If it be a true one, I am fure Mr. Dryden was not only a better poet, but a greater Wit than Mr. Cowley; and Virgil a much more facetious man than either Ovid or Martial. Bouhours, whom I look upon to be the most penetrating of all the French critics, has taken pains to fhew, that it is impoffible for any thought to be beautiful which is not just, and has not its foundation in the nature of things; that the basis of all Wit is truth; and that no thought can be valuable, of which good fenfe is not the ground-work. Boileau has endeavoured to inculcate the fame notion in feveral parts of his writings, both in profe and verse. This is that natural way of writing, that beautiful fimplicity, which we fo much admire in the compofitions of the ancients; and which no body deviates from, but those who want ftrength of genius to make a thought fhine in its own natural beauties. Poets who want this ftrength of genius to give that majeftic fimplicity to nature, which we fo much admire in the works of the ancients, are forced to hunt after foreign ornaments, and not to let any piece of Wit of what kind foever escape them. I look upon these writers as Goths in poetry, who like thofe in architecture, not being able to come up to the beautiful fimplicity of the old Greeks and Romans, have endeavoured to fupply its place with all the extravagancies of an irregular fancy. Mr. Dryden makes a very handfome obfervation on Ovid's writing a letter from Dido to Æneas, in the following words: Ovid (fays he, speaking • of ⚫ of Virgil's fiction of Dido and Æneas) takes it up after him, even in the fame age, and makes an ancient heroine of Virgil's new-created Dido; dictates a letter for her just before her death to the ungrateful fugitive, and very unluckily for himself, is for measuring a fword with a man fo much fuperior in force to him on the same subject. I think I may be judge of this, because I have tranflated both. The famous author of the Art of Love has nothing of his own; he borrows all from a greater master in his own profeflion, and which is worfe, improves nothing which he finds. Nature fails him, and being forced to his old fhift, he has ⚫ recourfe to Witticifin. This paffes indeed with ⚫ his foft admirers, and gives him the preference to Virgil in their efteem.' Were not I fupported by fo great an authority as that of Mr. Dryden, I fhould not venture to obferve, that the tafte of moft of our English poets, as well as readers, is extremely Gothic. He quotes Monfieur Segrais for a threefold diftinction of the readers of poetry: in the first of which he comprehends the rabble of readers, whom he does not treat as fuch with regard to their quality, but to their numbers and the coarfeness of their taste. His words are as follow: Segrais has diftinguished the readers of poetry, according to their capacity of judging, into three claffes.' [He might have faid the fame of writers too, if he had pleased.] In the ⚫ lowest form he places those whom he calls Les Petits Efprits, fuch things as are our upper gallery gallery audience in a playhouse; who like nothing but the husk and rind of Wit, and prefer a quibble, a conceit, an epigram, before folid ⚫ fense and elegant expreffion. These are mob 'readers. If Virgil and Martial stood for parlia'ment-men, we know already who would carry it. But though they made the greatest appearance in the field, and cry the loudeft, the best on it is, they are but a fort of French Huguenots, or Dutch Boors, brought over in herds, but not naturalized; who have not lands of two pounds per annum in Parnaffus, and there⚫fore are not privileged to poll *. Their authors are of the fame level, fit to reprefent them on ⚫ a mountebank's ftage, or to be masters of the ceremonies in a bear-garden: yet these are they who have the moft admirers. But it often happens, to their mortification, that as their 'readers improve their stock of sense (as they may by reading better books, and by converfa'tion with men of judgment) they soon forsake ' them.' I must not dismiss this fubject without observing, that as Mr. Locke in the paffage above mentioned has difcovered the moft fruitful fource of wit, so there is another of a quite contrary nature to it, which does likewise branch itself out into feveral kinds. For not only the refemblance, but the oppofition of ideas, does very often produce wit; as I could fhew in feveral little points, *To poll is ufed here as fignifying to vote; but in propriety of speech, the poll only ascertains the majority of votes. turns, turns, and antithefes, that I may poffibly enlarge in fome future Speculation. upon N° 63. Saturday, May 12, 1711. Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam C*. -HOR. Ars Poet. ver. 1. If in a picture, Pifo, you should fee Or limbs of beast, of the most different kinds, Wou'd you not laugh, and think the painter mad? Whofe incoherent style, like fick men's dreams, Varies all fhapes, and mixes all extremes. I ROSCOMMON. T is very hard for the mind to difengage it felf from a fubject in which it has been long employed. The thoughts will be rifing of themfelves from time to time, though we give them no encouragement; as the toflings and fluctuations of the fea continue feveral hours after the winds are laid. * It is to this that I impute my last night's By ADDISON, dated it feems from Chelsea. See final Note to N°7. dream dream or vifion, which formed into one continued allegory the feveral fchemes of WIT, whether Falfe, Mixed, or True, that have been the fubject of my late Papers. Methought I was tranfported into a country that was filled with prodigies and enchantments, governed by the goddefs of FALSEHOOD, and intitled The Region of Falfe WIT. There was nothing in the fields, the woods, and the rivers, that appeared natural. Several of the trees bloffomed in leaf-gold, fome of them produced bone-lace, and fome of them precious ftones. The fountains bubbled in an opera tune, and were filled with ftags, wild-boars, and mermaids that lived among the waters; at the fame time that dolphins and feveral kinds of fish played upon the banks, or took their pastime in the meadows. The birds had many of them golden beaks, and human voices. The flowers perfumed the air with fmells of incenfe, ambergreafe, and pulvillios*; and were so interwoven with one another, that they grew up in pieces of embroidery. The winds were filled with fighs and meffages of distant lovers. As I was walking to and fro in this enchanted wilderness, I could not forbear breaking out into foliloquies upon the feveral wonders which lay before me, when, to my great furprise, I found there were artificial echoes in every walk, that by repetitions of certain words which I spoke, agreed with me, or contradicted me, in every thing I faid. In the midst of my converfation * Pulvillios, "Sweet fcents." |