h came under every man's eyes. You hew out of
your polished verses a stately image of smiling victory; I tell you 'tis
an uncouth, distorted, savage idol; hideous, bloody, and barbarous. The
rites performed before it are shocking to think of. You great poets should
show it as it is--ugly and horrible, not beautiful and serene. Oh, sir, had
you made the campaign, believe me, you never would have sung it so."

During this little outbreak, Mr. Addison was listening, smoking out of his
long pipe, and smiling very placidly. "What would you have?" says he. "In
our polished days, and according to the rules of art, 'tis impossible that
the Muse should depict tortures or begrime her hands with the horrors of
war. These are indicated rather than described; as in the Greek tragedies,
that, I dare say, you have read (and sure there can be no more elegant
specimens of composition); Agamemnon is slain, or Medea's children
destroyed, away from the scene;--the chorus occupying the stage and singing
of the action to pathetic music. Something of this I attempt, my dear sir,
in my humble way: 'tis a panegyric I mean to write, and not a satire. Were
I to sing as you would have me, the town would tear the poet in pieces,
and burn his book by the hands of the common hangman. Do you not use
tobacco? Of all the weeds grown on earth, sure the nicotian is the most
soothing and salutary. We must paint our great duke," Mr. Addison went on,
"not as a man, which no doubt he is, with weaknesses like the rest of us,
but as a hero. 'Tis in a triumph, not a battle, that your humble servant
is riding his sleek Pegasus. We college-poets trot, you know, on very easy
nags; it hath been, time out of mind, part of the poet's profession to
celebrate the actions of heroes in verse, and to sing the deeds which you
men of war perform. I must follow the rules of my art, and the composition
of such a strain as this must be harmonious and majestic, not familiar, or
too near the vulgar truth. _Si parva licet_: if Virgil could invoke the
divine Augustus, a humbler poet from the banks of the Isis may celebrate a
victory and a conqueror of our own nation, in whose triumphs every Briton
has a share, and whose glory and genius contributes to every citizen's
individual honour. When hath there been, since our Henrys' and Edwards'
days, such a great feat of arms as that from which you yourself have
brought away marks of distinction? If 'tis in my power to sing that song
worthi