise, and the Customs of Ancient Rome, and the Majesty of the Roman People, as we shall have occasion to shew anon.

For want of this Art, he has made his Incidents less moving, less surprizing, and less wonderful. He has been so far from seeking those fine Occasions to move with which an Action furnish'd according to Art would have furnish'd him; that he seems rather to have industriously avoi|ded them. He makes Coriolanus upon his Sentence of Banishment, take his leave of his Wife and his Mother out of sight of the Audience, and so has purposely as it were avoided a great occasion to move.

If we are willing to allow, that Shake|spear by sticking to the bare Events of Histo|ry, has mov'd more than any of his Succes|sors, yet his just Admirers must confess, that if he had had the Poetical Art, he would have mov'd ten times more. For 'tis impossible that by a bare Historical Play he could move so much as he would have done by a Fable.

We find that a Romance entertains the ge|nerality of Mankind with more Satisfaction than History, if they read only to be enter|tertain'd; but if they read History thro' Pride or Ambition, they bring their Passions along with them, and that alters the case. Nothing is more plain than that even in an Historical Relation some Parts of it, and some Events, please more than others. And there|fore a Man of Judgment, who sees why they

do so, may in forming a Fable, and dispo|sing an Action, please more than an Histo|rian can do. For the just Fiction of a Fable moves us more than an Historical Relation can do for the two following Reasons: First by reason of the Communication and mutual Dependence of its Parts. For if Passion springs from Motion, then the Obstruction of that Motion or a counter Motion must obstruct and check the Passion: And there|fore an Historian and a Writer of Historical Plays passing from Events of one nature to Events of another nature without a due Pre|paration, must of necessity stifle and confound one Passion by another. The second Rea|son why the Fiction of a Fable pleases us more, than an Historical Relation can do, is, because in an Historical Relation we sel|dom are acquainted with the true Causes of Events, whereas in a feign'd Action which is duly constituted, that is, which has a just beginning, those Causes always appear. For 'tis observable, that both in a Poetical Fiction and an Historical Relation, those E|vents are the most entertaining, the most sur|prizing, and the most wonderful, in which Providence most plainly appears. And 'tis for this Reason that the Author of a just Fable, must please more than the Writer of an Historical Relation. The Good must ne|ver fail to prosper, and the Bad must be al|ways

punish'd: Otherwise the Incidents, and particularly the Catastrophe which is the grand Incident, are liable to be imputed ra|ther to Chance, than to Almighty Conduct and to Sovereign Justice. The want of this impartial Distribution of Justice makes the Coriolanus of Shakespear to be without Mo|ral. 'Tis true indeed Coriolanus is kill'd by those Foreign Enemies with whom he had openly sided against his Country, which seems to be an Event worthy of Providence, and would look as if it were contriv'd by in|finite Wisdom, and executed by supreme Justice, to make Coriolanus a dreadful Exam|ple to all, who lead on Foreign Enemies to the Invasion of their native Country; if there were not something in the Fate of the other Characters, which gives occasion to doubt of it, and which suggests to the Scep|tical Reader that this might happen by acci|dent. For Aufidius the principal Murderer of Coriolanus, who in cold Blood gets him assassinated by Ruffians, instead of leaving him to the Law of the Country, and the Justice of the Volscian Senate, and who com|mits so black a Crime, not by any erroneous Zeal, or a mistaken Publick Spirit, but thro' Jealousy, Envy, and inveterate Malice; this Assassinator not only survives, and survives unpunish'd, but seems to be rewarded for so detestable an Action; by engrossing all those

Honours to himself which Coriolanus before had shar'd with him. But not only Aufidius, but the Roman Tribunes, Sicinius and Bru|tus, appear to me to cry aloud for Poetick Vengeance. For they are guilty of two Faults, neither of which ought to go unpu|nish'd: The first in procuring the Banish|ment of Coriolanus. If they were really jea|lous, that Coriolanus had a Design on their Liberties, when he stood for the Consulship, it was but just that they should give him a Repulse; but to get the Champion and De|fender of their Country banish'd upon a pre|tended Jealousy was a great deal too much, and could proceed from nothing but that Ha|tred and Malice which they had conceiv'd against him, for opposing their Institution. Their second Fault lay in procuring this Sentence by indirect Methods, by exaspera|ting and inflaming the People by Artifices and Insinuations, by taking a base Advantage of the Open-heartedness and Violence of Corio|lanus, and by oppressing him with a Sophi|stical Argument, that he aim'd at Sovereign|ty, because he had not deliver'd into the Publick Treasury the Spoils which he had taken from the Antiates. As if a Design of Sovereignty could be reasonably concluded from any one Act; or any one could think of bringing to pass such a Design, by eter|nally favouring the Patricians, and disobli|ging

the Populace. For we need make no doubt, but that it was among the young Pa|tricians, that Coriolanus distributed the Spoils which were taken from the Antiates; where|as nothing but caressing the Populace could enslave the Roman People, as Caesar after|wards very well saw and experienc'd. So that this Injustice of the Tribunes was the original Cause of the Calamity which after|wards befel their Country, by the Invasion of the Volscians, under the Conduct of Co|riolanus. And yet these Tribunes at the end of the Play like Aufidius remain unpunish'd. But indeed Shakespear has been wanting in the exact Distribution of Poetical Justice not only in his Coriolanus, but in most of his best Tragedies, in which the Guilty and the Innocent perish promiscuously; as Duncan and Banquo in Mackbeth, as likewise Lady Mac|duffe and her Children; Desdemona in Othel|lo; Cordelia, Kent, and King Lear, in the Tragedy that bears his Name; Brutus and Porcia in Julius Caesar, and young Hamlet in the Tragedy of Hamlet. For tho' it may be said in Defence of the last, that Hamlet had a Design to kill his Uncle who then reign'd; yet this is justify'd by no less than a Call from Heaven, and raising up one from the Dead to urge him to it. The Good and the Bad then perishing promiscuously in the best of Shakespear's Tragedies, there can be ei|ther

none or very weak Instruction in them: For such promiscuous Events call the Go|vernment of Providence into Question, and by Scepticks and Libertines are resolv'd into Chance. I humbly conceive therefore that this want of Dramatical Justice in the Tra|gedy of Coriolanus, gave occasion for a just Alteration, and that I was oblig'd to sacri|fice to that Justice Aufidius and the Tribunes, as well as Coriolanus.

Thus have we endeavour'd to shew, that for want of the Poetical Art, Shakespear lay under very great Disadvantages. At the same time we must own to his Honour, that he has often perform'd Wonders without it, in spight of the Judgment of so great a Man as Horace.

Naturâ fieret Laudabile carmen an arte Quaesitum est; ego nec studium sine Divite vena? Nec rude quid profit video Ingenium, alterius sic Altera poscit opem res, & conjurat amicè.

But from this very Judgment of Horace we may justly conclude, that Shakespear would have wonderfully surpass'd himself, if Art had been join'd to Nature. There never was a greater Genius in the World than Virgil: He was one who seems to have been born for this glorious End, that the Roman Muse might exert in him the utmost Force of her

Poetry: And his admirable and divine Beau|ties are manifestly owing to the happy Con|federacy of Art and Nature. It was Art that contriv'd that incomparable Design of the Aeneis, and it was Nature that executed it. Could the greatest Genius that ever was in|fus'd into Earthly Mold by Heaven, if it had been unguided and unassisted by Art, have taught him to make that noble and wonderful Use of the Pythagorean Transmi|gration, which he makes in the Sixth Book of his Poem? Had Virgil been a circular Poet, and closely adher'd to History, how could the Romans have been transported with that inimitable Episode of Dido, which brought a-fresh into their Minds the Car|thaginian War, and the dreadful Hannibal? When 'tis evident that that admirable Epi|sode is so little owing to a faithful obser|vance of History, and the exact order of Time, that 'tis deriv'd from a very bold but judicious Violation of these; it being un|deniable that Dido liv'd almost 300 Years after Aeneas. Yet is it that charming Epi|sode that makes the chief Beauties of a third Part of the Poem. For the Destruction of Troy it self which is so divinely related, is still more admirable by the Effect it produ|ces, which is the Passion of Dido.

I should now proceed to shew under what Disadvantages Shakespear lay for want of

being conversant with the Ancients. But I have already writ a long Letter, and am de|sirous to know how you relish what has been already said before I go any farther: For I am unwilling to take more Pains be|fore I am sure of giving you some Pleasure. I am,

SIR,

Your most Humble, Faithful Servant.

LETTER II.

On the Genius and Writings of Shake|spear.

To Mr. _____ _____

Feb. 6. 1710/11.

SIR,

UPON the Encouragement I have re|ceiv'd from you, I shall proceed to shew under what Disadvantages Shakespear lay for want of being conversant with the Ancients. But because I have lately been in some Conversation, where they would not allow, but that he was acquainted with the Ancients, I shall endeavour to make it appear that he was not; and the shewing that in the Method in which I pretend to convince the Reader of it, will sufficiently prove, what Inconveniences he lay under, and what Errors he committed for want of being con|versant with them. But here we must di|stinguish between the several kinds of Ac|quaintance: A Man may be said to be ac|quainted with another who never was but twice in his Company; but that is at the best a superficial Acquaintance, from which neither very great Pleasure nor Pro|fit can be deriv'd. Our business is here to

shew, that Shakespear had no familiar Ac|quaintance with the Graecian and Roman Au|thors. For if he was familiarly conversant with them, how comes it to pass that he wants Art? Is it that he studied to know them in other things; and neglected that only in them, which chiefly tends to the Advancement of the Art of the Stage? Or is it that he wanted Discernment, to see the Justness and the Greatness, and the Harmo|ny of their Designs, and the Reasonableness of those Rules upon which those Designs are founded? Or how come his Successors to have that Discernment which he wanted, when they fall so much below him in other things? How comes he to have been guilty of the grossest faults in Chronology, and how come we to find out those faults? In his Tragedy of Troylus and Cressida, he in|troduces Hector speaking of Aristotle, who was born a thousand Years after the Death of Hector. In the same Play mention is made of Milo, which is another very great fault in Chronology. Alexander is mention'd in Coriolanus, tho' that Conqueror of the Ori|ent liv'd above Two hundred Years after him. In this last Tragedy he has mistaken the ve|ry Names of his Dramatick Persons, if we give Credit to Livy. For the Mother of Coriolanus in the Roman Historian is Vettu|ria, and the Wife is Volumnia. Whereas in

Shakespear the Wife is Virgilia, and the Mo|ther Volumnia. And the Volscian General in Shakespear is Tullus Aufidius, and Tullus At|tius in Livy. How comes it that he takes Plutarch's Word, who was by Birth a Grae|cian for the Affairs of Rome, rather than that of the Roman Historian, if so be that he had read the Latter? Or what Reason can be given for his not reading him, when he wrote upon a Roman Story, but that in Shakespear's Time there was a Translation of Plutarch, and there was none of Livy? If Shakespear was familiarly conversant with the Roman Authors, how came he to intro|duce a Rabble into Coriolanus, in which he offended not only against the Dignity of Tra|gedy, but the Truth of Fact, the Authority of all the Roman Writers, the Customs of Ancient Rome, and the Majesty of the Ro|man People? By introducing a Rabble into Julius Caesar, he only offended against the Dignity of Tragedy. For that part of the People who ran about the Streets upon great Festivals, or publick Calamities, or publick Rejoicings, or Revolutions in Government, are certainly the Scum of the Populace. But the Persons who in the Time of Corio|lanus, rose in Vindication of their just Rights, and extorted from the Patricians the Institu|tion of the Tribunes of the People, and the Persons by whom afterwards Coriolanus was

tried, were the whole Body of the Roman People to the Reserve of the Patricians, which Body included the Roman Knights, and the wealthy substantial Citizens, who were as different from the Rabble as the Pa|tricians themselves, as qualify'd as the latter to form a right Judgment of Things, and to contemn the vain Opinions of the Rabble. So at least Horace esteems them, who very well knew his Countrymen.

Offenduntur enim, quibus est equus, aut pater, aut res, Nec siquid fricti ciceris probat aut nucis emptor, Aequis accipiant animis donantve Corona?

Where we see the Knights and the substan|tial Citizens, are rank'd in an equal Degree of Capacity with the Roman Senators, and are equally distinguish'd from the Rabble.

If Shakespear was so conversant with the Ancients, how comes he to have introduc'd some Characters into his Plays, so unlike what they are to be found in History? In the Character of Menenius in the following Tragedy, he has doubly offended against that Historical Resemblance. For first whereas Menenius was an eloquent Person, Shake|spear has made him a downright Buffoon. And how is it possible for any Man to con|ceive a Ciceronian Jack-pudding? Never was

any Buffoon eloquent, or wise, or witty, or vertuous. All the good and ill Qualities of a Buffoon are summ'd up in one word, and that is a Buffoon. And secondly, whereas Shakespear has made him a Hater and Con|temner, and Vilifyer of the People, we are assur'd by the Roman Historian that Mene|nius was extremely popular. He was so very far from opposing the Institution of the Tribunes, as he is represented in Shakespear, that he was chiefly instrumental in it. Af|ter the People had deserted the City, and sat down upon the sacred Mountain, he was the chief of the Delegates whom the Senate deputed to them, as being look'd upon to be the Person who would be most agrea|ble to them. In short this very Menenius both liv'd and dy'd so very much their Favourite, that dying poor he had pom|pous Funerals at the Expence of the Roman People.

Had Shakespear read either Salust or Ci|cero, how could he have made so very lit|tle of the first and greatest of Men, as that Caesar should be but a Fourth-rate Actor in his own Tragedy? How could it have been that seeing Caesar, we should ask for Caesar? That we should ask, where is his unequall'd Greatness of Mind, his unbounded Thirst of Glory, and that victorious Eloquence, with which he triumph'd over the Souls

of both Friends and Enemies, and with which he rivall'd Cicero in Genius as he did Pompey in Power? How fair an Occa|sion was there to open the Character of Cae|sar in the first Scene between Brutus and Cassius? For when Cassius tells Brutus that Caesar was but a Man like them, and had the same natural Imperfections which they had, how natural had it been for Brutus to reply, that Caesar indeed had their Imper|fections of Nature, but neither he nor Cas|sius had by any means the great Qualities of Caesar: Neither his Military Vertue nor Science, nor his matchless Renown, nor his unparallell'd Victories, his unwearied Boun|ty to his Friends, nor his Godlike Clemen|cy to his Foes, his Beneficence, his Muni|ficence, his Easiness of Access to the mea|nest Roman, his indefatigable Labours, his incredible Celerity, the Plausibleness if not Justness of his Ambition, that knowing him|self to be the greatest of Men, he only sought occasion to make the World confess him such. In short, if Brutus, after enu|merating all the wonderful Qualities of Cae|sar, had resolv'd in spight of them all to sacrifice him to publick Liberty, how had such a Proceeding heighten'd the Vertue and the Character of Brutus? But then in|deed it would have been requisite that Cae|sar upon his appearance should have made

all this good. And as we know no Princi|ple of human Action but human Sentiment only, Caesar who did greater Things, and had greater Designs than the rest of the Ro|mans, ought certainly to have outshin'd by many Degrees all the other Characters of his Tragedy. Caesar ought particularly to have justified his Actions, and to have heigh|ten'd his Character, by shewing that what he had done, he had done by Necessity; that the Romans had lost their Agrarian, lost their Rotation of Magistracy, and that consequently nothing but an empty Shadow of publick Liberty remain'd. That the Gracchi had made the last noble but unsuc|cessful Efforts, for the restoring the Com|monwealth, that they had fail'd for want of arbitrary irresistible Power, the Restoration of the Agrarian requiring too vast a Retrospect to be done without it; that the Govern|ment, when Caesar came to publick Affairs, was got into the Hands of a few, and that those few were factious, and were conten|ding among themselves, and if you will pardon so mean an Expression, scrambling as it were for Power: That Caesar was re|duc'd to the Necessity of ruling or himself obeying a Master; and that apprehending that another would exercise the supreme Command, without that Clemency and Mo|deration which he did, he had rather cho|sen

to rule than to obey. So that Caesar was faulty not so much in seizing upon the Sovereignty, which was become in a man|ner necessary, as in not re-establishing the Commonwealth, by restoring the Agrarian and the Rotation of Magistracies, after he had got absolute and uncontroulable Power. And if Caesar had seiz'd upon the Sove|reignty only with a View of re-establishing Liberty, he had surpass'd all Mortals in Godlike Goodness as much as he did in the rest of his astonishing Qualities. I must confess, I do not remember that we have any Authority from the Roman Historians which may induce us to believe, that Cae|sar had any such Design. Nor if he had had any such View, could he, who was the most secret, the most prudent, and the most discerning of Men, have discover'd it, before his Parthian Expedition was over, for fear of utterly disobliging his Veterans. And Caesar believ'd that Expedition necessa|ry for the Honour and Interest of the State, and for his own Glory.

But of this we may be sure that two of the most discerning of all the Romans, and who had the deepest Insight into the Soul of Caesar, Salust and Cicero, were not with|out Hopes that Caesar would really re-esta|blish Liberty, or else they would not have attack'd him upon it; the one in his Ora|tion

for Marcus Marcellus, the other in the Second Part of that little Treatise De Re|publicâ ordinandâ, which is address'd to Cae|sar. Haec igitur tibi reliqua pars, says Ci|cero, Hic restat Actus, in hoc elaborandum est, ut Rempublicam constituas, eâ{que} tu in primis compositâ, summa Tranquillitate & o|tio perfruare. Cicero therefore was not without Hope that Caesar would re-establish the Commonwealth; and any one who at|tentively peruses that Oration of Cicero, will find that that Hope was reasonably grounded, upon his knowledge of the great Qualities of Caesar, his Clemency, his Be|neficence, his admirable Discernment; and that avoidless Ruine in which the whole Empire would be soon involv'd, if Caesar did not effect this. Salust urges it still more home to him and with greater vehe|mence; he has recourse to every Motive that may be thought to be powerful over so great a Soul. He exhorts him by the Memory of his matchless Conquests, not to suffer the invincible Empire of the Roman People to be devour'd by Time, or to be torn in pieces by Discord; one of which would soon and infallibly happen, if Liber|ty was not restor'd.

He introduces his Country and his Pro|genitors urging him in a noble Prosopopeia, by all the mighty Benefits which they had

conferr'd upon him, with so little Pains of his own, not to deny them that just and ea|sy Request of the Restoration of Liberty. He adjures him by those Furies which will eternally haunt his Soul upon his impious Refusal: He implores him by the foresight of those dismal Calamities, that horrible Slaughter, those endless Wars, and that un|bounded Devastation, which will certainly fall upon Mankind, if the Restoration of Liberty is prevented by his Death, or his incurable Sickness: And lastly, he entreats him by his Thirst of immortal Glory, that Glory in which he now has Rivals, if he has not Equals; but which, if he re-esta|blishes Liberty, will be acknowledg'd by consenting Nations to have neither Equal nor Second.

I am apt to believe that if Shakespear had been acquainted with all this, we had had from him quite another Character of Caesar than that which we now find in him. He might then have given us a Scene something like that which Corneille has so happily us'd in his Cinna; something like that which really happen'd between Augustus, Mecaenas and Agrippa. He might then have intro|duc'd Caesar, consulting Cicero on the one side, and on the other Anthony, whether he should retain that absolute Sovereignty, which he had acquir'd by his Victory, or

whether he should re-establish and immorta|lize Liberty. That would have been a Scene, which might have employ'd the fi|nest Art and the utmost force of a Writer. That had been a Scene in which all the great Qualities of Caesar might have been display'd. I will not pretend to determine here how that Scene might have been turn'd, and what I have already said on this Sub|ject, has been spoke with the utmost Cau|tion and Diffidence. But this I will ven|ture to say, that if that Scene had been ma|nag'd so, as, by the powerful Motives em|ploy'd in it, to have shaken the Soul of Caesar, and to have left room for the least Hope, for the least Doubt, that Caesar would have re-establish'd Liberty, after his Par|thian Expedition; and if this Conversation had been kept secret till the Death of Cae|sar, and then had been discover'd by An|thony, then had Caesar fall'n, so belov'd and lamented by the Roman People, so pitied and so bewail'd even by the Conspirators themselves, as never Man fell. Then there would have been a Catastrophe the most dreadful and the most deplorable that ever was beheld upon the Tragick Stage. Then had we seen the noblest of the Conspirators cursing their temerarious Act, and the most apprehensive of them, in dreadful expectation of those horrible Calamities, which fell up|on

the Romans after the Death of Caesar. But, Sir, when I write this to you, I write it with the utmost Deference to the extraordi|nary Judgment of that great Man, who some Years ago, I hear, alter'd the Julius Caesar. And I make no doubt but that his fine Dis|cernment, and the rest of his great Quali|ties have amply supply'd the Defects which are found in the Character of Shakespear's Caesar.

I should here answer an Argument, by which some People pretend to prove, and especially those with whom I lately con|vers'd, that Shakespear was conversant with the Ancients. But besides that the Post is about to be gone, I am heartily tir'd with what I have already writ, and so doubtless are you; I shall therefore defer the rest to the next opportunity, and remain

Your, &c.

LETTER III.

On the Writings and Genius of Shake|spear.

To Mr. _____ _____

Feb. 8.

SIR,

I Come now to the main Argument, which some People urge to prove that Shake|spear was conversant with the Ancients. For there is, say they, among Shakespear's Plays, one call'd The Comedy of Errors, which is undeniably an Imitation of the Menechmi of Plautus. Now Shakespear, say they, be|ing conversant with Plautus, it undeniably follows that he was acquainted with the Ancients; because no Roman Author could be hard to him who had conquer'd Plautus. To which I answer, that the Errors which we have mention'd above are to be accoun|ted for no other way, but by the want of knowing the Ancients, or by downright want of Capacity. But nothing can be more ab|surd or more unjust than to impute it to want of Capacity. For the very Sentiments of Shakespear alone are sufficient to shew, that he had a great Understanding: And therefore we must account some other way

for his Imitation of the Menechmi. I re|member to have seen among the Transla|tions of Ovid's Epistles printed by Mr. Ton|son, an Imitation of that from Oenone to Paris, which Mr. Dryden tells us in his Pre|face to those Epistles was imitated by one of the Fair Sex who understood no Latin, but that she had done enough to make those blush who understood it the best. There are at this day several Translators, who as Hudibrass has it,

Translate from Languages of which They understand no part of Speech.

I will not affirm that of Shakespear; I be|lieve he was able to do what Pedants call construe, but that he was able to read Plau|tus without Pain and Difficulty I can never believe. Now I appeal to you, Sir, what time he had between his Writing and his Acting, to read any thing that could not be read with Ease and Pleasure. We see that our Adversaries themselves acknowledge, that if Shakespear was able to read Plautus with Ease, nothing in Latinity could be hard to him. How comes it to pass then, that he has given us no Proofs of his fa|miliar Acquaintance with the Ancients, but this Imitation of the Menechmi, and a Ver|sion of two Epistles of Ovid? How comes

it that he had never read Horace of a supe|riour Merit to either, and particularly his Epistle to the Piso's, which so much concern'd his Art? Or if he had read that Epistle, how comes it that in his Troylus and Cressi|da [we must observe by the way, that when Shakespear wrote that Play, Ben John|son had not as yet translated that Epistle] he runs counter to the Instructions which Horace has given for the forming the Cha|racter of Achilles?

Scriptor: Honoratum si forte reponis Achillem, Impiger, Iracundus, Inexorablis, Acer, Jura neget sibi nata.

Where is the Impiger, the Iracundus, or the Acer, in the Character of Shakespear's Achilles? Who is nothing but a drolling, lazy, conceited, overlooking Coxcomb; so far from being the honour'd Achilles, the E|pithet that Homer, and Horace after him give him, that he is deservedly the Scorn and the Jest of the rest of the Characters, even to that Buffoon Thersites.

Tho' Shakespear succeeded very well in Comedy, yet his principal Talent and his chief Delight was Tragedy. If then Shake|spear was qualify'd to read Plautus with Ease, he could read with a great deal more Ease the Translations of Sophocles and Eu|ripides.

And tho' by these Translations he would not have been able to have seen the charming colouring of those great Masters, yet would he have seen all the Harmony and the Beauty of their great and their just Designs. He would have seen enough to have stirr'd up a noble Emulation in so ex|alted a Soul as his. How comes it then that we hear nothing from him, of the Oe|dipus, the Electra, the Antigone of Sophocles, of the Iphigenia's, the Orestes, the Medea, the Hecuba of Euripides? How comes it that we see nothing in the Conduct of his Pieces, that shews us that he had the least Acquaintance with any of these great Ma|ster-pieces? Did Shakespear appear to be so nearly touch'd with the Affliction of He|cuba for the Death of Priam, which was but daub'd and bungled by one of his Coun|trymen, that he could not forbear introdu|cing it as it were by Violence into his own Hamlet, and would he make no Imitation, no Commendation, not the least mention of the unparallell'd and inimitable Grief of the Hecuba of Euripides? How comes it, that we find no Imitation of any ancient Play in this but the Menechmi of Plautus? How came he to chuse a Comick preferably to the Tragick Poets? Or how comes he to chuse Plautus preferably to Terence, who is so much more just, more graceful, more

regular, and more natural? Or how comes he to chuse the Menechmi of Plautus, which is by no means his Master-piece before all his other Comedies? I vehemently suspect that this Imitation of the Menechmi, was either from a printed Translation of that Comedy which is lost, or some Version in Manuscript brought him by a Friend, or sent him perhaps by a Stranger, or from the original Play it self recommended to him, and read to him by some learned Friend. In short, I had rather account for this, by what is not absurd than by what is, or by a less Absurdity than by a grea|ter. For nothing can be more wrong than to conclude from this that Shakespear was conversant with the Ancients; which con|tradicts the Testimony of his Contemporary, and his familiar Acquaintance Ben Johnson, and of his Successor Milton;

Lo Shakespear, Fancy's sweetest Child, Warbles his native Wood-notes wild.

And of Mr. Dryden after them both; and which destroys the most glorious Part of Shakespear's Merit immediately. For how can he be esteem'd equal by Nature, or su|perior to the Ancients, when he falls so far short of them in Art, tho' he had the Ad|vantage of knowing all that they did before

him? Nay it debases him below those of common Capacity, by reason of the Errors which we mention'd above. Therefore he who allows that Shakespear had Learning and a familiar Acquaintance with the An|cients, ought to be look'd upon as a De|tractor from his extraordinary Merit, and from the Glory of Great Britain. For whe|ther is it more honourable for this Island to have produc'd a Man, who without ha|ving any Acquaintance with the Ancients, or any but a slender and a superficial one, appears to be their Equal or their Superior by the Force of Genius and Nature, or to have bred one who know|ing the Ancients, falls infinitely short of them in Art, and consequently in Nature it self? Great Britain has but little Reason to boast of its Natives Education, since the same that they had here, they might have had in another place. But it may justly claim a very great share in their Nature and Genius; since these depend in a great mea|sure on the Climate; and therefore Horace in the Instruction which he gives for the forming the Characters, advises the noble Romans for whose Instruction he chiefly writes to consider whether the Dramatick Person whom they introduce is

Colchus an Assyrius, Thebis nutritus an Argis.

Thus, Sir, I have endeavour'd to shew un|der what great Disadvantages Shakespear lay, for want of the Poetical Art, and for want of being conversant with the Ancients.

But besides this, he lay under other very great Inconveniencies. For he was neither Master of Time enough to consider, cor|rect, and polish what he wrote, to alter it, to add to it, and to retrench from it, nor had he Friends to consult upon whose Ca|pacity and Integrity he could depend. And tho' a Person of very good Judgment, may succeed very well without consulting his Friends, if he takes time enough to correct what he writes; yet even the greatest Man that Nature and Art can conspire to accom|plish, can never attain to Perfection, with|out either employing a great deal of time, or taking the Advice of judicious Friends. Nay, 'tis the Opinion of Horace, that he ought to do both.

Siquid tamen olim Scripseris, in Metii descendat Judicis aures, Et Patris, & nostras; nonum{que} prematur in Annum.

Now we know very well that Shakespear was an Actor, at a Time, when there were

seven or eight Companies of Players in the Town together, who each of them did their utmost Endeavours to get the Audi|ences from the rest, and consequently that our Author was perpetually call'd upon, by those who had the Direction and Manage|ment of the Company to which he belong'd, for new Pieces which might be able to sup|port them, and give them some Advantage over the rest. And 'tis easy to judge what time he was Master of, between his labo|rious Employment of Acting, and his con|tinual Hurry of Writing. As for Friends, they whom in all likelihood Shakespear con|sulted most, were two or three of his Fel|low-Actors, because they had the Care of publishing his Works committed to them. Now they, as we are told by Ben Johnson in his Discoveries were extremely pleas'd with their Friend for scarce ever making a Blot; and were very angry with Ben, for saying he wish'd that he had made a thou|sand. The Misfortune of it is, that Horace was perfectly of Ben's mind.

—Vos O, Pompilius sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod non Multa dies, & multa litura coercuit, at{que} Praesectum decies non castigavit ad unguem.

And so was my Lord Roscommon.

Poets lose half the Praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

These Friends then of Shakespear were not qualify'd to advise him. As for Ben John|son, besides that Shakespear began to know him late, and that Ben was not the most communicative Person in the World of the Secrets of his Art; he seems to me to have had no right Notion of Tragedy. Nay, so far from it, that he who was indeed a very great Man, and who has writ Comedies, by which he has born away the Prize of Co|medy both from Ancients and Moderns, and been an Honour to Great Britain; and who has done this without any Rules to guide him, except what his own incomparable Talent dictated to him; This extraordina|ry Man has err'd so grossly in Tragedy, of which there were not only stated Rules, but Rules which he himself had often read, and had even translated, that he has cho|sen two Subjects, which according to those very Rules, were utterly incapable of ex|citing either Compassion or Terror for the principal Characters, which yet are the chief Passions that a Tragick Poet ought to endeavour to excite. So that Shakespear having neither had Time to correct, nor

Friends to consult, must necessarily have frequently left such faults in his Writings, for the Correction of which either a great deal of Time or a judicious and a well na|tur'd Friend is indispensably necessary.

Vir bonus & prudens versus reprehendet iner|tes, Culpabit duros, incomptis allinet Atrum Transverso calamo signum, ambitiosa recidet Ornamenta, parum claris lucem dare coget, Arguet ambigue dictum, metanda notabit.

There is more than one Example of every kind of these Faults in the Tragedies of Shakespear, and even in the Coriolanus. There are Lines that are utterly void of that celestial Fire, of which Shakespear is sometimes Master in so great a Degree. And consequently there are Lines that are stiff and forc'd, and harsh and unmusical, tho' Shakespear had naturally an admirable Ear for the Numbers. But no Man ever was very musical who did not write with Fire, and no Man can always write with Fire, unless he is so far Master of his Time, as to expect those Hours when his Spirits are warm and volatile. Shakespear must therefore sometimes have Lines which are neither strong nor graceful? For who

ever had Force or Grace that had not Spi|rit? There are in his Coriolanus among a great many natural and admirable Beauties, three or four of those Ornaments which Horace would term ambitious; and which we in English are apt to call Fustian or Bombast. There are Lines in some Places which are very obscure, and whole Scenes which ought to be alter'd.

I have, Sir, employ'd some Time and Pains, and that little Judgment which I have acquir'd in these Matters by a long and a faithful reading both of Ancients and Mo|derns, in adding, retrenching and altering se|veral Things in the Coriolanus of Shakespear, but with what Success I must leave to be de|termin'd by you. I know very well that you will be surpriz'd to find, that after all that I have said in the former part of this Let|ter, against Shakespear's introducing the Rab|ble into Coriolanus, I have not only retain'd in the second Act of the following Tragedy the Rabble which is in the Original, but deviated more from the Roman Customs than Shakespear had done before me. I de|sire you to look upon it as a voluntary Fault and a Trespass against Conviction: 'Tis one of those Things which are ad Populum Pha|lerae, and by no means inserted to please such Men as you.

Thus, Sir, have I laid before you a short but impartial Account of the Beauties and Defects of Shakespear, with an Intention to make these Letters publick if they are ap|prov'd by you; to teach some People to di|stinguish between his Beauties and his De|fects, that while they imitate the one, they may with Caution avoid the other [there be|ing nothing of more dangerous Contagion to Writers, and especially to young ones than the Faults of great Masters] and while with Milton they applaud the great Qualities which Shakespear had by Nature, they may follow his wise Example, and form themselves as he assures us, that he himself did, upon the Rules and Writings of the Ancients.

Sir, if so candid and able a Judge as your+self shall happen to approve of this Essay in the main, and to excuse and correct my Er|rors, that Indulgence and that Correction will not only encourage me to make these Letters publick, but will enable me to bear the Reproach of those, who would fix a Brand, even upon the justest Criticism, as the Effect of Envy and ill Nature; as if there could possibly be any ill Nature in the doing Justice, or in the endeavouring to ad|vance a very noble and a very useful Art, and consequently to prove beneficent to Mankind. As for those who may accuse

me of the want of a due Veneration for the Merit of an Author of so establish'd a Re|putation as Shakespear, I shall beg leave to tell them, that they chuse the wrongest time that they could possibly take for such an Accusa|tion as that. For I appeal to you, Sir, who shews most Veneration for the Memory of Shakespear, he who loves and admires his Charms and makes of them one of his chief Delights, who sees him and reads him over and over and still remains unsatiated, and who mentions his Faults for no other Rea|son but to make his Excellency the more con|spicuous, or he who pretending to be his blind Admirer, shews in Effect the utmost Contempt for him, preferring empty effemi|nate Sound to his solid Beauties and manly Graces, and deserting him every Night for an execrable Italian Ballad, so vile that a Boy who should write such lamentable Dogrel, would be turn'd out of Westminster-|School for a desperate Blockhead, too stupid to be corrected and amended by the harshest Discipline of the Place. I am,

SIR,

Yours, &c

To the SPECTATOR upon his Paper on the 16th of April.

YOU know, Mr. Spectator, that Esquire Bickerstaff attack'd the Sharpers with Success; but Shadwell is of Opinion that your Bully with his Box and his false Dice is an honester Fellow than the Rhetorical Author, who makes use of his Tropes and Figures which are his High and his Low|runners, to cheat us at once of our Money and of our Intellectuals.

I would not have you think, Mr. Specta|tor, that this Reflection is directed to you: 'Tis only intended against one or two of your Correspondents, and particularly the Inns-of|Court-man, who, as you told us in your Se|cond Paper supplies you with most of your Criticism: who seems to me so little to un|derstand the Province that he has underta|ken, that you would do well to advise him to do by you as he has done by his Father, and make a Bargain in the gross with some honest Fellow to answer all your Occasions. Which wholesome Advice if he proves too obstinate or too proud to take; I am confi|dent

at least that he is too gallant a Person to take it ill if once a Week or once a Fort|night I should shew so much Presumption as to cause a Writ of Error to be issued out to reverse his Temple-Judgment.

I cannot wonder that Criticism should de|generate so vilely at a time when Poetry and Acting are sunk so low. For as Hobbes has observ'd, that as often as Reason is against a Man, a Man will be against Reason; so as often as the Rules are against an Author, an Author will be against the Rules. Men first write foolish ridiculous Tragedies, which shock all the Rules of Reason and Philoso|phy, and then they make foolish extravagant Rules to fit those foolish Plays. 'Tis impos|sible that your Gentleman of the Inns-of|Court could have sent you so much wrong Sense as there is in your Paper of the 16^th, if he had not formerly writ an absurd Tra|gedy. There are as many Bulls and Blun|ders, and Contradictions in it almost as there are Lines, and all deliver'd with that inso|lent and that blust'ring Air, which usually attends upon Error, and Delusion, while Truth, like the Deity that inspires it, comes calmly and without noise.

To set a few of his Errors in their pro|per Light, he tells us in the beginning of that Paper, That the English Writers of

Tragedy are possess'd with a Notion, that when they represent a vertuous or innocent Person in Distress, they ought not to leave him 'till they have deliver'd him out of his Trouble, and made him triumph over his Enemies.

But, Mr. Spectator, is this peculiar to the English Writers of Tragedy? Have not the French Wri|ters of Tragedy the same Notion? Does not Ra|cine tell us, in the Preface to his Iphigenia, that it would have been horrible to have defil'd the Stage with the Murther of a Princess so vir|tuous and so lovely as was Iphigenia.

But your Correspondent goes on, This Error, says he, with an insolent and dog|matick Air, they have been led into by a ridiculous Doctrine in modern Criticism, that they are oblig'd to an equal Distribution of Re|wards and Punishments, and an impartial Exe|cution of poetical Justice.

But who were the first who establish'd this Rule he is not able to tell. I take it for granted, that a Man who is ingenuous e|nough to own his Ignorance, is willing to be instructed. Let me tell him then, that the first who establish'd this ridiculous Do|ctrine of modern Criticism, was a certain modern Critick, who liv'd above two thousand Years ago; and who tells us ex|presly in the thirteenth Chapter of his criti|cal Spectator, which Pedants call his Poetick,

That since a Tragedy, to have all the Beauty of which it is capable, ought to be Implex and not Simple, (by the way, Mr. Spectator, you must bear with this critical Cant, as we do with your Speculations and Lucubrations) and ought to move Compassion and Terror, for we have already shewn that the exciting these Passions is the proper Effect of a tragical Imi|tation, it follows necessarily, that we must not choose a very good Man, to plunge him from a prosperous Condition into Adversity, for instead of moving Compassion and Terrour, that on the contrary would create Horrour, and be detested by all the World.

And does not the same deluded Philoso|pher tell us in the very same Chapter, that the Fable to which he gives the second Pre|ference, is that which has a double Constitu|tion, and which ends by a double Catastrophe; a Catastrophe favourable to the Good, and fatal to the Wicked. Is not here, Mr. Spe|ctator, a very formal Recommendation of the impartial and exact Execution of poetical Ju|stice? Thus Aristotle was the first who esta|blish'd this ridiculous Doctrine of modern Criticism, but Mr. Rymer was the first who introduc'd it into our native Language; who notwithstanding the Rage of all the Poeta|sters of the Times, whom he has exasperated by opening the Eyes of the Blind that they

may see their Errors, will always pass with impartial Posterity for a most learned, a most judicious, and a most useful Critick. Now is not your Correspondent a profound and a learned Person? and ought he not to own himself oblig'd to me for this notable piece of Erudition?

But he goes on in his dictatorian way, This Rule, says he, whoever establish'd it, has, I am sure, no Foundation in Nature, in Rea|son, and in the Practice of the Ancients. But what will this dogmatick Person say now, when we shew him that this contemptible Doctrine of poetical Justice is not only foun|ded in Reason and Nature, but is it self the Foundation of all the Rules, and ev'n of Tra|gedy itself? For what Tragedy can there be without a Fable? or what Fable without a Moral? or what Moral without poetical Ju|stice? What Moral, where the Good and the Bad are confounded by Destiny, and perish alike promiscuously. Thus we see this Do|ctrine of poetical Justice is more founded in Reason and Nature than all the rest of the poetical Rules together. For what can be more natural, and more highly reasonable, than to employ that Rule in Tragedy, with|out which that Poem cannot exist? Well! but the Practice of the Ancients is against this poetical Justice! What always, Mr. Spectator!

will your Correspondent have the Assurance to affirm that? No, but sometimes: Why then sometimes the Ancients offended against Reason and Nature. And who ever believ'd that the Ancients were without Fault, or brought Tragedy to its Perfection. But I shall take another Opportunity to shew that the Practice of the Ancients, in all their Ma|ster-pieces, is exactly according to this fun|damental Rule. I have not time to do that in this short Letter, because that would ne|cessarily oblige me to shew that poetical Ju|stice is of a much larger Extent than this profound Critick imagines; but yet I shall give the discerning Reader a hint of it in that which follows.

Poetical Justice, says your Correspon|dent, has no Foundation in Nature and Reason, because we find that good and evil happen alike to all Men on this side the Grave. In answer to which he must give me leave to tell him, that this is not only a very false but a very dan|gerous Assertion; that we neither know what Men really are, nor what they really suffer.

'Tis not always that we know Men's Crimes, but how seldom do we know their Passions, and especially their darling Passions? And as Pas|sion is the Occasion of infinitely more Dis|order in the World than Malice, [for where one Man falls a Sacrifice to inveterate Malice

a thousand become Victims to Revenge and Ambition; and whereas Malice has some|thing that shocks human Nature, Passion is pleasingly catching and contagious.] Can any thing be more just, than that that Providence which governs the World should punish Men for indulging their Passions, as much as for obeying the Dictates of their most envenom'd Hatred and Malice?

Thus you see, for ought we know, Good and Evil does not happen alike to all Men on this side the Grave. Because 'tis for the most part, by their Passions, that Men offend; and 'tis by their Passions, for the most part, that they are punish'd. But this is certain, that the more Virtue a Man has the more he commands his Passions; but the Virtuous a|lone command them. The Wicked take the utmost Care to dissemble and conceal them; for which reason we neither know what our Neighbours are, nor what they really suffer. Man is too finite, too shallow, and too emp|ty a Creature to know another Man through|ly, to know the Creature of an infinite Crea|tor; but dramatical Persons are Creatures of which a Poet is himself the Creator. And tho' a Mortal is not able to know the Al|mighty's Creatures, he may be allow'd to know his own; to know the utmost Extent of their Guilt, and what they ought to suf|fer;

nay, he must be allow'd not only to know this himself, but to make it manifest and unquestionable to all his Readers and Hearers. The Creatures of a poetical Crea|tor have no Dissimulation and no Reserve. We see their Passions in all their height, and in all their Deformity; and when they are unfortunate, we are never to seek for the Cause.

But suppose I should grant that there is not always an equal Distribution of Afflicti|on and Happiness here below. Man is a Creature who was created immortal, and a Creature consequently that will find a Com|pensation in Futurity for any seeming Inequa|lity in his Dealing here. But the Creatures of a poetical Creator are imaginary and tran|sitory; they have no longer Duration than the Representation of their respective Fables; and consequently, if they offend, they must be punish'd during that Representation. And therefore we are very far from pretending that poetical Justice is an equal Representati|on of the Justice of the Almighty.

We freely confess that 'tis but a very narrow and a very imperfect Type of it; so very narrow, and so very imperfect, that 'tis forc'd by temporal to represent eter|nal Punishments; and therefore when we shew a Man unfortunate in Tragedy, for

not restraining his Passions, we mean that e|very one will for such Neglect, unless he timely repents, be infallibly punish'd by infi|nite Justice either here or hereafter.

If upon this foot we examine the Trage|dies of Sophocles and Euripides, we shall find that in their most beautiful Pieces, they are impartial Executors of Poetick Justice. And 'tis upon this foot that Aristotle requires that we should examine them. Your Correspon|dent I must confess is in the right when he says that that Philosopher declares for Tra|gedies, whose Catastrophes are unhappy with relation to the principal Characters. But then what Instructions does he give us for the for|ming those principal Characters? We are neither to make them very vertuous Per|sons on the one side, that is Persons who ab|solutely command their Passions, nor on the other side Villains who are actuated by in|veterate Malice, but something between these two, that is to say Persons who neglecting their Passions suffer them to grow outrageous, and to hurry them to Actions which they would otherwise abhor. And that Philoso|pher expressly declares as we have shewn a|bove, that to make a vertuous Man unhap|py, that is a Man who absolutely commands his Passions, would create Horror instead of Compassion, and would be detested by all

the World. And thus we have shewn that Aristotle is for Poetical Justice, notwithstan|ding that he is for unhappy Catastrophes: And so one would think was your Correspon|dent. For when he enumerates and com|mends some English Tragedies, which have unfortunate Catastrophes; there are not two of those which he commends, whose princi|pal Characters can be said to be innocent, and consequently there are not two of them where there is not a due Observance of poe|tical Justice.

Thus, Mr. Spectator, I have discussed the Business of poetical Justice, and shewn it to be the Foundation of all Tragedy; and therefore whatever Persons, whether ancient or modern, have writ Dialogues which they call Tragedies, where this Justice is not ob|serv'd, those Persons have entertain'd and a|mus'd the World with romantick lamentable Tales, instead of just Tragedies, and of law|ful Fables.

'Tis not my Business at present to take a|ny farther notice of the Errors of your Cor|respondent; perhaps I no more approve of Tragi-Comedies, or Tragedies with double Plots, than he does; but I hope he will not take it ill if I put him in mind that several of the Plays which he recommended before are Tragi-Comedies, and that most of them

have double Plots. But he is vilely mistaken if he thinks that Tragi-Comedy is of the Growth of our English Theatres.

I shall take another Opportunity to shew him that he is as much mistaken in what he has said of Humours, as in what he dictates concerning poetical Justice.

I am Your very humble

LETTER to the SPECTATOR upon his Paper on the 24th of April.

SIR,

I Have read over your Paper of the 24^th with a great deal of Satisfaction, and here return you my Acknowledgments for the Honour you have done me in quoting two of my Verses with Applause. I think my self oblig'd in Gratitude, my worthy Friend, to do as much Honour to your Judgment as you have done to my Imagination; and as you have the Goodness to allow me to be an humorous Poet, I am bound in Justice to ce|lebrate you for a wonderful Critick; and to make it appear that contrary to the Observation of the Author of a late Rhapsody, one who has shewn himself no great Poet may be a prodigious Judge. Indeed the Observation of that Author is so far from being true, that most of the Criticks Ancient and Mo|dern have been no Poets, and most of the Poets Ancient and Modern have been no Criticks. I cannot find out that any but Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, and Sopho|cles, and Euripides among the Ancients were

great Criticks. For who can believe that has read them, that Apollonius Rhodius, Non|nus, Lucan, Statius, and Silius Italicus ever so much as heard that Nature, and the Phi|losophers her Interpreters and Commentators had laid down Rules for an Epick Poem? And who that has read the Moderns could imagine, that most of their Dramatick Poets, had ever so much as heard that there were such things as the Rules. As Boileau has observ'd of the French, that some Persons among them had distinguish'd themselves by their Rhimes, who never knew how to di|stinguish Lucan from Virgil; so some a|mong our own Rhimers have been renown'd for versifying, who never so much as knew that Horace and Milton were good Poets. And I can on the other side name several who never distinguished themselves by Poe|try, who yet have oblig'd the World with Criticisms which have been Non-pareillo's, and the very Top-Critick of all those Cri|ticks is my worthy Friend the Spectator.

Tho' who the Devil could have ever ex|pected to have found my worthy Friend a Critick, after he had treated Criticks with so much Contempt in two or three of his Immortal Tatlers, and particularly in the 29^th and the 246^th, where they are pronounc'd to be the silliest of Mortals,

Creatures, forsooth, who profess Judgment; tho' by the way, Mr Spectator, he who pro|fesses or practises Poetry, and does not pro|fess Judgment in it, professes himself an Ass. It was from those Tatlers and one or two more, Mr. Spectator, that I guess'd that you had a mortal Aversion to Criticism; but now I find plainly that they were none of your own, but were sent you by two or three damn'd Poets, who are a sort of Of|fenders that have not half the Charity which other Malefactors are wont to shew, but bear eternal Malice to their Executioners.

Thus the Invectives against Criticks and Criticism were other Peoples; you were too wise to write any such thing, as knowing that Tast which declines so fast is only to be restor'd and maintain'd by Criticism. And therefore instead of writing Invectives against it, you have oblig'd the World with the thing it self, with Criticism upon Criticism, and such Criticism.—As those Tatlers were the Off-spring of some certain Poets, which is manifest by their insipid Satyr, like the faint Eagerness of Vinegar decay'd: no|thing is more clear than that the Criticisms could be none but yours. For as you may discover ex ungue Leonem, & ex pede Her|cules, so in this Case the prodigious Off|spring speaks and confesses the Gigantick Fa|ther.

In your very Folio of the 24^th of April, how have you shewn the Finess of your Discernment, and the Profundity of your Penetration, by your Encomium of two Ver|ses of my Translation of the Fourth Satyr of Boileau? Tis now thirty Years since I tran|slated that Satyr, and consequently was a very Boy at the Time of that Translation; yet from that Time to this the stupid Age has been ignorant of the Beauty of that Couplet. How very flegmatick a Wretch have I been, and how illegitimate an Off|spring of Mr. Bays, not to know any thing of my own Excellence till I heard of it from you?

How little did I imagine when I transla|ted that Couplet, that the great Critick was then in Embrio who thirty Years afterwards should declare it to be a charming Couplet, by giving it a place in his never dying Spe|culations.

I am perfectly convinc'd, my most wor|thy and most ingenious Friend, that we Au|thors are as blind and as partial Judges of our own Works, as we are unrighteous ones of other Peoples. I was apt to imagine, be|fore I submitted my own Opinion to the de|cisive Authority of your Judgment; that you would have done more for the Credit of my Genius and of your own Discernment,

by commending the following Verses of the Fourth Book of the Poem upon the Battel of Ramelies, when you had so fair an occa|sion of taking notice of them, as you had at the writing the 56^th Tatler. If I begin the Verses a little higher than the couching of the Cataracts which is the Subject of the 56^th Tatler, I am confident you will have the Goodness to pardon me, and the rather because you discover'd more than a common Satisfaction when you were present with your Friend Mr. A. at the reading those Verses in Manuscript. A celestial Spirit visits the Duke of Marlborough in a Vision the Night before the Battel of Ramelies, and after he has said several other things to him goes on thus.

A wondrous Victory attends thy Arms, Great in it self, and in its sequel vast; Whose ecchoing Sound thro' all the West shall run Transporting the glad Nations all around, Who oft shall doubt, and oft suspend their Joy, And oft imagine all an empty Dream; The Conqueror himself shall cry amaz'd, 'Tis not our Work, alas we did it not, The Hand of God, the Hand of God is here, For thee, so great shall be thy high Renown That Fame shall think no Musick like thy Name; Around the circling Globe it shall be spread,

And to the World's last Ages shall endure; And the most lofty, most aspiring Man, Shall want th' Assurance in his secret Pray'rs To ask such high Felicity and Fame, As Heav'n has freely granted thee; yet this That seems so great, so glorious to thee now, Would look how low, how vile to thy great Mind, If I could set before thy astonish'd Eyes, Th' Excess of Glory, and th' Excess of Bliss, That is prepar'd for thy expiring Soul When thou arriv'st at everlasting Day. O could embodied Mind but comprehend The Glories of the Intellectual World, Or I the blissful Secret were allow'd, But Fate forbids, to Mortals to reveal: O I could lay a Scene before thy Eyes Which would distract thee with transporting Joy, Fire the rich Blood in thy illustrious Veins, Make ev'ry Nerve with fierce Convulsions start, Blast all thy Spirits and thy Life destroy; Thou could'st not taste th' Extatick Bliss and live. As one who has liv'd thirty tedious Years, And ever since his wretched Birth been dark; His visual Orbs with cloudy Films o'ercast, And in the Dungeon of the Body dwelt In utter Ignoranceof Nature's Works

And Wonders of this vast material World, And has no Notion e'er conceiv'd of Light Or Colours, or the verdant flowry Earth, Or the stupendous Prospect of the Sky; If then he finds some Artist whose nice Hand Couches the Cataracts and clears his Eyes, And all at once a Flood of glorious Light, And this bright Temple of the Universe, The crystal Firmament, the blazing Sun, All the amazing Glories of the Heav'ns, All the Great Maker's high Magnificence Come rushing thro' his Eyes upon his Soul; He cannot bear th'astonishing Delight, But starts, exclaims, and stamps and raves, and dies: So the vast Glories of the upper World If they were set before embodied Mind Would oppress Nature and extinguish Life.

These are the Verses, my most discerning Friend, that I thought might have been pre|ferr'd to the foremention'd Couplet, especi|ally since they would as it were have intro|duced themselves, whereas the Couplet is dragg'd in by extreme Violence. But I sub|mit to your infallible Judgment, not in the least suspecting that my worthy Friend can have any Malice in this Affair, and insert that Couplet in his immortal Speculations only on purpose to expose me; no, far be it

from me to entertain any such Jealousy of my dearest Friend, who is so good, so kind, so beneficent, and who has so often given himself the glorious Title of the Lover and Benefactor of Mankind. Who could ima|gine that one who hath given himself that glorious Appellation, could e'er be prom|pted by Malice or Passion, or Interest thus slily and hypocritically to abuse one whom he had call'd his Friend?

I have been apt to believe likewise, my worthy Friend, that you would have been kinder to your self and to me, if instead of commending the foremention'd Couplet you had taken some notice of the following Ver|ses which are in my Paraphrase upon the Te Deum; especially when you had so fair an occasion to mention them as you had at the writing the 119^th Tatler. The Couplet of the translated Satyr was introduced by Violence. But how very naturally would the following Verses of the Paraphrase, have been mention'd either before or after the last Paragraph of the foremention'd Paper, where a Spirit is introduc'd, who after he has spoke of that part of the Creation which is too little for human Sight, comes afterwards to speak of the immense Objects of Nature af|ter this manner.

* 1.1 I must acknowledge for my own part, that altho' it is with much Delight that I see the Traces of Providence in these Instances, I still see greater plea|sure in considering the Works of the Creation in their Immensity, than in their Mi|nuteness. For this Reason, I rejoice when I strengthen my sight so as to make it pierce into the most remote Spaces, and take a view of those Heavenly Bodies, which lie out of the reach of Human Eyes tho' assisted by Tele|scopes; what you look upon as one confus'd White in the milky way, appears to me a long Tract of Heav'ns, distinguish'd by Stars, that are ranged in proper Figures and Constella|tions: while you are admiring the Sky in a starry Night, I am entertain'd with a variety of Worlds and Suns plac'd one above another, and rising up to such an immense Distance that no created Eye can see an end of them.

Upon the writing this Paragraph, how could you avoid the making mention of Ver|ses which had the very same Ideas, and Ver|ses which you had formerly mention'd with Applause in private Conversation? I know you will answer that you had entirely forgot them, and therefore I take the liberty here to refresh your Memory. The Angels are introduc'd in that Paraphrase speaking to

God, and saying after other things that which follows.

Where-e'er at utmost stretch we cast our Eyes, Thro' the vast frightful Spaces of the Skies; Ev'n there we find thy Glory, there we gaze On thy bright Majesty's unbounded Blaze; Ten thousand Suns, prodigious Globes of Light At once in broad Dimensions strike our sight; Millions behind in the remoter Skies, Appear but Spangles to our wearied Eyes; And when our wearied Eyes want farther strength To pierce the Void's immeasurable Length, Our vigorous tow'ring Thoughts still farther fly, And still remoter flaming Worlds descry; But ev'n an Angels comprehensive Thought Cannot extend so far as thou hast wrought, Our vast Conceptions are by swelling brought, Swallow'd and lost in Infinite to nought.

How glad am I that the foremention'd Ver|ses were writ before the above-nam'd Tat|lers? Otherwise I should have been thought to have borrow'd from my worthy Friend, without making any manner of acknowledg|ment, only adding or endeavouring to add to what I borrow'd a little of that Spirit, and Elevation and Magnificence of Expres|sion which the Greatness of the Hints requir'd.

'Tis for this Reason that I am glad the Verses were printed some Years before the Prose. For you know, my dear Friend, that a Plagiary in general is but a scan|dalous Creature, a sort of a spiritual Out|law, and ought to be treated as such by all the Members of the Commonwealth of Lear|ning. But a Plagiary from living Authors is most profligately impudent, and in so slow and splenatick a Nation as ours most unjust and barbarous. For among us any thing that is admirably good is twenty or thirty Years before it comes to be understood. And how infinitely base is it in the mean while to de|prive an Author of any thing that is va|luable in him, and to intercept his coming Praise. As Laws are made for the Security of Property, what pity 'tis that there are not some enacted for the Security of a Man's Thoughts and Inventions, which alone are properly his. For Land is alienable and Trea|sure is transitory, and both must at one time or other pass, either by his own voluntary Act, or by the Violence and Injustice of others, or at least by Fate. And therefore nothing is truly and really a Man's own.

—Puncto quod mobilis Horae Nunc prece, nunc precio, nunc vi, nunc sorte su|premâ Permutet Dominos, & cedat in altera Jura.

'Tis only a Man's Thoughts and Inventions that are properly his: being alone Things that can never be alienated from him, nei|ther by Force nor Persuasion, nor by Fate it self; and tho' another may basely usurp the Honour of them, yet they must for ever rightfully belong to their first Inventor. Thus even the richest and the happiest of Men have nothing that is truly and really their own but their Thoughts and Inventions. But Au|thors for the most part, and especially Poets have nothing that can so much as be call'd their own but their Thoughts. 'Tis for those alone, and the Glory which they expect from those that they entirely quit their Pretensions to Riches, and renounce the Pomps and Va|nities of this wicked World; and therefore to endeavour to deprive them of those is ex|ceedingly inhuman. What a Joy 'tis to think that the Precedence of Times sets me free from the Imputation of this Injustice? Had I been capable of doing this, and doing it to my worthy Friend, of wronging my dearest Friend in this manner, who knows how far that Barbarity might have extended it self; I might have proceeded to have upbraided him with some weak place in his never-dying Folio's; and having forcibly depriv'd him of his Silver and his Gold, have pelted him with his Brass and his Copper out of counterfeit

Anger or pretended Scorn, because they were of no richer Metal.

But the Case of my dear Friend is vastly different. You have that Reputation, and the World has that Opinion of your Merit, that they will be so far from believing that you have Obligations to a living Author which you have not, that tho' you had really made thus bold with me, it would have been impos|sible to have convinc'd above forty or fifty People of it. And here, my dear Friend, at the same time that I acknowledge your uncommon Merit, I cannot but congratulate your incom|parable Felicity, It being plain that you have got more Reputation in three Years time than Milton has done in fifty Years, or than Shake|spear has in an hundred. I shall therefore ju|diciously conclude with the generality of your Readers, that you have a Merit paramount to that of all British Authors both living and dead, and that you have not only more Merit than any one Moralist either Ancient or Mo|dern, but that if you continue your Paper Three Years longer, you will have as much Merit as they have all together. I am,

My dear Friend,

With great Respect and Fidelity, Your, &c

March the 7^th, 1710/11.

Mr. Spectator,

YOU tell us in your Fourth Paper, that you know Peoples Thoughts by their Eyes. How apt we are all to imagine fine Things of our selves! especially we Au|thors, Mr. Spectator. There was a certain Friend of mine, a Squire lately defunct, who made the very same boast that you do; and yet he recommended a Pettifogger to me for an honest Fellow, who diving into my Se|crets, betray'd me to those very People with whom he pretended to serve me; a Petti|fogger thro' whose Eyes, even I and several others who pretend to none of my Friend the Squire's Profundity, can discern the working of his mischievous Thoughts, as plainly as I can see the Operations of Bees thro' a Crystal Hive.

As soon, Mr. Spectator, as I found my self betray'd, I began to enquire into this Fel|low's Character, tho' if you were to look be|tween his two Eyes, you wou'd swear there was no occasion for it. For, Mr. Spectator, he tells you what he is, when he only looks on you; and uniting in his pettifogging Per|son both your noble Attributes, is at one

and the same time Tatler and Spectator. In short, tho' he is an errant Traytor in his Heart, his Face is a plain Dealer, and lets you immediately without Ceremony and with|out Reserve into the inmost Secrets of his Soul.

Upon Enquiry I found his Character to be as extraordinary as his Person. He is by Po|liticks a Jacobite, by Moral Principle a Set|ter and a Betrayer, by Religion a Quaker, an utter Foe to all Civil and Religious Cere|mony, unless it be drinking the Pretender's Health on his Knees, to whom alone of the Race of Men he has been true and faithful: By this one may guess that his Education has been very extraordinary. I find upon the most curious Enquiry that I have been able to make, that the only Schools that ever he has been at have been spunging Houses and County-Gaols; and that his two Universities have been the Fleet and the Queen's-Bench.

I hope, Mr. Spectator, that this Letter may afford you a Hint, for a Lucubration, or a Speculation, or whatever other learned Term you may be pleas'd to give it; which by discovering to your Readers the Error and the Frailty of the Squire lately defunct, may convince them how little we know even those with whom we daily converse. A|las our Judgments of one another are empty

and superficial, and either built upon vain Appearances, or the Reports of those, who neither truly know us, nor speak what they really think of us, but often traduce us, and misrepresent us, in order to comfort or vindi|cate, or to support themselves.

But of all Mankind there are none who know the rest of Men so little as the genera|lity of your Authors; for this Pettifogger was so foolish a Rogue, that any one might see thro' him at first sight. And yet my Friend the Squire was stark blind to him: By the way, you may know that my Friend the Squire was an Author, as celebrated an Author as you are, Mr. Spectator, a Penny-Folio Author. He got some Reputation by his Lucubrations; but had the Fault of most Authors who have more Imagination than Judgment, he could not leave off when he was well; not considering, Mr. Spectator, that had honest Sir Martin left off in time, his Mistress had never made the Discovery that Warner play'd and sung for him. I am

Your, &c.

To the SPECTATOR.

Mr. Spectator,

I Have a short Case of Conscience to put to you; to You who have establish'd your self in the Office of Ductor Dubitantium ge|neral. About January last I happen'd to have an Obligation to a certain Author, an Obligation that reposed a Trust in me which I have since discharg'd. Being pleas'd with the Frankness of this Author's doing this, I resolv'd upon reading his celebrated Penny|Folio's, I mean upon reading them in order. For till then, I had read but here and there one, and none at all of the first two Months. The first thing that I observ'd in them was, that I was endeavour'd to be expos'd and ca|lumniated clandestinely and perfidiously by one who at the same time caress'd me where|e'er he saw me, and call'd himself my Friend, and all this only to serve a poor pitiful Turn, which was to establish the Opera at the Ex|pence of Dramatick Poetry; I say of Drama|tick Poetry, Mr. Spectator, if it had not been for which, that Author had long since been in the Dust. The Quere is, whether the foresaid Obligation ought to debar me of the Right of vindicating the Truth and my self. It was not long after this, Mr. Spectator, that

the abovesaid Author repented him so far of the Obligation he had laid on me, that he in|sulted and affronted me several times most barbarously by a Wretch so despicable and so impotent, that it would have been Cowar|dice to have beat him; a Wretch whose Cha|racter will come enclos'd to you in the same Cover with this; and not content with that, en|deavour'd once more to expose me in his Quo|tidian Folio's. The second Quere is, Mr. Specta|tor, whether I am not free, now I am got quit of the Obligation which was laid upon me, tho' it had been far greater than it was, to shew my just Resentment, which I am about to do by publishing three or four modest Let|ters which I have pick'd and cull'd from the numerous company of those which are more bitter, and which I resolve to suppress in or|der to shew that I have a Soul that is capa|ble of remembring Obligations, as well as of revenging Injuries I impatiently expect your Decision in this matter! in the mean time it seems to me that common Sense obliges me to believe, that no Man can have an Obligation strong enough laid on him to make him pass by a Box on the Ear, or the being expos'd in Print, without returning each of th' Affronts in kind. I am

Your, &c.

Oct. 23. 1711.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Tat. 119.