the present moment, for Ossian just now is all in all-I say, Homer was lately admired as much as he was three thousand years ago. Will the admiration of our Highland bard be as permanent ? And will it be as universal as learning itself?

"Knowledge of the human heart is a science of the highest dignity. It is recommended not only by its own importance, but also by this, that none but an exalted genius is capable of it. To delineate the objects of the material world requires a fine imagination, but to penetrate into the mental system, and to describe its different objects, with all their distinguishing (though some times almost imperceptible) peculiarities, requires an imagination far more extensive and vigorous. It is this kind of imagination which appears so conspicuous in the works of Shakespeare and Homer, and which, in my opinion, raises them above all other poets whatsoever, I mean not only that talent by which they can adapt themselves to the heart of their readers, and excite whatever affection they please, in which the former plainly stands unrivalled; I mean also that wonderfully penetrating and plastic faculty, which is capable of representing every species of character, not, as our ordinary poets do, by a high shoulder, a wry mouth, or gigantic stature, but by hitting off, with a delicate hand, the distinguishing feature, and that in such a manner as makes it easily known from all others whatsoever, however similar to a superficial eye. Hotspur and Henry V. are heroes resembling one another, yet very distinct in their characters; Falstaff, and Pistol, and Bardolph, are buffoons, but each in his own way; Desdemona and Juliet are not the same; Bottom, and Dogberry, and the grave diggers, are different characters: and the same may be said of the most similar of Homer's cha

racters; each has some mark that makes him essentially different from the rest. But these great masters are not more eminent in distinguishing than in completing their characters. I am a little acquainted with a Cato, a Sempronius, a Tinsel, a Sir Charles Easy, &c. but I am perfectly acquainted with Achilles, Hector, Falstaff, Lear, Pistol, and Quickly, I know them more tharoughly than any other person of my acquaintance.

"If this accurate delineation of character be allowed the highest species of poetry (and this, I think, is generally allowed,) may I not ask whether Ossian is not extremely defective in the highest species of poetry? It is said, indeed, that this poet lived in an age when mankind, being in a state of almost total barbarism, were incapable of that diversity of character which is found in countries improved by commerce and learning, and that therefore he had no materials for a diversity of character. But it is certain that diversities of character are found among the rudest savages; and it is the poet's business, not to pourtray the characters as they really exist (which is left to the historian,) but to represent them such as they might have existed. But to have done, Ossian seems really to have very little knowledge of the human heart; his chief talent lies in describing inanimate objects, and therefore he belongs (according to my principles,) not to the highest, but an inferior order of poets."

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work; and though it seems to me to be inferior to the three poems just mentioned, yet I cannot help thinking it in the rank next to these. As for the other modern attempts at the Epopee," the Henriade" of Voltaire, the " Epigoniad" of Wil kie, the " Leonidas" of Glover, not to mention the "Arthur" of Blackmore, they are not to be compared with it. Tasso possesses an exuberant and sublime imagination, though in exuberance it seems, in my opinion, inferior to our Spencer, and in sublimity inferior to Milton. Were I to compare Milton's geuius with Tasso's, I would say that the sublime of the latter is flashy and fluctuating, while that of the former diffuses an uniform, steady, and vigorous blaze: Milton is more majestic, Tasso more dazzling. Dryden, it seems, was of opinion, that the "Jerusalem Delivered" was the only poem of modern times that deserved the name of epic; but it is certain that criticism was not this writer's talent; and I think it is evident, from some passages of his works, that he either did not, or would not, understand the "Paradise Lost." -Tasso borrows his plot and principal characters from Homer, but his manner resembles Virgil's. He is certainly much obliged to Virgil, and scruples not to imitate, nor to translate him on many occasions. In the pathetic he is far inferior both to Homer, to Virgil, and to Milton. His characters, though different, are not always distinct, and want those masterly and distinguishing strokes which the genius of Homer and Shakespeare, and of them only, knows how to delineate. Tasso excels in describing pleasurable scenes, and seems peculiarly fond of such as have a reference to the passion of love. Yet in characterising this passion, he is far inferior, not only to Milton, but also to Virgil, whose fourth book he has been at

POPE'S ESSAY ON MAN.

Pope's "Essay on Man" is the finest philosophical poem in the world, but it seems to me to do more honour to the imagination than to the understanding of its author: I mean, its sentiments are noble and affecting, its images and allusions apposite, beautiful, and new: its wit transcendently excellent; but the scientific part of it is very exceptionable. Whatever Pope borrows from Leibnitz, like most other metaphysical theories, is frivolous and unsatisfying: what Pope gives us of his own is energetic, irresistible, and divine. The incompatibility of philosophical and poetical genius is, I think, no unaccountable thing. Poetry exhibits the general qualities of a species; philosophy the particular qualities of individuals. This forms its conclusions from a painful and minute examination of single instances : that decides instantaneously, either from its own instinctive sagacity, or from a singular and unaccountable penetration, which at one glance sees all the instances which the philosopher must leisurely and progressively serutinize, one by one. This persuades you gradually, and by detail; the other overpowers you in an instant by a single effort. Observe the effect of argumentation in poetry; we have too many instances of it in Milton: it transforms the noblest thoughts into drawling inferences, and the most beautiful lan-guage into prose: it checks the tide of passion, by giving the mind a differ. ent employment in the comparison of ideas. A little philosophical acquaintance quaintance with the most beautiful parts of nature, both in the material and immaterial system, is of use to a poet, and gives grace and solidity to poetry; as may be seen in the "Georgics," "the Seasons," and "the Pleasures of Imagination:" but this acquaintance, if it is any thing more than superficial, will do a poet rather harm than good and will give his mind that turn for minute observation, which enfeebles the fancy by restraining it, and counteracts the native energy of judgment by rendering it fearful and suspicious."

METASTASIO.

Within the last fortnight, I have read five or six of Metastasio's operas with much pleasure. We are apt to despise the Italian opera, and, perhaps, not altogether without reason: but I find the operas of Metastasio very far superior to what I expected. There is a sameness in the fables and character of this author; and yet he seems to me to have more of character in his drama than any other poet of this or the last age. A reader is generally interested in his pieces from beginning to end; for they are full of incident, and the incidents are often surprising and unexpected. He has a happy talent at heightening distress; and very seldom falls into that unmean. ing rant and declamation which abounds so much on the French stage. In a word, I should not scruple to compare the modern Italian opera, as it appears in Metastasio, to the ancient Greek tragedy. The rigid observation of the unities of place and time, introduces many improprieties into the Greek drama, which are happily avoided by the less methodical genius of the Italian. I cannot indeed compare the little Italian songs, which are often very impertinent, as well as very silly, to

the odes of the ancient tragedians:

but a poet must always sacrifice something to the genius of his age.I dare say Metastasio despises those little morceaux of sing song, and it is evident from some of his performances in that way, that he is qualified to excel in the more solemn lyric style, if it were suitable to the taste of his countrymen. Some of his little songs are very pretty, and exhibit agreeable pictures of nature, with a brevity of description, and sweetness of style, that is hardly to be found in any other modern odes. I beg leave to mention as instances the songs in the 7th and 15th scenes of the second, and the 1st of the third act of "Artaserse."

VOLTAIRE'S HENRIADE.

"I promised to give you my opinion of the "Henriade;" but I must premise, that I take it for granted you have not implicitly adopted the notions of the French critics with regard to this poem. I hear it is accounted by them the greatest poem that ever human wit produced in any age or nation. For my part, I judge of it without prejudice either for or against it, and as I would judge of Tasso's" Gerusalemme," or any other work, in whose fate I have no national concern.

"Among the beauties of this work I would reckon its style, which, though raised above prose as much as the genius of the language will permit, is yet elegant and simple, though sometimes, to one accustomed to English poetry, it may have the appearance of being too prosaic. "Ou plutot en effet Valois ne regnait "plus"" Henri sçait profiter de " ce grand advantage" -" C'est un usage antique et sacre parmi "nous"" De Paris a l'instant il " fait quvrir la porte" - and many others, have nothing to distinguish them from the flattest prose but the measure and rhyme. But I do not insist on this as a fault; for the same objection

objection might be made to the finest poems in the world; and I know not whether a flatness of this kind may not sometimes have a good ef fect, and heighten, as it were, the relief of the more distinguished parts. The versification of the "Henriade" is agreeable, and often more harmonious than one could expect, who has not a greater niceness of ear in regard to the French numbers than I can pretend to have. I know not whence it happens, that I, who am very sensible of the Greck, Latin, and Italian harmony, can never bring myself to relish that of the French, although I understand the French language as well as any of the thers. Is it true, as Rousseau asserts, that this language, on account of the incessant monotony of the pronunciation, is incapable of harmony? I should like to have your sentiments on this subject.

0

"The thoughts or reflections in this poem are not too much crowded, nor affectedly introduced; they are, in general, proper and nervous, frequently uncommon. The author evidently appears to be a man of wit, yet he does not seem to take any pains to appear so. The fable is distinct, perspicuous, and intelligible; the character of Henry historically just; and the description of particular objects apposite, and sometimes picturesque.

"But his descriptions are often of too general a nature, and want that minutenes which is necessary to interest a reader. They are ra. ther historical than poetical descrip. tions. This is no verbal distinction; there is real ground for it. An his torian may describe from hearsay; a poet must describe from seeing and experience; and this he is enabled to do by making use of the eye of imagination. What makes a description natural? It is such a selection of particular qualities as we think that we ourselves would have made,

if we had been spectators of the object. What makes a description picturesque? It is a selection, not of every circumstance or quality, but of those which most powerfully attract the notice and influence the affections and imagination of the spectator. In a word, a poet must, either in vision or reality, be a spectator of the objects he undertakes to describe; an historian (being confined to truth) is generally supposed to describe from hearsay; or, if he describe what he has seen, he is not at liberty to insert one circumstance, and omit another, magnify this, and diminish that, bring one forward, and throw the other into the back ground; he must give a detail of all the circumstances, and as far as he knows them, otherwise he is not a faithful historian. Now, I think, through the whole of this poem, Voltaire shows himself more of a historian than a poet; we understand well enough what he says, but his representations, for the most part, are neither picturesque nor affecting.

"To one who has read the second book of Virgil, Voltaire's massacre of St Bartholomew will appear very trifling. It is uninteresting and void of incident; the horrors of it arise only upon reflection; the ima gination is not terrified, though the moral sense disapproves. The parting of Henry and Mad. D'Estrees is another passage that disappointed me; it is expressed in a few general terms, that produce no effect. The parting of Dido and Æneas, of Armida and Rinaldo, are incomparably fine, and do as far exceed that of Henry and his paramour, as the thunder of heaven transcends the mustard. bowl of the play-house.

"There is hardly an attempt at character in the poem. That of Henry is purely historical; and, though well enough supported on the whole, is not placed in those difficult

and

and trying circumstances, which draw forth into action the minuter springs of the soul. Before I get to the end of the Iliad, I am as much acquainted with Homer's heroes as if I had been personally known to them all for many years; but of Voltaire's hero I have only a confused notion. I know him to be brave and amorous, a lover of his country, and affectionate to his friends; and this is all I know of him, and I could have learned as mach from a common newspaper.

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"I acknowldge Voltaire's fable to be perspicuous, but I think it uninteresting, especially towards the end. We foresee the event, but our expectations are not raised by itThe catastrophe is not brought about by any striking incident, but by a series of incidents that have little or nothing in them to engage or surprise the reader. Henry's conversion is a very poor piece of work. Truth descends from heaven to the king's tent, with a veil ber, which she removes by little and little, till at length her whole person appears in a glorious but undazzling lustre. This may be good philosophy, but it is very indifferent poetry. It affects not the imagination, nor reconciles the reader to the event. Henry is converted, but weknow not how of why.The catastrophe of Don Quixotte is similar to this. Both Cervantes and Voltaire seem to have been in a haste to conclude; and this is all the apology I can offer for them.

"I mention not Voltaire's confusion of fabulous and real personages in his machinery; this has been remarked by others. But I cannot help observing, that his invocation to the historic muse is extremely injudicious. It warns the reader to expect nothing but truth, and con. sequently every appearance of fic. tion in the sequel must produce a bad effect, and bear the mark of im

probability, which it would not have borne if our author had been content to follow the example of his predecessors. Virgil pretends no better authority than tradition, Sit mihi fas audita loqui; and Homer throws himself entirely upon his muse, and is satisfied in being the instrument thro' which she speaks. The dream in the 7th canto (which the French critics think superior in merit to the whole Iliad) disappointed me much, though in some few passages it is not amiss. But heaven is not the element of poets. St Louis's prayer, in the last canto, is an odd one. He treats his Maker very cavalierly, and almost threatens him. I observed in the "Henriade" some mixed and, some improper metaphors, but did not mark them.

Gout. No, not your enemy. Franklin. I repeat it; my enemy: for you would not only torment my body to death, but ruin my good name: you reproach me as a glutton and a tippler; now all the world that knows me will allow, that I am neither the one nor the other.

Gout. The world may think as it pleases: it is always very complai. sant to itself, and sometimes to its friends; but I very well know, that the quantity of meat and drink pro

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