a paffion and as real fire, furprises the reader with those feeming refemblances or contradictions that make up all the wit in this kind of writing. Mixt wit therefore is a compofition of pun and true wit, and is more or lefs perfect as the refemblance lies in the ideas or in the words: its foundations are laid partly in falfhood, and partly in truth: reafon puts in her claim for one half of it, and extravagance for the other. The only province therefore for this kind of wit, is epigram, or thofe little occa fional poems that in their own nature are nothing elfe but a tiffue of epigrams. I cannot conclude this head of mixt wit, without owning that the admirable poet, out of whom I have taken the examples of it, had as much true wit as any author that ever writ; and indeed all other talents of an extraordinary genius. It may be expected, fince I am upon this fubject, that I fhould take notice of Mr. Dryden's definition of wit ; which, with all the deference that is due to the judgment of fo great a man, is not fo properly a definition of wit, as of good writing in general. Wit, as he defines it, is a propriety of words and thoughts adapted to the fubject. If this be a true definition of wit, I am apt to think that Euclid was the greatest wit that ever fet pen to paper: it is certain that never was a greater propriety of words and thoughts adapted to the fubject, than what that author has made ufe of in his elements. I fhall only appeal to my reader, if this definition agrees with any notion he has of wit: if it be a true one, I am fure Mr. Dryden was not only a better port, 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 moft penetrating of all the French critics, has taken pains to thew, that it is impoffible for any thought to be beautiful which is not juft, and has not its foundation in the nature of things; that the bafis 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 verfe. This is that natural way of writing, that VOL. I. Z beautiful beautiful fimplicity, which we fo much admire in the compofitions of the ancients: and which nobody deviates from, but those who want ftrength of genius to make a thought thine in its own natural beauties. Poets who want this ftrength of genius to give that majestic 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 efcape them. I look upon thefe 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 extravagances of an irregular fancy. Mr. Dryden makes a very handfome obfervation, on Ovid's writing a letter from Dido to Eneas, in the following words. Ovid,'-fays he, speaking of Virgil's fiction of Dido and Eneas, 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 juft 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 fame 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 mafter in his own profeffion, and, which is worse, improves nothing which he finds nature fails him, and being forced to his old fhift, he has recourfe to witticifim. This paffes • indeed with his foft admirers, and gives him the prefe• rence 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 taste 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 coarfenefs of their, tafte. His words are as follows: Segrais has diftinguifhed the readers of poetry, according to their capa city of judging, into three claffes. [He might have faid the fame of writers too, if he had pleafed.] In the lowest form he places thofe whom he calls Les Petits Efprits, fuch things as our upper-gallery audience in a play-houfe; who like nothing but the hufk and rhind of wit, prefer a quibble, a conceit, an epigram, before folid fenfe and elegant expreffion: thefe are mob-readers. If Virgil and Martial ftood for parliament-men, we know already who would carry it. But though they make the greatest appearance in the field, and cry the loudeft, the best on't 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 therefore are not privileged to poll. Their authors are of the fame level, fit to reprefent them on a mountebank's ftage, or to be mafters of the ceremonies in a beargarden: yet thefe are they who have the most admi6 rers. 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 converfation with men of judgment, they foon forfake them.' I muft not difmifs this fubject without obferving, that as Mr. Locke in the paffage abovementioned has difcovered the most fruitful fource of wit, fo there is another of a quite contrary nature to it, which does likewife branch itself out into feveral kinds. For not only the the refemblance, but the oppofition of ideas, does very often produce wit; as I could fhew in feveral little points, turns, and antithefes, that I may poffibly enlarge upon in fome future fpeculation. C No. LXIII. SATURDAY, MAY 12. If in a picture, Pifo, you should fee Or limbs of beafts, of the most different kinds, Wou'd you not laugh, and think the painter mad? Whofe incoherent ftyle, like fick men's dreams, HOR ROSCOMMON. IT is very hard for the mind to difengage itself from a fubject in which it has been long employed. The thoughts will be rifing of themselves from time to time, though we give them no encouragement; as the toffings and fluctuations of the fea continue feveral hours after the winds are laid. It is to this that I impute my last night's 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 Falfhood, and intitled The Region of false 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 bonelace, 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 played upon the banks or took their paftime in the meadows. The birds had many of them golden beaks, and human voices. The flowers perfumed the air with finelis of incenfe, amber-grease, and pulvillios; and were fo interwoven with one another, that they grew up in pieces of embroidery. The winds were filled with fighs and meffages of diftant lovers. As I was walking to and fro in this enchanted wildernefs, 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 repititions of certain words which I spoke, agreed with me, or contradicted me, in every thing I faid. In the midst of my conversation with these invifible companions, I difcovered in the centre of a very dark grove a monftrous fabric built after the Gothic manner, and covered with innumerable devices in that barbarous kind of sculpture. I immediately went up to it, and found it to be a kind of heathen temple confecrated to the god of Dulness. Upon my entrance I faw the deity of the place dreffed in the habit of a monk, with a book in one hand and a rattle in the other. Upon his right hand was Industry, with a lamp burning before her; and on his left Caprice, with a monkey fitting on her fhoulder. Before his feet there ftood an altar of a very odd make, which, as I afterwards found, was fhaped in that manner to comply with the infcription that furrounded it. Upon the altar there lay feveral offerings of axes, wings, and eggs, cut in paper, and infcribed with verfes. The temple was filled with votaries, who applied themselves to different diverfions, as their fancies directed them. In one part of it I faw a regiment of Anagrams, who were continually in motion, turning to the right or to the left, facing about, doubling their ranks, fhifting their ftations, and throwing themselves into all the figures and countermarches of the most changeable and perplexed exercise. Not far from thefe was a body of Acroftics, made up of very difproportioned perfons. It was difpofed into three columns, the officers planting themfelves in a line on the left-hand of each column. The officers were all of |