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Cowley, in his Ode to Wit, has the following ingenious ftanza; which, however, is

but

Lies. This, however, (to do as much juftice as poffible to the Bishop) does not appear to me to be the cafe. Burnet has been called the English Varillas; and the character of the latter writer, attacked by the learned of all nations, and particularly in this country by the ingenious Dr. King, may ferve to illuftrate that of Burnet.

Varillas has been accused of quoting memoirs which never existed, or in which the facts he relates are not to be found. It is however very true that Varillas had read an astonishing number of original memoirs. The life of this man was confumed in his study; and it was his boat, that for thirty years he had not dined from home. He had read fo many manufcripts, that his fight failed, and he loft the use of one eye. By candle-light he could not read; and it was his cuftom to close his windows at dusk, and then to write his Hiftories. But as he could not authenticate his anecdotes, by confulting the memoirs which had been furnished to him from the King's Library, in which there is a collection from 8 to 10,000 Mff. he trufted to his memory. This naturally produced his confufion in facts; what belonged to one kingdom was given to a neighbouring country; what related to one perfon was transferred to another.

It is therefore poffible to fuppofe that neither Varillas nor Burnet intended to impofe on the world. But from these anecdotes we may inforce a very important maxim, that an Hiftorian must not write as facts what he only collects from memory; he must authenticate his fources, whatever they may be, by correct citations. If he does otherwife, he is not to be trufted; for however honeft may be his intentions, it is certain that he will not only impofe on his reader, but impofe on himself. Let it alfo be remembered, that he who re lies on his memory, is frequently the dupe of his imagina sion.

but a fplendid fatire on his own witty poetry. He says, WIT is not

To adorn, and gild each part,

That fhews more coft, than art.

Jewels at nofe and lips, but ill appear;
Rather than all things wit, let none be there.
Several lights will not be seen,

If there be nothing else between ;

Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky,
If those be stars, which paint the Galaxy.

It will not be denied, that the indifcreet mufe of Cowley wore jewels both at her nose and her lips.

It is thus alfo that Dr. Johnfon, in some admirable verses *, censures thofe writers in whose plays,

-Crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refin'd,

For years the power of Tragedy declin'd;
From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till Declamation roar'd, while Paffion flept.

In the tragedy of Irene it must be acknowledged that declamation roars, while paffion fleeps.'

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In a word, to conclude this topic, I have obferved a hundred French writers declaim against the abuse of what they fo happily

• Prologue spoken at the opening of the Drury-Lane Theatre in 1747.

call

call le bel efprit; while they are themfelves employing it in every period—a hundred English authors abufing the French writers, while at the fame time their work and their style are alike an imitation of them.

If I were to make the following observation, I would accompany it with the following anecdotes.

A man of genius confumes one portion of his life in painful studies; another in addreffing his labours to the public, and combating with his rivals; in the last inconfiderable remnant of life, he perhaps begins to enjoy that public esteem for which he had facrificed the folid confolations of life, his fortune, his tranquillity, in a word, his domestic Lares. Amidst the funereal cyprefs he fees the green leaves of the laurel. He resembles a veteran foldier, who should, at the moment he is carried from the trenches in an expiring ftate, receive the honours of promotion. When he is once removed from the public and his rivals, there is nothing they refuse him.

Every little thing that belonged to this man

Χ

of

of genius becomes an invaluable relic. The living Shakespeare experienced little of that adoration which has been repeatedly paid to him by pofterity. Little did he imagine that the Mulberry Tree which he planted (fuppofing he did plant it) would have been fought after with as much eagerness as a pious Catholic fhews for a piece of the real crofs. Thomfon never imagined that his old chair would have been beheld with the eyes of adoration by his countrymen. Rabelais, among all his drolleft imaginations, never conceived that his cloak would be preserved in the univerfity of Montpellier, that those who are received as doctors should wear it on the day they take their degree.

Such is the public! long mifled by the

* In a festival in honour of the Poet of the Seafons, the chair in which it is fuppofed he compofed part of his Seafons, was produced, and communicated a poetic rapture to the admirers of the Muse, assembled for this occafion. Even honeft Aubrey can admire the chair of a man of genius. Our antiquary fays of Ben Jonfon, in the curious manufcript which Mr. Malone has given in his account of the English Stage, I have seen his studyeing chaire which was of strawe, fuch as ⚫ old women ufed; and as Aulus Gellius is drawn in.' Aubrey fhould himfelf have had fuch a ftudyeing chaire,' for he

was an old woman.'

malice

malice of rivals, their decifions are capricious, irrefolute, and unjuft. Pofterity, while it cenfures the paft age, commits the fame injustice to its cotemporaries. It exhausts its admiration on an old tree, an old chair, and an old cloak, while the modern Shakespeares, Thomsons, and Rabelais (if there fhould be any) would pass unobferved by its injudicious applaufe.

I shall add one more sketch of a literary topic.

Men of genius catch inspiration from that of others. Their mind is not always prepared to pour forth its burning ideas; it is kindled by the flame which it strikes from the collifion of the works of great writers. It was thus that Cicero informs us that he animated his eloquence by a conftant perufal of the poetry of the Latins and Greeks. Poets awaken their imagination by the verses of other poets. Malherbe, Corneille, and Racine, before they applied themselves to compofition, put their mind into its proper tone, by repeating the glowing paffages of their favourite poets. The most fervid verfes of Homer, and the sweetest of Euripides,

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