An Essay towards Fixing the True Standards of Wit, Humour, Railery, Satire, and Ridicule | Page 4

LETTER from a BY-STANDER.
---- Jacta est Alea.
LONDON:
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INTRODUCTION.
An Attempt to describe the precise Limits of WIT, HUMOUR, RAILLERY, SATIRE and RIDICULE, I am sensible, is no easy or slight Undertaking. To give a Definition of WIT, has been declared by Writers of the greatest Renown, to exceed their Reach and Power; and Gentlemen of no less Abilities, and Fame, than Cowley, Barrow, Dryden, Locke, Congreve, and Addison, have tryed their Force upon this Subject, and have all left it free, and unconquered. This, I perceive, will be an Argument with some, for condemning an Essay upon this Topic by a young Author, as rash and presumptious. But, though I desire to pay all proper Respect to these eminent Writers, if a tame Deference to great Names shall become fashionable, and the Imputation of Vanity be laid upon those who examine their Works, all Advancement in Knowledge will be absolutely stopp'd; and Literary Merit will be soon placed, in an humble Stupidity, and solemn Faith in the Wisdom of our Ancestors.
Whereas, if I rightly apprehend, an Ambition to excell is the Principle which should animate a Writer, directed by a Love of Truth, and a free Spirit of Candour and Inquiry. This is the Flame which should warm the rising Members of every Science, not a poor Submission to those who have preceded. For, however it may be with a Religious DEVOTION, a Literary One is certainly the CHILD of Ignorance.
However, I must acknowledge, that where I have differed from the great Authors before mentioned, it has been with a Diffidence, and after the most serious and particular Examination of what they have delivered. It is from hence, that I have thought it my Duty, to exhibit with the following Essay, their several Performances upon the same Subject, that every Variation of mine from their Suffrage, and the Reasons upon which I have grounded it, may clearly appear.
The following Ode upon WIT is written by Mr. Cowley.
ODE of WIT.
I.
Tell me, oh tell!, what kind of Thing is WIT, Thou who Master art of it; For the first Matter loves Variety _less_; Less Women love't, either in Love or Dress. A thousand diff'rent Shapes it bears, Comely in thousand Shapes appears; Yonder we saw it plain, and here 'tis now, Like Spirits in a Place, we know not how.
II.
London, that vents of false Ware so much Store, In no Ware deceives us more; For Men, led by the Colour, and the Shape, Like _Zeuxis' Bird_, fly to the painted Grape. Some things do through our Judgment pass, As through a _Multiplying Glass_: And sometimes, if the Object be too far, We take a falling Meteor for a Star.
III.
Hence 'tis a Wit, that greatest Word of Fame, Grows such a common Name; And Wits, by our Creation, they become; Just so as _Tit'lar Bishops_ made at Rome. 'Tis not a Tale, 'tis not a Jest, Admir'd with Laughter at a Feast, Nor florid Talk which can that Title gain; The Proofs of Wit for ever must remain.
IV.
'Tis not to force some Lifeless Verses meet, With their five gouty Feet. All ev'ry where, like _Man's_, must be the Soul, And Reason the _inferior Pow'rs_ controul. Such were the Numbers which could call The Stones into the Theban Wall. Such Miracles are ceas'd, and now we see No Towns or Houses rais'd by _Poetry.
V.
Yet 'tis not to adorn, and gild each Part, That shews more Cost than Art. Jewels at Nose, and Lips, but ill appear; Rather than all Things Wit, let none be there. Several Lights will not be seen, If there be nothing else between. Men doubt; because they stand so thick i' th' Sky. If those be Stars which paint the Galaxy.
VI.
'Tis not when two like Words make up one Noise; Jests for Dutch Men, and English Boys. In which, who finds out Wit, the same may see In _An'grams_ and Acrostiques Poetry. Much less can that have any Place, At which a Virgin hides her Face; Such Dross the Fire must purge away; 'Tis just The Author blush, there where the Reader must.
VII.
'Tis not such Lines as almost crack the Stage, When Bajazet begins to rage; Not a tall Metaphor in th' bombast Way, Nor the dry Chips of short-lung'd Seneca. Nor upon all Things to obtrude, And force some odd Similitude. What is it then, which like the _Pow'r Divine_, We only can by Negatives define?
VIII.
In a true Piece of Wit, all Things must be, Yet all Things there _agree_; As in the Ark, join 'd without Force or Strife, All Creatures dwelt; all Creatures that had Life. Or as the primitive Forms of all,