dependently of their causes: whereas that of poetry springs from the application of causes, and these general ones. The first act of reasoning is, therefore, from a number of particulars, by collateral judgments of effects produced by them upon the internal feeling, to collect these general causes; and the second, to apply them, by the different modes of imitation, in order to produce the poetical effect. Hence poetry is said to be more philosophical. Experience is the foundation, induction is the first, and a judicious application of generals, is the second act. And if these generals are well formed in the first place, and well applied in the second, the poetical truth will discover itself in the effect by a proportionable operation on the sensibility of all according to its powers. Thus poetry stands high in the eye of philosophy. It is founded in abstraction, which is the sublimest operation of the mind, by which its ideas are not only generalized, but corrected and improved by an act of intellect, and rendered more perfect and complete than the archetypes themselves. These are the materials with which the imagination works, and which it moulds into forms of beauty superior to any that appear in the face of nature. And hence it is, that the imitative arts derive that excellence and superiority in which they glory. As by this power of abstraction the mathematician conceives the idea of a perfect circle or a perfect sphere, which in nature has no existence; and the moralist that of a faultless character; so from archetypes that exist in nature, the artist derives ideas so corrected and sublimed, that they become transcendent, that is above, though not contrary to nature.

Particulars and individuals, with all their deformities and imperfections, are, indeed, often applied by imitation to the production of poetical effect: but, to arrive at the summit of his profession, the artist should employ none but general

ideas, with all the advantages which arrangement, disposition, and situation can give them; as did the intelligent statuary, to whose poetical genius the world has been indebted for the Venus de Medicis, or the Apollo Belvidere.

But the imitation, by which these poetical ideas are employed in art, according to good taste (which is only another word for judgment), is of different kinds, and the just distinction of them is an act of rational and judicious criticism.

All imitation is resemblance, which differs according to the nature of the art; and the nature of the art depends upon the materials and instrument employed. Imitation is either direct or proper, or indirect and improper: and to discriminate its nature and extent in each of the elegant arts, as well as in the different provinces of the same, is a piece of the most refined philosophy.

In sculpture and in painting the imitation, from the nature of the means and materials they employ, is direct and proper, and the resemblance between the statue or picture and what they represent, is both immediate and obvious. Words are the means or materials of poetry: but words, though as sounds they may sometimes directly resemble sounds, are not the natural representatives of ideas, in which poetry consists; they are only their arbitrary signs, and do not, therefore, admit of any imitation so proper and direct. That part of poetry, in which the poet personates another, and employs his very words and speeches, is, so far as that personification goes, directly imitative. But, with regard to the effect which it produces, poetical imitation is indirect in a greater or less degree. The simplest and least indirect mode of this imitation, is that representation of sensible objects, which is called poetical_description. From this poetry advances to a sublimer operation in the representation of mental objects, of all the passions, emotions, movements, and sensations of

the mind; which it performs two different ways, either by representing these mental emotions as they are internally felt, and succeed each other in the mind, or by representing them as they appear in their sensible and external effects: and these less direct modes constitute poetical expression. In all which mental imitations the effect is often extended and enlarged by association of ideas, and wonderfully heightened by sympathy, that lovely and sublime affection, which gives poetry such a powerful ascendant over the heart of man.

Another mode of poetical imitation is that of fiction, which represents facts, characters, actions, manners, and events, in feigned and general story, as history does in real and particular narrative, adding to the fiction representation: these more indirect imitations constitute epic and dramatic poetry, into which every other species is introduced.

And to these is to be added another kind of imitation still more indirect, which conveys the thoughts and ideas of the mind through the external objects of sense: this is parabolical and allusive poetry.

But, although the imitations of poetry be less direct and proper than those of the other arts, they surpass them greatly in their extent and operation upon the mind. Poetry, which from this superiority has appropriated the general name, is the mirrour of all truth, by which every part of nature, corporeal and mental, is reflected and improved. It is physics, facts, actions, and history feigned at pleasure, and represented by the different modes of its imitation, in a language raised above the common use, and which is peculiarly appropriated to itself; and, whilst it exhibits a beautiful picture of every species of truth, it softens the labour which attends their acquisition, by affording the mind that refined and elegant recreation, which the most rigid philosopher need not blush to take.

For the Literary Magazine.

TOM THUMB.

TOM THUMB is a hero familiar to our childhood, and indeed has become a sort of proverbial sample of a great soul in a little body. It is an old and general observation, that distance and rumour magnify all objects; but with regard to Tom Thumb, they have had an opposite effect: they have made his little less. A cubit is added to the stature of a giant by every new blast of fame, but dwarfs, instead of being gradually enlarged by the same process to the due size of men, merely dwindle to a diminutiveness more and more miraculous.

Tom Thumb, in legendary lore, was king Arthur's dwarfish page. He was no doubt originally a very short, though a very stout personage, but he has gradually become as small, or even smaller, than a Lilliputian. The following verses describe him in this state of greatest diminution, and is a very pleasing specimen of that mode of writing. They are taken from a poem of considerable length, and describe the second visit of this heroic minimus to the court of Arthur.

But now his businesse call'd him forth
King Arthur's court to see,
Whereas no longer from the same
He could a stranger be.

But yet a few small April drops

Which setled in the way,

His long and weary journey forth
Did hinder and so stay.

Until his carefull father tooke

A birding trunke in sport, And with one blast blew this his sonne Into king Arthur's court.

Now he with tilts and turnaments

Was entertained so
That all the best of Arthur's knights
Did him much pleasure show.

As good sir Lancelot of the lake, Sir Tristram, and sir Guy;

And so with peace and quietnesse
He left this earth below;
And vp into the Fayry land
His ghost did fading goe.

Whereas the fayry queene receiv'd,
With heauy mourning cheere,

following exquisite specimen of witty satire. Is an apology necessary for presenting it once more to the view of such readers? Will they not consent to read it once more, and read it with nearly as much satisfaction as at first? True wit, like pure gold, never loses its intrinsic value by any lapse of time or frequency of circulation. As long as it is intelligible, it is precious; and, with respect to the following effusion, the reference tacitly made to Boswell's memorable Life of Johnson can escape but few readers.

They that smile at this parody afford no proof that they set not a high value on the work intended to be parodied. All allow Boswell's books, especially the Hebridian Tour, to contain occasional absurdities and puerilities, and the same enlightened taste that rejects what is ridiculous or frivolous, will clearly discern and justly estimate the useful and solid with which it may chance to be allied. I reckon, therefore, with confidence on the forgiveness of those who have seen this before, and on the gratitude of those who have chanced never to have seen it.

An Extract from the Life of Dr. Pozz, in ten volumes folio, written by James Bozz, Esq., who flourished with him near fifty

years.

-We dined at the chop-house. Dr. Pozz was this day very instructive. We talked of books; I mentioned the History of Tommy Trip: I said it was a great work. Pozz. "Yes, sir, it is a great work; but, sir, it is a great work relatively; it was a great work to you when you was a little boy; but now, sir, you are a great man, and Tommy Trip is a little boy." I felt somewhat hurt at this comparison, and I be lieved he perceived it; for, as he was squeezing a lemon, he said, "Never be affronted at a comparison. I have been compared to many things, but I never was affronted. No, sir, if they would call me a dog, and you a canister tied to my tail, I would not be affronted."

Cheered by this kind mention of me, though in such a situation, I asked him what he thought of a friend of our's, who was always making comparisons? Pozz. "Sir, that fellow has a simile for every thing but himself; I knew him when he kept a shop; he then made money, sir, and now he makes comparisons: sir, he would say, that you and I were two figs stuck together; two figs in adhesion, sir, and then he would laugh." Bozz. "But have not some great writers determined that comparisons are now and then odious?" "No, sir, not odious in themselves, not odious as comparisons; the fellows who make them are odious. The whigs make comparisons."

Pozz.

We supped that evening at his house. I showed him some lines I had made upon a pair of breeches : Pozz. "Sir, the lines are good; but where could you find such a subject in your country?" Bozz. "Therefore it is a proof of invention, which is characteristic of poetry." Pozz. "Yes, sir, but an in- ́ vention which few of your countrymen can enjoy." I reflected afterWards on the depth of this remark; it affords a proof of that acuteness which he displays in every branch of literature. I asked him, if he

approved of green spectacles? Pozz. "As to green spectacles, sir, the question seems to be this: if I wore green spectacles, it would be because they assisted vision, or because I liked them. Now, sir, if a man tells me he does not like green spectacles, and that they hurt his eyes, I would not compel him to wear them. No, sir, I would dissuade him." A few months after I consulted him again on this subject and he honoured me with a letter, in which he gives the same opinion. It will be found in its proper place, vol. vi, page 2789. I have thought much on this subject, and must confess, that in such matters a man ought to be a free moral agent.

Next day I left town, and was absent for six weeks, three days, and seven hours, as I find by a memo

randum in my journal. In this time I had only one letter from him, which is as follows:

To James Bozz, Esq. "Dear Sir,

"My bowels have been very bad. Pray buy for me some Turkey rhubarb, and bring with you a copy of your Tour.

"Write me soon, and write me often.

"I am, dear sir,
"Your's affectionately,

"SAM. POZz."

It would have been unpardonable to have omitted a letter like this, in which we see so much of his great and illuminated mind. On my return to town, we met again at the chop-house. We had much conversation to day: his wit flashed like lightning; indeed, there is not one hour of my present life in which I do not profit by some of his valuable communications.

We talked of wind. I said I knew many persons much distressed with that complaint. Pozz. "Yes, sir, when confined, when pent up." I said I did not know that, and I questioned if the Romans ever knew it.

Pozz. "Yes, sir, the Romans knew it." Bozz. "Livy does not mention it." Pozz. "No, sir, Livy wrote history. Livy was not writing the life of a friend."

On medical subjects his know ledge was immense. He told me of a friend of our's who had just been attacked by a most dreadful complaint; he had entirely lost the use of his limbs, so that he could neither stand nor walk, unless supported: his speech was quite gone; his eyes were much swollen, and every vein distended, yet his face was rather pale, and his extremities cold; his pulse beat 160 in a minute. I said with tenderness, that I would go and see him; and, said I,." Sir, I will take Dr. Bolus with me." Pozz. “No, sir, don't go." I was startled, for I knew his compassionate heart, and earnestly

asked why? Pozz. "Sir, you don't know his disorder." Bozz. "Pray what is it?" Pozz. "Sir, the man is dead drunk!" This explanation threw me into a violent fit of laughter, in which he joined me, rolling about as he used to do when he enjoyed a joke; but he afterwards checked me. Pozz. "Sir you ought not to laugh at what I said. Sir, he who laughs at what another man says, will soon learn to laugh at that other man. Sir, you should laugh only at your own jokes; ergo, you should laugh seldom."

We talked of a friend of our's who was a very violent politician. I said I did not like his company. Pozz. "No, sir, he is not healthy; he is sore, sir, his mind is ulcerated; he has a political whitlow; sir, you cannot touch him but he winces. Sir, I would not talk politics with that man; I would talk of cabbage and pease; sir, I would ask him how he got his corn in, and whether his wife was with child; but I would not talk politics. Bozz. "But, perhaps, sir, he would talk of nothing else." Pozz. "Then, sir, it is plain what he would do." On my very earnestly enquiring what that was, Dr. Pozz answered, "Sir, he would let it alone."

I mentioned a tradesman, who had lately set up his coach. Pozz. "He is right, sir; a man who would go on swimmingly cannot get too soon off his legs. That man keeps his coach; now, sir, a coach is better than a chaise; sir, it is better than a chariot." Bozz. "Why, sir?" Pozz. "Sir, it will hold more." I begged he would repeat this, that I might remember it, and he complied with great good humour. "Dr. Pozz," said I," you ought to keep a coach." Pozz. "Yes, sir, I ought." Bozz. "But you do not, and that has often surprised me." Pozz. "Surprised you! There, sir, is another prejudice of absurdity. Sir, you ought to be sur prised at nothing. A man that has lived half your days ought to be above all surprise. Sir, it is a rule with me never to be surprised. It is through mere ignorance, that you cannot