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There is no race of men on whom these laws are more severe than authors; and no species of authors more subject to them than periodical essayists. Homer having prescribed the form, or, to use a more modern phrase, set the fashion of epic poems, whoever presumes to deviate from his plan, must not hope to participate his dignity: and whatever method the Spectator, the Guardian, and others, who first adopted this species of writing, have pursued in their undertaking, is set down as a rule for the conduct of their followers; which, whoever is bold enough to transgress, is accused of a deviation from the original design, and a breach of established regulation.

It has hitherto been customary for all periodical writers to take some opportunity, in the course of their labours, to display their critical abilities, either by making observations on some popular author and work of known character, or by bringing forth the performances of hidden merit, and throwing light on genius in obscurity. To the critiques of the Spectator, Shakspeare, and more particularly Milton, are indebted for no inconsiderable share of the reputation which they now so universally enjoy; and by his means were the ruder graces and more simple beauties of Chevy Chace held up to public view, and recommended to general admiration.

I should probably be accused of swerving from the imitation of so great an example, were not I to take occasion to shew that I too am not entirely destitute of abilities of this kind; but that, by possessing a decent share of critical discernment, and critical jargon, I am capable of becoming a very tolerable commentator. For the proof of which, I shall rather prefer calling the attention of my readers to an object

as yet untreated of by any of my immediate predecessors, than venture to throw in my observations on any work which has before passed the ordeal of frequent examination. And this I shall do for two reasons; partly, because were I to choose a field, how fertilé soever, of which many others had before me been reaping the fruits, mine would be at best but the gleanings of criticism; and, partly, from a more interested view, from a selfish desire of accumulated praise; since, by making a work, as yet almost wholly unknown, the subject of my consideration, I shall acquire the reputation of taste as well as judgment; of judiciousness in selection as well as justness in observation-of propriety in choosing the object as well as skill in using the language of commentary.

The Epic poem on which I shall ground my present critique, has, for its chief characteristics, brevity and simplicity. The author,-whose name I lament that I am, in some degree, prevented from consecrating to immortal fame by not knowing what it is -the author, I say, has not branched his poem into excrescences of episode, or prolixities of digression; it is neither variegated with diversity of unmeaning similitudes, nor glaring with the varnish of unnatural metaphor. The whole is plain and uniform; so much so indeed, that I should hardly be surprised if some morose readers were to conjecture that the poet had been thus simple rather from necessity than choice; that he had been restrained not so much by chastity of judgment, as sterility of imagination.

Nay, some there may be, perhaps, who will dispute bis claim to the title of an Epic poet, and will endeavour to degrade him even to the rank of a balladmonger. But I, as his commentator, will contend for

the dignity of my author; and will plainly demonstrate his poem to be an Epic poem, agreeable to the example of all poets, and the consent of all critics heretofore.

First, it is universally agreed that an Epic poem should have three component parts; a beginning, a middle, and an end; secondly, it is allowed that it should have one grand action, or main design, to the forwarding of which, all the parts of it should directly or indirectly tend; and that this design should be in some measure consonant with, and conducive to, the purposes of morality;-and, thirdly, it is indisputably settled that it should have an hero. I trust that in none of these points the poem before us will be found deficient. There are other inferior properties, which I shall consider in due order.

Not to keep my readers longer in suspense, the subject of the poem is "The Reformation of the Knave of Hearts." It is not improbable that some may object to me, that a Knave is an unworthy hero for an Epic poem; that a hero ought to be all that is great and good. The objection is frivolous. The greatest work of this kind that the world ever produced, has "The Devil" for its hero; and supported as my author is by so great a precedent, I contend that his hero is a very decent hero; and, especially as he has the advantage of Milton's, by reforming at the end, is evidently entitled to a competent share of celebrity.

I shall now proceed to the more immediate examination of the poem in its different parts. The beginning, say the critics, ought to be plain and simple; neither embellished with the flowers of poetry, nor turgid with pomposity of diction. In this, how exactly

does our author conform to the established opinion! he begins thus,

"The Queen of Hearts
She made some tarts."

Can any thing be more clear! more natural! more agreeable to the true spirit of simplicity! Here are no tropes, no figurative expressions, not even so much as an invocation to the muse. He does not detain his readers by any needless circumlocution; by unnecessarily informing them what he is going to sing; or still more unnecessarily enumerating what he is not going to sing but according to the precepts of Horace,

:

in medias res,

Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit;That is, he at once introduces us, and sets us on the most easy and familiar footing imaginable with her majesty of Hearts, and interests us deeply in her domestic concerns. But to proceed,

"The Queen of Hearts She made some tarts All on a summer's day."

Here indeed the prospect brightens, and we are led to expect some liveliness of imagery, some warmth of poetical colouring; but here is no such thing. There is no task more difficult to a poet than rejection. Ovid, among the ancients, and Dryden among the moderns, were perhaps the most remarkable for the want of it. The latter from the haste in which he generally produced his compositions, seldom paid much attention to the "lima labor," the labor of correction, and seldom therefore rejected the assistance of any idea that presented itself. Ovid, not content with catching the leading features of any scene or character, indulged himself in a thousand minutiae of description, a thousand puerile prettinesses, which were in themselves uninteresting, and took off greatly

from the effect of the whole; as the numberless suckers and straggling branches of a fruit-tree, if permitted to shoot out unrestrained, while they are themselves barren and useless, diminish considerably the vigor of the parent stock. Ovid had more genius but less judgment than Virgil; Dryden more imagination but less correctness than Pope; had they not been deficient in these points, the former would certainly have equalled, the latter infinitely outshone the merits of his countrymen. Our author was undoubtedly possessed of that power which they wanted; and was cautious not to indulge too far the sallies of a lively imagination. Omitting therefore any mention of sultry Sirius,-sylvan shade,-sequestered glade, -verdant hills,-purling rills,-mossy mountains,gurgling fountains, &c. &c. he simply tells us that it

was

"all on a summer's day." For my own part, I confess, that I find myself rather flattered than disappointed; and consider the poet as rather paying a compliment to the abilities of his readers, than baulking their expectations. It is certainly a great pleasure to see a picture well painted; but it is much greater to paint it well oneself. This therefore I look upon as a stroke of excellent management in the poet. Here every reader is at liberty to gratify his own taste; to design for himself just what sort of "summer's day" he likes best; to choose his own scenery; dispose his lights and shades as he pleases; to solace himself with a rivulet or a horse pond, a shower or a sunbeam, a grove or a kitchen-garden, according to his fancy. How much more considerate this, than if the poet had, from an affected accuracy of description, thrown us into an unmannerly perspiration by the heat of the atmosphere; forced us into a landscape of his own planning, with perhaps a paltry good for nothing

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