treasures; and, for fear of
suffering a sparkling ornament to be lost, he has inserted it where it
cannot shine with its original splendour.

When Ulysses visited the infernal regions, he found among the heroes
that perished at Troy, his competitor, Ajax, who, when the arms of
Achilles were adjudged to Ulysses, died by his own hand in the madness
of disappointment. He still appeared to resent, as on earth, his loss
and disgrace, Ulysses endeavoured to pacify him with praises and
submission; but Ajax walked away without reply. This passage has always
been considered as eminently beautiful; because Ajax, the haughty chief,
the unlettered soldier, of unshaken courage, of immovable constancy, but
without the power of recommending his own virtues by eloquence, or
enforcing his assertions by any other argument than the sword, had no
way of making his anger known, but by gloomy sullenness and dumb
ferocity. His hatred of a man whom he conceived to have defeated him
only by volubility of tongue, was therefore naturally shewn by silence
more contemptuous and piercing than any words that so rude an orator
could have found, and by which he gave his enemy no opportunity of
exerting the only power in which he was superior.

When AEneas is sent by Virgil to the shades, he meets Dido the queen of
Carthage, whom his perfidy had hurried to the grave; he accosts her with
tenderness and excuses; but the lady turns away like Ajax in mute
disdain. She turns away like Ajax; but she resembles him in none of
those qualities which give either dignity or propriety to silence. She
might, without any departure from the tenour of her conduct, have burst
out like other injured women into clamour, reproach, and denunciation;
but Virgil had his imagination full of Ajax, and therefore could not
prevail on himself to teach Dido any other mode of resentment.

If Virgil could be thus seduced by imitation, there will be little hope,
that common wits should escape; and accordingly we find, that besides
the universal and acknowledged practice of copying the ancients, there
has prevailed in every age a particular species of fiction. At one time
all truth was conveyed in allegory; at another, nothing was seen but in
a vision; at one period all the poets followed sheep, and every event
produced a pastoral; at another they busied themselves wholly in giving
directions to a painter.

It is indeed easy to conceive why any fashion should become popular, by
whic