Chapter 4

In the same Psalm, the Hebrew Poet describing God, says, '....He maketh the Clouds his Chariots, and walketh on the Wings of the Wind.' Making the 'Clouds his Chariots,' is a strong and lively Thought; But That of 'walking on the Wings of the Wind,' is a Sublimity, that frightens, astonishes, and ravishes the Mind of a Reader, who conceives it, as he shou'd do. The Judgement of the Poet in this Place, is discernable in three different Particulars; The Thought is in itself highly noble, and elevated; To move at all upon the Wind, carries with it an Image of much Majesty and Terror; But this natural Grandeur he first encreas'd by the Word 'Wings,' which represents the Motion, as not only on the Winds, but on the Winds in their utmost Violence, and Rapidity of Agitation. But then at last, comes that finishing Sublimity, which attends the Word 'walks'! The Poet is not satisfied to represent God, as riding on the Winds; nor even as riding on them in a Tempest; He therefore tells us, that He walks on their Wings; that so our Idea might be heighten'd to the utmost, by reflecting on this calm, and easy Motion of the Deity, upon a Violence, so rapid, so furious, and ungovernable, to our human Conception. Yet as nothing can be more sublime, so nothing can be more simple, and plain, than this noble Imagination. But Mr. Trapp, not contented to express, attempts unhappily to adorn this inimitable Beauty, in the following Manner.

"Who, borne in Triumph o'er the Heavenly Plains, Rides on the Clouds, and holds a Storm in Reins, Flies on the Wings of the sonorous Wind, &c."

Here his imperfect, and diminishing Metaphor, of the 'Rains,' has quite ruin'd the Image; What rational, much less noble Idea, can any Man conceive of a Wind in a Bridle? The unlucky Word 'Plains' too, is a downright Contradiction to the Meaning of the Passage. What wider Difference in Nature, than between driving a Chariot over a Plain, and moving enthron'd, amidst That rolling, and terrible Perplexity of Motions, which we figure to our Imagination, from a 'Chariot of Clouds'? But the mistaken Embellishment of the Word 'flies,' in the last Verse, is an Error almost unpardonable; Instead of improving the Conception, it has made it trifling, and contemptible, and utterly destroy'd the very Soul of its Energy! 'flies' on the Wind! What an Image is That, to express the Majesty of God? To 'walk' on the Wind is astonishing, and horrible; But to 'fly' on the Wind, is the Employment of a Bat, of an Owl, of a Feather! Mr. Trapp is, I believe, a Gentleman of so much Candour, and so true a Friend to the Interest of the Art he professes, that there will be no Occasion to ask his pardon, for dragging a Criminal Metaphor, or two, out of the Immunity of his Protection.

Mr. Philips has lately been told in Print, by one of our best Criticks, that he has excell'd all the Ancients, in his Pastoral Writings; He will, therefore, be apt to wonder, that I take the Liberty to say, in downright Respect to Truth, and the Justice due to Poetry, that I have not only seen modern pastorals, much better than His, but that his appear, to me, neither natural, nor equal. One might extend this Remark to the very Names of his Shepherds; Lobbin, Hobbinol, and Cuddy are nothing of a Piece, with Lanquet, Mico, and Argol; nor do his Personages agree better with themselves, than their Names with one another. Mico, for Example, at the first Sight we have of him, is a very polite Speaker, and as metaphorical as Mr. Trapp.

"This Place may seem for Shepherds Leisure made, So lovingly these Elms unite their Shade! Th'ambitious Woodbine! how it climbs, to breathe Its balmy Sweets around, on all beneath!"

But, alas! this Fit of Eloquence, like most other Blessings, is of very short Continuance; It holds him but Just one Speech: In the beginning of the next, he is as very a Rustick, as Colin Clout, and has forgot all his Breeding.

"No Skill of Musick can I, simple Swain, No fine Device, thine Ear to entertain; Albeit some deal I pipe, rude though it be, Sufficient to divert my, Sheep, and Me."

There is no Transformation In Ovid more sudden, or surprizing; He has Reason indeed to say, that, when he "pipes some deal," his 'Sheep' are 'diverted' with him. His Readers, I am afraid too, are as merry as his Sheep; If he was but as skilful in Change of Time, as he is in Change of Dialect, commend me to him for a Musician! The pied Piper, who drew all the Rats of a City out, after his Melody, came not near him for Variety.

If the late excellent Mr. Addison, whose Verses abound in Graces, which can never be too much admir'd, shall be, often, found liable to an Overflow of his Meaning, by this Dropsical Wordiness, which we so generally give into, it will serve at the same time, as a Comfort, and a Warning; and incline us to a severe Examination of our Writings, when we venture out upon a World, that will, one time or other, be sure to censure us impartially; In That Gentleman's Works, whoever looks close, will discover Thorns on every Branch of his Roses; For Example, we all hear, with Delight, in his celebrated Letter from Italy, that, there,

... The Muse so oft her Harp has strung, That not a Mountain rears its Head unsung.

But, he adds, in the very next Line, that every shady Thicket too, grows renown'd in Verse; now one can never help remembering, that Thickets are Births, as it were of Yesterday; the mere Infancy of Woods! and that the oldest Woods in Italy may be growing on Foundations of ruin'd Cities, which flourish'd in the Times he there speaks of; whence it must naturally be inferr'd, that to say, the Italian Thickets grow renown'd in Roman Verse, though the Mountains really do so, is to make Use of Words, without Regard to their Meaning; A Lapse of dangerous Consequence, because, when the Understanding is once shock'd, this most rapturous Elevation of the Mind (as when cold Water is thrown suddenly upon boiling) sinks at once to chilling Flatness, and is considered as mere Gingle and childish Amusement.

No Man, I believe, has read without Pleasure, his fine and lively Descriptions of the Nar, Clitumnus, Mincio, and Albula, but the worst of it is, he winds us so long, in and out, between these Rivers, that he loses himself in their Maeanders, and brings us, at last, to a strange Stream indeed, which is 'immortaliz'd in Song,' and yet 'lost In Oblivion.'

"I look for Streams, immortaliz'd, in Song, Which lost, and buried in Oblivion lie."

The Thought, in this Place, is very lively and just, but quite obscur'd by the Redundancy and Wantonness of the Expression. Had he only said 'lost,' and 'buried,' It might have been urg'd, that the Rivers were dry'd up, and no longer to be found, in their old Channels. But, let them be lost, as to Existence, as certainly as he will, they can never be lost in 'Oblivion,' if they are 'immortaliz'd' in Poetry. 'Immortal' is a favourite Word in this Gentleman's Writings, and leads him, as most Favourites are apt to do, into very frequent Errors.

It is naturally unpleasant, to be detain'd too long in the Maziness of one tedious Thought, express'd many Ways successively. When we read that the 'Tiber is destitute of Strength,' what else can we conclude, but that its Stream is a weak one? But we are oblig'd to hear, also, that it 'derives its Source from an unthrifty Urn': Well, now, may we go on? No; its 'Urn' is not only 'unthrifty,' but its 'Source' is unfruitful. By this time, one can scarce help, enquiring, what new Meaning is convey'd to the Apprehension, by the Multiplication of the Phrases? And not finding any, we have no Reflection to satisfy ourselves with, but, that the strongest Flow of Fancy, is most subject to Whirlpools.

It is from the same unweigh'd Redundancy, and Misapplication of Words, that we so often find this excellent Writer falling into the Anticlimax. As where, for Example, he informs us of Liberty, that she is a Goddess,

"Profuse of Bliss, and pregnant with Delight, Eternal Pleasures, in her Presence reign."

After 'Profusion of Bliss,' that is to say, the heap'd Enjoyment of all Blessings to be wish'd for; how does it cool the Imagination, to read of being 'pregnant with Delight'? Had she been brought to Bed of 'Delight,' it had been but a poor Delivery: For what imports 'Delight,' in Comparison with 'Bliss'? And how much less too is pregnant with Delight,' than 'Delight' in Possession! But then again, after both these, what cou'd the Author hope to teach us, by adding, that 'Pleasure reigns in her Presence.' Can there be 'Bliss' without 'Delight'? Was there ever 'Delight' without 'Pleasure'? It shou'd gradually have ascended thus, Pleasure, Delight, Bliss; But to turn it the direct contrary Way, Bliss, Delight, Pleasure, is setting a poor Meaning upon its Head, and the same thing as to say, Mr. Addison writ incomparably, finely, nay, and tolerably. A Praise, which, I dare say, he wou'd have given no Body Thanks for. One wou'd think there were a kind of Fatality in Liberty, since scarce any Body can meddle either with the Word or the Thing, but they turn all topsey turvey.

But I am sliding insensibly into a Theme, that requires rather a Volume, than a Page or two; I hasten therefore to present you a Paraphrase on the Six Days Work of the Creator, as described to us by Moses, in the First Chapter of Genesis, which, you know, was written, originally, in Verse. It wou'd be difficult, I am sure, to match the Greatness of that inspired Author's Images, out of all the noble Writings, which have honour'd Antiquity; and whose most remarkable Excellencies have been found, in those Parts of their Works, which they elevated, and made more solemn, by a Mixture of their Religion. Our Poetry, in so able a Hand as Yours, might receive heavenly Advantages, from a Practice of like Nature. But I am of Opinion, that no English Verse, except that, which we, I think a little improperly, call Pindaric, can allow the necessary Scope, to so masterless a Subject, as the Creation, of all others the most copious, and illustrious; and which ought to be touch'd with most Discretion, and Choice of Circumstances.

Mr. Milton, Mr. Cowley, Sir Richard Blackmore, and now, lately, a young Gentleman, of a very lively Genius, have severally tried their Strength in this celestial Bow; Sir Richard may be said indeed to have shot farthest, but too often beside the Mark; He will permit me the Liberty of owning my Opinion, that he is too minute, and particular, and rather labours to oppress us with every Image he cou'd raise, than to refresh and enliven us, with the noblest, and most differing. He is also too unmindful of the Dignity of his Subject, and diminishes it by mean, and contemptible Metaphors. Speaking of the Skies, he says they were

Spun thin, and wove, on Nature's finest Loom.

Longinus is very angry with Timaeus for saying of Alexander, that he conquer'd all Asia, in less Time than Isocrates took to write his Panegyric, "Because, says the Critick, it is a pitiful Comparison of Alexander the Great with a Schoolmaster." What then wou'd he have said of Sir Richard's Metaphorical Comparison of the CREATOR Himself, to a Spinster, and a Weaver? The very Beasts of Mr. Milton, who kept Moses in his Eye, carry Infinitely more Majesty, than the Skies of Sir Richard.

The Grassy Clods now calv'd; and half appear'd The tawny Lyon, pawing to get free His hinder Parts; then springs, as broke from Bonds, And, rampant, shakes aloft, his brinded Main! The heaving Leopard, rising, like the Mole, In Heaps the crumbling Earth about him threw!

These animated Images, or pictured Meanings of Poetry, are the forcible Inspirers, which enflame a Reader's Will, and bind down his Attention. They arise from living Words, as Aristotle calls them; that is, from Words so finely chosen, and so Justly ranged, that they call up before a Reader the Spirit of their Sense, in that very Form, and Action, it impressed upon the Writer. But when the Idea, which a Poet strives to raise, is in itself magnificent and striking, the Dawb of Metaphor, or any spumy Colourings of Rhetoric can but deaden, and efface it.

If Sir Richard had said, concerning the Skies, on any other Subject but This, of the Creation, that they were 'spun thin, and wove, on Nature's finest Loom,' the Thought had been so far from Impropriety, as to have been pleasing, and praise-worthy; But when the Image he wou'd set before us, is the Maker of Heaven and Earth, in all the dreadful Majesty of his Omnipotence, producing at a Word, the noblest Part of the Creation, and 'spreading out the Heavens as a Curtain'; In this tremendous Exercise of his Divinity, to compare him to a Weaver, and his Expansion of the Skies, to the low Mechanism of a 'Loom,' is injudiciously to diminish an Idea, he pretends to heighten and illustrate.

I will end with a Word or two concerning the different Measure of the Verse, in which the following Poem is written; and which is apt to disgust Readers, not well grounded in Poetry, because it requires a fuller Degree of Attention than the Couplet, and, as Mr. Cowley has said of it,

... Will no unskilful Touch endure, But flings Writer and Reader too, that sits not sure.

I have, in another Place, endeavoured by Arguments to demonstrate the Preference of this Kind of Verse to any other; I will here observe only, from my Experience of other Writers, that it wins, insinuates, and grows insensibly upon the Relish of a Reader, till the little seeming Harshness, which is supposed to be in it, softens gradually away, and leaves a vigorous Impression behind it, of mixed Majesty and Sweetness.

A Man, who is just beginning to try his Ear in Pindaric, may be compared to a new Scater; He totters strangely at first, and staggers backward and forward; Every Stick, or frozen Stone in his Way, is a Rub that he falls at. But when many repeated Trials have embolden'd him to strike out, and taught the true Poize of Motion, he throws forward his Body with a dextrous Velocity, and becoming ravish'd with the masterly Sweep of his Windings, knows no Pleasure greater, than to feel himself fly through that well-measured Maziness, which he first attempted with Perplexity. But I will detain you no longer, and hasten now to the Poem, which has given me this pleasing Opportunity of telling you how much I am,

Sir,

Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,

A. HILL

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