Now Mr. Pope shews us his profound judgment in dramatical passions; thinks a lady in her circumstances cannot without absurdity open a letter that seems to her as surprize, with any more preparation than the most unconcerned person alive should a common letter by the penny-post.  I am aware Mr. Pope may reply, his cavil was not against the action itself of addressing to the wax, but of exalting that action in the terms.  In this point I may fairly shelter myself under the judgment of a man, whose character in poetry will vie with any rival this age shall produce.

Mr. Dryden in his Essay on Dramatic Poetry, tells us.  ’That when from the most elevated thoughts of verse, we pass to those which are most mean, and which are common with the lowest houshold conversation; yet still there is a choice to be made of the best words, and the least vulgar (provided they be apt) to express such thoughts.  Our language, says he, is noble, full, and significant; and I know not, why he who is master of it, may not cloath ordinary things in it as decently as the Latin, if we use the same diligence in the choice of words.’

I come now to the last quotation, which in our examiner’s handling, falls under this predicament of being a thought astonishingly out of the way of common sense.

  None but himself can be his parallel.

This, he hints, may seem borrowed from the thought of that master of a show in Smithfield, who wrote in large letters over the picture of his Elephant. This is the greatest Elephant in the world except himself. I like the pleasantry of the banter, but have no great doubt of getting clear from the severity of it.  The lines in the play stand thus.

  Is there a treachery like this in baseness,
  Recorded any where?  It is the deepest;
  None but itself can be its parallel.

I am not a little surprized, to find that our examiner at last is dwindled into a word-catcher.  Literally speaking, indeed, I agree with Mr. Pope, that nothing can be the parallel to itself; but allowing a little for the liberty of expression, does it not plainly imply, that it is a treachery which stands single for the nature of its baseness, and has not its parallel on record; and that nothing but a treachery equal to it in baseness can parallel it?  If this were such nonsense as Pope would willingly have it, it would be a very bad plea for me to alledge, as the truth is, that the line is in Shakespear’s old copy; for I might have suppressed it.  But I hope it is defensible; at least if examples can keep it in countenance.  There is a piece of nonsense of the same kind in the Amphytrio of Plautus:  Sofia having survey’d Mercury from top to toe, finds him such an exact resemblance of himself, in dress, shape, and features, that he cries out,

  Tam consimil’ est, atq; ego.