In effect, why should Chamont make such a long-winded Simile almost in the Height of Rage for the Ruin of his Sister?  Is that natural?  Does not the Poet here quite hide his Hero to shew himself?

This brings into my Mind the absurd Custom of finishing the Acts of almost all our modern Tragedies with a Simile; surely in a great Crisis of Affairs, in a Council, in a violent Passion of Love or Wrath, in a pressing Danger, Princes, Ministers, Heroes or Lovers, should not make Poetical Comparisons.—­Even Marcia’s (or rather Mr. Addison’s) beautiful Simile at the End of the first Act of Cato, is scarcely to be forgiven.

What then would a Work be, that was filled with far-fetched and Problematick Thoughts?  How infinitely superior to all such dazling Ideas, are these simple and natural Words of Monimia to her angry Brother?

Look kindly on me then.  I cannot bear Severity; it daunts, and does amaze me: My Heart’s so tender, should you charge me rough, I should but weep, and answer you with sobbing.  But use me gently, like a loving Brother, And search through all the Secrets of my Soul.

Or these of Brutus, when he receives the News of his Wife’s Death: 

Brutus. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.

Messala. Then like a Roman bear the Truth I tell;
For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

Brutus. Why farewel Portia.—­We must die, Messala.
With meditating that she must die once,
I have the Patience to endure it now.

Or these noble ones of Titinius, when he stabs himself: 

By your leave Gods—­this is a Roman’s Part.

It is not that which is called Wit, but what is sublime and noble that makes true Beauty.

I have purposely chose these Examples from good Authors, that they may be the more striking; and I speak not of those Points and Quibbles, whose Impropriety is easily perceiv’d.  There is no one but laughs when Hotspur says,

Why, what a deal of candied Courtesie This fawning Greyhound then did proffer me!  Look, when his infant Fortune came to Age, And gentle Harry Percy—­and kind Cousin—­The Devil take such Cozeners.—­

Shakespear found the Stage, and all the People of his Days, infected with these Puerillities, and he very well knew how (though perhaps he never read it in Epictetus) [Greek:  ] to attune, or harmonize his Mind to the Things which happen.

I now remember one of these shining Strokes, which I have seen quoted in several Works of Taste, and even in the Treatise of Studies by the late Mr. Rollin.  This Morceau is taken from the beautiful Funeral Oration of the great Turenne:  The whole Piece is very fine, but it seems to me that the Stroke I am speaking of should not have been made Use of by a Bishop.—­This is it: