The chief secret is
the choice of words; and, by this choice, I do not here mean elegancy
of expression, but propriety of sound, to be varied according to the
nature of the subject. Perhaps a time may come when I may treat of
this more largely, out of some observations which I have made from
Homer and Virgil, who, amongst all the poets, only understood the art
of numbers, and of that which was properly called _rhythmus_ by the
ancients.
The same reasons, which depress thought in an opera, have a stronger
effect upon the words, especially in our language; for there is no
maintaining the purity of English in short measures, where the rhime
returns so quick, and is so often female, or double rhime, which is
not natural to our tongue, because it consists too much of
monosyllables, and those, too, most commonly clogged with consonants;
for which reason I am often forced to coin new words, revive some that
are antiquated, and botch others; as if I had not served out my time
in poetry, but was bound apprentice to some doggrel rhimer, who makes
songs to tunes, and sings them for a livelihood. It is true, I have
not been often put to this drudgery; but where I have, the words will
sufficiently shew, that I was then a slave to the composition, which I
will never be again: it is my part to invent, and the musician's to
humour that invention. I may be counselled, and will always follow my
friend's advice where I find it reasonable, but will never part with
the power of the militia[4].
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