Or verbs into substantives;

4. By using active verbs neutrally,

And neutral verbs actively,

5. By converting Adjectives into Substantives.

6. By converting Participles into Substantives.

Which last instance I the rather give for the sake of proposing an emendation, which I think restores this fine passage to its Integrity. Before the late edition of Shakespear it stood thus,

But the sagacious Editor saw that this reading was corrupt, and therefore altered the last word, growing, for unanswerable reasons, into blowing. See Mr. W’s note upon the place. This slight change gives propriety and beauty to the passage, which before had no sort of meaning. Yet still all is not quite right. For, as the great Critic himself observes, “Breathing is not a very proper word to express the rage and bluster of the north wind.” Besides, one does not see how the shaking of these Buds is properly assign’d as the cause of their not blowing. The wind might shake off the blossoms of a fruit tree, i. e. the Buds when they were full-blown; but so long as the blossom lies folded up in the Bud, it seems secure from shaking. At least the shaking is not the immediate cause of the effect, spoken of; it is simply the cold of the north-wind that closes the Bud and keeps it from blowing. I am therefore tempted to propose another alteration of the text, and to read thus,

If this correction be allowed, every thing is perfectly right. It is properly the breathing, the cold breath of the North, that shuts up the Buds when they are on the point of blowing. Whence the epithet tyrannous will be understood not as implying the idea of blust’ring (an idea indeed necessary if we retain the word shakes) but simply of cruel, the tyranny of this wind consisting in imprisoning the flower in its Bud and denying it the liberty of coming out into Blossom. The application too of this comparison, which required the change of growing into blowing, seems also to require the present alteration of shakes. For there was no manner of violence in the father’s coming in upon the lovers. All the effect was, that his presence restrained them from that interchange of tender words, which was going to take place between them.

Thus far I had written in the last edition of these notes, and I, now, see no cause to doubt the general truth and propriety of this emendation. Only it occurs to me that, instead of SHUTS, the poet’s own word might, perhaps, be CHECKS; as not only being more like in sound to the word shakes, but as coming nearer to the traces of the Letters. Besides, CHECKS gives the precise idea we should naturally look for, whether we regard the integrity of the figure—tyrannous—checks—, or the thing illustrated by it, viz. the abrupt coming in of the father, which was properly a check upon the lovers. Lastly, the expression is mended by this reading; for though we may be allowed to say shuts from blowing, yet checks from blowing, is easier and better English.

But to return to other Instances of the Poet’s artifice in the management of known words. An apparent Novelty is sometimes effected

7. By turning Participles into Adverbs—

(One remembers the fine use Mr. Pope has made of this word in,

8. By figurative terms; i. e. by such terms as though common in the plain, are unusual in the figurative application.

To this head may be referred those innumerable terms in Shakespear which surprize us by their novelty; and which surprize us generally, on account of his preferring the specific idea to the general in the subjects of his Metaphors and the circumstances of his Description; an excellence in poetical expression which cannot be sufficiently studied. The examples are too frequent, and the thing itself too well understood, to make it necessary to enlarge on this article.

9. By plain words, i. e. such as are common in the figurative, uncommon in the literal acceptation.

See the note on the place.

10. By transposition of words—unauthoriz’d use of terms—and ungrammatical construction. Instances in all his plays, passim.

11. By foreign idioms. ’Tis true these are not frequent in Shakespear. Yet some Latinisms and e’en Grecisms we have. As

And the like. But, which is more remarkable and served his purpose just as well, the writers of that time had so latiniz’d the English language; that the pure English Idiom, which Shakespear generally follows, has all the air of novelty which other writers are used to affect by a foreign phraseology.

The Reader sees, it were easy to extend this list of Shakespear’s arts in the Callida junctura much farther. But I intended only a specimen of them; so much as might serve to illustrate the rule of Horace.

It is enough, that we have now a perfect apprehension of what is meant by Callida Junctura; And that it is, in effect, but another word for Licentious Expression: The use of which is, as Quintilian well expresses it, “Ut quotidiani et semper eodem modo formati sermonis Fastidium levet, et nos à vulgari dicendi genere defendat.” In short, the articles, here enumerated, are but so many ways of departing from the usual and simpler forms of speech, without neglecting too much the grace of ease and perspicuity; In which well-tempered licence one of the greatest charms of all poetry, but especially of Shakespear’s poetry, consists. Not that He was always and every where so happy, as in the instances given above. His expression sometimes, and by the very means, here exemplified, becomes hard, obscure, and unnatural. This is the extreme on the other side. But in general, we may say, that He hath either followed the direction of Horace very ably, or hath hit upon his Rule very happily.

We are not perhaps to expect the same ability, or good fortune from others. Novelty is a charm which nothing can excuse the want of, in works of entertainment. And the necessity of preventing the tedium arising from hacknied expression is so instant, that those, who are neither capable of prescribing to themselves this Rule of the callida Junctura, or of following it when prescribed by others, are yet inclined to ape it by some spurious contrivance; which being slight in itself will soon become liable to excess, and ridiculous by its absurdity. I have a remarkable instance in view, with which the reader will not be displeased that I conclude this long note.

About the middle of the 17th century one of the most common of these mimic efforts was the endless multiplication of Epithets; which soon made their poetry at once both stiff and nerveless. When frequent and excessive use had made this expedient ridiculous as well as cheap, they tried another, it’s very opposite the rejection of all Epithets, and so of languid poetry, made rigid Prose. This too had it’s day. A dramatic Poet of that time has exposed these opposite follies with much humour. A character of sense and pleasantry is made to interrogate a Poetaster in the following manner.

54. Cæcilio Plautoque dabit Romanus, ademptum Virgilio Varioque?] The question is but reasonable. Yet the answer will not be to the satisfaction of him that puts it. This humour, we may observe, holds here in England, as it did formerly at Rome; and will, I suppose, hold every-where, under the same circumstances. Cæcilius and Plautus were allowed to coin, but not Virgil and Varius. The same indulgence our authors had at the restoration of letters; but it is denied to our present writers. The reason is plainly this. While arts are refining or reviving, the greater part are forced, and all are content to be Learners. When they are grown to their usual height, all affect to be Teachers. With this affectation, a certain envy, as the poet observes,

insinuates itself; which is for restraining the privileges of writers, to all of whom every reader is now become a Rival. Whereas men, under the first character of Learners, are glad to encourage every thing that makes for their instruction.

But whatever offence may be taken at this practice, good writers, as they safely may, should dare to venture upon it. A perfect language is a chimæra. In every state of it there will frequently be occasion, sometimes a necessity, to hazard a new word. And let not a great genius be discouraged, by the fastidious delicacy of his age, from a sober use of this privilege. Let him, as the poet directs,

This too was the constant language of ancient criticism. “Audendum tamen; namque, ut ait Cicero, etiam quæ primò dura visa sunt, usu molliuntur,” Quintil. l. i. c. v.

70. Multa renascentur, quae jam cecidere.] This revival of old words is one of those niceties in composition, not to be attempted by any but great masters. It may be done two ways, 1. by restoring such terms, as are grown entirely obsolete; or, 2. by selecting out of those, which have still a currency, and are not quite laid aside, such as are most forcible and expressive. For so I understand a passage in Cicero, who urges this double use of old words, as an argument, to his orator, for the diligent study of the old Latin writers. His words are these: Loquendi elegantia, quamquam expolitur scientiâ literarum, tamen augetur legendis oratoribus [veteribus] et poetis: sunt enim illi veteres, qui ornare nondum poterant ea, quae dicebant, omnes prope præclare locuti—Neque tamen erit utendum verbis iis, quibus jam consuetudo nostra non utitur, nisi quando ornandi causâ, parcè, quod ostendam; sed usitatis ita poterit uti, lectissimis ut utatur is, qui in veteribus erit scriptis studiosè et multum volutatus. [De Orat. l. iii. c. x.] These choice words amongst such as are still in use, I take to be those which are employed by the old writers in some peculiarly strong and energetic sense, yet so as with advantage to be copied by the moderns, without appearing barbarous or affected. [See Hor. lib. ii. ep. ii. v. 115.] And the reason, by the way, of our finding such words in the old writers of every language, may be this. When ideas are new to us, they strike us most forcibly; and we endeavour to express, not our sense only, but our sensations, in the terms we use to explain them. The passion of wonder, which Philosophy would cure us of, is of singular use in raising the conception, and strengthening the expression of poets. And such is always the condition of old writers, when the arts are reviving, or but beginning to refine. The other use of old terms, i. e. when become obsolete, he says, must be made parcè, more sparingly. The contrary would, in oratory, be insufferable affectation. The rule holds in poetry, but with greater latitude; for, as he observes in another place, and the reason of the thing speaks, hæc sunt Poetarum licentiæ liberiora. [De Or. iii. 38.] But the elegance of the style, we are told, is increased both ways. The reason is, according to Quinctilian (who was perfectly of Cicero’s mind in this matter. See l. x. c. i.) Verba à vetustate repetita afferunt orationi majestatem aliquam non sine delectatione; nam et auctoritatem antiquitatis habent; et, quia intermissa sunt, gratiam novitati similem parant. [Lib. i. c. vi. sub fin.] But this is not all: The riches of a language are actually increased by retaining its old words; and besides, they have often a greater real weight and dignity, than those of a more fashionable cast, which succeed to them. This needs no proof to such as are versed in the earlier writings in any language. A very capable judge hath observed it in regard of the most admired modern one: Nous avons tellement laissé ce qui étoit au viel françois, que nous avons laissé quant et quant la plus part de ce qu’il avoit de bon. [Trait. préparatif à l’ Apol. pour Herod. l. i. c. xxviii.] Or, if the reader requires a more decisive testimony, let him take it in the words of that curious speaker, Fenelon. Nôtre langue manque d’un grand nombre de mots et de phrases. Il me semble même qu’on l’a genée et appauvrie depuis environ cent ans en voulant la purifier. Il est vrai qu’elle étoit encore un peu informe et trop verbeuse. Mais le vieux language se fait regretter, quand nous le retrouvons dans Marot, dans Amiot, dans le Cardinal d’Ossat, dans les ouvrages les plus enjoues, et dans les plus serieux. Il y avoit je ne scai quoi de court, de näif, de vif et de passioné. [Reflex. sur la Rhetorique, Amst. 1733. p. 4.] From these testimonies we learn the extreme value, which these masters of composition set upon their old writers; and as the reason of the thing justifies their opinions, we may further see the important use of some late attempts to restore a better knowledge of our own. Which I observe with pleasure, as the growing prevalency of a very different humour, first catched, as it should seem, from our commerce with the French models, and countenanced by the too scrupulous delicacy of some good writers amongst ourselves, had gone far towards unnerving the noblest modern language, and effeminating the public taste. This was not a little forwarded by, what generally makes its appearance at the same time, a kind of feminine curiosity in the choice of words; cautiously avoiding and reprobating all such (which were not seldom the most expressive) as had been prophaned by a too vulgar use, or had suffered the touch of some other accidental taint. This ran us into periphrases and general expression; the peculiar bane of every polished language. Whereas the rhetorician’s judgment here again should direct us: Omnia verba (exceptis paucis parum verecundis) sunt alicubi optima; nam et humilibus interim et vulgaribus est opus, et quæ cultiore in parte videntur sordida, ubi res poscit, propriè dicuntur. Which seems borrowed from Dionysius of Halicarnassus [περ. συνθεσ. § xii.] οὐδὲν οὕτω ταπεινὸν, ἢ ῥυπαρὸν, ἢ μιαρὸν, ἢ ἄλλην τινὰ δυσχέρειαν ἔχον ἔσεσθαί φημι λόγου μόριον, ᾧ σημαίνεταί τι σῶμα ἢ πρᾶγμα, ὃ μηδεμίαν ἕξει χῶραν ἐπιτηδείαν ἐν λόγοις. However those two causes, “The rejection of old words, as barbarous, and of many modern ones, as unpolite,” had so exhausted the strength and stores of our language, that, as I observed, it was high time for some master-hand to interpose and send us for supplies to our old poets; which, there is the highest authority for saying, no one ever despised, but for a reason, not very consistent with his credit to avow: rudem enim esse omnino in nostris poëtis aut inertissimæ segnitiæ est aut fastidii delicatissimi. [Cic. de fin. l. i. c. ii.]

72.—SI VOLET USUS, &c.] Consuetudo certissima loquendi magistra; utendumque planè sermone, ut nummo, qui publica forma est. [Quinctil. l. i. c. vi.] imitated from Horace. In Lucian too, we find it one of the charges brought against the Pedant, Lexiphanes, that he clipped the standard Coin of the Greek language—σπουδὴν ποιούμενος ὡς δή τι μέγα ὂν, εἴτι ξενίζοι καὶ τὸ καθεστηκὸς ΝΟΜΙΣΜΑ τῆς φωνῆς παρακόπτοι (c. 20.)

73. Res gestae, etc.] The purport of these lines [from v. 73 to 86] and their connexion with what follows, hath not been fully seen. They would express this general proposition, “That the several kinds of poetry essentially differ from each other, as may be gathered, not solely from their different subjects, but their different measures; which good sense, and an attention to the peculiar natures of each, instructed the great inventors and masters of them to employ.” The use made of this proposition is to infer, “that therefore the like attention should be had to the different species of the same kind of poetry [v. 89, &c.] as in the case of tragedy and comedy (to which the application is made) whose peculiar differences and correspondencies, as resulting from the natures of each, should, in agreement to the universal law of decorum, be exactly known and diligently observed by the poet.”

But, there is a further propriety in this enumeration of the several kinds of poetry, as addressed to the dramatic writer. He is not only to study, for the purposes here explained, the characteristic differences of either species of the drama: He must further be knowing in the other kinds of poetry, so as to be able, as the nature of his work shall demand, to adopt the genius of each, in its turn, and to transfer the graces of universal poetry into the drama. Thus, to follow the division here laid down, there will sometimes be occasion for the pomp and high coloring of the EPIC narration; sometimes for the plaintive softness and passionate inconnexion of the ELEGY: and the chorus, if characterized in the ancient manner, must catch the fiery, inraptured spirit of the ODE.

Hence is seen the truth of that remark, which there hath been more than once occasion to make, “That, however general these prefatory instructions may appear, they more especially respect the case of the drama.”

90. Indignatur item, etc.—coena Thyestae.] Il met le souper de Thyeste pour toutes sortes de tragedies, says M. Dacier; but why this subject was singled out, as the representative of the rest, is not explained by him. We may be sure, it was not taken up at random. The reason was, that the Thyestes of Ennius was peculiarly chargeable with the fault, here censured: as is plain from a curious passage in the Orator; where Cicero, speaking of the loose numbers of certain poets, observes this, in particular, of the tragedy of Thyestes, Similia sunt quædam apud nostros: velut in Thyeste,

et quæ sequuntur: quæ nisi cùm tibicen accesserit, ORATIONI SUNT SOLUTÆ SIMILLIMA: which character exactly agrees to this of Horace, wherein the language of that play is censured, as flat and prosaic, and hardly rising above the level of ordinary conversation in comedy. This allusion to a particular play, written by one of their best poets, and frequently exhibited on the Roman stage, gives great force and spirit to the precept, at the same time that it exemplifies it in the happiest manner. It seems further probable to me, that the poet also designed an indirect compliment to Varius, whose Thyestes, we are told, [Quinctil. l. x. c. i.] was not inferior to any tragedy of the Greeks. This double intention of these lines well suited the poet’s general aim, which is seen through all his critical works, of beating down the excessive admiration of the old poets, and of asserting the just honours of the modern. It may further be observed that the critics have not felt the force of the words exponi and narrari in this precept. They are admirably chosen to express the two faults condemned: the first implying a kind of pomp and ostentation in the language, which is therefore improper for the low subjects of comedy: and the latter, as I have hinted, a flat, prosaic expression, not above the cast of a common narrative, and therefore equally unfit for tragedy. Nothing can be more rambling than the comment of Heinsius and Dacier on this last word.

94. Iratusque Chremes tumido dilitigat ore: Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri.] It may not be amiss to open a little more particularly the grounds of this criticism: which may best be done by a commentary on the following lines of the poet:

To draw after the life, in any given conjuncture, the poet must recollect (which may easily be done by consulting with his own conscious experience) that peculiar disposition of mind, into which the speaker is, of necessity, carried by the circumstances of his situation. And the sentiments, which give the image of this peculiar disposition, are the genuine lineaments of the character intended.

But the truth of sentiment may be hurt or effaced by incongruous language, just as the exactest lineaments of a portrait are often disguised or lost under a vicious coloring. To paint then as well as draw after the truth, it is requisite that a further regard be had to the expression. Which again is no great difficulty for the artist, the same common nature holding the torch to him, as before. For in entering into ourselves we find, that as the mind, in any supposed situation, gives birth to a certain set of conceptions and sentiments, correspondent to its true state, and expressive of it: so by attending to the language, in which those sentiments ordinarily manifest themselves, we easily perceive they take one style or manner of expression preferably to every other. For expression, where false art is not employed to distort it, gives the just image of our sentiments; just as these, when nature is not suppressed or counteracted, are ever the faithful representatives of the manners. They result, like the famous Simulacra of Epicurus, as by a secret destination, from their original forms; and are, each, the perfect copies of other. All which will be clearly understood by applying these general observations to the instances in view.

The passion of ANGER rouses all the native fire and energy of the soul. In this disorder, and, as it were, insurrection of the mental powers, our sentiments are strong and vigorous; nature prompting us to liberal and lofty conceptions of ourselves, and a superior disdainful regard of others. This again determines the genius of our language, which, to conform to such sentiments, must be bold and animated; breaking out into forcible imagery, and swelling in all the pomp of sounding epithets and violent figures. And this even amidst the humbler concerns of private and inferior fortunes:

In the passion of GRIEF, on the contrary, the reverse of this takes place. For the mind, oppressed and weighed down by its sorrows, sinks into a weak and timorous despondency; inclining us to submit, almost without resistance, to the incumbent affliction; or if we struggle at all with it, it is only to ease the labouring heart by putting forth some fruitless sighs and ineffectual complainings. Thus we find it represented by those perfect masters of simple nature, the Greek tragedians. So far are their sorrowing personages from entertaining any vigorous thoughts or manly resolutions, that they constantly languish into sad repinings at their present, and trembling apprehensions of future, misery.

When these sentiments come to express themselves in words, what can they be but the plainest and simplest which the language of the complainant furnishes? Such negligence, or more properly such dejection, of sorrow disposes the speaker to take up with terms as humble as his fortune. His feeble conception is not only unapt or unable to look out for fine words and painted phrases; but, if chance throw them in his way, he even rejects them as trappings of another condition, and which serves only to upbraid his present wretchedness. The pomp of numbers and pride of poetic expression are so little his care, that it is well if he even trouble himself to observe the ordinary exactness of mere prose11. And this even where the height of rank and importance of affairs conspire to elevate the mind to more state and dignity.

Thus far the dramatic writer may inform himself by entering into his own consciousness, and observing the sure dictates of experience. For what concerns the successful application of this rule in practice, every thing, as is remarked below, [on v. 102.] must depend on the constitution of his own mind; which yet may be much assisted by the diligent study of those writers, who excel most in this way: in which class all agree to give the palm to Euripides.

But here it may not be improper to obviate a common mistake that seems to have arisen from the too strict interpretation of the poet’s Rule. Tragic characters, he says, will generally express their sorrows in a prosaic language. From this just observation, hastily considered and compared with the absurd practice of some writers, it hath been concluded, That what we call pure Poetry, the essence of which consists in bold figures and a lively imagery, hath no place on the Stage. It may not be sufficient to oppose to this notion the practice of the best poets, ancient and modern; for the question recurrs, how far that practice is to be justified on the principles of good criticism and common sense. To come then, to the Reason of the thing.

The capital rule in this matter is,

But to do this, the Situation of the persons, and the various passions resulting from such situation, must be well considered. Each of these has a character or turn of thinking peculiar to itself. But all agree in this property, that they occupy the whole attention of the speaker, and are perpetually offering to his mind a set of pictures or images, suitable to his state, and expressive of it. In these the tragic character of every denomination loves to indulge; as we may see by looking no farther than on what passes before us in common life, where persons, under the influence of any passion, are more eloquent and have a greater quickness at allusion and imagery, than at other times. So that to take from the speaker this privilege of representing such pictures or images is so far from consulting Nature, that it is, in effect, to overlook or reject one of her plainest lessons.

’Tis true, if one character is busied in running after the Images which Nature throws in the way only of some other; or if, in representing such images as are proper to the character, the Imagination is taken up in tracing minute resemblances and amusing itself with circumstances that have no relation to the case in hand: then indeed the censure of these critics is well applied. It may be fine poetry, if you will, but very bad dramatic writing. But let the imagery be ever so great or splendid, if it be such only as the governing passion loves to conceive and paint, and if it be no further dilated on, and with no greater sollicitude and curiosity, than the natural working of the passion demands, the Drama is so far from rejecting such Poetry that it glories in it, as what is most essential to its true end and design.

An office, which the dramatic poet hath no means of sustaining but by that strong painting and forcible imagery, above described.

What seems to have given a colour to the opposite opinion, is the faulty practice which good critics have observed in the French tragedies, and in some of our own that have been formed upon their model. But the case is mistaken. It is not the Poetry of the French or English drama that deserves their censure, but its prolix and languid Declamation, neglecting passion for sentiment, or expressing passion in a calm circuit of words and without spirit. Even Mr. Addison’s Cato, which from being immoderately extolled has had the usual fate of being as immoderately undervalued, is not to be censured for its abundance of poetry, but for its application of it in a way that hurts the passion. General sentiments, uncharacteristic imagery, and both drawn out in a spiritless, or, which comes to the same thing, a too curious expression, are the proper faults of this drama. What the critic of just taste demands in this fine tragedy, is even more poetry, but better applied and touched with more spirit.

Still, perhaps, we are but on the surface of this matter. The true ground of this mistaken Criticism, is, The Notion, that when the Hero is at the crisis of his fate, he is not at liberty to use Poetical, that is, highly figurative expression: but that the proper season for these things is when he has nothing else to do. Whereas the truth is just the contrary. The figures, when he is greatly agitated, come of themselves; and, suiting the grandeur and dignity of his situation, are perfectly natural. To use them in his cool and quiet moments, when he has no great interests to prosecute or extricate himself from, is directly against Nature. For, in this state of things, he must seek them, if he will have them. And when he has got them and made his best use of them, what do they produce? Not sublimity, but Bombast. For it is not the figures, but the suitableness to the occasion, that produces either. Not that I am ignorant that there are vices in the formation of figures, as well as in their application. But these vices go under various other names. The pure simple Bombast (if I may be indulged so bold a catachresis) arises from putting figurative expression to an improper use. To give an instance of what I mean. Tacitus writes under one continued resentment at the degeneracy of his times, and speaking of some sumptuary Laws proposed by the Senate, in 2 Ann. c. 33, he says they decreed, Ne Vestis Serica viros FOEDARET. This became the dignity of his historic character and genius. But had his Contemporary, Suetonius, who wrote Chronicles in the spirit of our Stow and Holinshed, used the same language, it would have set his readers a laughing.

Not but figurative expression, even when suitable to the character, genius, and general subject of a writer, may still be misplaced. Thus, had Tacitus, speaking of the honours decreed to Tiberius on a certain occasion, said with his translator Gordon—which of these he meant to accept or which to reject, the approaching issue of his days has BURIED in oblivion—the figure, the reader sees, would have been miserably out of place; the conceit of the burial of his intentions, on the mention of his death, being even ridiculous. But the ridicule, we may be sure, falls on the translator only, and not on his great original, who expresses himself on this occasion, not only with propriety, but with the greatest simplicity—quos omiserit receperitve IN INCERTO fuit ob propinquum vitæ finem. Ann. l. vi. c. 45.

I have brought these instances to shew that figurative expression is not improper even in a fervent animated historian, on a fit subject, and in due place: much less should the tragic poet, when his characters are to be shewn in the conflict of the stronger passions, be debarred the use of it.

The short of the matter is, in one word, this. Civil Society first of all tames us to humanity, as Cicero expresses it; and, in the course of its discipline, brings us down to one dead level. Its effect is to make us all the same pliant, mimic, obsequious things; not unlike, in a word, (if our pride could overlook the levity of the comparison) what we see of trained Apes. But when the violent passions arise (as in the case of these Apes when the apples were thrown before them) this artificial discipline is all shaken off, and we return again to the free and ferocious state of Nature. And what is the expression of that state? It is (as we understand by experience) a free and fiery expression, all made up of bold metaphors and daring figures of Speech.

The conclusion is, that Poetry, pure Poetry, is the proper language of Passion, whether we chuse to consider it as ennobling, or debasing the human character.

There is, as I have said, an obvious distinction to be made (and to that the poet’s rule, as explained in this note, refers) between the soft and tender, and the more vigorous passions. When the former prevail, the mind is in a weak languid state; and though all allusion and imagery be not improper here, yet as that fire and energy of the soul is wanting, which gives a facility of ranging over our ideas and of seizing such as may be turned to any resemblance of our own condition, it will for that reason be less frequent in this state of the mind than any other. Such imagery, too, will for the same reason be less striking, because the same languid affections lead to, and make us acquiesce in a simpler and plainer expression. But universally in the stronger passions the poetical character prevails, and rises only in proportion to the force and activity of those passions.

To draw the whole then of what has been said on this subject into a standing Rule for the observance of the dramatic Poet.

“Man is so formed that whether he be in joy, or grief; in confidence or despair; in pleasure or pain; in prosperity or distress; in security or danger; or torn and distracted by all the various modifications of Love, Hate, and Fear: The Imagination is incessantly presenting to the mind an infinite variety of images or pictures, conformable to his Situation: And these Pictures receive their various coloring from the habits, which his birth and condition, his education, profession and pursuits have induced. The representation of these is the Poetry, and a just representation, in a great measure, the Art, of dramatic writing.”

95. Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri.] Dr. Bentley connects this with the following line: