R. Locke has an admirable re- order, therefore, that the refemblance of wit, it is neceffary wit and judgment, whereby he endeavours to fhew the reafon why they are not always the talents of the fame perfon. His words are as follow: And hence, perhaps, may be given fome 'reafon of that common obfervation, ' that men who have a great deal of wit and prompt memories, have not always the cleareft judgment, or deepest reafon. For wit lying moft in the affemblage of ideas, and putting thofe together with quickness and variety, wherein can be found any refemblance or congruity, thereby to make up pleafant pictures and agreeable vifions in the fancy; judgment, on the contrary, lies quite on the other fide, in feparating carefully one from another, ⚫ ideas wherein can be found the leaft difference, thereby to avoid being mifled by fimilitude, and by affinity to ⚫ take one thing for another. This is a way of proceeding quite contrary to metaphor and allufion; therein, for the most part, lies that entertainment ⚫ and pleafantry of wit which strikes fo lively on the fancy, and is therefore fo acceptable to all people.' This is, I think, the best and most philofophical account that I ever met with of wit, which generally, though not always, confifts in fuch a refemblance and congruity of ideas as this author mentions. I fhall only add to it, by way of explanation, that every refemblance of ideas is not that which we call wit, unless it be fuch an one that gives delight and surprise to the reader: these two properties feem effential to wit, more particularly the laft of them, In the ideas fhould not lie too near one another in the nature of things; for where the likeness is obvious, it gives no furprife. To compare one man's finging to that of another, or to reprefent the whiteness of any object by that of milk and fnow, or the variety of it's colours by thofe of the rainbow, cannot be called wit, unless, befides this obvious refemblance, there be fome further congruity difcovered in the two ideas that is capable of giving the reader fome furprife. Thus when a poet tells us, the bofom of his mistress is as white as fnow, there is no wit in the comparison : but when he adds, with a figh, that it is as cold too, it then grows into wit. Every reader's memory may fupply him with innumerable inftances of the fame nature. For this reafon the fimilitudes in heroic poets, who endeavour rather to fill the mind with great conceptions, than to divert it with fuch as are new and furprifing, have feldom any thing in them that can be called wit. Mr. Locke's account of wit, with this short explanation, comprehends most of the fpecies of wit, as metaphors, fimilitudes, allegories, ænigmas, mottos, parables, fables, dreams, vifions, dramatic writings, burlefques, and all the methods of allufion: as there are many other pieces of wit, how remote foever they may appear at first fight from the foregoing defcription, which upon examination will be found to agree with it. As true wit generally confifts in this refemblance and congruity of ideas, falfe wit chiefly confifts in the refemblance and congruity fometimes of fingle let ters, ters, as in anagrams, chronograms, lipograms, and acroftics; fometines of fyllables, as in echos and doggerel rhymes: fometimes of words, as in puns and quibbles; and fometimes of whole fentences or poems, caft into the figure of eggs, axes, or altars: nay, fome carry the notion of wit fo far, as to afcribe it even to external mimicry, and to look upon a man as an ingenious perfon, that can refemble the tone, polture, or face of another. As true wit confifts in the refemblance of ideas, and falfe wit in the refem-. blance of words, according to the foregoing inftances; there is another kind of wit which confifts partly in the refemblance of ideas, and partly in the refemblance of words, which for diftinction fake I fhall call mixt wit. This kind of wit is that which abounds in Cowley, more than in any author that ever wrote. Mr. Waller has likewife a great deal of it. Mr. Dryden is very fparing in it. Milton had a genius much above it. Spenfer is in the fame clafs with Milton. The Italians, even in their epic poetry, are full of it. Monfieur Boileau, who formed himfelf upon the ancient poets, has every where rejected it with fcorn. If we look after mixt wit among the Greek writers, we fhall find it no where but in the epigrammatifts. There are indeed fome ftrokes of it in the little poem afcribed to Muleus, which by that, as well as many other marks, betrays itself to be a modern composition. If we look into the Latin writers, we find none of this mixt wit in Virgil, Lucretius, or Catullus; very little in Horace; but a great deal of it in Ovid; and fcarce any thing elfe in Martiak. Out of the innumerable branches of mixt wit, I fhall choose one inftance which may be met with in all the writers of this clafs. The paffion of love in it's nature has been thought to resemble fire; for which reafon the words Fire and Flame are made ufe of to fignify Love. The witty poets therefore have taken an advantage from the doubtful meaning of the word Fire, to make an infinite number of witticifins. Cowley obferving the cold regard of his miftrefs's eyes, and at the fame time their power of producing love in him, confiders them as burning-glaffes made of ice; and finding himself able to live in the greateft extremities of love, concludes the Tor rid Zone to be habitable. When his miltrefs had read his letter written in juice of lemon by holding it to the fire, he defires her to read it over again by Love's flames. When the weeps, he wishes it were inward heat that distilled thofe drops from the limbec. When she is abfent, he is beyond eighty, that is, thirty degrees nearer the pole than when fhe is with him. His ambitious love is a fire that naturally mounts upwards; his happy love is the beams of heaven, and his unhappy love flames of hell. When it does not let him fleep, it is a flame that fends up no fhioke; when it is oppofed by counfel and advice, it is a fire that rages the more by the winds blowing upon it. Upon the dying of a tree in which he had cut his loves, he obferves that his written flames had burnt up and withered the tree. When he refolves to give over his paffion, he tell us that one burnt like him for ever dreads the fire. His heart is an Ætua, that inftead of Vulcan's fhop, inclofes Cupid's forge in it. His endeavouring to drown his love in wine, is throwing oil upon the fire. He would infinuate to his mistress, that the fire of love, like that of the fun, which produces fo many living creatures, should not only warm but beget. Love in another place cooks pleafure at his fire. Sometimes the poet's heart is frozen in every breast, and fometimes fcorched in every eye. Sometimes he is drowned in tears, and burnt in love, like a fhip fet on fire in the middle of the fea. The reader may obferve, in every one of thefe inftances, that the poet mixes the qualities of fire with thofe of love; and in the fame fentence fpeaking of it both as a paffion and as real fire, furprifes the reader with thofe 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: it's 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 occafional 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 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 should 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 shall 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 poet, 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 most penetrating of all the French critics, has taken pains to fhew, that it is impoffible for any thought to be beautiful which is not just, and has not it's foundation in the nature of things; that the basis 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 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 fhine in it's 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 escape them. I look upon these writers as Goths in poetry, who, like those in architecture, not being able to come up to the beautiful fimplicity of the old Greeks and Romans, have endeavoured to fupply it's place with all the extravagances of an irregular fancy. Mr. Dryden makes a very handsome obfervation on Ovid's writing a letter from Dido to Æneas, in the following words. 6 Ovid,' fays he, fpeaking of Virgil's fiction of Dido and Æneas, '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 just before her death to the ungrateful fugitive; and very unluckily for himfelf, is for meafuring a fword with a man fo much fuperior in force to him on the fame fubject. 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 worfe, improves nothing which he finds: nature fails him, and being forced to his old fhift, he has recourte to witticifm. This paffes indeed with his foft admirers, and gives him the preference 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 tafte of most 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 quali ty, but to their numbers and the coarsenels, of their tafte. His words are as follow: Segrais has diftinguished the readers of poetry, according to their capacity of judging, into three claffes. [He might have faid the fame of writers too, if he had pleafed.] In the loweft 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 husk 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 food 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 matters of the <ceremonies in a bear-garden; yet these 1 IT vered the most fruitful fource of wit, fo there is another of a quite contrary nature to it, which does likewise branch itfelf out into feveral kinds. For not only 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 speculation. N° LXIII. SATURDAY, MAY 12. HUMANO CAPITI CERVICEM PICTOR EQUINAM HOR. ARS POET. VER. I. IF IN A PICTURE, PISO, YOU SHOULD SEE A HANDSOME WOMAN WITH A FISH'S TAIL, OR A MAN'S HEAD UPON A HORSE'S NECK, OR LIMBS OF BEASTS, OF THE MOST DIFFERENT KINDE, WHOSE INCOHERENT STYLE, LIKE SICK MENS DREAMS, T is very hard for the mind to dif engage itfelf from a fubject in which it has been long employed. The thoughts will be rifing of themfelves from time to time, though we give them no encouragement; as the toffings and flutuations of the fea continue feveral hours after the winds are laid. It is to this that I impute my laft night's dream or vision, 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 transported into a country that was filled with prodigies and enchantments, governed by the goddefs of Falfhood, and intitled The Region of Falle 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 bone-lace, and fome of them precious ftones. The fountains bubbled in an opera tune, and were filled with tags, wild-boars, and mermaids, that lived among the waters; at RoscoMMON. C The flowers per the fame time that dolphins and feveral kinds of fish played upon the banks or took their pastime in the meadows. The birds had many of them golden beaks, and human voices. fumed the air with fmells of incenfe, amber-greafe, 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 wilderness, 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 repetitions of certain words which I spoke, agreed with me, or contradicted me, in every thing I faid. In the midst of my converfation with thefe invisible companions, I difcovered in the centre of a very dark grove a monstrous 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 be a kind of heathen temple confecrated to the god of Dulnefs. 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 these 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 them at leaft fix feet high, and made three rows of very proper men; but the common foldiers, who filled up the spaces between the officers, were fuch dwarfs, cripples, and fcarecrows, that one could hardly look upon them without laughing. There were behind the Acroftics two or three files of Chronograms, which differed only from the former, as their officers were equipped, like the figure of Time, with an hour-glass in one hand, and a scythe in the other, and took their pofts promiscuously among the private men whom they commanded. In the body of the temple, and before the very face of the deity, methought I faw the phantom of Tryphiodorus the Lipogrammatift, engaged in a ball with four-and-twenty perfons, who purfued him by turns through all the intricacies and labyrinths of a country dance, without being able to overtake him. Obferving feveral to be very bufy at the western end of the temple, I inquired into what they were doing, and found there was in that quarter the great magazine of Rebufes. There were feveral things of the most different na tures tied up in bundles, and thrown upon one another in heaps like faggots. You might behold an anchor, a nightrail, and a hobby-horse, bound up together. One of the workmen feeing me very much furprised, told me, there was an infinite deal of wit in feveral of those bundles, and that he would explain them to me if I pleafed. I thanked him for his civility, but told him I was in very great hafte at that time. As I was going out of the temple, I observed in one corner of it a clufter of men and women laughing very heartily, and diverting theinfelves at a game of Crambo. I heard feveral Double Rhymes as I paffed by them, which raised a great deal of mirth. Not far from thefe was another fet of merry people engaged at a diverfion, in which the whole jeft was to mistake one perfon for another. To give occafion for thefe ludicrous mistakes, they were divided into pairs, every pair being covered from head to foot with the fame kind of drefs, though perhaps there was not the least resemblance in their faces. By this means an old man was fometimes miftaken for a boy, a woman for a man, and a black-a-moor for an European, which very often produced great peals of laughter. Thefe I gucffed to be a party of Puns. But being very defirous to get out of this world of magic, which had almoft turned my brain, I left the temple, and crofled over the fields that lay about it with all the fpeed I could make. I was not gone far before I heard the found of trumpets and alarms, which feemed to proclaim the march of an enemy; and, as I afterwards found, was in reality what I apprehended it. There appeared at a great diftance a very fhining light, and, in the midft of it, a perfon of a mot beautiful afpect; her name was Truth. On her right-hand there marched a male deity, who bore feveral quivers on his fhoulders, and grafped feveral arrows in his hand, his name was Wit. The approach of thefe two enemies filled all the territories of Falfe Wit with an unfpeakable confternation, infomuch that the goddess of thofe regions appeared in perfon upon her frontiers, with the feveral inferior deities, and the different bodies of forces which I had before feen in the temple, who were now drawn up in array, and prepared to give their foes a warm reception. As the march of |