that ever entered into the heart of man," and is
therefore worthy of attentive consideration. Let it be first inquired
whether it be a simile. A poetical simile is the discovery of likeness
between two actions in their general nature dissimilar, or of causes
terminating by different operations in some resemblance of effect. But
the mention of another like consequence from a like cause, or of a like
performance by a like agency, is not a simile, but an exemplification.
It is not a simile to say that the Thames waters fields, as the Po
waters fields; or that as Hecla vomits flames in Iceland, so AEtna
vomits flames in Sicily. When Horace says of Pindar that he pours his
violence and rapidity of verse, as a river swollen with rain rushes
from the mountain; or of himself, that his genius wanders in quest of
poetical decorations, as the bee wanders to collect honey; he, in either
case, produces a simile: the mind is impressed with the resemblance of
things generally unlike, as unlike as intellect and body. But if Pindar
had been described as writing with the copiousness and grandeur of
Homer, or Horace had told that he reviewed and finished his own poetry
with the same care as Isocrates polished his orations, instead of
similitude, he would have exhibited almost identity; he would have given
the same portraits with different names. In the poem now examined, when
the English are represented as gaining a fortified pass by repetition
of attack and perseverance of resolution, their obstinacy of courage
and vigour of onset are well illustrated by the sea that breaks, with
incessant battery, the dykes of Holland. This is a simile. But when
Addison, having celebrated the beauty of Marlborough's person, tells us
that "Achilles thus was formed of every grace," here is no simile, but a
mere exemplification. A simile may be compared to lines converging at
a point, and is more excellent as the lines approach from greater
distance: an exemplification may be considered as two parallel lines,
which run on together without approximation, never far separated, and
never joined.

Marlborough is so like the angel in the poem that the action of both is
almost the same, and performed by both in the same manner. Marlborough
"teaches the battle to rage;" the angel "directs the storm:" Marlborough
is "unmoved in peaceful thought;" the angel is "calm and serene:"
Marlborough stands "unmoved amidst the shock of hosts;" the angel rides
"calm in the whi