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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 unmeaning 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:

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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."

66

VOLTAIRE'S HENRIADE.

"I promised to give you my opi nion 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 o ther 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

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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 Greek, 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 others. 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.

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 descriptions. 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 ob ject. What makes a description picturesque? It is a selection, not

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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 à spectator of the objects he undertakes to describe; an historian (being confin ed 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 Eneas, of Armida and Rinaldo, are incomparably fine, and do as far exceed that of Henry and his paramour, as the thun`der of heaven transcends the mustardbowl 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

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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 much from a common newspaper.

"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 it. The catastrophe is not brought a bout 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 over 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 we know not how or 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 consequently 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 pre decessors. 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

mark them.

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Gout. It is I, even I the gout. Franklin. What my enemy in person.

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

per

per for a man, who takes a reasonable degree of exercise, would be too much for another, who never takes

any.

Franklin.-I take-Eh! Oh! as much exercise-Eh!-as I can, Madam Gout. You know my sedentary state, and on that account, it would seem, Madam Gout, as if you might spare me a little, seeing it is not altogether my own fault.

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Gout. Not a jot: your rhetoric and your politeness are thrown away; your apology avails nothing. If your situation in life is a sedentary one, your amusements, your recreations, at least, should be active. You ought to walk or ride; or, if the weather prevents that, play at billiards. But let us examine your course of life.While the mornings are long, and you have leisure to go abroad, what do you do? Why, instead of gaining an appetite for breakfast, by salutary exercise, you amuse yourself with books, pamphlets, or newspapers, commonly not worth reading. Yet you eat an inordinate breakfast, four dishes of tea, with cream, and one or two buttered toasts, with slices of hung beef, which I fancy are not things the most easily digested. Immediately afterward you sit down to write at your desk, or converse with persons who apply to you on business. Thus the time passes till one, with out any kind of bodily exercise.But all this I could pardon, in regard, as you say, to your sedentary condition. But what is your practice after dinner. Walking in the beautiful gardens of those friends with whom you have dined would be the choice of men of sense: yours is to be fixed down to chess, where you are found engaged for two or three hours! This is your perpetual recreation, which is the least eligible of any for a sedentary man, because, instead of accelerating the motion of the fluids, the rigid attention it requires helps to retard the circulation and August 1806.

obstruct internal secretions. Wrapt in the speculations of this wretched game, you destroy your constitution.

If it was

What can be expected from such a course of living, but a body replete with stagnant humours, ready to fall a prey to all kinds of dangerous maladies, if I, the Gout, did not occasionally bring you relief by agitating these humours, and so purifying or dissipating them. in some nook or alley in Paris, deprived of walks, that you played awhile at chess after dinner, this might be excusable, but the same taste prevails with you in Passy, Auteuil, Montmartre, or Sanoy, places where there are the finest gardens and walks, a pure air, beautiful women, and most agreeable, and instructive conversation, all which you might enjoy by frequenting the walks! But these are rejected for this abominable game of chess. Fic, then, Mr Franklin ! But amidst my instructions, I had almost forgot to administer my wholesome corrections: so take that twinge-and that.

Franklin.-Oh! Eh! Oh!-Ohhh! As much instruction as you please, madam Gout, and as many reproaches, but pray, madam, a truce with your corrections!

Gout.-No, sir, no-I will not abate a particle of what is so much for your good-therefore

Franklin.- Oh! Ehhh!-- It is not fair to say I take no exercise, when I do very often, going out to dine, and returning in my carriage.

Gout. That of all imaginable exercise is the most slight and insignificant, if you allude to the motion of a carriage suspended on springs. By observing the degree of heat obtained by different kinds of motion we may form an estimate of the quantity of exercise given by each. Thus, for example, if you turn out to walk in winter with cold feet, in an hour's time you will be in a glow all over ; ride on horseback, the same effect

will

warm

will scarcely be perceived by four hours round trotting: but if you loll in a carriage, such as you have mentioned, you may travel all day, and gladly enter the last inn to your feet by a fire. Flatter yourself then no longer, that balf an hour's airing in your carriage deserves the name of exercise. Providence has appointed few to roll in carriages, while he has given to all a pair of legs, which are machines infinitely more commodious and serviceable. Be grateful, then, and make a proper use of yours. Would you know how they forward the circulation of your fluids, in the very action of transporting you from place to place? observe when you walk, that all your weight is alternately thrown from one leg to the other; this occasions a great pressure on the vessels of the foot, and repels their contents.When relieved, by the weight, be ng thrown on the other foot, the vessels of the first are allowed to replenish, and by a return of this weight this repulsion again succeeds; thus accelerating the circulation of the blood. The heat produced in any given time depends on the degree of this acceleration: the fluids are shaken, the humours attenuated, the secretions facilitated, and all goes well; the cheeks are ruddy, and health is established. Behold your fair friend at Anteuil a lady who received from bounteous nature more really useful science, than half a dozen such pretenders to philosophy, as you, have been able to extract from all your books. When she honours you with a visit, it is on foot. She walks all hours of the day, and leaves indolence and its concomitant maladies to be endured by her horses. In this see at once the preservative of her health and personal charms. But you, when you go to Auteuil, must have your carriage, though it is no farther from Passy to Anteuil, than from Auteuil to Passy.

Franklin. Your reasonings grow very tiresome.

Gout -I stand corrected. I will be silent and continue my office : take that, and that.

Franklin.-Oh! Ohh! Talk on, I pray you!

Gout.-No, no; I have a good number of twinges for you to-night, and you may be sure of some more

to-morrow.

Franklin.What, with such a fever! I shall go distracted. Oh! Eh! Can no one bear it for me? Gout.-Ask that of your horses ; they have served you faithfully.

Franklin. -How can you so cruelly sport with my torments.

Gout.-Sport? I am very serious. I have here a list of your offences against your own health distinctly written, and can justify every stroke inflicted upon you.

Franklin.-Read it then.

Gout. It is too long a detail; but I will briefly mention some particulars.

Franklin.-Proceed-I am all at

tention.

Gout. Do you remember how often you have promised yourself, the following morning, a walk in the grove of Boulogne, in the garden de la Muette, or in your own garden. and have violated your promise; alledging, at one time, it was too cold, at another too warm, too windy, too moist, or what else you pleased; when in truth it was too nothing, but your insuperable love of ease?

Franklin.-That I confess may have happened occasionally, probably ten times in a year.

Gout. Your confession is very far short of the truth: the gross amount is one hundred and ninety-nine times.

Franklin. Is it possible?

Gout. So possible that it is fact; you may rely on the accuracy of my statement. You know Mr B--'s gardens, and what fine walks they contain; you know the handsome

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