Imogen | Page 2

Milton having written it
upon the borders of Wales, might have had easy recourse to the
manuscript whose contents are now first given to the public: And that
the singularity of preserving the name of the place where it was first
performed in the title of his poem, was intended for an ingenuous and
well-bred acknowledgement of the source from whence he drew his
choicest materials.
But notwithstanding the plausibility of these conjectures, we are now
inclined to give up our original opinion, and to ascribe the performance

to a gentleman of Wales, who lived so late as the reign of king William
the third. The name of this amiable person was Rice ap Thomas. The
romance was certainly at one time in his custody, and was handed
down as a valuable legacy to his descendants, among whom the present
translator has the honour to rank himself. Rice ap Thomas, Esquire,
was a man of a most sweet and inoffensive disposition, beloved and
respected by all his neighbours and tenants, and "passing rich with
'sixty' pounds a year." In his domestic he was elegant, hospitable, and
even sumptuous, for the time and country in which he lived. He was
however naturally of an abstemious and recluse disposition. He
abounded in singularities, which were pardoned to his harmlessness
and his virtues; and his temper was full of sensibility, seriousness, and
melancholy. He devoted the greater part of his time to study; and he
boasted that he had almost a complete collection of the manuscript
remains of our Welch bards. He was often heard to prefer even to
Taliessin, Merlin, and Aneurim, the effusions of the immortal Cadwallo,
and indeed this was the only subject upon which he was ever known to
dispute with eagerness and fervour. In the midst of the controversy, he
would frequently produce passages from the Pastoral Romance, as
decisive of the question. And to confess the truth, I know not how to
excuse this piece of jockeyship and ill faith, even in Rice ap Thomas,
whom I regard as the father of my family, and the chief ornament of my
beloved country.
Some readers will probably however be inclined to apologise for the
conduct of Mr. Thomas, and to lay an equivalent blame to my charge.
They will tell me, that nothing but the weakest partiality could blind me
to the genuine air of antiquity with which the composition is every
where impressed, and to ascribe it to a modern writer. But I am
conscious to my honesty and defy their malice. So far from being
sensible of any improper bias in favour of my ancestor, I am content to
strengthen their hands, by acknowledging that the manuscript, which I
am not at all desirous of refusing to their inspection, is richly
emblazoned with all the discoloration and rust they can possibly desire.
I confess that the wording has the purity of Taliessin, and the
expressiveness of Aneurim, and is such as I know of no modern
Welchman who could write. And yet, in spite as they will probably tell
me of evidence and common sense, I still aver my persuasion, that it is

the production of Rice ap Thomas.
But enough, and perhaps too much, for the question of its antiquity. It
would be unfair to send it into the world without saying something of
the nature of its composition. It is unlike the Arcadia of sir Philip
Sidney, and unlike, what I have just taken the trouble of running over,
the Daphnis of Gessner. It neither on the one hand leaves behind it the
laws of criticism, and mixes together the different stages of civilization;
nor on the other will it perhaps be found frigid, uninteresting, and
insipid. The prevailing opinion of Pastoral seems to have been, that it is
a species of composition admirably fitted for the size of an eclogue, but
that either its nature will not be preserved, or its simplicity will become
surfeiting in a longer performance. And accordingly, the Pastoral
Dramas of Tasso, Guarini, and Fletcher, however they may have been
commended by the critics, and admired by that credulous train who
clap and stare whenever they are bid, have when the recommendation
of novelty has subsided been little attended to and little read. But the
great Milton has proved that this objection is not insuperable. His
Comus is a master-piece of poetical composition. It is at least equal in
its kind even to the Paradise Lost. It is interesting, descriptive and
pathetic. Its fame is continually increasing, and it will be admired
wherever the name of Britain is repeated, and the language of Britain is
understood.
If our hypothesis respecting the date of the present performance is
admitted, it must be acknowleged that the ingenious Mr. Thomas has
taken the Masque