Our natural curiosity is ever awake and attentive to these changes. And poetry sets herself at work, with eagerness, to catch and transcribe their various appearances. No correspondency of representation, then, needs surprize us; nor any the exactest resemblance be thought strange, where the object is equally present to all persons. For it must be remarked of the visible effects of MIND, as, before, of the phaenomena of the material world, that they are, simply, the objects of observation. So that what was concluded of these, will hold also of the others; with this difference, that the effects of internal movements do not present themselves so constantly to the eye, nor with that uniformity of appearance, as permanent, external existencies. We cannot survey them at pleasure, but as occasion offers and we, further, find them diversified by the character, or disguised, in some degree, by the artifice, of the persons, in whom we observe them. But all the consequence is, that, to succeed in this work of painting the signatures of internal affection, requires a larger experience, or quicker penetration, than copying after still life. Where the proper qualifications are possessed, and especially in describing the marks of vigorous affections, different writers cannot be supposed to vary : more considerably, in this province of imitation, than in the other. Our trouble therefore, on this head, may seem to be at an end. Yet it will be expected, that so general a conclusion be inforced by some illustrations. The passion of LOVE is one of those affections, which bear great sway in the human nature. Its workings are violent. And its effects on the person, possessed by it, and in the train of events, to which it gives occasion, conspicuous to all observers. The power of this commanding affection hath triumphed at all times. It hath given birth to some of the greatest and most signal transactions in history; and hath furnished the most inchanting scenes of fiction. Poetry hath ever lived by it. The modern muse hath hardly any existence without it. Let us ask, then, of this tyrant passion, whether its operations are not too familiar to sense, its effects too visible to the eye, to make it necessary for the poet to go beyond himself, and the sphere of his own observation, for the original of his descriptions of it. To prevent all cavil, let it be allowed, that the signs of this passion, I mean, the visible effects in which it shews itself, are various and almost infinite. It is reproached, above all others, with the names of capricious, fantastic, and unreasonable. No wonder then, if it assume an endless variety of forms, and seem impatient, as it were, of any certain shape or posture. Yet this Proteus of a passion may be fixed by the magic hand of the poet. Though it can occasionally take all, yet it delights to be seen in some shapes, more than others. Some of its effects are known and obvious, and are perpetually recurring to observation. And these are ever fittest to the ends of poetry; every man pronouncing of such representations from his proper experience, that they are from nature. Nay its very irregularities may be reduced to rule. There is not, in antiquity, a truer picture of this fond and froward passion, than is given us in the person of Terence's Phaedria from Menander. Horace and Persius, when they set themselves, on purpose, to expose and exaggerate its follies, could imagine nothing beyond it. Yet we have much the same inconsistent character in JULIA in The two Gentlemen of Verona. Shall it be now said, that Shakespear copied from Terence, as Terence from Menander? Or is it not as plain to common sense, that the English poet is original, as that the Latin poet was an imitator? Shakespear, on another occasion, describes the various, external symptoms of this extravagant affection. Amongst others, he insists, there is no surer sign of being in love," than "when every thing about you demonstrates a "careless desolation." [As you like it. A. iii. Sc. 8.] Suppose now the poet to have taken in hand the story of a neglected, abandoned lover; for instance of Ariadne; a story, which ancient poetry took a pleasure to relate, and which hath been touched with infinite grace by the tender, passionate muse of Catullus and Ovid. Suppose him to give a pourtrait of her passion in that distressful moment when, "from the naked beach, she views the "parting sail of Theseus." This was a time for all the signs of desolation to shew themselves. And could we doubt of his describing those very signs, which nature's self dictated, long ago, to Catullus? Non flavo retinens subtilem vertice mitram, But there is a higher instance in view. The humanity and easy elegance of the two Latin' poets, just mentioned, joined to an unaffected naivetè of expression, were, perhaps, most proper to describe the petulancies, the caprices, the softnesses of this passion in common life. To paint its tragic and more awful distresses, to melt the soul into all the sympathies of sorrow, is the peculiar character of Virgil's poetry. His talents were, indeed, universal. But, I think, we may give it for the characteristic of his muse, that she was, beyond all others, possessed of a sovereign power of touching the tender passions. Euripides' self, whose genius was most resembling to his, of all the ancients, holds, perhaps, but the second place in this praise. A poet, thus accomplished, would omit, we may be sure, no occasion of yielding to his natural bias of recording the distresses of love. He discovered his talent, as well as inclination, very early, in the Bucolics; and even, where one should least expect it, in his Georgics. But the fairest opportunity offered in his great design of the Aeneis, Here, one should suppose, the whole bent of his genius would exert itself. And we are not disappointed. I speak not of that succession of sentiments, reflexions, |