perspicuity. Aristotle, who was the best critic, was also one of the best logicians that ever appeared in the world.

One great mark by which you may discover a critic who has neither taste nor learning, is, that he seldom ventures to praise any part of an author's works, which has not been previously applauded by the public, and that his criticism turns wholly upon little faults and errors. This is so very easy to succeed in, that we find many critics, upon the publishing of a new poem, have wit and ill-nature enough to turn several passages of it into ridicule, and very often to their own discredit. This Dryden has very agreeably remarked in those two celebrated lines:

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow:

He who would search for pearis must dive below.

A true critic ought to dwell rather upon excellencies than imperfections, to discover the concealed beauties of a writer, and communicate to the world such things as are worth their observation. The most exquisite ideas and language of an author, very often appear the most doubtful and exceptionable to those who want a relish for polite learning; and which a sour undistinguishing critic generally attacks with the greatest violence. Tully observes, that it is very casy to brand or fix a mark upon what he calls verbum ardens or, as it may be rendered into English, a glowing, bold expression, and to turn it into ridicule, by a cold, ill natured criticism. A little wit is equally as capable of ridiculing a beauty as of aggravating a fault; and though such illiberal treatment naturally produces indignation in the mind of an enlightened reader, it has, however, the reverse effect on many who think that every thing which is laughed at with any mixture of wit is ridiculous in itself.

Such mirth as this, of making a beauty and a blemish equally the subject of derision, is always unseasonable and unjust, as it rather prejudices the reader than convinces him. A man who cannot write with wit on a facetious subject, is dull and stupid; but one who shows it in an improper place,

is impertinent and absurd. He who delights in ridicule, is apt to find fault with any thing that gives, him an opportunity of exerting his beloved talent, and very often censures a passage, not because there is any fault in it, but because he can be merry upon it. Such pleasantry is very unfair and disingenuous.

As I intend to show the defects in Milton's Paradise Lost, I thought it necessary to premise these few particulars, that the reader may know I enter upon it as on a very ungrateful work, but I shal point at the imperfections without endeavouring to aggravate them by ridicule. I must also observe, with Longinus, that the productions of a great genius, with many lapses and inadvertencies, are infinitely preferable to the works of an inferior kind of author, which are scrupulously exact, and conformable to all the rules of correct writing.

I shall introduce a remark out of Boccalini, which sufficiently shows us the opinion that judicious author entertained of the critics I have adverted to. « A famous critic, says he, having gathered together all the faults of an eminent poet, made a present of them to Apollo, who received them very graciously, and resolved to make the author a suitable return for the trouble he had been at in collecting them. In order to this, he set before him a sack of wheat as it had been just threshed out of the sheaf. He then bid him pick out the chaff from among the corn, and lay it aside by itself. The critic applied himself to the task with great industry and pleasure, and, after having made the due separation, was presented by Apollo with the chaff for his pains. »>

I shall now proceed to comment on the several defects which appear in the fable, the characters, the sentiments, and the language of Milton's Paradise Lost; not doubting but the reader will pardon any remarks I may suggest in extenuation of defects.

The first imperfection which I shall observe in the fable is, that the event of it is unhappy.

The fable of every poem is, according to Aristotle's division, either simple or implex. It is called simple, when there is no change of fortune in it; implex, when the fortune of

the chief actor changes from bad to good, or from good to bad. The implex fable is thought the most perfect; I suppose because it is more proper to excite the passions of the reader, and to surprise him with a greater variety of accidents.

The implex fable is therefore of two kinds. In the first, the chief actor makes his way through a long series of dangers and difficulties, till he arrives at honour and prosperity, as we see in the story of Ulysses. In the second, the chief actor in the poem falls from some high degree of honour and prosperity into misery and disgrace. Thus we see Adam and Eve sinking from a state of innocence and happiness into the most abject condition of sin and sorrow.

The most popular tragedies among the ancients were formed on this last sort of implex fable, particularly the tragedy of Oedipus, which proceeds upon a story, if we may believe Aristotle, the most proper for tragedy that could he invented. This king of implex fable, wherein the event is unhappy, is more apt to affect an audience than that of the first kind; notwithstanding many excellent pieces among the ancients, as well as most of those which have been written of late years in our own country, are raised upon contrary plans. I must, however, own, that I think this kind of fable, which is the most perfect in tragedy, is not so proper for an heroic poem.

Milton seems to have been sensible of this imperfection in his fable, and has therefore endeavoured to palliate it by several expedients; particularly by the mortification which the great adversary of mankind meets with upon his return to the assembly of infernal spirits, as it is described in a beautiful passage of the tenth book; and likewise by the vision. wherein Adam, at the close of the poem, sees his offspring triumphing over his great enemy, and himself restored to a happier paradise than that from which he fell.

There is another objection to Milton's fable, which is almost the same with the former, though placed in a different light, the hero in the Paradise Lost is unsuccessful, and by no means equal to his enemies. This gave occasion to Dryden's reflection, that the devil was in reality Milton's hero. The Paradise Lost is an epic or a narrative poem, and

he that looks for an hero in it, searches for that which Milton never intended; but if the name of an hero is to be applied to any person in it, it is certain the Messiah is the hero, both in the principal action, and in the chief episodes. Paganism could not furnish a real action for a fable greater than that of the Iliad or Æneid, and therefore an heathen could not form a higher notion of a poem than one of that kind which they call an heroic. Whether Milton's is not of a sublimer nature I will not presume to determine; it is sufficient to show there is in Paradise Lost all the greatness of plan, regularity of design, and masterly beauties, which we discover in Homer and Virgil.

I must, in the next place, observe, that Milton has interwoven, in the texture of his fable, some particulars which do not seem to have probability enough for an epic poem, particularly in the actions which he ascribes to Sin and Death, and the picture which he draws of the limbo of vanity, with other passages in the second book. Such allegories rather savour of the spirit of Spenser and Ariosto, than of Homer and Virgil.

In the structure of this poem, he has likewise admitted of too many digressions. It is observed, by Aristotle, that the author of an heroic poem should seldom speak himself, but advance his ideas through the medium of those who are his principal actors. Aristotle has given no reason for this precept; but I presume it is because the mind of the reader is more awed and elevated when he hears Eneas or Achilles speak, than when Virgil or Homer speak in their own persons; besides, assuming the character of an eminent man, has a tendency to fire the imagination, and raise the ideas of the author. Tully, mentioning his Dialogue of Old Age, in which Cato is the chief speaker, observes, that upon a review of it he was agreeably imposed upon, and fancied that it was Cato, and not himself, who uttered his thoughts upon that subject.

If the reader would be at the pains to observe how the story of the Iliad and Eneid is delivered by those persons who act in it, he will be surprised to find how little in either of these poems proceeds from the authors: Milton has, in

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the general disposition of his fable, very accurately observed this great rule; insomuch that there is scarce a third part of it which comes from the poet: the rest is spoken either by Adam and Eve, or by some good or evil spirit, who is engaged either in their destruction or defence.

From what has been here observed, it appears that digressions are by no means to be allowed in an epic poem. If the poet, even in the ordinary course of his narration, was to speak as little as possible, he should certainly never let his narration sleep for the sake of any reflections of his own. I have often abserved, with a secret admiration, that the longest reflection in the Æneid is in that passage of the tenth book, where Turnus is represented as dressing himself in the spoils of Pallas, whom he had slain. Virgil here suspends his fable for the sake of the following remark; « How is the <«< mind of man ignorant of futurity, and unable to bear pros<< perous fortune with moderation; the time will come when « Turnus shall wish that he had left the body of Pallas un« touched, and curse the day on which he dressed himself « in these spoils. » As the great event of the Æneid, and the death of Turnus, whom Eneas slew, because he adorned himself with the spoils of Pallas, turns upon this incident, Virgil deviated from his main subject, to make this reflection upon it, without which so small a circumstance might possibly have escaped his readers memory. Lucan, who was an injudicious poet, drops his story very frequently for the sake of his unnecessary digressions, or his diverticula, as Scaliger calls them. If he gives us an account of the prodigies which preceded the civil war, he declaims upon the occasion, and shows how much happier it would be for man if he did not feel his evil fortune before it comes to pass, and suffer only by its real weight, not by the apprehension of it.

Milton's complaint of his blindness, his panegyric on marriage, his reflections on Adam and Eve's going naked, of the angels eating, and several other passages in his poem, are liable to the same exception; though, I must confess, there is so great a beauty in these very digressions, that I would not wish them out of his poem.